by Renee James
She directs me to a stack of messages and notes in the office. I spend the next hour returning calls, paying bills, and updating the books. The receptionist pops her head in the door and asks if I care to take a client, a regular who popped in without an appointment but in great need. I agree.
As I cape the woman, the receptionist comes to my workstation holding a note in her hand.
“I forgot to ask you, Bobbi,” she says. “This man wants an appointment with you. I told him you wouldn’t be in this week, but he said you knew him . . .” Her voice trails off.
I look at the note. There’s a name and a phone number. The name is a mystery to me, vaguely familiar, but not a regular customer, and not someone I know well. Albert Larson. I think for a minute and it comes to me—Andive’s nephew.
“What do you want me to do?” the receptionist asks.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say. I’ll take care of it by filing the note where the sun doesn’t shine. I don’t want to see any relative of Andive ever again, especially not Albert, a paste-eating dufus whose interest in me has nothing to do with a haircut and everything to do with notching a transsexual woman on his conquest belt. As I return to my client’s hair, it bothers me that Albert traced me to this salon. I wonder how he did that.
Cecelia’s black Caddy glides to the curb in front of the salon at precisely two in the afternoon. It’s a no-parking zone, but she knows I’ll be as prompt as she has been. Besides, if they towed away the Caddy it would give her a good reason to buy the Mercedes she agonized over before buying this car. She went with the Caddy because, deep down inside, she’s a “buy American” kind of girl. But don’t call her girl.
Midday traffic is light and we make a quick run to my place. Cecelia asks what’s on my mind and I tell her about my fixation on the law of sevens again. “I know, you don’t believe that stuff,” I say.
“No,” she says. “But you got me thinking about it, and it’s an interesting concept once you understand that numbers and math are part of human logic.
“I agree with your client that our culture favors some numbers over others. One most of all, because that is the number of the individual, and we’re all individuals before we’re anything else. Two is next, because that’s the spouse number, a cultural priority. Three is the number for a marriage with one child, the number of strikes to put out a batter in baseball, a key stop in any countdown, and so on.
“After that, the next key number is seven. I agree with your actuarial friend about that, but I see it as a cultural thing more than a law of the universe. Seven. A football score, the number of dwarfs sleeping with Snow White, a divine or fatal number in craps, the number of the greatest wonders of the world . . . the list goes on and on.” Cecelia glances at me to see if I’m paying attention.
“What about ten?” I ask. “It seems like there’s more ten things in our culture than sevens.”
“There may be,” she says, “but the point is, if you’re talking about something in our culture that’s greater than three and less than ten, it’s most often seven.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Exactly,” says Cecelia. “That’s how you know we have a cultural bias to the number seven.”
We banter back and forth about why that would be, why we have seven days in a week instead of five days, seven oceans, seven brides for seven brothers. She goes on and on then stops, abruptly, and looks at me intently.
“What’s this about?” she asks.
“My stalker,” I answer. “I’ve interviewed all six of my stalker suspects and I don’t think it’s any of them. I think there’s a seventh person I’m just not seeing, and that’s who’s stalking me.”
Cecelia exhales loudly, the way she does just before delivering a sarcastic remark. “My God, Bobbi. This is a first. You’ve never believed in anything you couldn’t see, touch, and feel. What has happened to you?”
“I’m giving up sex and taking up superstition.”
“Sounds like you’re ready to go to church with me.” Cecelia grins, slyly. She’s been trying to bring me to Jesus for a decade or so.
“I’m not that superstitious,” I say.
“You’re getting there, doll,” she says.
We pull to the curb in front of my building and I dash inside to get the parking permit to post in Cecelia’s car. As I enter the front door, I hear a rustling noise and running footsteps at the other end of the flat. It’s not the kind of noise my tenant would make, especially in the middle of the day. It’s an intruder noise. I run for the back door, fumbling in my purse for the Mace as I go.
