It was a warm September evening as Bradford Fairfax made his way along Bradford Street, Provincetown's other thoroughfare. It always made him grin to stride along the road that bore his name. Yes, they named it after me, he could hear himself teasing Ross way back when.
Silence and darkness reigned as he approached the north end of town. Most of the homes were shuttered now, abandoned for the season. Here and there, lights gleamed from cheery windows where small gatherings of men prepared dinner and amused themselves with impassioned tales of adventures in the dunes, notable fashion faux pas sightings, and other such fancies as young men are prone to.
Brad felt a pang of longing. He missed the physical togetherness that comrades brought, that sense of having a family of friends. How he'd love to arrive at such a house bearing a favorite bottle of wine, throw open the door and enter the fold to cries of,Here he is at last! from his pals gathered round the table.
That, at the very least, should have been his due as a card-carrying Member of Gay, the rightful legacy of every post-Stonewall queer. It was for this very sense of belonging that each gay man stormed his own inner Bastille, breaking down the barricades for liberty and love. But in his line of work, Brad knew, he'd never achieve anything remotely like that. He'd have to be content to enjoy a limited acquaintance with his own kind at a discreet distance.
While others his age were off having romantic adventures, he'd been busy learning surreptitious surveillance techniques. When friends boasted of salacious weekends in Palm Springs with Mr. Leather USA or of renting a villa in Capri next to a renowned Met opera conductor and his guest, the tenor du jour, Bradford had been getting briefed on the latest spying methods. His friends would have been astonished to discover that not only could he have told them what they did in their bedrooms at night, but also what they'd cooked for breakfast and whom they'd had for lunch. When they were learning to speak Gay, he was off studying Russian. 'Could you just!' they cooed.'Abso-lu-lu! How too-too de-lish!' When asked what he'd been up to, Brad would wink and say, 'Yah schpion.' I'm a spy. It was all in the syntax.
In the midst of his regret, he stopped and looked around. He'd arrived at a neighborhood that was nearly as dark as the unlit coast. The houses on either side of the road seemed little more than derelict fishing shacks. It was odd, but he couldn't recall ever having been in this area of town before. Overgrown hedges obscured street signs as the wind moaned in the trees.
As Brad stepped from the curb a car raced silently toward him. The vehicle appeared so suddenly that he barely had time to register the danger. An outstretched arm hauled him to safety at the last second. Brad fell to the curb as the car screeched around the corner, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. Looking up in astonishment, he saw a cowgirl peering at him through a pair of rhinestone-encrusted cat's eye glasses. She shook her head.
"Let me guess—you're not from here, are you?"
"N-no," he stammered.
She helped him to his feet. "You gotta be more careful, honey. They'll mow you down like wheat around here."
"Wow," he said, looking down at his savior, who stood barely five feet tall. "Thanks for being on the ball."
"You're lucky I was," she agreed. "Name's Big Ruby."
"Bradford Fairfax." He brushed the dirt from his pants.
"Well, Bradford, you sure don't wanna end up dead on Bradford Street, now do ya?" she chuckled. "Why are you wandering around in the dark?"
"I'm looking for a guesthouse. Apparently it's got no name or number. Do you know of it?"
Even in the dark he could make out Big Ruby's scowl. "I know it!" she snapped. "Nothing but trouble and evil-minded types go there. If you're one of them, I'm sorry I saved yer skin. I won't bother next time."
Figures, thought Brad. If you want to hear about bad news in the community, a politically correct lesbian will know about it miles ahead of any gay man.
"What's so bad about it?" he asked.
"I told you. Nothing but rich, troublemaking scum goes there. The bastard who runs it... well, I got no words for him."
Brad's gut instinct said he could trust Ruby.
"I'm trying to find out what happened to a friend of mine who works there. Or at least he used to, until he ended up dead a couple of nights ago."
He could feel Big Ruby soften.
"I'm sorry you lost your friend," she said. "But if I were you, I'd stay far away from Hayden Rosengarten and his guesthouse."
There was that name again.
Ruby shook her head. "You could end up the same way, if you're not careful."
Brad remembered Cinder's warning. "You make him sound pretty awful," he said.
