Gideon - 03 - Religious Conviction

by Grif Stockley

  Embarrassed, Sarah pushes me away.

  “You said you might be back as early as tomorrow night.”

  Aware how melodramatic I sound, I grin stupidly at the frowning flight attendant. If Shane Norman was a doting father, what am I?

  In twenty minutes we are above the clouds, and I breathe easier. What I can’t see won’t hurt me. Sure. It’s been a while since I’ve flown, and I watch, fascinated, as my seatmate, a long-haired cowboy complete with black Stetson, boots, and a belt buckle almost the size of a Frisbee, inserts a credit card into the phone attached to the back of the seat in front of us.

  “Wilma, don’t forget to walk Buttons for me,” he pleads. Damn.

  How can people afford to fly, much less call long distance from the plane? This stuff used to be science fiction just a few years ago. I think he is trying to impress the young blonde on the aisle. It won’t take much. She is as white-knuckled as I am. Our flight attendant (“Don’t call them stewardesses,” my politically correct daughter reminded me as we were driving to the airport), a buxom black woman, with the nail on her pinkie finger painted gold, passes me nothing but a cup of coffee on this first hop to Tulsa. The rest of her fingernails are the color of old blood that proctologists warn signals colon cancer. This trip is going to be bizarre.

  Reggie’s Bar in San Francisco isn’t exactly jumping (I count only two customers at a table in the corner), but then, it is only two in the afternoon. I have managed to check into a hotel near Chinatown and find the address on Columbus Avenue Chet has given me.

  “I’m looking for a man named Harold Broadnax,” I say to the guy behind the bar. The bartender is above average height but is distinguished by the largest handlebar mustache I’ve ever seen. It makes the guy on the Today” show look as if he drew his on with a pencil. At a distance of a hundred yards this man must resemble a seagull.

  Birdwing gives me a hard look as he wipes the bar in front of him and says, “I don’t know the guy.”

  I am thirty minutes early, so I decide to walk around, since Birdwing gives me the creeps. Chet hasn’t given me a lot of information about our contact. Broadnax, an ex-sheriff’s deputy in Blackwell County, supposedly knows somebody who can help us. Instead of heading outside, I ascend the stairs to the second floor, the Vanna White Club. Though Blackwell County is not totally devoid of female impersonators, they are not on every street corner, and since I’ve never seen one except on TV, now is the time to complete my education.

  The sign on the street is enticing, and a blow-up of seven performers in the hall leaves no doubt.

  At the top of the stairs, I hear what sounds like the voice of a carnival barker. If I am so curious, why haven’t I done this before? Behind the counter an Asian guy lets me in for half price ($7.50) since the show is almost over. The club, dimly lit except for the stage, has few customers, so he leads me to a table in the second row where a waiter appears and takes my order for a beer. On stage, which is a narrow platform that leads down to a spacious dance floor, is a fat guy about my age in a platinum wig and pink evening gown telling jokes. He asks, “Are any of you old enough to remember the show “Queen for a Day’?” The sparse audience is composed of mostly couples, tourists like me, I guess. A few raise their hands. Our ME puts his hands on his hips and delivers his line: “Hell, I knew I was going to be a queen for life!”

  This gets a few laughs, and even though I know the ME is a man dressed like a woman, it is already difficult to think of him that way. Though his voice is deep, his mannerisms are so feminine I find I am beginning to think of him as a woman.

  “I’m one of the lucky few who’s always known what they wanted to be since they were a kid. Honey,” he says, winking at a guy at a table directly in front of him, “I didn’t just play with Barbie, I wanted to be Barbie!” After a couple of more jokes on this order, our ME tells us to put our hands together and welcome “Miss Lynn Leopold, our own Louisville Slugger!”

  Accompanied by a drumroll, out comes a man or woman—I can’t tell. If born a male, Lynn has had his share of hormone treatments because only his jaw seems too firm for him to be taken for a woman. In fact, Lynn is stunning: wearing a red dress slit on both sides, revealing tanned thighs, he or she launches into a credible version of “New York, New York,” and sways back and forth to the music on five-inch red heels. In this person’s eyes throughout the song there is a hurt look that won’t go away. Despite the jaw, she has a pretty face with glittering dark eyes that try to smile. She has a little cleavage (possibly pushed up, but maybe hormones), and as she dances by the table in front of me, I feel the faint stirring of lust. What the hell is going on? I know she isn’t for real. She stops in front of a couple’s table to my right and begins to sing to the man.

