Mary, Queen of Scotch

by Rob Rosen

  “Right. Anything else?”

  “Be careful, Chad. In and out. Make it short. Small talk. Like you don’t care that much about it. Just passing the info along. Don’t look too interested. Tell the others the same. Call me when it’s over.”

  I could hear him gulp on the other end of the line. “I hope this works, Barry.”

  Again, I nodded. “Can you cross your eyes, Chad?”

  “Uh huh. Why?”

  I sighed. “I got all the other body parts covered. Best to tick off all the boxes.”

  He said his goodbyes. I sat on my couch and stared at my phone. The wait would be interminable. I wished I had Arthur’s cam now, wished I could see what was happening to my friends. I hopped up and poured myself a scotch, seeing as I was the queen of it. I finished my drink. I peed. I stared at the clock on my phone. I’d killed five minutes. Five! “Damn it.” I paced. I sat. I listened to Grace Jones. It did little to get my mind off of things.

  Five more minutes went by, ten, twenty, thirty. My phone vibrated on the table. I jumped, my breath catching in my throat.

  A video appeared on the screen. It was Ray and Chad, dressed now as Lucy, plus Maureen and Connie, looking quite Indigo Girlish. They were smiling. Relief washed over me. “Looks like nobody got shot,” I said.

  Ray shuddered. “God, was that a possibility?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. Bad choice of words. What happened?”

  His smile returned. “We did as you said. Each time we told them, individually, they looked more and more nervous. Plus, two other bar patrons came to their table. I’m guessing they told them the same thing we did. That should shake things up.”

  Lucy’s bewigged head nodded vigorously. “And we added fuel to the fire.”

  Connie also nodded. “Maureen and I told them we saw the cops talking to Auntie and Pearl, too. And when the cops showed them the photos, Auntie and Pearl seemed to get into some deep discussion with the women in blue.”

  I clapped my hands. “Bravo!”

  Maureen and Connie curtsied. Lucy rolled her eyes. “They left right quick after that, Barry. They think the police are on to them, to their dealings at the club, possibly about their association with Auntie and Pearl, but what good does that do us? And now what?”

  I, too, had been smiling, but the grin promptly vanished. “Now it’s my turn,” I said.

  Ray’s smile also flatlined. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s my case, Ray. I’m the detective. You’ve all done so much. Too much, even. But now it’s my turn.”

  “To?”

  I sighed. “That fire needs some more fuel.”

  Now they all looked worried.

  Which made five of us.

  * * * *

  I found out where both Halston and Jackson lived. It simply took a little more online research. After all, I had names, past residences. I needed Google online for this. Google, a bottle of scotch, and a few hours of checking, double checking, back checking, and some good, old fashioned dumb luck. The former I had in droves; the latter, as of late, not so much. In any case, I picked Halston’s apartment building. Halston was the smaller of the two men. In a fight, I had a better chance with him. Plus, I had my Taser on me. Plus, I had my pepper spray on me. I also had my car keys. I’d learned in school that you could slide a key between two fingers and jab the throat with it. I imagined that could do more damage than my other two weapons, but still I carried all three. Heck, I even had a lucky rabbit’s foot on me, ignoring the fact it hadn’t been very lucky for the rabbit.

  I waited in my car for him. I’d done stakeouts before, always on the cheating husband cases. Detective work was a lot about patience, about sitting around, waiting for opportunities. The research stuff was easy; the grunt work was aptly named.

  The neighborhood was on the seedy side. Drug dealing, it seemed, didn’t afford him a better zip code. My car was locked. I was safe, bunny-foot-protected. He showed up just before midnight. He was alone, a bit wobbly as he exited his old Chrysler. He had to be my father’s age, but looked older, brutish. Me, I looked like me, only with a fake mustache, fake sideburns, blue contacts. It was dark either way; he’d never recognize me down the road if it ever came to that. I rubbed the rabbit’s foot, just in case.

  I hopped out when I spotted him, making sure he could see me as I approached. Not a good idea to sneak up on a bad guy, mainly because a Taser couldn’t outrun a gun. I held out my hands in an I come in peace sort of way. The key was jammed between my middle and index fingers. The pepper spray dangled behind my back, out of sight. The Taser was jammed next to the rabbit foot in my front pocket. In other words, I was fully locked and loaded.