"If I ever got my hands on him, I'd kill him myself. That'd be one progressive step for humanity."
"Sounds pretty drastic," Brad said.
"Sometimes drastic is what's needed," she said ominously. "And I can be drastic when I need to be."
Brad wondered if she really meant what she said. "Well, thank you again," he said, dusting off his clothes. "I'll keep that in mind, but I've got to get into that house and see what I can find out."
"I'm telling you, honey, it's nothing but trouble!" She paused for a moment, considering. "But if you're set on finding it, take the next right. You'll come across the place at the top of the rise. Big scary-looking place. You can't see it from the road because of the belladonna hedge, but it's right there if you know where to look."
"Thanks."
"Honey, if you ever need us, the galfriend and I run Coffee Joe's on Commercial Street."
"I know it!"
"Just ask anyone. They all know me. You take care of yourself now."
Brad watched Ruby walk around the corner and out of sight.
11
Bradford turned right and found himself at the foot of a hill. He trudged upward into a darkness thick enough to carve with a knife. As he got closer, he saw that Big Ruby had been right. Even lit up, the house was impossible to see from the road.
An iron gate hemmed the yard in behind a thick hedge.Belladonna. From his training, Brad recognized the flowers and black berries also known as the Devil's cherries. A couple could make a man deliriously happy. A few more would send him on a permanent trip around the universe. Even the leaves and roots of this plant were dangerous to touch.
In the distance, the dunes were a shadowy moonscape. From far off came the soft shushing of waves. Brad peered through the hedge. The house seemed to float eerily above the horizon as though it might cut loose from its moorings and drift off into the night. Though that might not be all that unlikely, Brad thought, given the 'unnatural' history of P'Town's houses.
Whatever the myth of it, he emerged from behind the hedge now and stood face-to-face with the actuality. The house wasn't spectacularly large or imposing, just forbiddingly self-confident. Perched high atop was the widow's walk. With a pair of high-powered binoculars it would afford a good view of the entire town. He wondered if there might be some reason the present owner required such a feature.
Brad was conscious of eyes trained on him—security-camera eyes. He rang the bell and a gate clicked open. A hand-lettered sign stood off to one side of the walk. He'd expected to see a friendly WELCOME or even the name of the guesthouse. Instead, it read forbiddingly: NO DOGS OR BULLDYKES IN THE GARDEN. Yikes! No wonder Big Ruby hated him.
As he reached the porch the front door opened and a tall thin man with baleful eyes towered over him: it was Ichabod Crane crossed with Jack Nicholson.
"Good evening," Brad said, extending his business card. "Sebastian O'Shaughnessy."
"We've been expecting you, Mr. O'Shaughnessy," the man replied, his lips twitching into a smile that looked about as welcoming as a crack in the sidewalk.
Ichabod stood flanked by two Dobermanesque bodyguards in black leather and gleaming silver studs. He accepted the five crisp thousand dollar bills Brad proffered under the wary eyes of the watchdogs. No credit cards, no strings attached. That was how Cinder had put it. That, app
arently, was the way they liked things here.
A massive chandelier twinkled above a grand staircase whose polished oak railings swept upward and out of sight. The house had probably looked much the same a hundred and fifty years earlier. A portrait of a woman with bulging eyes and red hair piled high on her head glared down at him. It was Maud Lacey, he knew, without needing to be told.
The thin man rang a hand bell and a faun with blond curls appeared from out of nowhere.
"Quentin, please see Mr. O'Shaughnessy to his room," Ichabod commanded.
Brad followed the boy to a private room with a four-poster bed. His young escort opened the mirrored doors of an armoire and retrieved a vermilion dressing gown trimmed in gold. Deft hands helped Brad out of his jacket and into the robe. He could appear downstairs for dinner anytime after ten o'clock, Quentin said. Brad checked his watch. It was just past nine.
"Will there be anything else at the moment, Mr. O'Shaughnessy?"
Brad was tempted to ask if he could knot a cherry stem with his tongue. He handed the boy a tip. "No, that will be all."
