Transition to Murder

by Renee James

  He smiles, pats her hand, and opens the door for her. She returns his smile uncertainly. It’s working already. I own her.

  September

  MY ELEVEN O’CLOCK SHOWS UP thirty minutes late. She struts straight to my chair, ignoring the receptionist. She throws her purse on my station, plops in the chair, smoothes her clothing and looks at me, ready to give orders. Her mouth freezes in the open position, her command demeanor gives way to theatrical shock. “Oh my God!” She raises a hand to her face and stares wide-eyed as if Lucifer himself were standing before her.

  It doesn’t occur to her to apologize for being late. Of course not. The nasty ones don’t care. Of course, if you keep them waiting ten minutes they go postal.

  If I were still gay Bobby I would have had another client coming in and I would have had the satisfaction of telling this righteous snot she’d need to re-book. But I’m not in a position to be proud. I’ll be lucky to bill $200 today. My career is on the precipice. My life, too. Anyone who will consent to sit in my chair gets my best work and my feigned love and attention.

  This client, Vickie, once referred to herself as a “hair whore.” I’m not sure how she arrived at that designation, but she is as obsessed with hair as a hairdresser is. She comes to me for her cut, which currently has lots of layers, lots of volume, lots of texturizing. She goes to another salon and hairdresser for her color, which currently is an amazing panoply of blonds and reds that make her look like a palomino with the odd burgundy streak just to make sure everyone knows she dyes her hair. And she goes to several different hairdressers—including me—for styling in weeks between her cuts and colors.

  She’s married to some rich guy and they live in a multi-million-dollar condo in the sky. She spends a fortune on her appearance. Her skin has a perpetual tan. A dentist somewhere keeps her teeth so white you have to look away when she smiles or you’ll go blind.

  Then there’s the cosmetic surgery. Her lips have a rubbery quality and they don’t smile quite right. She has fantastic breasts, also silicone. Her skin has the smooth tightness of a teenager, but her lips are getting closer to her ears, and her smile is starting to look like a skeleton’s grimace. It’s hard to say how old she is. I’m guessing mid-fifties, but she could be a hard-living forty-something or a surgically preserved sixty-something.

  And here she is in my chair, doing her very best to make me feel bad. She holds up a hand, gesturing me not to cape her. “Wait. Wait just a minute, Bobbi,” she says. “I have to think about this for a minute. This is a big shock. I mean, I knew you were a light in the loafers, but this! This!”

  She squints into the mirror, staring at me. I stare back. Yes, I feel like a freak on display at a circus, playing to a derisive crowd that entertains itself by throwing gooey things at me and laughing.

  “I mean my God, Bobbi!” she continues. “You have boobs! My God! Are those real?”

  My shame is turning to anger. I look at her in the mirror and see a person far more malformed than me, a skeleton with nice hair and too-blue eyes and lips that flop when she moves them. I want to say something pointedly nasty. Something that hurts her as much as she has hurt me. But I don’t.

  “I’m Bobbi. I cut hair better than anyone you know. I color hair better than your colorist. I style your hair better than anyone, you’ve said so many times. So make a decision, Victoria. Do you want me to do your hair or do you want to leave?”

  I don’t know where that came from. Even when I had a full appointment book and testosterone coursing through my veins, I would never give someone such an ultimatum. She found my soft spot. I hate bullies.

  She sputters and fumes for a moment. “Well, let’s try it and see how it goes,” she says.

  “Fine,” I reply. “What are we doing?”

  “Just trim it a little and style it the way you did last time.”

  I lead her to the shampoo bowl and shampoo and condition her hair in silence. I lead her back to my chair and do the cut, blow dry, and curling iron set in total silence. I do the comb out, the teasing, the spraying, and shaping in silence. I give her the hand mirror and turn the chair so she can see the back of her head. She nods her approval.

  Vickie’s hair makes her look like a cross between an aging madam and a high society matron who is desperate to get laid by a young buck. But it’s the look she wants and it’s usually fun to do. I assume it keeps her husband interested; or if not him, perhaps a paramour somewhere.

