by Jeri Estes
Captain Clancy sat back, enjoying his revenge. He wasn’t counting on my defiance.
“I have nothing to say.”
He jumped up and pounded his large fist on his desk, making a glass jar filled with pencils crash to the floor and shatter. “Damn you, Jessica! You motherfuckin’ bull-dyke!”
In response, the girls in the day room started yelling at the top of their lungs. Their wails of indignation penetrated the glass. “Stop it, stop it! You motherfuckin’ pig! Show her some respect. She’s a woman, you lame ass!”
Helmet Head popped into the room like the riot police preventing a full-fledged revolt. “Captain, this woman is to be released immediately.”
Captain Clancy whirled about, his face bright red. “What did you say?”
“Sir, the D.A.’s office just called and informed us that the man Jesse stabbed had just been released from Camarillo State Mental Hospital. He has a long history of assault. Sir, we don’t have a case, and the powers that be at the D.A.’s office believe this was self-defense. They took a statement from the whack job when he came to after surgery. Unfortunately, he is not fit to stand trial, and he does not wish to press charges.”
Seething, Captain Clancy glared at me and said, “Okay, Jessica…you’re free to go.” As I got up to leave he added, “I’m having a little barbecue in my backyard next weekend. I’ve invited all the rookies to come over and clean up my dog’s shit. Maybe you would like to join them? You are more than welcome to come to the party, but of course you have to wear a dress. It is the appropriate attire for a woman. You can’t come to my house unless you dress like a lady. And put some makeup on too while you’re at it.”
Helmet Head beckoned to escort me out. Before I exited, I smiled and said, “I’d be happy to wear a dress and makeup, Clancy. Do you mind if I borrow yours?” Then I blew him a kiss and left the room.
In no time at all, I had called Nick, gotten my belongings from the property room and left Hotel Hell. I viewed the vista of the city before me from the jailhouse doors, elated to be free.
I ran down each step, skipping and dancing. I dashed toward Nick’s waiting cab, which was parked across the street under the lamppost. I wanted to run all the way home, shouting to the world, “Look at me, motherfuckers! I’m still here on the streets! It’s all about who’s left standing! I’m still standing, motherfuckers!”
The chrome door handle of the big yellow chariot looked like an old friend welcoming me to safety. I grabbed it and jumped in. I slid across the backseat and sat behind Nick. He gave me his cabbie half-turn.
“What’s your pleasure, Jesse?”
“Take me home!”
He quickly rubbed his Saint Christopher medal, patted Jesus on the head, threw the black meter down and spun off toward Sutter Street.
My head was pounding, but I took comfort in the hum of the tires. I listened to the sound of the pavement disappearing behind us. I yearned for a drink.
The first thing I would do when I got home would be to have a shot of Jack and a chat with Joe Gomez. Nick interrupted my thoughts and asked, “Are you okay, Jesse?”
“Yeah, just tired and I need a bath.”
“Boss, would you like me to drive you over to Marie’s? Maybe you should let her take care of you.”
“No, Nick. Just get me home.”
I drifted into a sweet fantasy of revenge, passing the time thinking of a way I could pay Prince back. In my mind’s eye, I saw Prince on a fishing boat out at sea. It was late at night, and he was lying strapped atop a bait tank. Prince looked up at Joe Gomez, who stood over him solemnly holding his long glinting knife....“What the— ” was all that the doomed pimp managed to blurt out before Joe put his rock-hard hand over Prince’s mouth. Like his tribal cousins, the Aztecs, the Yaqui ceremonial priest raised the shiny steel blade before Prince’s eyes.
The scarred, dark-faced avenger pledged into the empty night like an Indian chief, “I will take your flesh. I will stuff your mouth with your own skin. Then I will feed you to the hungry sharks.”
As Joe proceeded to keep his word, I looked away. The stoic Yaqui performed his task mercilessly under the watchful eyes of his ancestors, my crew and the starlit heavens…
My thoughts were interrupted by Nick’s voice. “Jesse, you are awful quiet. Are you sure you’re alright?”
I opened my eyes to the sight of my apartment building as we pulled up to the curb. “Yeah, Nick, I’m okay.”
