by Rob Rosen
He sat back in the car seat. Even in profile he was stunning. “Will that be admissible in court?”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. The cops, if they didn’t know about those four before, certainly will soon. Either way, the plan works.”
He smiled and turned his face my way. “Detective work makes me horny.”
I reached over and grabbed the obvious lumpage. “A slight breeze makes you horny, Jeff.”
He released the beast. It swayed before coming to rapt attention. This time, pun intended. On that whole coming part, that is. “You should see what a gust does.”
Detective work made me horny, too. Which is to say, my car seats were covered in a sticky sheen of sweat and semen not ten minutes later. Short but sweet. Which defined Jeff as well.
Chapter 12
I had the proof Jackson had asked for. I knew where Jackson lived. Jackson seemed to keep late hours, and so I waited for him late into the evening. The sky was dark, the street silent. I was parked across from his apartment building as I adjusted my disguise, the same one as before. I looked good in a ‘stache. My mother would’ve hated it on me. Meaning, one would surely be grown in the future.
“Howdy,” I said, thinking detectives said howdy, what with cowboys being on the decline.
He jumped. I jumped at his jump. He jumped at my jump. I started to giggle but held it at bay. Detectives shouldn’t giggle, I figured. Cowboys neither.
“Again?” he said. He didn’t sound drunk this time. Sober, he looked meaner.
I nodded. “You wanted proof; I have proof.” I waggled my cell phone his way. “They’re going to turn you in. You turn them in first, we’ll only go after them. They’re the target.”
He sneered my way. “And why is that, Detective? You claim I’m a drug dealer. If such is the case, why only go after the drag queens?”
My nod returned. I’d prepared for this. I’d prepared for a long list of responses, which is why I also had a can of pepper spray in my other hand, a hand now hidden in my pants pocket. “Drugs are being sold out of an establishment. Shut down the establishment, you cut off the flow; cut off you and your partner, the establishment will simply find a new supplier. Plus, the drag queens have other illegal operations going on, more than just drug dealing. If we stop the drug dealing, we stop other illegal activities as well.” Again, I shook my phone his way. “You’re small change, Mister Jackson. The department would rather go after the larger bills.”
His sneer went sneerier. My hand gripped tighter on the spray bottle. I’d been a detective for a while but had never been anywhere near a situation like this. I hadn’t been taught how to fight. That might’ve been difficult to do online. I’d been taught to let the cops do the dirtier work. This was dirty. This was downright filthy.
“Show me, Detective.”
I turned on my phone. I opened up the video. I hit play and cranked up the sound as loud as it would go. He went to grab for the phone. I knew better than to allow that. The other videos on there were of kitties and puppies and Jeff’s come-exploding cock. None of it was very cop-like. Fetching, sure, but not official-looking. Plus, Jeff made me promise that I’d delete the video. FYI, my fingers were crossed behind my back at the time. FYI, my dick was buried far up his ass at the time, too. Just saying.
“Watch and listen, sir,” I said.
He did just that. Thankfully, it wasn’t a long video. Thankfully, too, the pepper spray wasn’t necessary. He looked up at me when all was said and done. “Never do business with drag queens,” he said.
I stifled a grin. “Tell me about it.” I pocketed the phone. “Well?”
A sigh escaped his mouth. “You want me to give you a confession, right?” I nodded. “In return, you’ll arrest those two assholes down at the club and back off of us?” And still I nodded. I’d take the confession, send it into the police, all anonymous-like. The police would investigate, find what we found. Everyone would be arrested in the long run, the dealers, the distributors. The four of them would blame each other and, if the universe was on our side, not my friends. We’d be in the clear. It was a perfect plan. “I need to confer with my business associate. I need to show him your video.” He blinked. “Now.”
“Here, in the street?”
He shook his head. “Up in my apartment.”
My blink saw his blink and raised it with a gulp. “I have a gun, Mister Jackson.”
He shrugged. “Join the crowd.” He started to walk away. “Now or never, Detective.”