  She pays at the reception desk and puts a $20 bill in my tip jar. She looks at me as she puts the bill in the jar, our eyes locking for a long moment. I’m not sure what her message is. I don't see anger or judgment on her face, but I don't see friendship either. The tip doesn’t mean anything. She probably uses twenty-dollar bills for sanitary napkins.

  After she leaves one of my colleagues comes by and puts a hand on my shoulder. “What a bitch,” she says. “Don’t let her get you down.”

  I watch Christine’s retreating form in mute amazement. That’s the nicest thing any of my colleagues have said to me since I started working as a transwoman.

  I can use the moral support.

  ***

  IT’S ALMOST FIVE and I’m ready to call it a day when the receptionist sticks her head in the break room.

  “Oh Bobbi,” she calls, in a teasing, sing song voice. “You have flowers up front.”

  I frown in confusion. Marilee? Trying to cheer me up? No one has ever sent me flowers. Eyes follow me as I make my way to the reception counter where a virtual forest of yellow, gold, brown, and orange flowers pose against a background of green leaves and lace and shoots. Some of the stylists are actually smiling as they watch me walk to the front. Not mean smiles either. Even as I wrestle with who might have sent the flowers, I am basking in the thought that a few of my colleagues are not only beginning to accept me, but even to wish me well.

  The bouquet is stunningly beautiful. I reflexively take a deep breath and put my hands to my bosom as I behold the arrangement. I have never seen anything so beautiful.

  The receptionist plucks a small envelope from the bouquet and hands it to me. “Come on! Tell us who they’re from,” she says.

  As I open the envelope I tell her they are probably from a girlfriend of mine. I open the card.

  Roses are red, violets are blue, why can’t I keep my mind off you? It is signed “J.” I realize who it is when I read the P.S. We should be friends. How about a drink tonight? There is a phone number to call.

  John Strand. He’s expecting me to be honored by the expensive flowers, but what captures my attention is the fact he won’t sign his name. What gall!

  “So who sent them?” asks the receptionist. “You didn’t tell us you had a hot romance going on.” Several others have clustered around to admire the bouquet. It really is unusually stunning. It must have cost a fortune.

  I put the card back in its envelope and the envelope in the pocket of my designer jeans. “Oh they’re from a girlfriend of mine who knows I’m working through some things right now. She’s trying to make me feel better.”

  “Boy, I wish I had a friend like that,” says the receptionist. I nod in agreement, but I’m thinking this is not a gift from a well-wisher. It is an insult from an arrogant cur that uses and abuses people, especially people like me.

  My colleagues are shocked when I decide to leave the flowers in the salon. I have no space at home, I explain, and it would be a shame not to share this beauty with a lot of people instead of just me. They buy the explanation and one stylist hugs me with appreciation. Truthfully, I’m relieved. I feel like I just got a bag of rotting garbage out of my home.

  ***

  CECELIA IS WAITING FOR ME as I stroll into the TransGender Alliance meeting room.

  “Have you heard?” she says.

  “I don’t think so.” I can’t think of anything I’ve heard that would make me as animated as she seems to be.

  “They’re trying to pin Mandy’s murder on some guy they think was h
er john,” says Cecelia in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Do they have an actual suspect, or is this the same stuff they’ve been telling us?” I ask.

  “They’re ready to make an arrest. I don’t know the guy’s name, but it isn’t Strand.” Cecelia is still speaking in a whisper, but she's getting agitated. A tiny drop of spittle flies from her mouth as she speaks, landing on my cheek. “Some of the girls here tonight are saying they already arrested the guy, but my sources say it hasn’t happened yet.”

  “It sounds like they have proof,” I say, thinking out loud.

  Cecelia sneers. “Right. Proof. They have a trans hooker saying he beat her up and someone else saying they saw him pick up Mandy that night. Don’t forget, these people plant guns so they can get away with murder. Getting some snitch to corroborate a story is child’s play for them.”

  “But Cecelia, why would they frame someone for this?” I ask. “It makes no sense!”

  “Of course it makes sense. They get to clear the murder and they protect one of the city’s power brokers,” she answers. “This is a hoax, Bobbi! A travesty! Mark my words. That bastard is getting away with murder!”

