Mary, Queen of Scotch

by Rob Rosen

  * * * *

  An hour later, they proclaimed us fiddle-fit and released us. Jeff had driven to the hospital, and so he dropped us all off at our homes, me, very much on purpose, last.

  “I know what it looks like,” he said.

  “That you left me burning on the stage?”

  He grimaced. “I had a good reason.”

  “Potty break?”

  We were still sitting in the car. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to slug him. It had been a traumatic day. I lost my job. I almost lost my life. I’d been rescued by a man I was just about to break up with, even though we weren’t dating. I was wondering if my hospital stay could be considered billable hours. What would Arthur say when he got that invoice?

  “I knew you weren’t hurt,” he said.

  “I was on fire, dude. Seriously. Fi…er.”

  He grinned. “Remember when we took that trip up to Oregon, that little cabin by the lake?”

  I squinted above his head, remembering the trip. Me and Jeff in happier times. The high before the fall, calm before the storm. “I fucked you in the lake.”

  He chuckled. “Figures you’d remember that part.”

  “Lake was cold. You were hot. Made for a nice, warm mix.”

  He nodded. “We dried off in a field, just me and you and the wildflowers, naked as Adam and, uh, Steve.”

  “I got stung by a wasp,” I said. “Adam had a snake to contend with. Why is Eden always so painful?”

  “Painful,” he echoed. “Exactly.”

  “Lost me.”

  He reached across the gap and stroked my sooty, makeup-smudged cheek. I suddenly had a face only a raccoon could love. “You hollered in pain, screamed and yelled and carried on until every last animal up there high-footed it to quieter ground. I thought you’d been stung by an entire swarm. But, no, just one measly wasp.”

  “With a six-inch stinger.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Really?”

  I shrugged. “Felt like it.”

  “Sounded like it, is my point.”

  Again, I squinted. “Ah.” I saw his point.

  “Exactly. You were on the stage, but you weren’t screaming like a seven-year-old child who just dropped his ice cream.”

  I cleared my throat. “When I’m in pain, I do not scream like a seven-year-old child who just dropped his ice cream.”

  The stroke against my cheek repeated. My eyelids momentarily fluttered. “Five then. Five-year-old. And be that as it may, you weren’t screaming on that stage. Squirming, sure, but not screaming. Meaning, you weren’t in pain, Barry. Meaning, you couldn’t have been on fire.”

  My resentment toward him began to subside. “So, if you weren’t rushing to my side, where exactly were you?”

  The smile that had been threatening to explode across his face finally went all Fourth of July, lighting up across his smudged cheeks. “Auntie rushed the stage to douse you.”

  “Not a comment I ever imagined hearing, but I like where this is going.”

  “She left her office door wide open. Or, that is to say, someone did.”

  My smile began to mirror his. We looked like demented clowns. “Better still.”

  “The filing cabinet was still open, Barry.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Lucy was on stage once the hubbub, uh, bubbed. She must’ve heard the commotion and came running.” I blinked his way. “Did you see where she came running from.”

  He nodded. “Lucy had been in there. First Auntie, then Lucy, but neither together. When my act was done, I saw Auntie leaving her office. When Lucy finished hers, I watched her pop in there. Perhaps, I’d seen that happen before. Maybe not. There’s a lot of commotion during a show, drag queens running from the dressing room, from the stage, hurrying to get ready, or simply watching the show, waiting for their turn. Even if I had seen Lucy do this before, it might not have registered. It’s not the weirdest thing, I mean. Auntie calls us in there, for a drink, for an argument, whatever. But now, now I was watching, and now it seemed out of place. First Auntie, then Lucy. Not Auntie and Lucy.”

  My eyes were wide. “The filing cabinet. You said it was left open, that the office had been left open.”

  He nodded. “Auntie rushed to the stage. I knew I only had a few minutes at most.”

  “Unless I really was dying; that would’ve taken her longer to deal with.”