I was startled by my fantasy of revenge and asked God to forgive me. I prayed for my sanity. Yet as I stepped out of the taxi, I was greeted by Joe Gomez.
The bull of a man charged the cab. I raised my hand up in self-defense, expecting a lecture from my one-eyed baby-sitter. Instead, Joe greeted me like a long-lost sister as he threw his gigantic muscled arms around me. As the gangster squeezed me hello, the scent of Brylcreem reminded me of why I preferred women.
“Jesse girl, let me get you in the house! I want you off the sidewalk.” Joe put his arm around my shoulder, pushing me towards my front door.
Joe’s large frame was sheathed in a baby-blue suit, which only a one-eyed Yaqui Indian would be brave enough to wear. The hem of his slacks rested on top of his new black-and-white spectator shoes.
“Joe, it’s good to see you back on your feet again. Don’t start in on me. I know I was wrong to split on Junior. I promise it won’t happen again if you promise not to wear baby blue in the winter.”
Joe laughed and gave a snort through his flat, bull-sized nose, “Chingado! You’re one crazy bitch! Who did this to you, boss? Tell me so I can go and cut off his balls.”
“I wouldn’t worry about him. He was just a fool that thought he had a good idea. I want you to leave him alone. He won’t be out of the hospital for a long time at any rate. We won’t have any trouble with him again. Trust me, we have bigger fish to fry.”
We got into the cramped elevator with Joe’s big body taking up more space than is dignified. He looked curiously at my head as we silently rode upward.
To escape his scrutiny, I yanked the ornate, gold accordion doors open as we reached the third floor and made a beeline to my pad. Junior, with a smile on her face and a drink in her hand, opened my front door before I even reached it. The relief on her face was as welcoming as the crystal glass filled with Jack.
“Oralé Jesse! I am so happy to see you, man! There is a hot tub waiting for you. Bunny is on her way over.” Her voice dropped. “I hate to tell you, boss, but Little Rosie’s in the living room. She’s been here all day crying. If I was you, I’d take a bath now ‘cause it’s the only peace you’re going to have for a while.”
I just nodded my aching head and took a good swig of the whiskey. I felt the warm liquid burn down my throat, like an elixir of peace, fortifying me for the chi-chi mama who barreled down the hall toward me like a roller-derby chick.
I could hear her exclaim as I dashed into the bathroom and slammed the door, “Jesse baby! It’s a miracle! Thank God, the Virgin Mary and all the saints heard our prayers. Come out of the bathroom, honey. Let me hug you a little!”
Her words were mercifully drowned out by the gushing water that I turned on to reheat the tub. I heard Junior shoo her away like a mother protecting a tired father assaulted by excited children the moment he walks through the front door after work. “Rosie, not now!”
Their voices kept me company in the bathroom as I regarded the stranger in the mirror. My brown eyes now had a hint of a different spirit behind them. I leaned into the mirror over the clean sink and admired the doctor’s handiwork. Large cords and black sutures stuck out of my flesh like thread sewn through a Thanksgiving turkey breast.
As I washed my face, getting the specks of blood off my forehead, I really appreciated old Dr. Rath now. When I had my appendix out at age twelve, he had used extra-small stitches so that I wouldn’t scar badly. He said that I was a beautiful girl and that the last thing I needed was an ugly pelvic scar. The stitches on my head and my shaved crown m
ade me look like a Franciscan friar who had been sewn up by a butcher. My rage at Prince for doing this to me boiled a little higher.
I hurriedly unbuttoned my shirt and stepped out of my filthy slacks, throwing them both in the trash bucket beneath the sink. I never wanted to see that bad luck clothing again. I yelled through the door as I hopped into the tub, “Junior, tell Rosie I’ll talk to her and Bunny after I’m cleaned up. Get everyone over here in twenty minutes. We’re going to have an emergency meeting.”
Junior shouted back through the door, “Okay boss, but do you think it’s safe?”
“Yeah, Prince’s crew thinks my ass is still in jail. Tell them to be careful but to get over here right away. Call Animal and his bikers and tell them to pick up my people and escort them over here.”
“Okay boss, you got it.”