  She fumes for another minute or two then circulates through the growing crowd. I consider her argument but just can’t buy it.

  A transwoman named Katrina is buzzing about the rumor that the police have already arrested someone. In fact, that’s the main topic of conversation among the group.

  “Do you think they have the right guy,” I ask Katrina, “or is this just a cover-up?

  “A cover-up? You’ve been talking to Cecelia.” She laughs. “It’s no cover-up. They might not have the guy who did it, but he beats up transwomen so he deserves anything he gets.”

  During the meeting the president opens the floor for members to comment about the ongoing investigation. Several take the opportunity to convey what they have heard about the suspect, the investigation, the proof. Most take the floor just to unburden themselves. One or two are eloquent. A couple more manage to make a point. Most just ramble. A sort of free-association flow of ill-formed or utterly unformed thoughts.

  There is no resolution to anything. No one knows who killed Mandy. No one knows who she was dating, or if she was dating anyone. Except Cecelia, of course. But Cecelia doesn’t name names, not in public. Not even Cecelia will risk the wrath of Strand. No one really knows if Mandy was tricking again, either. Most of those who ventured an opinion doubted it. I share that doubt.

  Tears are shed liberally. We weep for Mandy. And we weep for us, for our class of despised outcasts of society.

  I chat briefly with friends after the meeting then depart. It is a night for a long, quiet walk home. I begin heading south and east, pulling my form-fitting leather coat closed and tying the belt against the chill night winds. A car pulls to the curb beside me. A man calls my name through an open window.

  “Bobbi!”

  I flinch. This is not a place where you want a stranger in a car trying to grab you. I walk faster, looking for a place to run

  “Bobbi, it’s me. Johnnie!”

  Johnnie? I peer into the window. It’s John Strand. Good lord. I can’t believe he actually uses that form of his name with me.

  “Hi, John,” I say. “Thanks for the flowers, no thanks on everything else.”

  “Come on Bobbi, at least get to know me. I’m actually a nice guy. I like to have a good time. I love to party. I love to buy gifts for ladies. Come on. Just one drink. My club is just a few minutes from here.”

  I must look like I’m having second thoughts. God help me, I am. My life has been a succession of idle days in the salon and empty nights alone in my stuffy apartment. I need to get out more. In some irrational part of my brain I’m thinking this might be entertaining.

  He smiles his roguish smile. Insincere but fun. And sexy. He wants to use me, I know, but I don’t sense any danger here. Despite Cecelia's protests, the police have the murderer. Besides, I’m too big for him to bully.

  “C’mon, hop in, Bobbi!” he says. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

  I stop. It’s just one drink. Even if it isn’t fun, it might at least get him off my case. Impulsively, I get in his car. As soon as I close the door I realize how stupid this is, but I refuse to let him see my weakness. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek. I don’t resist. Then he kisses me on the lips, quickly. He withdraws just as I raise my hands in protest but the truth is my protest is an empty reflex. A show. My whole body is on fire. I feel stupid for being so easily aroused by such a transparently phony man, but mostly I feel aroused. He moves with the grace and power of a panther. I can almost feel his flat, muscular abdomen on mine, his arms around me, his lips on mine. I have been without sex for way too long.

  I try to hide my arousal from him.

  “What’s with the ‘Johnnie’ routine?” I ask it sarcastically. I want to establish a tone here.

  “I’m trying to show you my softer, gentler side,” he says. He flashes me his sincere smile. It’s a hustle but it works because I want to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “I don’t believe you have a softer, gentler side, Strand,” I say. “I think you are a ruthless man who uses people. What I can’t figure out is why you have any interest in me.”

  “Well, let’s talk about that in a minute,” he says, pulling into a parking spot on the curb of a residential street. We're just around the corner from Boystown’s biggest flesh market, a dance bar that throbs four nights a week with horny johns and hot hookers and sex-starved masses of every description. Young T-girls flock here on weekends along with young gays and a lot of tourists to dance and grope and get laid. But this is Tuesday night. There won’t be anything going on there on Tuesday night.