  He rolled his eyes my way. “We already covered that, Barry; you weren’t dying.” His peepers came back to their starting position. “Anyway, I rushed in when she rushed out. The filing cabinet was open. I hurried to it.”

  My heart was racing. Mario Andretti would be jealous of my racing thumper. My breath was so baited it could catch a school of fish. A fucking whale, even. “And, and?”

  “You’re shouting, Barry.”

  “Duh, Jeff! What was in the filing cabinet?”

  He smiled. He tickled my chin. “It’s going to cost you.” I started to lift my toga. “No, not that. Not this time.”

  I exhaled with gusto. I knew what he was bribing me for, knew the thought formulating in his brain, like there was a tangible connection between us, with his eyes locked on mine, joining our hearts. In fact, I knew the thought because I’d had the same one. It was a scary thought. It was a dangerous thought, all things considered—all things being our sordid past. Plus, there was that whole Ray saving my life thing. Plus, I cared about Ray. And the sum of all that? Yeah, I cared for Jeff more, maybe even more so since my near-death experience—even though, technically, I wasn’t near death. “You want to be my boyfriend again.”

  He smiled. My toga tented. I could’ve chalked it up to youth, only, I wasn’t all that young anymore. “You got fired,” he said. “I won’t see as much of you. I lost you once, Barry.”

  “But you said you wanted something casual.”

  He shrugged. “Did I?” The smile widened. The circus could’ve taken up residence inside my toga. Cirque du So Gay. “I can’t recall mentioning that. Doesn’t sound like me. Maybe you dreamed it.” He leaned in. The kiss was soft, tender, utter perfection. “Are you dreaming of me, Barry?” he half-whispered, half-rasped.

  “And if I don’t say what you want to hear?” I whispered back.

  He winked from an inch away. “There was cash in the filing cabinet, Barry. Rolled up, crumpled up, tip-looking cash, in all denominations, even twenties, fifties.”

  I grinned. My heart went pitter-patter. “Do you want to be my boyfriend, Jeff? I mean, again?”

  It was a weirdly disjointed conversation, made all the more weird by the fact that we were still in his car, still looking like death warmed over, me in a singed, sooty toga that could house several animal acts and a clown car, him with caked-on makeup that not even Tammy Faye Baker would’ve cared for.

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Which made two of us. “And now that that’s straightened out, what do you think of all that money I found?”

  I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. I caught it and threw it back. Ugh. “I think I’d think better after a shower. Or possibly during, depending on the company, boyfriend.”

  He exhaled. “I missed hearing that.”

  “You did?”

  The grin returned. My erection hadn’t diminished, so let’s say it simply throbbed in reply. “Well, as of late, anyway.”

  I nodded and exited the car. He did the same. If anyone saw us, they were probably scratching their heads. Or calling the police. Either way, we were in my shower minutes later, grime and soot and makeup swirling around the drain before disappearing to points unknown. I pulled him in tight as the warm water washed my cares away. Momentarily. For like a minute. Thirty seconds, tops.

  He rested his head on my chest as we stood there, swaying just a bit in a showery tango. “Back to reality now?” he asked, his fingers tickling my crack.

  “I like Lucy,” I said.

  “So do I.”

  “I don’t think she’s a drug dealer.”

  “Me neithe
r.”

  “Is that simply wishful thinking?”

  He raised his head off my chest. I still felt it there, just the same. Like it belonged there. Like my chest missed it there. “Probably, but…”

  “But?”

  He sighed, shower water burbling around his lips. “But I was in jail with Lucy. I know what she’s been through. What’s more, I know she came out the other side, that she’d sooner die than go back there. So, when you say you don’t think she’s a drug dealer, I think the same thing. And, yes, wishful thinking.”

  “Maybe the tip money was Auntie’s. Maybe she uses it until she can go to the bank.”

  “Then why was Lucy in there without Auntie. Plus, it was a massive wad.” His smile reappeared like the sun at the start of a bright, new day. As for my dick, nope, still hard. He grabbed it and gave it a shake. “And while I normally like a massive wad…”

  I nodded. “Auntie doesn’t take in massive wads of tips; only Lucy does. And maybe not for just her lip-syncing ability alone.”