I watched him walk away. “Fuck,” I whispered. I’d learned in school that, if it sounded dangerous, it probably was. Detective work is a job, they taught us. A job isn’t worth your life, they said. And this, suffice it to say, now sounded dangerous and clearly wasn’t worth my life. Which didn’t explain why I was suddenly following him into his apartment building, all belly of the beast like.
I was sitting in his apartment a short while later. It was a crappy apartment, what with him also being quite crappy. Jackson Jackson was in the other room calling Hall Pruitt. I didn’t see any weapons. I didn’t feel threatened. The plan was still going as planned. And yet, and of course, I was flat-out terrified. Flat. Out. Like in a coffin, flat-out.
My leg was bouncing, hands slightly trembling, sweat accumulating across my brow. My pits felt like matching Niagara Falls. I hopped up. I looked around. There were pictures on a credenza. I had a look: Jackson in younger days; Jackson in Mexico wearing a sombrero; Jackson hugging people I didn’t recognize; then Jackson hugging people I did.
“What the fu…”
I heard the telltale click.
Click.
I turned. A gun was aimed my way. “That’s me and my cousin. Our mothers are sisters. Close family. Family that would never turn on each other.” His now-familiar sneer returned. “Not fucking ever. Just like I fucking told you.”
I set the picture down. Auntie Bellum was slightly cuter in her younger days. But only slightly. And that explained why Jackson had looked familiar, because he in fact looked a bit like Auntie, especially around the mean-looking eyes. Like two walruses in a pod.
“You didn’t call Hall Pruitt?”
The sneer sneered all the more. “I called Hall. I called my cousin, too. That’s not my cousin in that video of yours, by the way. Close but no cigar.” He moved in nearer to me, the gun nearer, too. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Detective Wojohowitz,” I said. “You’re pointing your weapon at an officer of the law.”
He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
I gulped. “What happened the first time?”
He laughed. The sound sent chills down my spine that shrunk my balls. “It was a nice funeral, or so I was told.” The gun was aimed at my face. “Sit,” he said. I sat. “And now we wait.”
“For?”
The sneer turned, sort of, to a smile. “Party time, Detective. Party time.”
* * * *
We waited for an hour, then an hour more. What, I wondered, was taking so long? The waiting was, pardon the expression, killing me. We didn’t talk. He let me pee but watched me as I did so. He let me drink water and watched me as I did so. All the while, the gun stayed aimed my way.
When the knock on the door came, I jumped. I expected to see Pruitt enter. I expected to maybe see Auntie. I prayed it wasn’t Auntie, as Auntie would’ve certainly seen through my disguise. What I didn’t expect to see was all of them. Seriously, all of them, all the drag queens, Jeff, Ray, even Arthur, the group of them pushed inside the apartment by Auntie and Pearl and Hall, guns behind my friends’ backs. They were, said friends, panicked-looking, hair in tangles, clearly roused from sleep before taken here.
My heart thumped as my blood ran cold. I’d started this night trying to save them; I’d end it, it seemed, watching them die.
Jeff sat next to me, his thigh against mine. I turned his way. “Are you okay?”
He tried a smile; it came out lopsided. “Been better.”
I blinked his way. “Mary, Queen of Scotch.” It was a brazen reply. Drag queens, when not desperate, are frequently brazen. I was no exception.
He slapped my forehead with the gun. I saw stars before my eyes as a drop of blood trickled down my forehead and the other girls squealed and/or sucked in their breaths. Me, I grunted and teetered a little. Jeff grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze.
“You’re a cop,” he said.
I shook my head. “Nope.”
The gun got pushed to my mouth. It was cold. It tasted of metal. My heart raced as I stared up the barrel and into his bloodshot eyes. Fucking ugly bitch. “Enough with the games, Mary. Who the fuck are you really?”
The gun retracted an inch. The others were all staring intently at me, at the gun. The room was thick with nervous energy, with fear. It was tangible. “Private detective,” I said.