As I closed my eyes and slipped into the tub, the warm, soothing water flowed over my half-bald head. I was grateful I had so many Stetson hats. The hat that was knocked off of my head during the fight had definitely bit the dust. Within moments I was dressed in the clean clothes that Junior had laid out for me in the bathroom. Another thoughtful touch waited on the sink: a glass filled with Jack Daniel’s next to two Darvocet pain pills and a clean Ace bandage binder.
When I saw the Darvocet pills, I realized that Bunny must have been at my house earlier that day. She was the only one who carried those wonderful pills. She always said that she was a good Jewish girl and believed in being prepared for health problems. I started to comb my chopped-up hair and thought it was a good thing hair grows fast.
I took the pills and swallowed them. I splashed my neck with Aramis and then removed the gold cross. Not accustomed to wearing so much religious jewelry around my neck, I was beginning to feel like Nick’s dashboard.
As I held the cross in my hand, I was captivated by its glistening diamond and the irony of the gift. I reread the inscription on the back, “Carmen Por Vida.” I studied it, feeling the edges in my fingers. I slipped the cross in my slacks pocket to keep my Zippo lighter company.
Suddenly, a stab of pain pierced my chest. I gasped for breath as I leaned on the sink and clutched the faucet handles, waiting for the pain to pass. I was too young for a heart attack.
I gasped in rapid breaths as I fought the panic that was overtaking me. I sank to my knees, put my head down between them and clutched my hands behind my neck like a child in a drop drill.
With my eyes closed, I felt terror encroaching and struggled to overcome its titanic wave. My blind fear told me that each panting breath was my last. Yet the other side of my mind urged me to breathe slowly as I rested on my knees on the cold tiled floor.
From my innermost self, I heard a voice of reason. “Jesse, you’re having a panic attack. It will pass. You almost died today.”
Each fully drawn breath slowed my fear down. I envisioned the floating pale blue eyes of the man that I had stabbed today rolling back in his head. I knew then that the terror I felt was not from my brush with death, but from almost taking the life of another human being.
I feared more for my soul than my body as I prayed quietly on my knees. As I curled into a fetal position, I whispered to myself, “God help me. I can’t do this. I don’t know how to do this, Father.”
I wanted to lie prostrate on the cold floor, but I had to get up. I fought off the self-righteous voices that repeated in my head. “God doesn’t love you. You are a queer and you will go to Hell. You will not die in God’s presence because you are different!”
Junior rapped on the door, saving me from my tortured thoughts. “Hey boss, are you okay? Can I come in? Do you need anything?”
I grabbed onto the sink counter and pulled myself up. In a shaky voice, I told myself, “Get up, Jesse. You can do this. In the Tenderloin, it’s all about who’s left standing!” More loudly, I told my concerned henchman, “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Junior shot back, happily, “Cool! Everyone’s here. Prince or the U.S. Army couldn’t keep them away.”
I managed a smile and said to my reflection in the mirror, “A rat-a-tat-tat, Jesse’s back! It’s show time!”
Chapter 31
DORIS AND THE DYKETTES
The last few days since my encounter with the fat, pliers-wielding bastard had passed uneventfully. Tonight I had issued the order to charge. No longer on my knees, I looked forward to giving Prince a taste of his own medicine. After careful calculation, I decided to implement an old military tool of deception. My crew and I were dressed in full-fledged camouflage.
The big van rumbled down the alley behind Chuckkers with Rascal at the wheel. The radio was blaring, “Chain of Fools,” which my crew was enthusiastically singing along with. I sat in the backseat squished between Junior and Little Rosie, thinking, “This is a van of fools.”
I had a sudden twinge of fear that our reverse-drag camouflage would be detected and that this mission might fail. I was afraid that Prince’s henchmen, parked outside surveying Chuckkers, would recognize members of my crew, even though we were in disguise. Rascal, Junior and I were wearing dresses, wigs, makeup and stiletto heels. We were all dolled up like showgirls. Asian Pearl and Little Rosie were dressed like butches. Little Rosie looked like Elvis and Asian Pearl like John Lennon. My concern about being recognized was reinforced when the van went over a big pothole in the alley, jolting us all and tilting Rascal’s sleek black, pageboy wig.
