by Rob Rosen
He smiled. “Unique choices.”
I shrugged. “Drag queens do not live by Britney alone.”
“Sacrilege.” He chuckled as he clutched his pearls. I popped a boner. Damn. “What are you doing after work?”
Breaking up with you? Getting fucked by you? Do I pick what’s in the box or behind Curtain Number One? “I’ll meet you back here after work.” And then we’ll see what happens. I’m betting on the box, though. Ray has one mighty fine box, after all.
I turned and headed for the back. My drag face was already on, as was my wig, as was the hidden cam. As always, I was pulling double duty when I was at the club. My stint with both jobs would soon be over with. I’d move on to another case. But what would I do about Mary? What would I do about Jeff and Ray? I seemed to be racking up questions, but, alas, not too many answers.
I entered the dressing room. The place smelled of perfume and makeup and makeup remover, with just a hint of man. The other queens were getting ready. Hellos were said, as were bitchy jabs, all followed by laughter. I relaxed. This was my sanctuary, even if I shared it with a bunch of ex-cons and possible future ones. I liked them all even as I feared them all. My head and my heart were at war with one another, but what else was new?
Auntie was on first, then Mora, then Lucy, then me. Mora and I would be on the lookout throughout the night. Hopefully, something would stand out, some sort of clue as to what was going on. Arthur would be watching from home, looking for his own clues, or lack thereof.
I slipped into my pads, my girdle, my toga, and heels. I was the goddess of love, decorated in gold. Or at least what would pass as gold—if just barely.
“You look lovely,” said Lucy from my right.
“I’ve been practicing my makeup techniques.”
“It shows.”
Auntie snickered from my left. “Yeah, congrats, sweetie. You can get a job at Hooters when this gig is over.” She straightened out her wig. “Showtime, ladies.” She smiled at herself in the mirror, then turned and headed for the door. “I’ll try not to take all the tips.”
I laughed, loudly and with a cough. Auntie turned and glared my way. “What?” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. “Wasn’t that a joke?”
She pointed at my face. “Not as funny as that one.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m young; I have room to improve.”
She started to reply, or at least retort, when Lucy shouted, “You’re on in one minute, Auntie.”
“Lucky us,” said Mora. Auntie’s glare turned glower, and then she was gone. “Poor audience, though.”
We three ladies tittered. Mora quickly finished her makeup and was also soon gone. That left me and Lucy alone. Me and Lucy and the hidden Arthur. I flicked on a microphone. I introduced Auntie. I threw in a joke about walruses: What’s the difference between Auntie Bellum and a walrus? One has rolls of blubber and a mustache, and the other is a walrus. That was what my hosting job entailed. Yawn.
“You really do look lovely,” said Lucy, batting her fake lashes my way.
I grinned. To be fair, I did look lovely. Softer. And I really had been practicing my makeup. “Thanks to you.” Which was true. “Maybe now the customers will hit on me the way they hit on you.” Which was me being a detective.
The sadness that was always there seemed suddenly more pronounced. “They try, they fail.”
“Arthur?”
She nodded. “Arthur.” I couldn’t tell if she sounded rueful or blissful. I chalked it up to too much makeup, which made her face a bit inscrutable. Or maybe I was reading too much into it.
“I’d like to meet him,” I said.
“He never comes down to the club.”
“Why is that?”
She shrugged. “He’s older. This isn’t his scene. Too loud. Too many drunks. Too many admirers for his liking.”
The list was too long. It sounded practiced. It also sounded like it was missing something, namely the truth. Then again, maybe I really was reading too much into it. I was clearly too invested in this case now. I was eager for it to end, even though it meant that potentially Mary would also end.
“He’s lucky to have you,” I said.
She shook her head. She rose from her seat. She was a vision in pink. Pink from head to toe. She looked like cotton candy come to life. She looked sweet enough to give you cavities. “I’m luckier to have him.” She stared right into the camera, right at her husband. A chill ran up my spine. She couldn’t have known, not unless he told her. But why would he do that? “Let’s go watch Mora,” she said, thereby prying me away from my thoughts.
I blinked. “Sure.”