“Investigating us?” he said.
I shook my head and pointed at Chad, who was leaning on Arthur, who was leaning against a chair. “Chad. You and all this were just…extra.” I locked eyes with him as he locked his finger around the trigger. “Why did you bring them all here? They don’t know anything.”
He tapped the tip of the gun against my lips. “My cousin told me about the video. I figured, since it was filmed at the club, and it clearly wasn’t me and Pearl who made the video, that it had to be two of the other girls, and if two of the other girls were in on this, then all of you were. So, we rounded them all up and, voilà, one big, happy fucking fucked-up family.” He leaned in closer. “Talk, Mary, and maybe you all won’t die tonight.”
“Maybe?” squeaked out Luna.
Pearl, now Tom, raised his gun Luna’s way. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up. All of you.” He looked scared and sounded the same. He was a drug dealer. They were all drug dealers. They weren’t murderers. So, yeah, he was scared. So was Lester. I could see it in his eyes, too. Scared was good—for us, I mean. Scared meant that we had a chance of escape. People fucked up when they were scared. Heck, Auntie and Pearl could barely make it through a Madonna song without fucking it up. And this went way beyond a middling lip-sync.
“The police know I’m here,” I said. “They know I’m working this case. I sent them a message that, if I don’t come home, they should look for me here.” I already had a plan formulating when I said this. A good detective needs to be a few steps ahead. I was lucky to be two, right about then, but two was, hopefully, all we’d need.
Jackson looked to Hall, who looked to Lester, who looked to Tom, who looked at his fingernails, which, even from the couch, looked a fright. “You’re lying,” said Jackson.
“Am I? I knew this was dangerous coming here. I needed an exit strategy. The police are that. And, judging by the sunlight starting to poke its way through here, they should arrive pretty soon. Plus, if we wind up dead, they’ll know who did it. So, may I suggest you let us go? Seems like the smart thing to do, all things considered.”
The four of them moved away from the group of us. They were quickly in the kitchen, whispering as they still aimed their guns our way. “How did you get here?” I leaned over and whispered into Jeff’s ear.
“Locked in the back of a truck.”
I grinned. Not perfect timing, but still. “Good.”
His face turned my way, those stunning eyes of his rousing the butterflies in my belly. “Good?” he whispered back. “Really?”
I nodded. “Trust me.”
He sighed. “I do, Barry, but…”
It was now my turn to squeeze his hand. “Just remember my Yelp score. Five out of five.”
Those beautiful eyes rolled like Vegas dice. “Four, Barry. Four reviews.”
I shrugged. “Still.” And then I prayed I’d live to see the fifth.
They returned from the kitchen. “Stand over there,” Hall barked, wagging his gun toward the door. “We’re going for a drive, take you down to the club until we can figure this all out.”
To which Jackson added. “And no funny stuff, or else.”
“But funny stuff is what we do best,” Luna whispered.
“Well, some of us,” Connie whispered in return.
“Maybe two of us,” added Chad. “On a good night.”
“Which this isn’t,” said Maureen.
We all nodded as we were herded out of the apartment and into the dawn.
* * * *
We found ourselves locked in the back of a moving truck, the kind with a door that slid up and down. Ours was currently in the down position. It wasn’t a big truck and there were far too many of us. Meaning, we were squished in like sardines.
“Please tell me you have a plan, Mary,” said Bobo.
“I have a plan, Bobo.”
She sighed. “Please tell me your plans are better than your makeup.”
I winced. “Says the drag queen only a clown could love.” I held up my hand in truce. “Look, I was hoping they’d take us to the club. That was my plan.” It was dark. It was hot. The smell of fear and makeup remover filled the too-small space. “Do you have your cigarettes on you, Bobo?”
They all chuckled, all of them. “Does the pope wear a dress,” came Bobo’s reply.
“Only when he shits in the woods,” said Luna.
I sighed. “Hand me your lighter, Bobo.”