  In his thirties, bespectacled, bald, he looks as uncomfortable as I’m feeling. His wife, a trim brunette wearing an Atlanta Braves baseball jacket, seems to enjoy it enormously, a story to tell to their friends. (“Bill nearly wet his pants while this beautiful creature came on to him right in front of me!”) Actually, beneath the sickly grin. Bill seems about to turn four shades of red. I notice Lynn doesn’t quite touch him. If Bill is a good old boy, he may have to prove himself somehow, so there seems to be a fine line she doesn’t cross.

  Afterward, our ME is back.

  “Where is everybody from?” he asks. Familiar with this question—this group looks as if it usually vacations in Branson, Missouri-the audience surprises me by yelling out places like L.A.” San Diego.

  Through his gown, our ME scratches his crotch and smiles maliciously.

  “Well, that just goes to show if you put too much pressure on the sewer system,” he cackles, “anything is liable to pop out.”

  The crowd loves it. A transvestite Don Rickles. The next performer is Marvin the Mambo Queen who does something that is strangely reassuring. An ugly little Latino, Marvin marches out on the stage with his makeup kit, gown, and wig and proceeds to get dressed to the accompaniment of some furious banging by the house percussionist and the keyboard man. Watching this guy, I sense more diversity in the performers than I would have suspected. Were it not still the afternoon, I would be willing to bet my return ticket home that Marvin has a day job and dresses up for entertainment.

  As he dons his long black wig, completing his transformation from an ugly Latino into an ugly Latina, I have the feeling that our ME and Lynn take themselves a lot more seriously.

  Afterward, our ME brings everyone out on the stage, a total of seven in an array of gowns and dresses, and they parade around as if they were trying out for the Miss America pageant. My eyes are drawn again to the Louisville Slugger. She is more than a female impersonator, her sad eyes proclaim. Finally, the music ends, and except for the ME, who begins to shake hands with some of the couples, they dance off the stage. If Chet has sent me out here to divert me from the real action in Blackwell County, he is accomplishing his goal. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.

  As I head for the stairs, the ME calls after me, “Gideon, what’s your hurry?”

  I nearly knock over one of the tables in my shock. I haven’t told a soul my name. I turn, and see this big man, his arms bare and ugly folded across his chest covered with taffeta and sequins.

  “How do you know me?” I stammer, squinting in the smoky haze that is like the fog bank outside.

  He comes toward me, and says in a low voice, “You cross-examined me once. Not bad for a rookie public defender. Search and seizure. You kept a couple of grams out of evidence that day.”

  I think back, my eyes stinging in the gloom. Of course. This is Harold Broadnax. Beneath the makeup, the false eyelashes, the mascara, the man’s round face takes on a sardonic expression that I think I recognize.

  How weird! He was one tough deputy sheriff. Automatically, I extend my right hand and then feel foolish.

  Harold grins and then crushes my hand as if it were a paper sack.

  “You’re early,” he says loudly.

&nbs
p; “Give me ten minutes to change and we’ll go down to the bar. I got an hour until the next show.”

  So off-balance I feel physically disoriented, I mutter, “Sure,” and stand by the entrance trying to assimilate what I’ve just seen. Over in the corner of the stage, the Louisville Slugger has reappeared and is talking animatedly to a good-looking young guy I hardly noticed until now. He places his hand inside one of the slits and moves his hand up her thigh. I watch, transfixed. I wonder if she has had surgery. With his free hand, he begins to gesture wildly, and after a few moments, she turns on her heel and again strides dramatically off stage. Despite my best intentions, I feel cheered by his rejection and catch myself only after I have allowed myself to gloat that the young don’t always finish first. How can I be jealous of a man who comes on to a female impersonator?

  The male ego never rests. I’d compete against a dead man if somebody threw his corpse on top of my grave.