  Though not nearly as loaded as him.

  I could smell him from five feet away. Gin mills smelled less toxic.

  “Mister Jackson,” I said, my voice echoing down the otherwise still and deserted street.

  He stopped and eyed me uncertainly. “Fuck you want?” The words were a bit slurred, but he suddenly seemed alert. I’d been schooled to never underestimate your opponent. This man had served time in prison. This man was a drug dealer. This man, judging by his car and his apartment, had little to lose.

  “Just to talk,” I said as I drew nearer. I flipped him my badge. I’d bought it at Party City. In the dark of night, it looked official. “Detective Wojohowitz.” It was a Barney Miller reference, my father’s favorite show. It was a name Jackson would never remember, in case he needed to ask around at a later date. It also made me sound like a cop more than a private eye. It was illegal to impersonate an officer of the law. What I’d done was a gray area. I was fine with that. “This will just take a few minutes,” I said.

  He didn’t look nervous. He simply stood there and eyed me, hands curled up into fists. “You got two, Detective. I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  “You were driving under the influence, sir.”

  He looked right and left. “Driving? Me? I’m just standing here. Is it illegal to stand under the influence?” He smirked at his own wit.

  “Public intoxication.”

  He sighed. “You’re no fun.” He grabbed his crotch. “Unless you are.”

  “Solicitation is also illegal, sir.”

  “Then why did God give me such a big dick?”

  I shrugged. “To make up for a lack of brains?”

  He chuckled. “You’re down to one minute, Detective.”

  I nodded. I was suddenly three feet from him. Far enough to avoid a punch, a lunge. Up close, you could see the gray in his hair, the wrinkles around the eyes. He looked like a washed-up boxer, but even a washed-up boxer had a few good jabs left in him. Meaning, three feet was as close as I’d get. “You’ve heard that the police are looking for you?” I got right to the point.

  He exhaled. The air suddenly reeked of booze. “Do tell. There some ball they’re selling tickets for?”

  “I’m on your side, Mister Jackson.”

  “First time for everything.”

  “Back to my question, sir.”

  He moved in reverse and leaned on his car. I wondered which would give out first. “Do I need my lawyer for this, Detective?”

  “You got one of those?”

  He nodded. “Fuck yeah.”

  I shook my head. “Like I said, I’m on your side. The police aren’t necessarily out for you and your partner, Mister Pruitt.”

  “Necessarily.”

  My shake turned shrug. “We’ll take what we can get. You and Pruitt or Lester Smithson and Tom Nolan. Preferably the latter.”

  He seemed to freeze, then just as quickly thawed. I gathered that their association was a secret, a secret I clearly knew about. “The drag queens? What do the police want with them? It’s also illegal to wear too much blush?”

  It should be, but no. “Mister Jackson, you provide drugs to Smithson and Nolan. Smithson and Nolan sell the drugs through the bar that Mister Smithson owns. The police were tipped off to you and your partner. The
police were also tipped off to Smithson and Nolan. Smithson and Nolan are willing to cop a plea: turn you and Pruitt over for a lighter sentence.” The first half of that was conjecture on my part, but some or all of it was probably true. Or at least enough of it to have him worried.

  “Doubtful.”

  He was smirking again. It was unnerving. I was unnerved. “Why is that, sir?”

  He pushed himself off the car. “Because if those two do any copping, those two will have far more to worry about than a prison sentence, light or not. Again, trust in that.”

  “Sounds like a threat.”

  He shrugged. “Sounds like a promise.” He leaned back again. “Besides, there ain’t no drugs dealt at that club. Not by me, at least. Not by Pruitt, at least. You got it all wrong. And if you arrest the drag queens, they’ll tell you the same thing.”

  I matched his shrug in kind. “If you say so, sir. But let’s say you’re wrong on that. Let’s say that they’re already copping. Let’s say they’ve been caught red-handed and are singing like the proverbial canary. If that’s the case, then maybe you two can sing a little louder and cage those canaries before that cage slams you inside instead.”