We were impersonating a singing group and performing at Chuckkers nightclub tonight. I wanted my crew on stage in front of a club full of witnesses who could attest to our whereabouts. We just had to get safely past Prince’s men into the nightclub. Before our performance, my troops would attend a secret meeting upstairs in Carla’s office.
Rascal, the muscular bull-dyke, daintily adjusted her wig. She turned to Doris, our choreographer, who was sitting next to her, and asked in a high, squeaky voice, “Do I look okay?”
Rascal’s big hands grasped the wheel of the passenger van that displayed “Doris & the Dykettes,” freshly painted in large letters on the side. Doris, sitting shotgun, was warming up her voice, preparing for her, “Proud Mary” solo. She was a good friend and neighbor who lived across the hall from me. She had joined us in this masquerade to help us out of a jam.
The pretty-faced black woman was straight, but she was as blind to sexual preference as I was to color. The past year we had become very close friends. I would often attend Glide Memorial Church on Eddy Street to hear Doris sing. Her voice was as pleasant as she was.
Tonight, Doris was all dolled up in a sequined black dress and long rhinestone earrings that matched her jeweled, black satin pumps. She had organized our make-believe group of entertainers and helped get the butches dressed as femmes and the femmes as butches. She was aided by Miss Zada and Miss Penny in transforming my crew. I could barely recognize them by the time the gender-deception experts had finished applying the theatrical costuming.
The only thing that gave my crew members away was their distinct personalities, which could not be hidden under the wigs, makeup and strap-on dongs. I had issued the order that, under no circumstances, was anyone to smoke grass tonight, knowing that if a bullet didn’t kill us, our own laughter would for sure.
Like a nervous Broadway choreographer, Doris lovingly turned around to address her troupe of wandering minstrels. “Now remember, girls, just keep smiling onstage! Breathe, keep moving and keep smiling! Just follow my dance-steps and BREATHE!”
Little Rosie had been practicing speaking like Elvis Presley, in hopes her voice would match her sideburns and wig. She drawled in a low southern voice, “How can I fucking breathe with this tight-ass, titty-killing binder wrapped around my chi-chis? Uh-huh!”
Asian Pearl dropped her British accent as quickly as she could pierce her pointed chopsticks into someone’s balls. She yelled at Rosie from the second row, “Quit whining, bitch! At least you’re a fucking brunette. I’ve got a blond Beatles’ wig on! I look like a rice bowl wi
th hair. Plus, I can’t see through these fucking round-rimmed, John Lennon glasses. I look like a freak. Whoever saw a blond Asian on the Ed Sullivan Show?”
I ordered them both to cool it. Their stage fright was starting to make them unruly. My main concern was that the stage wouldn’t withstand Rascal’s gigantic body in motion. It was one thing for the platform to support the band, but it was another for it to hold Rascal and all the other girls dancing and performing our act. As a preventative measure, I had split my crew into two acts.
I told Rascal to drive around Chuckkers a few times to get a handle on how many of Prince’s boys were staking out the club.
“Okay, Jesse,” Rascal replied in a high voice, more appropriate coming from a lady dressed in a basic black dress and white pearls.
I stared at Rascal, the muscle-bulging migrant farm worker, praying that she could actually walk in her high heels. The bull-dyke’s defined forearms showed every flat of grapes she ever carried.
Our van drove alongside the ’68 purple El Dorado. It was the same color as Prince’s favorite suit. Inside, two of his men were dozing in the front seat on their stake-out.
I ordered Rascal, “Hurry up and pull us around back. Lovey Lupree should be hooking up with us upstairs in a few minutes. Let’s get into the club now before those boys wake up from their nap.”
Rascal nodded her big head, careful not to tilt her wig. The butch in pearls then politely squeaked, “My pleasure, Jesse!”
Passing the club’s marquis, I read:
“Chuckkers Proudly Presents: Doris & The Dykettes Musical Review…and Surprise guest artist.”
Within seconds, the Doris & the Dykettes tour van came to a screeching halt behind the club next to the trash cans. Rascal grunted as she got out of the driver’s seat and turned the handle of the sliding passenger door. I heard the door open. My crew got quiet, preparing to disembark. Like paratroopers over Normandy, they jumped out the side of the van as if it were a military transport.