Transition to Murder

by Renee James

  “I was careful, but Andive didn’t give a shit if the queer saw him or not,” says Curtis. “Like, how much trouble can a fuckin’ queen be, right? Shit!” Curtis’ chin quivers.

  Inwardly, Strand sneers. A goon with the heart of a sparrow. Definitely no help here, he thinks. He tells Curtis to go home and lay low for a long, long time. “Don’t talk about this to anyone, understand?” says Strand.

  The man nods.

  “I mean no one!” he says again ominously. “The people I represent are everywhere and if you say anything, they’ll know. And what happened to Andive will seem like amateur hour compared to what they’ll do to you. Capiche?” He throws in the Italian word just to intimidate the idiot.

  Curtis nods. Strand dismisses him with the arrogance of a mafia don. As the man slinks away, Strand orders another drink and thinks. His initial rage is turning to pleasure. It’s time for the A-team to step in.

  “Bobbi, Bobbi,” he sighs to himself, picturing the tranny in his mind. “You’re too smart for a couple of strong-arm morons, but you have no idea what you're up against now.” He smiles. He recalls how easy it was to seduce her, how much she loved being mounted.

  It was time to erase this thing that had the temerity to stalk him. It didn’t seem like much of a challenge, really, even though she had managed to dispatch one of his thugs.

  It needs to be done soon. He’d have to check his calendar, but maybe this weekend. Otherwise, next weekend. Talk about your Saturday night special!

  ***

  THE TREMBLING THAT HAS been with me much of the day has quieted. I am curled up next to Thomas on his couch. His arm is around me. I feel secure in Thomas’ arms and in his presence. I think that’s what’s so seductive about him.

  I fill him in on my little police visit. He fills me in, too. He verifies the rumor Cecelia passed on, the one going around the trans community. My back-alley Romeo suffered a broken jaw and missing teeth from the first stroke of the bat, then broken kneecaps and a shattered shin from the next two strokes, then broken ribs and brutally swollen and sore testicles. No wonder the cops were so agitated.

  “Strand is going to do something big really soon,” I say. The shaky feeling is starting to come back. “He must be raving mad. The biggest charm he finds in us transwomen is how weak we are. We’re so compliant. Beat us. Shake us. Rape us. We just keep coming back for more. Except now some transgender skag has gone and put one of his gorillas in the hospital. For a guy who loves power and has to have total control, that’s like getting peed on. I don’t have much time.”

  Thomas nods. “I think you’re right. What’s our next move?”

  “Our next move is to get you out of the picture so you don’t get splashed with whatever happens next,” I say.

  He starts to object, but I wave him off. “Believe me, there’s no other way. Just one thing before you go, can you get me the tranquilizer? Like, tomorrow?”

  Thomas nods. “I should have picked it up today. You’ll have it by lunch tomorrow, special delivery.”

  “And it can’t be traced to you, right?”

  “I don’t see how. I’m using a go-between who’s buying from a dealer who got it from the source, whoever or whatever that is,” says Thomas. “The only thing we have to worry about is that it’s the real stuff.”

  “Do you expect them to screw us?” I ask.

  Thomas shrugs. “I don’t expect it,” he says, “but you know how it goes. Maybe the source backs out at the last minute. Does he give us sugar water and take the money or does he tell us up front? These people aren’t Boy Scouts.”

  “So I’d better have a backup plan if the tranquilizer doesn’t work, huh?” I say, thinking out loud.

  Thomas nods. “At least one,” he says. He argues for making him and maybe a friend part of Plan B, but I won’t have it. Nobody is going to go to jail for helping me.

  I’ll keep thinking about alternatives if the tranquilizer fails, but right now I only see two—run like crazy so I can fight again other day, or just duke it out with him and hope I can slip in a self-defense technique before he gets me.