  “And who tips in twenties and fifties?”

  I turned off the shower. We toweled off outside the tub. I leaned against the sink. “There was meth in that filing cabinet. Stands to reason, based on what we’ve seen, Auntie stocks the cabinet with drugs, Lucy collects the cash and swaps said cash for the drugs, then, at some point after the show, distributes it. Or something along those lines.”

  “Pretty smart.”

  I cocked my head. My cock didn’t budge. It, miraculously, had simmered down some. I think even it was tired. “Why smart?”

  “Most drug dealers get caught in the actual dealing process, when money changes hands for the product. But here, Lucy collects the money, mixed in as it is with the tips. The drugs, I’d imagine, also somehow get passed innocently looking enough. And Auntie, all she has to do is stock the filing cabinet. It would be next to impossible to connect the two of them. Unless…”

  I chuckled. “Unless, you’re a stellar private detective.”

  “You said it.”

  “Yeah, well, you implied it.”

  He shrugged. “You’ll never get that in writing, Barry. At least not from me.”

  I gently socked him one in the arm. “In any case, that mostly explains the how, but what about the why? I mean, Lucy is rich, even if just tangentially through marriage, but still. And why would someone who seemingly has it all deal drugs? And why would someone deal drugs and risk going back to jail if they don’t have to?”

  “We’re missing something here.”

  I nodded. “Auntie.”

  “She must have something over on Lucy.”

  My nodding kicked into overdrive. “Blackmail. Auntie must be blackmailing Lucy, either that or Lucy has some sort of death wish, which I seriously doubt.”

  “Must be. But what does Auntie have over Lucy to make her deal drugs again?”

  My nod abruptly came to a standstill. I knew the answer as soon as he asked the question. That is to say, I sort of knew the answer. Or at least a small part of it. Just the tip, as it were. “Love,” I replied.

  “Of what? Drag? Drugs?”

  I shook my head. “Of her husband, just as she’s been saying, over and over again. I’ve been investigating one husband; I should’ve been investigating the other.”

  “Lost me.”

  I crushed my chest to his—though my chest pretty much reached his forehead, but that imagery isn’t quite as romantic sounding. “And so soon after I found you again?”

  “Were you always this mushy, Barry?”

  I shook my head. “Like you said, sometimes people change.”

  He frowned. “Except maybe Lucy.”

  I wrapped my arms around him. “Nope. Maybe she’s changed the most.”

  He stared up at me. God, he was beautiful. “You think so?”

  I kissed him. I kissed him again. “I hope so, Jeff. I hope so.”

  * * * *

  I found myself at Arthur’s mansion the next day. That is to say, outside the mansion, outside and down the street a bit, behind a large shrub, in case Lucy should go jogging past.

  “Hi, boss,” I said into my cell.

  He chuckled meanly. I think it was the only way he knew how to chuckle. “Not anymore, huh? What will you do now, lip-sync to Madonna at bus stops?”

  I ignored the comment. Or at least tried to. And failed. Miserably. Then again, people waiting at a bus stop were the perfect captive audience? I mean, where could they run off to? In any case, I replied, “Your husband loves you. Your husband is not cheating on you. You’ve seen it for yourself, heard it for yourself, even if only through my wig. Time to settle up.”

  He sighed. Again, meanly. “Where are you?”

  “Outside, behind some expertly trimmed privet. Somewhere, there’s an exceptionally anal gardener.”

  “At least someone knows how to do their job.”

  Bitch. “Bring your checkbook, Arthur; this case is closed.”

  The phone went click. I waited behind the bush. Detective work, it should be noted, isn’t as glamorous as it sounds.

  He appeared twenty minutes later. “Took you long enough,” I said. He handed me a check. He paid in full. “I’d appreciate a good Yelp review, too.”