  “I don’t like you, Detective.”

  I managed a grin. “It happens. My mother, however, says I’m delightful.” Which never happens.

  He sighed. He suddenly looked tired. “Fine,” he replied. “Prove it. You prove this cockamamie story of yours, and maybe we’ll sing.”

  “But I thought you were innocent.”

  His shrug returned. “I am. We are. Which is why you’ll never be able to prove any fucking thing.” He moved away from the car. “Can I go now, Detective? Your two minutes are long up and I have to piss.” He winked as he walked by me. “And public urination is also illegal.”

  I watched him stagger away before he disappeared inside his apartment building.

  My smile returned in full force. I mean, like I’ve said, I’m a good detective, bordering on great. It says so on Yelp, so it must be true. All that is to say, I already counted on this reply. In fact, I counted on quite a few replies. You don’t, after all, go into battle without the right ammunition, the right defenses, the right plans, even variations of the right plans.

  Meaning, if he wanted proof, I could give him proof.

  Or, at least, something close to it. An impersonation, if you will.

  * * * *

  “He bought it,” I told the group of them the next afternoon as we sat around the mansion’s pool, me and Jeff, Ray and Chad and Arthur, Luna Tic, Bobo Van Ness, Maureen Povich and Connie Hung. It was weird seeing them all in the light of day. They didn’t look like themselves. I almost checked for identification.

  “Who bought what?” asked Ray. Ray was shirtless. Ray was lounging in shorts so short they almost disappeared up his ass. Jeff seemed none too thrilled as I sat there and ogled. To be fair, they were all ogling, Jeff included. In other words, guilty I was not.

  And so I filled them in.

  “Sounds dangerous,” said Connie.

  Jeff again seemed less than thrilled but didn’t voice his concerns. I reached over and squeezed his hand. He seemed to understand my squeeze, just as I understood his silence. People could change. Wonders never ceased.

  “Dangerous, sure,” I admitted. “We’re dealing with dangerous people, after all. But would you rather be safe, or would you rather be free?”

  Maureen chuckled. “The drama queen proudly wears her crown.”

  I bowed as I righted said crown, imaginary though it was. “Proudly, yes.” I sat down next to Jeff, who had taken a lounge chair next to Ray. Keep your enemies close, I figured he was figuring. “Look, we need to make the drug dealers think that Auntie and Pearl are turning on them.” They nodded in sync as I smiled and squinted up at the sun. “We’re drag queens. We impersonate celebrities. Madonna, Cher, Bette. So, why not each other.”

  Chad coughed. “Wait, you want us to impersonate Auntie and Pearl.”

  Bobo suddenly raised her hand. “I could do Auntie. Should be easy enough. Bad wig, too much blush, not enough foundation. In the right lighting, no one would know.”

  Luna Tic’s hand went up next. “And I can do Pearl. Easy.”

  Chad snickered. “Yep, that describes Pearl.”

  The others nodded. “We should do it down at the club,” said Connie. “Auntie is off tomorrow. One of us can keep Pearl occupied. And the sooner this shit is done, the sooner, as Mary put it, we’re free.”

  They were all nodding again, myself included. These were my sisters. I put my hand out, they followed, until there was a pile of them, mine on the bottom, Arthur’s on top. His eyes locked with mine then. I rolled mine in return but managed a smile his way. Sisters, plus one wicked stepsister. My own little fairy tale—with a whole drag troupe of fairies.

  But what would happen when the coach turned back into a pumpkin?

  * * * *

  We joined up the very next afternoon. It was weird being down at the club again, not in drag, not performing. Connie had taken one for the team and was having lunch with Pearl. I could think of better dining partners. Anita Bryant came to mind. In any case, the dressing room was free. Ray was keeping guard at the bar.

  “Well,” I said, safely ensconced in back. “Here we are again.”

  With all of us in there, it was a tight fit. Bobo sat in one chair, Luna in the other. With everyone helping, we set about to recreate Pearl and Auntie. God had six days to make the world; God had it easy.

  The room was suddenly a blur of makeup apparatuses, the smell of foundation and blush and rouge and mascara quickly wafting up my nostrils like a long-lost friend come to visit. It was both toxic and intoxicating.