We were standing off to the side of the stage a moment later. Auntie came running by, her hands full of cash. I turned and watched her. She didn’t go to the dressing room; she went to her office. I supposed there was nothing off about that; it was her office, after all. Still, the dressing room seemed more logical. Drag queens need touch-ups. Plus, she had another number, soon enough.
Lucy pointed to the stage, to my ex. Or was he my current? Oh what a tangled web we weave. “There’s a lot packed into that small frame of hers.”
Tell me about it. I stared in awe at Mora. Jeff had vanished without a trace. Doctor Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde. Though that, I knew, implied that he was part evil, and that wasn’t fair. Or was it? I mean, if you had asked two weeks ago, I’d have told you that Mussolini could’ve taken tips from Jeff. What had changed? Me or him? Or were we both the same, just older and wiser? Either way, I gave him his introduction, leaving out our sordid past and any references to marine life.
“You’re dating her again.”
I turned to Lucy. “How do you know that?”
She smiled. Lord she was beautiful. Shellacked, sure, but beautiful just the same. “It’s the way you two look at each other. It’s how I look at Arthur.” She pointed at Mora, who was working through her number. “Plus, I asked her. She told me. I hope that’s okay.”
I nodded. “It ended badly before.”
Lucy shrugged. “They mostly all do. Still, the Phoenix rises from time to time. Maybe this time, you’ll stay…” She grinned. “Erect.”
Mora left the stage. Lucy ran on. Another intro was given. I was getting good at it, not that it required all that much talent. Plus, it generally meant less stage time. Tonight, I was lucky. Tonight, I had two numbers. But that was not the norm; that was Lucy making a favorable schedule.
“Hi,” said Mora, mostly out of breath.
I gave her a hug. “You were stunning, as always.”
We watched Lucy tear up the stage. Not surprisingly, all things considered, she was doing a Pink medley. I turned to Mora. “Auntie is in her office. The door is closed.”
“Yep,” said Mora. “She frequently does that.”
I stared beyond her, to the closed office door. “Always or just on the nights she’s performing with Lucy?”
She shrugged. “Not a clue. Often enough that it no longer seems odd. I mean, she has another set. She needs to get ready for that. And her clothes and makeup are in the dressing room. Still, she always makes it on time, so, again, not so odd. Maybe she has a call to make. Maybe she likes the privacy.”
I turned and again watched Lucy perform, her lips in perfect sync to the music, her legs and feet and arms and hands matching every beat. She did Pink better than Pink did Pink. I stared into the crowd. The men were lined up, hands full of cash, wads of it, all of it being handed to Lucy. Drug dealers didn’t take in that much cash.
It was then that the light shined brightly above my head. That is to say, high above my head, as my wig quite towered. “Drug dealers,” I muttered, then realized that Arthur could potentially hear me. Though that was exceedingly unlikely, given the roar of the crowd and the din of the music.
“Huh?”
I pointed at the stage. “Look at all the money she takes in,” I said into her ear, my hands cupped so that not a stray sound could escape.
Mora pul
led an inch away, then looked from me to Lucy and back again. Into my cupped ear, she replied, “She’s the star; it’s well-earned.”
I nodded. I re-cupped. “But what is she taking in? Ones, fives, twenties?”
Mora blinked into my eyes. Jeff was in there. Now I could see him. “You’re not saying…”
I put my fingers to my lips, thereby shushing him. The conversation could wait. In fact, it would have to. Lucy came bounding by. My music was already starting. There were those quintessential opening bars of my song. As soon as you heard them, you knew “Venus” was about to start.
I gave my own introduction and out I went, toga billowing, blonde locks swaying, lips syncing. The crowd erupted, the sound deafening. It felt like being in the center of a symphony, all the instruments blaring at the same time. My body tingled, my very cells vibrating. Beauty might be skin deep—and in my case, makeup deep—but fame, fame invades your very atoms. And sure, big fish, little pond, blah, blah, blah, but this fish was swimming upstream, ready to spawn onto the world!
I flung my arms out. The chorus bleated in my ears. I was their Venus! And I was on fire! Literally. Well, sort of literally. See, my wig, apart from concealing a cam, also had many dozens of red LED lights, and my dress had a small smoke machine sewn into it, held up by my girdle, which was now pulling double-duty. All that is to say, once I pressed the also concealed button on my side, I was, as I said, Venus on fire! And, judging by the near Beatles-like hysteria that quickly ensued, I was the crowd’s desire.