  He smirked, you guessed it, meanly. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

  I pocketed the check. “I don’t get it, Mister Slade. I proved to you that your husband loves you, so what’s with the shmuck of the year routine?”

  “I don’t like you, Barry.”

  I nodded. “Fair. And ditto. Still, I worked hard for you, took on a whole new career, even practically burned down a bar. The least you could do is say thanks.”

  He turned and headed back to his home, to his life, to his most-probably-drug-dealing husband. “Go to hell, Barry,” he said over his shoulder. “And thanks.”

  I smiled and waved to his back. “That’s all I wanted, Mister Slade.”

  Case closed.

  Only, of course, not quite yet.

  I should’ve just let it go. Drug dealing shenanigans at a club I no longer worked at? Who cares? So not my problem. Or, at least, not a problem that paid my bills. But Jeff worked at the club. Jeff was my boyfriend, miracle of miracles. Jeff was potentially in trouble. Ray worked at the club. I still had to call it off with Ray. Ray was potentially in trouble. I liked Lucy. I didn’t think Lucy was a bad person. And, yes, Lucy was definitely in trouble, either by her own doing or Auntie’s. Plus, I had a conscience. Bad things were happening. How could I simply walk away?

  So, fine, the case was more ajar than closed.

  All that is to say, I needed to find out what Lucy was protecting Arthur from, what Auntie had hanging over her to make her deal drugs again, why she was tied to that club like she seemingly was. And then what? How could I still protect everyone, Lucy especially? If I solved the case, she’d go to jail, love excuse or no love excuse. Not that you could find a judge who believed that anyone could possibly love Arthur Slade, but still.

  And it was then I realized that possibly the answer to many of my questions rested with Tom Nolan, A.K.A. Pearl Necklace. It couldn’t be coincidence that Arthur Slade’s first husband worked with his second, that he, too, had been a drug dealer, had also been in prison around the same time as the others. No, there was a connection there. But what?

  Mom had told me that Dad had told her that Tom was a crook, that he and Arthur were business partners. But was that a past tense thing or a current one?

  My head suddenly hurt. My nose itched. I wondered if you could be allergic to privet. I stared down at the check in my hands. I grimaced. I didn’t feel like I’d earned it. At least not yet.

  And so on to Tom Nolan.

  After I broke up with Ray, who I wasn’t even dating, who had just saved my life, sort of.

  And still my head hurt. And now, so did my heart. I sneezed.

  “Fucking privet.”

  Chapter 8

  The club, I’d soon learned, was c
losed for a few days. To dry out. Ray was the one who told me this by phone, just after I made it back home. He was heading for Mexico for a quick vacation. He said we’d get together when he got back. I told him we were over and through. Thanks for saving my life, but I was opting for a drag queen that barely reached my chest and who, up until recently, I had a love/hate relationship with, mostly the latter.

  And, no, I didn’t say all that so much as think it. I mean, who breaks up with someone over the phone? Not me.

  “Okay, Ray. Don’t drink the water.”

  I hoped he could read between the lines. I tended to doubt it.

  And so, now, on to Tom Nolan.

  I called my father. “Your mom is out shopping,” he said.

  “I called to speak with you, Dad.”

  “Oh,” he replied. “Really?”

  I grinned. “It happens.”

  “It does?”

  It didn’t, actually. I was more of a mamma’s boy. I loved my father, but Mom was the conduit. We were a close family, but she was the glue that held it all together. Crazy Glue, sure, but glue just the same.

  “Anyway, I called to speak with you.”

  He paused. I’d clearly thrown him. “Um, okay, Barry. What can I do for you?”

  “Tom Nolan,” I blurted out.

  “Your mom told you what I told her.”

  I nodded into my cell. “That he’s a crook. But what kind of crook exactly?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Huh?” huhed I. “You said he was a crook, but you don’t know what kind of crook. Then how did you know he was a crook to begin with?”

  He exhaled into the receiver. “I need some coffee, Barry. Want to meet at the Starbucks down the street?”

  “With Mom?”