  Minutes went by, an hour. This was serious work, but we were drag queens. Meaning, there was eventually so much shade in that room that you could cool off all of Hawaii. Still, when all was said and done, the caterpillars had indeed become butterflies. Ugly butterflies, but butterflies just the same.

  “Wow,” said Jeff. “It’s amazing what a little bit of makeup can do.”

  Chad snickered “Thankfully, we had more than a little to work with.”

  Bobo turned around. “Now what?” she asked me. They all, in fact, were staring at me.

  I grinned. “Now, it’s show time, ladies.”

  Bobo clapped her hands together.

  Connie rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t mean that kind of show.”

  Bobo shrugged. “I’ll take what I can get.”

  Jeff nodded. “So we’ve heard.”

  I held up my hand. We didn’t have all the time in the world.

  They all filed out, me in the rear—no pun intended, punny though it was. I sat our creations in the corner. There were maybe a dozen patrons at the bar. There was nothing unusual looking about what we were doing, and so no one paid us heed. FYI, drag queens like heed as much as head, but, in this case, we were glad to be ignored.

  It was dimly lit where we sat them. The dimmer the better, I thought. Though, to be honest, if anyone walked by, they would have sworn Pearl and Auntie were sitting there. They had on their doppelgangers’ wigs, their clothes, their makeup; they were, pardon the choice of wording, dead ringers.

  The other queens walked away, so as not to call attention to the show. Me, I walked in and whispered, “Okay, I’m going to go sit a few feet away and film you on my cell phone.” I lifted up a device I’d bought discounted through my school. It was a microphone amplifier. “I’ll be able to hear you just fine. Whisper to make it seem real.”

  They stared at me. They stared some more. I wondered if we’d suddenly entered a staring contest. I blinked; they won. “Um,” Bobo finally said, “what do we whisper?”

  I nodded. “Right. Just say you’re worried that the police are closing in. Say that you have no choice but to turn Hall and Jackson in; it’s them or us, and you vote for us.”

  They nodded in return. It was uncanny; they really did look like Pearl and Auntie.
Maybe we’d stumbled into a niche genre: female impersonation squared; men impersonating men impersonating women. It was drag on a whole new level. Then again, one Pearl and one Auntie were enough. More than enough, actually. Like, way more.

  I walked away and sat at a nearby table. Jeff nonchalantly sat down next to me and squeezed my hand. A scotch appeared on the table. I smiled. I’d picked my man well. Maybe not the first time, but definitely the second.

  I set my phone on the table and pointed it toward my sisters, the amplifier plugged in. I ignored the screen. No one would know I was taping what I was taping. When you’re a private eye, you have to work without anyone noticing. There was an art to it. Effortless effort.

  “We’ll have our proof,” said Jeff, sotto voce.

  My nodding returned. “And Auntie and Pearl won’t be able to pin it back on us. They’ll be arrested; none of us will go down with the ship.” If it all worked out, all went a hundred percent.

  He smiled. “I’m proud of you, Barry.”

  I grinned. I blushed. I popped a boner. Not necessarily in that order. In fact, definitely not in that order. I mean, I’d popped a boner as soon as he grabbed my hand. Or at least when he handed me the scotch. “Don’t count your chickens yet.”

  He aimed his head toward the bar. “Only hawks here.”

  “Must be a sign.”

  But a good one or a bad one? That still remained to be seen.

  * * * *

  We split up after that. I went home with Jeff. We watched the video in his car, miles away from the bar. “Perfect,” I said. “Word for word, perfect.”

  “No way would anyone know that those two aren’t those other two.”

  I shook my head. “Distance and lighting being a girl’s best friend.”

  “Yeah, when did you ever walk into a brightly lit bar?”

  I shuddered. “Heaven forbid.” I, after all, knew what ten pounds of makeup looked like in full light. It wasn’t pretty. Heavy, but not pretty. But what were a few dead pores in the grand scheme of things?

  “Okay, Barry. You show that video to the drug dealers, then what?”

  “They think I’m a cop. I film their admission. I turn it over to the police.”