I get as far as the living room and stop. It’s like my body has been frozen and can’t move. My beautiful living room looks like a war zone. Lamps have been shattered, books from my shelves are in the fireplace, doused with a fire starter I can smell from the other side of the room. Cushions from the couch and one of the chairs have been slashed, stuffing pulled out and strewn across the room. Pictures have been pulled from the wall and smashed, bits of glass and frame splinters all over the room. Some of the components of my sound system have been thrown to the floor.
Every ounce of my strength vanishes in an instant. I sink to my knees and cry, all the bombast and bravado that propelled me just a minute ago replaced by the retching sobs of a heartbroken child. A chain of moments from my life flashes through my consciousness. Picking out linens for my new home, the first place that the woman, Bobbi Logan, ever owned and decorated herself. Pouring through catalogues and showrooms for the furniture, picking out new silverware like I was a young bride. Doing the colors, the rugs, the pictures. A love affair in a hundred scenes; me playing out every dollhouse dream I ever suppressed so that I could pass as a boy.
My mind shifts gears. Every slight, every bigoted sneer, every nasty laugh, all the things I thought didn’t touch me come racing through my vision now, summoned by the certainty that there will always be people who see people like me as targets, not people.
“Bobbi? What on earth?” Cecelia has come in to see what’s delaying me. I’m too cocooned in my own misery to see her, but I can picture her face, eyes wide, mouth agape, visible shock and amazement from someone who has seen it all. She kneels beside me as she dials the police emergency number. She holds the phone to her ear with one hand as she puts her other arm around me.
The sun-drenched October day has given way to a chilly night by the time the police leave. As a favor to Officer Phil, and maybe to me, a star victim because I’m trans and trans people are kind of in vogue right now, the Chicago PD sent a crime scene team to survey the wreckage of my living room and the master bath. Before the felon trashed my living room, he laid waste to my bathroom, shattering the mirror, dumping my cosmetics in the spa, ripping the towels and linens out of the closet, and peeing on them in the middle of the floor. The cops tell me the intruder was probably ready to put my books to flame when I arrived.
They collected samples, took photos, and dusted for prints as if it were a murder scene. Phil says they’ll do their best, but not to expect too much. The hair samples and prints probably come from me or my guests. Any DNA they recover from the urine sample will take weeks or months to process and won’t lead to the offender unless his DNA is on record from a prior conviction.
I nod and start the endless chore of cleaning up. Phil and Cecelia join in. We photograph the destruction for insurance purposes, item by item, in place, then haul the gutted furniture to the back porch, put the urine-tainted sheets and towels into garbage bags, and sweep up the broken glass and shattered bits that coat the floor of the living room. I work in silence, trying to channel the river of self-pity flowing through my mind into a boiling cataract of rage so that I can fight back against this invisible foe. It will take time, but I’ll get there.
Phil offers to take us out to dinner, but I can’t bring myself to leave this place. Not now. Not after this. He calls for a pizza delivery instead, but I have no appetite for food.
When we’re don
e with the meal, I catch Cecelia giving Phil a nod. He starts saying his good-byes, a hug and a peck on the cheek for Cecelia, the same for me, though the hug is a little tighter. We have a history.
“Let’s stop the tears and get to business,” says Cecelia after Phil is gone. She wanted him gone because we were going to name names and talk strategy and tactics, talk that might compromise Phil’s oath to uphold the law.
“I’m not crying,” I say.
“No, but you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Time to summon our inner Einsteins and figure out who we’re hunting,” she says.
“There has to be a seventh suspect I’m missing,” I insist.
“Take me through the six,” she says.
“One,” I say, holding one finger in the air to keep count. “Mark Mendelson. Tranny fucker who came on to me like a nice guy but scared the crap out of me with his sex art. Turned unpleasant and insulting when I confronted him. Asshole first class, but doesn’t seem to be violent, and he’s too artistic to produce the awful graffiti this guy has done. I wish it was him, because I don’t like him, but it’s not.
“Two, Victor Grassi, former tenant, the man who may or may not have told Mark I was a transsexual nympho, furious with me for evicting him, but back on his feet now. He’s not that angry anymore. Plus, I don’t think he ever had this kind of thing in him.”