The boy brightened. "I'm at your service all night," he said in a way that made Brad blush. "If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask. Your pleasure is my pleasure, sir."
With Quentin gone, Brad turned to the room and proceeded to open all the drawers and closets one at a time. He discovered an assortment of creams, lotions, potions, powders, body scrubs, lubricating jellies in a variety of flavors, an artfully arranged collection of condoms presented in order of size, color, and texture, as well as leather harnesses, rubber body suits, whips, clamps, chains, veils, eye patches, boots, straps, and hoods, plus a variety of ingenious looking instruments of arcane purpose. It was a veritable arsenal of kink.
Brad stood before the mirror. He'd already decided Mr. Sebastian O'Shaughnessy would be a casual smoker. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a cigarette from an elegant case and lit up.
"Good evening, Mr. O'Shaughnessy," he intoned in a deep voice, taking in his reflection from different angles.
"And what is it you do, Mr. O'Shaughnessy?"
He watched himself ponder the question as he exhaled a wreath of smoke.
"Why, I'm a forensic accountant," he replied. "And you, sir?"
He waited till he was convinced of his new identity and then went out into the hall. From somewhere nearby came a stifled whimper. Curious, he tried one door after another, but found them all locked. He put his ear to a final door and heard the sound again. It was impossible to tell whether it was a whimper of pain or pleasure. It might have been someone in the throes of a drug overdose like the one that had killed Ross. It might also have been the sound of a ritualistic sexual fantasy being enacted under the baroque rules of gay S & M.
Brad imagined two queens engaging in a fierce battle of style and one-upmanship: "Oh," says the first queen, hand-on-hip Bette Davis-style. "You haven't seen Hairspray—The Musical?" The effect on the rival queen would be as if she'd arrived at cocktail hour smelling like a barnyard, only to have her worst enemy point this out to everyone. "What do you mean, you haven't seen it?" Brad imagined the aggressor hurling at his hapless victim, the submissive M quivering at each harsh syllable. "What are you waiting for—the book?" cries the sadistic S. "Wherever did you get that dress—at a McDonald's jumble sale?" For shame! And comes the coup de grâce: "Who does your hair—Posturpedic?" At which the M would crumble.
Coarse? Crude? Devastating? Yes, yes, and yes again. But such tactics, Brad knew, are not designed merely to intimidate and ridicule, crush and destroy. In fact, there are clues for those who will see. One has only to observe the clothing: is the intimidating S any more smartly dressed than his victim, the M? No! In fact, it might even be seen that a Wal-Mart queen is abusing one attired in perfect Bloomingdale's couture. So who is really in charge? Who the victim and who the perpetrator? Who abusing whom and why? The answers might surprise. But far from blaming the victim for the crime being visited upon him, it may even be observed that there is no crime at all.
For herein lies the mystery, the subtle interchange of need that exists between the bull and the flag, between the dancer and the dance. For gay S & M, as Bradford knew, is not private play so much as publicdisplay. Here is role-playing as formal as anything to be found in Kabuki. It's not that it's fake—it's stylized! It's Über-gay!
With this in mind, Brad braced himself as he reached out and turned the handle. Through the crack he watched a scrawny gnome staring in a mirror. The man could have been an aged elf, one of Santa's best, but for his attire: a black leather harness and a gold snake bracelet coiled around his biceps.
The elf gazed at his reflection and sniffed. Perplexed, Brad watched him flex ,a sinewy muscle. The snake quivered slightly before falling to his wrist as the man relaxed his arm. He saw Bradford in the mirror and shook his head.
"This was once the body of a god," he said. "But now?" He pointed to the snake. "They always fall!"
"Excuse me," Brad said, backing away. "I was looking for the laundry."
12
Mr. Sebastian O'Shaughnessy arrived late to dinner. He hadn't been trying to make an entrance, despite the gold-trimmed vermilion robe. And, as it turned out, none was made. Not in this circle that had been, done, seen, sniffed, tasted, rimmed, flambéed, and casseroled everything it possibly could.