  The assertive alternative isn’t working for me. In my private moments, I try to visualize my shot to his windpipe landing, but I keep seeing him parry it easily, laughing at what a weak sissy I am. I try to gouge his eyes with my thumbs, but he easily pushes my hands away, my body weak from months of hormones. This vision is prejudiced by my guilt about sacrificing my maleness to be a woman, but it is also based on reality. I’m not as big and strong as Strand.

  Thomas’ partner rolls in. He doesn’t know about this drama and it’s better to keep it that way, so we drop the subject. We make small talk until I get up to go home. Thomas puts on a coat and kisses his partner goodbye. He's walking me home. Sort of. I don’t want him to be seen with me. I don’t want him to be implicated in whatever I do to deal with Strand. So I walk and he follows.

  It has become very cloak-and-dagger. We use different routes routinely now. We leave his flat by way of the alley. I’ve never seen a tail when I’m coming and going from Thomas’ place, so I’m pretty sure Strand’s goons don’t know about Thomas. And that’s an advantage I’d like to maintain.

  ***

  DECADES HAVE PASSED faster than this miserable night. I have been beside myself with anxiety all day. This is the day I settle things with Strand. Of course, this was much easier to contemplate a week ago, or even a few days ago when all I could think about was that bastard hurting me and killing Mandy.

  The closer I get to the appointed time the more doubts I have. I can’t see any way the plan will work. All I can see is how it will fail. The many ways it can fail. It is just incredibly farfetched, now that I seriously think about executing it.

  And even if everything else works, I don’t think I can kill Strand. As rewarding as it felt in my dreams to watch the life ooze from his evil body, now all I see is a helpless human being and I don’t see how I can bring myself to kill him. And if I do kill him, I don’t see how I can live with that memory, that realization about myself, for the rest of my life.

  I’ve never been a fighter. I’ve had maybe three physical altercations in my life. The last one was in junior high and it was with my best friend. Tempers flared, we started swinging wild haymakers at each other until we were both too weary to take another swing. Then we made up and that was the end of my fighting career. His too, I bet.

  As I try to quell my anxieties I also have to deal with my well-intentioned friends. They are worried about how aloof I've been, Cecelia especially, so four of us are having a private group session with Camille at her apartment. I should have known it was a setup when it turned out that Cecelia, Katrina and another friend of mine, Molly, were the other members of the group.

  The subject of the group session is what a miserable excuse for a woman I am. They are taking turns ripping me for my shortcomings as a friend, a transwoman, and a human being.

  For Katrina and Molly, the theme keeps coming back to my self-consciousness and my preoccupation with how I look. The favored mien among male-to-female transsexuals is an attitude of haughty indifference to what those around you think. Just hold your head high and press on— regardless. . That approach does work better than anything else, at least in this me-first society that America has become. Our citizens respect ego and arrogance a lot more than they respect humility and sincerity. Still, that’s just not me. At least, not until recently. Now, I seem to have simply grown tired of caring what other people think. Although it would be nice to have people to think well of me, I no longer have the energy to give a damn when they don’t. My friends haven’t really seen much of that in me yet. It’s too recent. I could argue with them, but they would just see it as a dodge. So I let them yammer on.

  After beating that subject into the ground they start on my male-like appearance tonight. I’m wearing unisex jeans, a boy's shirt, a sports bra that flattens my chest, and a baggy coat. My face is devoid of makeup, not even mascara or lip g
loss. I’m not wearing any jewelry, not even a ring. I still have long, curly hair and a feminine presentation, but the overall affect is androgynous.

  I will become much more masculine looking later, not that any of them will see it. In one of my coat pockets is my male wig; in another, a bag holding my facial hair and the adhesive I will use to fix it on my face. In that same pocket is the syringe with the animal tranquilizer that Thomas got me. I’m going to switch to male mode later tonight. I’ve already scouted the restaurant; it has a one-person men’s room with a locking door. I don’t want to risk going home to change and maybe picking up a tail from one of Strand’s thugs or just being seen by a nosy neighbor.

  My friends see something else in my sudden androgyny. Molly accuses me of being in denial; Katrina thinks I’m going through a dyke phase. I don’t confirm or deny, I just say I’m expressing myself and that I also express myself frequently as a girlie girl.