I hold up a third finger. “Greco, the man-animal who looks over a stylist I fired. He has the muscle, but I don’t think he has the will. He was just showing off for his girlfriend when he confronted me and he’s scared to death of going to jail.
“Four, Joey Swidell, the pathetic junkie I beat up in the salon five years ago. He blames me for everything, including his AIDS condition, but he doesn’t have enough strength to do all this destruction. Plus he’s dumber than a rock. He could never break into this place or the salon, not without breaking a window or something.”
I show four fingers and a thumb. “Five, my old buddy Andive. He was my best suspect, but he’s almost dead and can’t even walk to the bathroom under his own power.
“Six, Michael Albrechti, aka, Lover Boy. Turns out he’s a high school guidance counselor, intelligent, fairly well groomed, and a nice guy when you meet him in other circumstances. He almost cried when I told him I thought he was stalking me. He’s smart enough and strong enough to do this stuff, but I can’t see it in him. If he was violent, he would have knocked me around after I rejected him.”
Cecelia looks into the distance, musing over what I’ve said.
“What about Phil?” she asks.
“What about him?”
“You caught him following you.”
I give Cecelia one of those are-you-serious? looks. “Phil would never do something like this.”
“No,” says Cecelia, “but if you count him as a seventh stalker, that means you’re wrong about one of the other six.”
“It’s just a number. I’m sorry I ever brought it up.”
The truth is, Phil’s not a suspect and for the life of me, I can’t think of a seventh. I’ve relived my last ten years over and over during the past couple weeks, and there’s no one. Which means, it could be anyone, and I won’t know who it is until he jumps out at me from the darkness when I least expect it.
Cecelia looks me in the eye. “What do we know about this guy?” she asks.
“He’s a deranged, sneaky, cowardly snake who likes to play with his victims before killing them, or doing whatever he’s going to do.”
“That doesn’t help us, Bobbi. What do we know about him?”
“You tell me.” I’m sulking. I thought my psychographic profile was right-on.
“We know he can pick a lock, because he got into your salon and this apartment without breaking anything,” says Cecelia. “We know he’s got enough physical strength to cause the damage he’s done here, and he was able to run.”
She stops to focus my attention. “Come on, Bobbi, help me out here. What am I missing?”
I shrug to show my cluelessness, then think of the graffiti. “He’s no artist. In fact, it’s more than that. He lacks sophistication. His hate signature is immature.”
“Good!” says Cecelia. “What else?”
We fumble around but can’t think of anything else. The list we have narrows the suspects down to Greco, Lover Boy, and maybe Mark, if I concede that he might be able to fake adolescent art and caveman skills. We talk about them for a while, going over the same stuff I already said. I can’t see any of them in the stalker role, but Cecelia insists it’s a start. I can’t think of anything else to do, so I’ll start rechecking them tomorrow in my spare time. I have to get back into the salon to take care of clients.
21
BETSY’S CALL COMES moments after Cecelia leaves.
“Are you okay?” I try to control the alarm in my voice. Experience has taught that unexpected calls often bring bad news.
“Yes,” Betsy sighs. “But I’m coming home. My flight gets in at three tomorrow. Can Roberta and I stay with you tomorrow night?”
“Of course,” I say. “What happened?”
“Too much.”
Betsy has trained me not to push when she doesn’t want to talk. I write down her flight information then share my reality with her.
“Betsy, I’m still having problems with that stalker. You’d be safer going home or staying at Cecelia’s.”
“Safer?”
I explain about the violence done on my apartment.
“Just get me a baseball bat, a metal one,” she says. “I’ll be fine. I’d like to vent some frustration on someone who deserves it.”
I smile at her spunk, but her frustrations worry me. “That bad?” I ask.
Betsy unloads. I’m sure she didn’t mean to, but once she starts, it just keeps coming. Roberta is unhappy staying with her parents. Her parents are unhappy because Roberta wanted to come back to my place, which insults them and all their notions of sex and gender correctness. Okay, the last part is my own construct, but I’m sure it’s true.