  Harold comes out the same entrance that the Louisville Slugger disappeared into, and I wonder if they watch each other change clothes. This infantile thought lingers in my brain all the way down the stairs. What is sex? I don’t seem to have a lot of control over my reactions right now. Harold, his baritone voice booming against the walls, says playfully, “I saw you looking at Lynn. She’s been the downfall of many a poor boy.”

  “Harold,” I say, finally recovering my tongue, “what in the hell are you doing in San Francisco?” I know I sound a little shrill. Still, I’ve got good reason. How many other ex-deputy sheriffs wear gowns and eye shadow? Maybe more than I know.

  “What comes naturally,” he says cheerfully as we enter the bar. He is wearing jeans, an Arkansas Razorback sweatshirt, and Reeboks.

  “How’s Chet these days?”

  I have been in a gay bar, I realize belatedly, as we turn the corner downstairs. Birdwing just blinks his eyes as we take a seat at the bar. I am not totally unsophisticated (or so I thought) about these things. Skip Hudson, my best friend before he moved to Atlanta last year, is gay, and when he finally came out of the closet, I went to a gay bar with him a time or two.

  “Not so good,” I tell him. After what Harold has revealed about himself, there doesn’t seem a lot of room for pretense.

  “I don’t know what he’s told you, but he’s dying of cancer.

  That’s off the record.”

  Harold, his makeup still in place, winces and orders us a couple of beers. I remember now. He beat a guy within an inch of his life who was harassing a friend of his, and Chet somehow got him off. There wasn’t even a trial. Until that incident no one even suspected Harold was gay. He resigned from the Sheriff’s Department, and no one ever saw him again. I guess Blackwell County was about to find out a lot more than it wanted to know about its gay population.

  “Damn,” he says soberly, “he was one hell of a lawyer.”

  I nod. I’m not sure what he is now though. I look around the bar to try to see if I should have picked up on its identity, but it seems pretty ordinary. There are a couple of Forty-Niner posters on the walls, a TV, even bowling trophies behind the long counter. Mainly there is booze. I am disappointed. I was looking for more atmosphere.

  Small talk seems too awkward, so I ask, “You know what we’re looking for?” Harold, without the wig, has a big meat-ax of a face. He is beginning to go bald worse than I am, and he looked better with the mass of hair to distract from his features. I had forgotten how ugly he is.

  “I owe Chet,” he says, sipping on a Moosehead.

  “As you might expect, this is sticky. Other than run-of-the mill porno, there’s no proof of anything, only rumors. Tim Hogan, the guy who runs the operation your client’s husband ripped off, understandably likes to keep a low profile as much as possible. The best I’ve been able to do on short notice is arrange for you to talk to an investigator for an insurance company who’s gone on record claiming Hogan hired someone to torch a competitor’s porno inventory. Since it was a kiddie-porn operation, nobody got too upset. Not even a civil suit came out of it. No criminal charges were filed, but this gal tells a good story.”

  Harold reaches in his hip pocket, pulls out a worn leather wallet, and begins to go through it. I look up as two tourists, obviously husband and wife, their cameras banging against their chests, come in and quiz Birdwing on directions. He points upstairs, and the female grins and nudges her mate in the ribs. I can almost see the goose bumps on the guy’s arms from where I’m sitting.

  I wonder if women get off on this stuff more than men.

  Harold hands me a dog-eared piece of paper, and I squint to make out the address.

  “She’ll meet you at a restaurant in Chinatown at five tonight,” he says, downing his Moosehead.

  “It’s only a couple of blocks east of here. I told her it’s your treat.”

  I think of the wad of fifties Chet crammed into my hand last night. My wallet’s so thick I look like I’ve crapped in my pants. I look at the address. Jim Chu’s.

  “Is this a bunch of crap?” I ask, hoping for an honest answer.

  Harold shrugs.

  “You tell me. Chet’s a magician. I’ve seen him, and I’m sure you have, too, point so many fingers during a closing argument that you get cross eyed just watching him. Misdirection is every defense attorney’s stockin-trade, but he’s the best I’ve ever seen, and I’ve watched some big names work out here.”

  I nod, wanting to ask Harold whether he thinks I should be trusting Chet to tell me the truth. Yet this man is not the person to ask. He’d be on the phone to him as soon as I walked out the door. Whom can I ask?