  Cecelia has always given me grief about my self-consciousness and doubts, but she doesn’t say much about these things tonight. After Katrina and Molly get tired of beating me up, Camille asks Cecelia if she has anything to add.

  “I think Bobbi’s assertiveness will take care of itself,” says Cecelia. “She has great role models…” she says and gestures to the assembled group, including herself, “…and she has an ego. It’s coming out slowly but surely. I think she’s come a long way in the past year.”

  I smile at the unexpected praise.

  “But I’m actually much more worried about something else with Bobbi, something new,” says Cecelia. “Since you were raped, you’ve been withdrawing from the rest of us. You’re getting secretive. That’s not good, Bobbi. For what we’re doing, changing genders, we all need a village. We need a support structure. You have one. Use it.”

  “What are you talking about, Cecelia?” I ask.

  “You know what I’m talking about,” she says. “We never see you anymore. You’re taking karate classes and lifting weights and running, and when you aren’t doing that you’re working. We were just starting to wonder what happened with you and all of a sudden Officer Phil comes sniffing around wanting to know about some thug who got beat up right where you were raped. . “Bobbi, I don’t know if you’re into something heavy or this is just circumstantial, but you need to keep in touch with the community. There will still be times when no one else can provide the kind of support we provide. Because we’ve been there. But I don’t see the trust from you and it worries me. I don’t hear you talking about things with me or anyone else. I see you withdrawn, and that’s dangerous.”

  The others are on me like jackals on a wounded fawn. They restate the points made by Cecelia many times, adding only anxiety to the discussion.

  Camille remains her solemn, quiet self through all this. She knows more than the others, but not the whole story. Not even close. I can’t tell them what’s afoot. I pledge to do better. I explain that I’ve made some new friends, along with getting into an intensive fitness program. I thank them for caring and weep a little as I hug each of them. It isn’t an act. I hate not being able to share with them what I’m doing and why. But this can’t be shared. If I succeed, they share a lifetime of guilt, either because they give me up to the police, or because they don’t. Anything I share is a curse.

  This is a ride I have to take myself.

  When the session mercifully ends, Cecelia and Camille want to hit a bar. I try to decline, but Cecelia is way ahead of me.

  “Come on, Bobbi,” she says. “Tomorrow is your late day in the salon. You can sleep until noon if you want.”

  I agree to just one drink. The truth is I just don’t want to be around anyone. I know what I have to do tonight and my nerves are on fire. I’m jumpy and moody. I have doubts and overwhelming fears. I barely made it through the group session without the others recognizing how distracted I am. The last thing I want is another hour or two of exposure to my friends.

  I resolve to focus on my friends and what they say for one full hour. I will bury my plan, my fears, and my doubts in a corner of my mind, until my polite hour of congeniality is up.

  ***

  MY CONVERSION TO a goateed male pleasure seeker goes flawlessly. I have a drink at Giuseppe’s bar around nine-thirty. Giuseppe’s is a nice Italian restaurant in Boystown, and nine-thirty is a quiet time in the bar area. I drink alone at a small table. After twenty minutes or so, I drop my tab and a $10 bill on the bar then step into the men’s room. No one notices. I am just one more male face in Boystown, maybe a bit effeminate looking, but not enough to matter. The bartender doesn’t even look away from the sporting event on television when I leave my check and make for the bathroom. It’s all standard operating procedure.

  Inside, I slide a chest-compressing garment over the sports bra for an almost flat chest. I glue on the sideburns, mustache, and beard, then put a hair net over my head hair and slip on the male wig. I take the precaution of pinning it in three places. I finish by relieving myself. By force of habit, I sit to pee. I wash my hands, check myself in the mirror one more time, and leave. The entire exercise takes maybe ten minutes—about what someone experiencing a little gastric distress might need.

  No one notices me emerge from the men’s room, and no one notices me leave. The only customer in the bar has his back to me, and the bartender is still watching television.