There was no nouveau here, no entrée or ingénue. But for all its worldliness, it wasn't so much jaded as pale, flat, and stale. It was bread without yeast, diamonds without sparkle, the Supremes without Diana. Worse, it was a surfeit of experience without imagination. And imagination, as Oscar Wilde knew, was the magic ingredient that could turn an eggs-and-bacon sort of life into a scrumptious soufflé of an existence.
Brad lit a cigarette and sat at the end of a long table alongside a dozen other guests, all wearing similar dressing gowns. At the far end, a rugged Marlborough man dominated the room. Silver hair framed his tanned face, the lines of which made him appear powerful rather than aged. This, Brad presumed, was their host, Hayden Rosengarten.
Two guards flanked him. On his left stood a stunning Nubian, mirrored by a spectacular specimen with almond eyes and golden skin standing to his right. The pair made attractive bookends.
The man next to Brad turned and introduced himself as Ted Palaver, a Chicago stockbroker.
"Sebastian O'Shaughnessy," said Bradford, as they shook. "I'm a forensic accountant."
"Oh, very good!" said Ted, staring deeply into Brad's eyes. "I just made half a million this morning. Perhaps you could tell me where to hide it."
Ted stroked Brad's palm. "You have lovely hands," he said. "And no nicotine stains. You must be a careful smoker."
"Very careful," Brad answered, suddenly worried about his cover.
He caught a world-weary gaze across from him. At first glance, the man appeared to be nearing sixty. On closer inspection, he looked considerably younger.
"Sebastian O'Shaughnessy," Brad said, reaching across the table.
"Enchanté," replied a voice that combined the cultivation of Noel Coward with the hopelessness of Kurt Cobain.
He declined to shake. Brad withdrew his hand. The man mumbled something that suggested he was a singer. He was definitely a diva, but his ennui defied any attempt to imagine him on stage, except perhaps as the aging Sarastro inThe Magic Flute. Brad concluded that he was a culture queen, the most meticulous of queens to converse with. He'd have to trot out the Proust and sprinkle his conversation liberally with references to Arvo Part and the Kronos Quartet.
A door opened and a familiar face entered the room. Flashing a brilliant smile, the man took his place at the table. Is that who I think it is? Brad wondered. He was certainly short. Brad looked again. It's him! he realized with a start. He was in the presence of Hollywood royalty!
Various film roles in which this man portrayed a pool shark, helicopter pilot, samurai warrior, an everyday dad and even, once, a rabbit, flashed before Brad's eyes. And here he was no
w, taking on the role of gay sybarite. The rumors were true!
All those cretinous tabloid accusations of tell-all hustlers and betrayals by the dumbfounded ex-wife were based on fact! How many times had he seen this man on daytime talk shows, uttering nonsense about his ongoing belief in the Easter Bunny and other inane, non-threatening remarks. Oprah had treated him like an Elmo doll. He'd made bland seem like a respectable choice.
Of course! Nobody could be that colorless unless he had something to hide. For the world to know this man was gay would rend the heart of America's Disneyfied conception of itself. He was an icon, an archetype! He was the fantasized purity of America itself. And he was a lie! Then again, Brad reminded himself, just because a man had a wife and kids he could prove were his with a quick DNA test didn't make him straight. Anybody could afford a marriage license and a turkey baster these days.
Off to Brad's left, someone yawned. The actor's entrance had hardly registered. To the world he might be a megastar and a hetero hunk, but to the lot in this room he was just an overrated Muppet.
Brad looked at the men around him. From their conversations he knew they counted among them a cattle baron, the CEO of a multinational IT corporation, and a Nobel Prize-winning physicist. And to his shock, he'd also recognized Gifford Freeman, a garrulous Texan senator renowned for his vitriolic and very anti-gay public stance. To Brad he'd always seemed the epitome of double standards and sleazy politics. He'd just had those feelings confirmed. And, just as they'd accepted the presence of the star, no one in the room seemed the least bit surprised or outraged to find this political chameleon in their midst, either.
The room embodied a wealth of power, prestige, and influence. Yet for all that, the gathering was tawdry and sad. The men with power seemed lonely, the ones with prestige looked insecure, and those who had it all were the worst of the lot, acting bored and dejected as though life's promise had failed them.
P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery Page 7