  Bracken has been such a loner that I haven’t got the slightest idea. Maybe I can come in through the back door.

  “He doesn’t like to lose. Did you ever hear the story about him paying back a witness who lied in a case of his?”

  Harold grins.

  “The word got around, too. You didn’t hear any more tales about informants coming forward after that with stories about what they supposedly had learned from his clients while they were in prison. Even if you didn’t know what was going on at the time, he was always about five moves ahead of you. I thought I was headed for some serious time, and before I knew it Chet had my charges dismissed and handed me a check that included my severance and retirement pay. It wasn’t until I moved out here that I learned he had threatened to have the biggest coming-out party in Blackwell County history if the prosecutor didn’t drop the charges. Shit, he would have done it, too. He believes in total war.”

  “That’s for sure,” I say, watching Harold’s face as he relives some memory. Bracken never rests and never will. The odds that Chet has been planning out his moves in Leigh’s case for months go way up. Once again the feeling that I am being jerked around by strings two thousand miles long washes over me. Who is Chet trying to fool in this case? Me, I guess. But maybe somebody else, too. As soon as I get back, I’m arranging my own come-to-Jesus meeting with Leigh Wallace, and then Chet and I are going to the mat over Shane Norman. If Norman doesn’t have a solid-gold alibi we’re going after him or I’m off the case.

  Harold stands and offers his hand.

  “I’ve got to get back. Do me a favor and keep my job quiet. I’ve still got family in Arkansas.”

  “Sure,” I say, and thank him. A minute later I am in the street, gawking like the rest of the tourists. I didn’t get a description of Jessie St. vrain, but I guess she won’t have any trouble picking me out. I’m the hick who’s already got a tan. Though it is cool and breezy, I could live with this weather. No humidity. After San Francisco, central Arkansas will be like a swamp. I walk around before stopping by my hotel to check in with Chet. The number of panhandlers is distressing.

  We like our poor to be invisible in the South. With the wad I’m carrying, I could feed half the city tonight and lose ten pounds at the same time. Not a single Asian beggar so far. We’d do better if we turned over the United States to the Pacific Rim countries. Why aren’t Asians in charge a
lready? Yet, there’s not a chance. The Pope’d have a better chance of being elected president.

  “Sir, do you have a couple of dollars you could spare?” asks a shabbily dressed Caucasian of about sixty as I pass by the City Lights Bookstore.

  Embarrassed by his politeness, I can’t even bring my self to acknowledge him, and hurry on. These guys don’t look like the drunks we have back home. The famed homeless, I guess. This very man may have had a decent job but got laid off, I tell myself, though I can’t quite bring myself to believe it. The prejudice or fear is too strong. A lifetime of being told that a man who isn’t working is committing an unforgivable sin kicks in, and I feel a familiar contempt welling up like poison gas. Only burns or blacks don’t work. With a rush of anger, I remember the day I was fired from Mays & Burton. I made off with a paying client and went into private practice the same afternoon. Not everybody has a license to steal. I turn around and look for the man again, but he is gone, melded into the crowd of tourists and locals.

  Before returning to my hotel on Powell Street, I wander around Chinatown gaping at the Chinese (do they let Koreans in Chinatown?) businesses and walk in a store and pick up a Chinatown T-shirt for Sarah for the grand total of three dollars. She will like the strange script. For all I know it says “You’re dead meat, white asshole,” but she will be pleased that I actually picked out something for her myself. For the last couple of years I have gotten Rainey to do my shopping for her.

  As I wait for my change, I remember a couple of weeks ago I heard a report on National Public Radio about how in New York Chinese immigrants pack themselves like rats into an apartment to save enormous amounts of money. Then, in “Doonesbury,” there were a week’s cartoons on how disciplined Asian kids are and how white kids just can’t fathom working that hard. If this is the future, it gives me the willies. The United States probably had its mortgage foreclosed on yesterday and I missed it. The best thing about the heartland is that we don’t know how bad things are.

  A little tired, I go back to the Fairfield Hotel and try to check in with Chet, but his secretary tells me he is at a late lunch. As little as he apparently eats these days, he can’t have gone far, but when I call him back later he is still out. He probably is asleep on the couch in his office. I think of calling Sarah, but she will be at school.