  As I leave, I’m working on my walk, concentrating on keeping my hips and butt stable, my hands and arms close to my body, taking longer strides. In my mind I’m singing the refrain from “Walk Like a Man.” I'm too nervous to remember any of the lyrics except the title, but the repetition helps me focus on my walk.

  So begins my night of club hopping. I have several hours to kill before Strand will come calling for his new girlfriend. If he comes calling. I think I have his pattern down, but who knows?

  My stomach feels as if it is eating itself. My anxiety is so high I want to scream at the top of my lungs to relieve the pressure in my head. I try not to think about what’s coming, but it’s impossible to think about anything else. I’m in the middle of a mental nightmare when the first guy hits on me. In my vision, Strand is bound and gagged and hanging by his arms, his feet not quite touching the floor, his dead fish eyes looking at me without expression while I try to convince myself to slit his throat or run the knife into his heart.

  When my would-be admirer puts his hand on my shoulder I jump as if shot. Romeo is startled too then sees my abashed reaction and smiles.

  “Sorry,” I say, “I was a million miles away.”

  “I get it,” he says. “Do you want company?”

  He looks like he’d be good enough company, an earnest man with a friendly face, probably in his early forties. Short hair with a receding hairline, dress slacks, a crisp blue shirt, and a suede blazer. He looks intelligent, whatever that looks like. And he seems like a nice man. But gay Bobby is long gone, and this isn’t the time, anyway.

  I shake him off, nicely.

  The other passes are less tempting. The men aren’t as cute or as nice, and their overtures are crude. One younger guy, very drunk, throws his arm around my waist and says, “My place is just a block from here. What do you say we get it on?”

  I turn down his kind offer with an amused smile and he stumbles off to proposition someone else, or maybe drink himself into a stupor.

  I’m in a kind of Alice in Wonderland state, where nothing is quite real. I long for the simplicity of the days when I thought I was a gay man. Nobody wanted to beat me up. Nobody stared at me in stores and restaurants. Nobody jumped me in alleys to rape me. Granted, intimacy was hard to find, but it’s going to be even harder as a transwoman.

  The bars and clubs go in and out of focus. The people are like Mad Hatters and White Rabbits. Just after one o’clock in the morning I break out in a profuse sweat and feel my stomach rising. I make for the men’s room next door. I go into a stall in the men's room, lock the door, and throw up. I heave until nothing is left in my system,
and then sit on the stool, waiting for the world to stop whirling. I still feel sick to my stomach, but there is nothing left to vomit.

  I can’t do this, I realize again. It’s just not in me. Even if I had the emotional strength to see it through, I don’t have the physical strength. I feel weak. The vomiting has robbed my joints of strength, and months of hormones have reduced my natural strength to almost nothing.As I think about it, I think maybe that’s the solution. Just let Strand kill me. I’m sure it will be painful and humiliating, but at least it will be over.

  I leave the club and walk the streets for a while, considering all this. The cool air clears my head. I’m still jittery. I still feel weak and inadequate. I’d still be happy to die tonight and get it over with. But I make the turn for Skyscrapers anyway.

  ***

  I STEP INTO SKYSCRAPERS for the first time since my little tryst with Strand last fall. The thought of the place has made me sick ever since. I go in the front door this time.

  It’s party night and the place is hopping. Young T-girls are in abundance. Big hair, big breasts, lots of skin. I can’t tell which are hookers and which are just expressing themselves. There are genetic women in the crowd, too. Lots of them come to gay and trans bars to dance. A few are hookers and some are just hoping to get laid by Mr. Right. The men are mostly younger and mostly hetero or bi. Some come to gawk at the T-girls, and others come to have sex with them. The young ones stand at the bar and stare openly, trying to get a girl to return the glance, to indicate interest. The older ones mostly sit, but they, too, try to get the attention of the scantily clad women passing by constantly. There is a smattering of gay men here, too. They can dance here without getting hit on.