Sure, the smoke had my eyes watering, and, fine, the machine pressed to my hip was unusually warm and growing alarmingly warmer by the second, but one does what one does for one’s craft.
“Fire!” shouted a buffed twink in the front row.
Silly boy, I thought. It’s all illusion.
“Smoke!” shouted the twink’s twinky companion.
Duh, thought I as I surreptitiously wiped my eyes. Silly drunk boys.
“Fire!” shouted another. “Fire!” it was thirded.
I glanced to the side of the stage. Mora was frantically pointing my way. Or, more specifically, at my side. My glance glanced downward. Shit, I was literally—LITERALLY!—on fire. Venus was fucking on fire!
“Stop! Drop! Roll!” shouted the first twink. Easy for her to say. You try dropping in six-inch heels without breaking an ankle or two.
In any case, the music stopped, so I stopped. Ray came bounding on stage, and drop I did, with him on me, rolling us both in what seemed very wet bar rags, a lot of them. And while I knew that my show was sensational, sizzling wasn’t an adjective I’d considered. Scorching and searing would’ve also been apt. Soggy now, as well, as Auntie appeared, dumping pitchers of water over the rolling two of us. Lucy was on my other side, shouting, “Are you okay, Mary? Mary, say something!”
Ray rolled off me. A cloud of smoke billowed to the ceiling, and just as all the alarms blared and the sprinkler system kicked in, I loudly groaned, “Tipping ain’t just a city in China.”
It was an oldie but a goodie.
And take that, Bananarama!
The bar emptied out. Quickly. Wet, after all, is not a good look when you’re trying to get laid. And denim is hard to roll down your thighs when it’s soaked. I turned my face to the side. Ray was huffing and puffing next to me. “Girl, you were on fire tonight,” he coughed out.
I grinned. “Tell me about it.” I tentatively reached my hand to my side. I was no longer on fire. Puffing smoke, sure, but not aflame. “I think the girdle stood between me and a rather painful death. Saved by a pair of Spanx and a rather fetching bartender.” I blinked his way. “Thanks for, you know, fetching.”
“You’re welcome.” Only, it was Auntie who was still standing over me, very drenched and very angry looking—even more so than usual. “I dumped the fucking water over your fat, fucking ass.”
Someone had turned the fire alarm off. The sprinklers followed suit. The sound of fire truck sirens could be heard in the distance. “Thanks,” I said, spitting out the excess water. “My second set will be less…traumatic.” Ironically, it was, as I said, Blondie’s “Atomic.” Nuclear annihilation. I was going to come out all frayed and sooty. Also ironically, I would no longer need makeup to pull it off.
She smiled down upon me. It looked less than friendly. Far, far less. “Great, I hope it goes over well wherever you perform it at.” The smile promptly went poof. “You’re fucking fired, bitch.” She stormed off the stage, shouting into the smoke, “Fucking amateurs!”
Lucy crouched down next to me, dripping all the while. She still looked beautiful. Soggy, but beautiful. “You okay, sweetie?”
I pushed myself up onto my elbows. “Better than my dress.”
“Or your act.” She smiled as she pointed to the wet wreckage that was the club. “The floor needed a good cleaning, anyway.”
I stood up. I helped Ray to his feet. Mora was nowhere in sight. We could still hear Auntie cussing in the distance.
I grinned. “Guess that’s what you call a showstopper.”
Lucy chuckled and put her damp arm over my shoulder. “Literally.”
I touched fingertip to nose and vigorously nodded my head. “Exactly.”
Chapter 7
The firemen dropped us off with the EMT’s. The EMT’s took us to the hospital, me and Ray and Lucy, all of us having inhaled more smoke than both Cheech and Chong in all their movies combined. Auntie politely declined. That is to say, Auntie drew her gun, albeit one of the soda guns behind the bar, and threatened the firemen with what sounded like very painful genital mutilation.
“She looks fine,” said the fireman closest to me, just before he deposited us outside into the fresh air.
“Matter of opinion,” coughed I.
“Fine is such a subjective word,” hacked Lucy.
“Smart move,” wheezed Ray with one of his quintessential winks. “Given that I bet you have stunning genitalia.”