She handed it over, missing my hand in the darkness as the lighter first smacked my nose, my chest, and then, at last, my hand. “Make sure to give it back,” she said.
My sigh repeated. “If we make it out of here alive, I’ll make sure to return it.”
Groans rose and fell all around me. “If?” said Chad. “Not when?”
Jeff’s hand suddenly found itself in mine. “When,” he said. “Barry knows what he’s doing.”
“Says the man trapped in a truck,” said Maureen, “on the way to his death.”
Groans again swirled around us like a swarm of wasps. “It’s always darkest before the dawn,” said Jeff.
“Says the man trapped in a dark truck,” said Maureen.
“Ladies,” I said. “We’ll be fine. I have a plan. It’ll work. No one will die” I was confident. Or at least as confident as a guy could be, trapped in a truck with a bunch of drag queens and hangers-on, heading into an uncertain future.
* * * *
And so, back in the club we were. I’d almost been murdered once that week; here was attempt number two. My poor parents. What an obituary: he died in a drag bar. I mean, better than: he died in a scotch barrel—but not much better. Because I’d still be dead either way.
I shook the morbid thoughts away. I was on a job. I had a plan. George Michael said that you had to have faith. Doesn’t seem to have done George Michael much good, but I was still holding on to the sentiment.
We were corralled in the dressing room. None of us had our cell phones. We were in a bar, and none of us had a drink. Fate was playing nasty tricks on us.
“Now what?” said Arthur.
The dawn had at last broken through from the darkness. I smiled as I retrieved my house keys from my front pocket, the largest key slipping between my index and middle finger. “Duck,” I said.
They all looked at me as if I was speaking Cantonese. FYI, I couldn’t even pull off Pig Latin, let alone something Asian. “Duck?” said Connie. “Why are we naming birds?”
I shook my head. Drag queens are marvelous entertainers, or at least some of them are, but Einsteins they are not, at least most of them. “Duck. As in, get on the ground.”
“But it’s dirty,” replied Bobo, who clearly looked like she ne
eded a cigarette right about then. In fact, they all looked that way. In fact, I probably did, too, and I didn’t smoke. Mainly because I made up for it in drinking.
“It’ll be dirtier covered in blood. Namely, all of yours.”
They ducked. They ducked fast. They’d been standing, I blinked, and they were on the ground. Poof. Bodies littered the floor, hands covered heads. Had we not been surrounded by boas and chiffon and lace-front wigs, it would’ve looked more like a war zone back there.
“Now what?” said Arthur, yet again.
My grin returned as I lit a nearby highly flammable wig, my first wig, the one I’d left there, and then lifted it above my head. I’d wondered, all those weeks earlier, under what circumstances a wig would catch fire. Suffice it to say, I never imagined these circumstances. “Now this,” I said, feeling much like Lady Liberty, torch held high above the teaming masses who yearned to breathe free.
Took all of ten seconds for the alarms to blare. Took all of twelve seconds before the downpour, for the wig to extinguish. The first time it’d been an accident; the second our saving grace. Auntie, fuck the bitch, was sure to be mighty pissed. From jail, of course. But pissed, just the same.
“Genius,” said Jeff from his prone position.
“If we don’t drown first,” said Luna.
“From your lips to God’s ears,” coughed Ray.
I jumped to the side of the door. Water dripped from my forehead. Water, actually, dripped from everywhere. I then gripped the key tight between my fingers as the door swung open. Lester barreled in. “What the fu…” he said. Or attempted to say. I mean, when a key slipped between two fingers gets jabbed at your throat, talking becomes, shall we say, problematic.
Down he went.
I twirled around. Drag queens do twirl really well. Anyway, Tom rushed in next. I rammed my fist into his chest, then swiped my leg, taking him down next. Jackson and Hall rushed in. Jackson and Hall rushed in and promptly tripped over Lester and Tom. No guns had been fired. That whole ducking thing had been unnecessary. Unnecessary, but fun to witness.