“When I told Alex I needed to get home, he got creepy about it.”
“Creepy?” I choke back the impulse to offer a bad joke. Betsy doesn’t appreciate my graveyard humor, especially at times like this.
“Sullen. He told me I shouldn’t let a child run my life. It was like he was talking about a dog. He has barely talked to me since then.” I can hear sorrow in Betsy’s voice. Alex has crossed the line. No one can come between a mom and her child.
“Better you find out now, Sis.” I say it softly and immediately wish I hadn’t, even though it’s true.
“Easy for you to say, Bobbi.” Her voice is quiet, but angry.
“Why is it easy for me to say?” I ask.
“When you break up with someone, you just take another lover. It’s not that easy for me.”
This hurts on too many levels to count, but I sweep aside the insult for now.
“It’s not that easy for anyone,” I say. “I’ll meet you at the International Terminal.”
“I’m going to pick up Roberta from school, then go home,” she says. “Do you mind helping me with my bags?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say.
“I shouldn’t have said that about you,” she adds. “I’m sorry.”
I mumble my forgiveness. We issue our farewells and hang up. I have a restless night ahead of me, and she faces a tense morning followed by an endless flight.
Betsy calls again at five in the morning. Her flight has been delayed. It won’t get in until five tonight. Can I pick up Roberta and meet the flight?
“With rings on our fingers and bells on our toes,” I say.
Her thanks is terse and mirthless. Overtime in paradise has ended badly.
Mark Mendelson leaves his building a little before eight o’clock in the morning and heads for the El station. I watch from a bus stop across the street, still nursing my first cup of coffee. I stay there for another ten minutes to make sure he does
n’t come back, then walk a few blocks to the coffee shop and warm up. The chill of autumn has descended on the city, bringing with it a burst of yellow and orange and red leaves that’s almost blinding, and the kind of morning temps that make outdoor stakeouts hard on wimps like me.
I return to Mark’s building a few minutes before nine to play out a hairbrained scheme that can’t possibly work but probably won’t get me in trouble.
The doorman greets me with a smile and a vigorous good morning. I return the greeting in kind.
“I’m here to see Mark Mendelson,” I say. “I’m very early but I wasn’t sure how long it would take to get here and I didn’t want to be late.”
The doorman rings Mark’s apartment twice and concludes he’s not there.
“Do you mind if I wait in here?” I ask. “I don’t want to take a chance on missing him.”
The doorman is a large, thirtysomething black man, genial, engaging. Different than the man on duty the night Mark had me over. He sees nothing threatening in me. “Sure, that’s fine,” he says.
After a few people come and go, there’s a lapse in traffic, and he smiles at me again.
“So what kind of guy is Mark?” I ask. “I really need this job.”
“He’s okay,” the doorman says. He has been trained not to talk about the residents.
“My girlfriend said that, too.” I smile my most coquettish smile. I can tell by the way he’s assessing me, he’s made me as a transwoman. “She said he was a great boss and it’s a real honor when he interviews you at his place instead of the office.”
“I imagine so,” he says. He smiles, but his eyes tell me he thinks I’m either a hooker or a very naïve transwoman, and either way, this is a job interview I’m going to be doing on my back.
“Does he have many employees come here?” I ask.
The doorman seems embarrassed. “I couldn’t say, ma’am.”
We make intermittent small talk, interrupted by people leaving and arriving. He greets each person with a morning salutation. My chance comes ten minutes later when an older couple gets out of a cab in front and the cabbie puts their luggage on the curb. The doorman starts out the door to help the frail couple with their bags. As he exits, two residents come in. The first one uses her key card to open the security door. The other person follows her in, and so do I. As we wait for the elevator, I glance through the glass doors to the street. The doorman is carrying both bags and chatting with the elderly couple. I doubt he’ll even remember I was there, but, just in case, I stand so the other two people are between me and the entry.