  He makes small talk as we walk to the club. He steers me down the alley to the back entry of the building. Strand steps in and tows me behind him. We walk down a dark hallway until he stops at a door and knocks. A voice within barks out a question I can’t make out.

  Strand grunts something unintelligible. He slides one arm around me. I decide not to resist for now. It’s dark and spooky, like entering an opium den. The rational part of me wants to bolt, but this other part doesn’t want to show him any fear.

  The doorway opens and is filled by an ogre-like life form, part human, part bulldog. No neck, thick legs and arms. His lips are thick and ugly. He has heavy jowls. He could be forty years old or sixty. He doesn’t look at me or Strand. Strand puts a roll of bills in his palm and he slaps a key in Strand’s hand then closes his door. Not a word spoken.

  Strand looks at me, pulls me closer for an instant, and winks. “I told you it would be fun. What could be more fun than that guy?” He laughs and leads me further down the hall. It gets darker with each step. Just as the noise of the dance hall’s sound system becomes audible, he stops at another door and uses the key to open it.

  Inside, it’s like the nightclub version of corporate skyboxes at athletic stadiums. There’s a wet bar and refrigerator, several chairs that are light enough to be pushed to the walls to clear a dance floor, a couch, a flat-screen television set. Strand flips a switch and music from the club floods the room.

  “Want to dance?” he yells above the music. I shake my head no.

  He manipulates buttons on a control panel. The music goes off and the flat screen TV comes alive with images of naked and semi-naked men and women dancing and having an orgy. I turn away from the screen. This is beyond insulting. Does he really think I'm that easy?

  “Let’s get the drink out of the way,” I say, walking to the bar. I want to go home. I’m pissed off. Men get turned on by raunchy movies, not women. He’s telling me what he thinks I am. And it’s even more insulting because he’s right. If I let myself watch some kinds of porn, I get turned on. He will never know this, but I do.

  He smiles, switches to soft jazz, and comes to the bar. The choice is beer or hard liquor. I opt for bourbon with a splash of water. He pours himself a Scotch. Of cours
e. The booze of choice for bumbling idiots trying to pass themselves off as cool. I’m relieved though. I cannot stand the smell of Scotch, especially not on someone’s breath. It is like a chastity belt for me. If he kissed me I would puke all over.

  He serves the drinks. We sit facing each other on bar stools. I cross my legs and fold my arms. “So,” I say.

  “So, why do you dislike me, Bobbi? This could be a great thing!”

  I wait a moment before answering.

  “Strand, why are you interested in me? I’m not cute. I’m not pretty. I don’t even pass for a woman. And I’m old enough to be the mother of your kind of girl.”

  “Bobbi!” he says, without missing a beat. “You’re erotic! Kind of girly. Kind of butch. Big soft tits, cute tight ass. A look on your face like you could never get enough. You drive me crazy!”

  I don’t say anything. He's a liar and a con man but he's definitely interested in me. I can't figure out why, but his description of me has my feminine ego glowing. And my transwoman defenses up.

  “So what is it? Am I ugly? Do I have bad breath?”

  I resist the temptation to comment on his Scotch.

  “Come on, Bobbi. Talk to me.”

  “Strand, did you murder Mandy?” It spills from my mouth before I even form the thought to say it. It is a bitch-slap for treating me like a sex-starved idiot, which I am, but that makes it even more insulting.

  We face off in stunned silence. For once there is something other than coldness in his eyes. Intensity. Anger. I have insulted him. Good!

  He recovers his poise. “Why would I kill Mandy?” His voice is low and much too calm. Seething anger bubbles just below the surface. A demon being held back. Barely. His rage powers visions in my mind. I see him hitting me with his fist, my blood filling the air, igniting the release of all his demons. Another punch. Another. Another. I see him beating me to a pulp as I cower, a sniveling helpless wretch. I wish I could revert back to my pre-hormone male strength. Suddenly I feel thin and weak. I think he may kill me, just like he did Mandy. Yes, seeing him like this, I can visualize him killing someone. I should have had more respect for Cecelia's cautions. I shouldn't be alone with this man.