My hero.
In any case, the three of us found ourselves in a shared hospital room not too soon later, oxygen masks over our sooty, makeup-smeared faces. Well, not Ray, as Ray didn’t wear makeup. Still, our trio looked far worse for the wear.
Mora, still in drag, came rushing in and ran to the middle of the room, took one look at us, and deadpanned, “You bitches look like shit.”
To which Lucy replied, “We’ve been in a drag fire; what’s your excuse?”
Mora smirked and toddled my way. She leaned down and in. “Don’t be mad; I had a good reason for disappearing.”
“I’m okay,” I said to her from behind the oxygen mask. “Between my padding and my Spanx, the fire didn’t have a chance.”
She nodded and pushed the singed, blonde locks out of my face. “That fire clearly didn’t know a star when it engulfed one.”
Lucy lifted the mask from her dirtied and smudged face. “I’m fine, dear; thanks for asking.”
Mora walked over to Lucy’s side. “This is a good look for you, hon. Fire-sale drag.” She bent down and gave her friend an air kiss on the cheek. “You should work this into your act. Or, you know, just work an act into your act.”
“Truce,” said Ray. “Please, it’s been a long day.”
I exhaled. Did I mention that it was weird to have both of the men I was sleeping with in the same hospital room? Because it was. Weird. And unsettling. I mean, I’d escaped death. Death must’ve been pissed and gave me this as a consolation prize. Fucking death.
I took the mask off. “Auntie fired me.”
They all frowned as they took their masks off. “To be fair,” said Lucy, “you flooded her bar.”
“And ruined her wig,” added Mora.
Ray nodded. “She does love her wigs.”
“And her bar,” said Lucy.
I sighed. I coughed. I coughed some more. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Was I crying? Was I crying over losing a temporary job? I sobbed and wiped my face with my tattered sleeve. “It was a nifty number, thoug
h, right?”
They all nodded. “But,” said Mora, “first rule of drag: don’t rely on props. Props fail. Look pretty. Lip-sync as if you’re life depended on it. Flirt with the big tippers. Mock the cheap ones. But use the props sparingly.”
“And,” said Lucy, “stay clear of electricity.”
Their nodding went into overdrive. “Amen,” said Ray. “Electricity and animal acts.”
Mora made the sign of the cross over her padded chest.
“What was that for?” I asked.
“We had a boa constrictor mishap a couple of years back.”
Lucy shuddered. “So much blood.”
I, too, shuddered. I’d never considered drag to be a contact sport. Man, was I wrong. I looked over at Ray. He’d saved my life. Or at least a good part of my hip and a fair part of my ass. Granted, he loved my ass, and for good reason, but still. On the flip side of that, I’d lost my job at the bar. I didn’t need to see Ray at work anymore. I could move on, claim other responsibilities. Perhaps, I was now off the hook. But did I want to be off the hook? Mora disappeared on me. Mora didn’t rush the stage to save me; Ray did. Heck, even Auntie dumped water on me. Then again, she might’ve been trying to save the stage more than me, and so beggars couldn’t be choosers.
So, now what? Did I still need to break up with Ray, the man who, at the very least, saved my ass? I stared over at him. He looked exhausted. I felt the same. I looked over at Mora. Mora was staring at me as I stared at Ray. Did I mention weird? Because it bears repeating. My heart was torn. My dick could’ve gone either way. In that, there were no surprises.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. I had a job to do. I was still on the clock. My heart would need to wait until Arthur paid me in full. And with my gig at the bar over and done with, that time was fast approaching. It was then that I realized my dilemma: what did I do about the rest of it, the filing cabinet, the ex-cons, the possible crimes going on? Did I turn it all over to the police? Did I continue the investigation, even though, in fact, it wasn’t what I was actually investigating?
And what if the filing cabinet was a hand-me-down? What if Auntie had bought it used? What if she never stored drugs in it and Lucy simply had a spare key? Plus, Lucy was a star, so those tips were probably just that, tips. But none of that explained the roster, the order of who went on when. No matter how I could dismiss everything else, something odd was going on. Throw in the fact they really were all ex-cons, and that something odd was made all the more odder. Also, despite my training, my gut was telling me all was not sunshine and lollipops, even though the evidence was still sparse at best.