When Heide heard about the trailer going to the KKK, she shouted so loudly and angrily the stage manager came in to make sure everything was okay. Heide shooed him back out, muttering under her breath as she wiped off the last of her makeup.
“What a fucker. Oh my God, I knew your dad was an asshole, but even I didn’t see this coming.” She tugged off her nylon cap and rubbed a wet wipe furiously around the base of her hairline. “Do you have an apartment yet? What am I talking about, you don’t have any money. Fuck the apartment. You’ll move in with me.”
“There’s no room.”
“We’ll make room.” She was in the strange transition between Heide and Lincoln now, titless and wearing her male side’s face but still using Heide’s vocal tones and hand gestures. Caramela usually shut off with the wig, but Heide liked to linger.
Chenco shifted uneasily on his chair. “The lawyer bought me some time. Unless of course he’s in on the scam with Vance.”
“What scam? Who’s Vance?”
Chenco told the story of interrupting Vance’s meeting, of his finding Chenco in the alley and offering to help. “Vance kept after me, like he couldn’t let it go. I was almost ready to trust him when this other guy shows up, the one I’ve seen hanging out all over town with my brother. God, what would they have done to me if I’d been stupid enough to believe he really wanted to help me?”
Instead of commiserating, Heide frowned. “Honey, something about this is off. You said the lawyer made time for you, cut off this other guy’s appointment. The leather daddy was nice to you, and he came right out and said he was gay.”
“It could have been part of the act.”
“Maybe not. Maybe it’s Jansen and your brother who are the assholes.” Heide arched Lincoln’s eyebrow to her hairline. “Or maybe your daddy lied about your brother too.”
“You’re forgetting the Pulitzer-level journal in the trailer detailing all the ways Mitch hates fags and hopes they all get AIDS and die.”
Heide grimaced. “Fair point. Well, fuck them. I still don’t think the lawyer’s part of this. Nobody’s come to kick you out yet, so either the KKK doesn’t give a fuck about a half-rotted trailer in Donna, Texas, or the lawyer really is doing you a solid. My money’s on the latter. Did you Google him?”
“Whatever. You know I don’t have a computer or a smartphone.”
The last of Heide slipped away as Lincoln rolled his eyes and picked up a phone from the dressing table. “What was his name? Luis Cuevas?” He punched at the screen with his index finger. “Hmm. Well, if he’s fucking you over, he’s in some deep cover. He’s done pro bono on a few bashing cases, and he’s big on immigrant rights. Looks like he does the estate and property work to pad the bank so he can save the world on the side.” Lincoln put his phone down. “I’ll ask around at work, but I think this will check out. Besides, why would a legitimate businessman draw out an elaborate scheme when he could laugh at you and tell you to get off his lawn when the will already had you nice and fucked?”
“Why would a father bleed his son dry, lie about his will, and leave everything to white supremacists?”
“Cooper Tedsoe wasn’t a father. He was a professional cunt-sandwich.” Lincoln reached for a bottle of water. “We’ll look around for a place, sweetie, but if you don’t find something you like, you’re coming to mine. I never get laid anyway, so you can take the other side of the bed with a clean conscience. We’ll put Caramela’s stuff in the garage or rent a storage space.”
“Oh my God, she wants to claw your eyes out so hard right now.”
“Miss High-and-Mighty can surely try, but this old queen can take your skinny-assed Chiquita any day, any time. Makeup and melty shit comes inside, but her precious muff-muggers and designer mop heads can survive a bit of baking. You can let your queen fly, but she don’t get to drive.”
This, this right here, was why Chenco hadn’t come to Lincoln straight off. He never understood about Caramela, despite being the one who’d helped her come to life. He’d let Lincoln tease him and distract him, and he’d let his friend help try and find somewhere new to call home, but as he headed to the flats and his bed, he made his queen a promise they’d only go to Lincoln’s apartment if it was absolutely the only place left in the valley to go.
CARAMELA WAS CHENCO’S savior and his damnation both. He’d made peace with this duality, though it had taken many years, buckets of tears, and one terrifying night of hysterics on Lincoln’s couch. On that sacred night, Caramela had risen from his ashes, and she had never let him down.
She was the reason he worked two jobs and was still broke, but she was also the reason he wasn’t living some false life as an accountant or a doctor or whatever career his mother would have forced him into. She’d helped him fight Cooper, and to this day she stood ready to guard him against whatever he didn’t want to face. Caramela was the reason he was free. Letting her run the checkbook seemed a fair trade.
However, as another week wore on after his talk with Lincoln, as the day Cuevas would call to let Chenco know he had to move out drew ever closer, neither he nor Caramela were happy. He still had nowhere to live, and Lincoln was starting to get annoyed at his refusal to move in. Chenco had put in some hard hours on the public library computers trying to find a new place, but nothing felt right. Nothing felt safe. He had no idea what to do, and the terror of his future gnawed at him until he could hardly stand to eat anything and couldn’t sleep for more than a few hours at night.
His scheduled gig at Club 33 on Valentine’s Day should have been a lighthouse, but as he began his transformation into Caramela, the yawing pit inside him was as hollow and raw as ever. He’d feel better after he performed. Even with this affirmation, his hands shook as he pulled on his pantyhose, and by the time he had the companion nylon stocking over his hair, he had to stop and swab out his pits. Several times he’d had to prop his elbows on the vanity, resting his face in his hands.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Chenco complied with his own order. He felt dizzy, but some of the red edges around him began to bleed away.
There you go. Now get your shit together and put your face on. We have a show to do.
The makeup application focused him—it was difficult and full of ritual, both practical and personal. Mostly, though, Caramela saved him. She made him pick up the makeup brushes and work. She put him together even as she created space for herself to be.
Chenco left as much prep as he could to the private bathroom in the back of the club, but a great deal of getting ready simply wasn’t logistically possible anywhere but at home. He waxed, but there would always be some shaving, generally in areas delicate enough on their own merits, let alone adding in acrobatics over a small and sagging sink.
Then there was the problem of makeup and hair. To complete his transformation on site, he’d need a minimum of two giant plastic tubs full of materials. Time was also an issue. He wasn’t the only one trying to use the club bathroom, and Chenco’s eyebrows alone took him forty-five minutes when he was at home with plenty of space and had JLo playing in the background.
It wouldn’t be so bad if Caramela wasn’t glam. She wanted to be the Queen of Queens, which meant she had to have the best, and getting the job done right demanded hours upon hours of work—and money. Parton liked to say it cost a lot of money to look that cheap. Whatever the dollar amount was, it couldn’t come close to keeping a queen. Makeup. Costumes. Compression garments, breast forms, shoes, padded panties, and enough body glitter to choke a Westboro Baptist.
And hair. Jesus, the fucking hair. It was Caramela’s weakness—she had to put it on before leaving the house, which meant Chenco had to hide it. Which meant he had to squash it, which made Caramela threaten to shove her stilettos into dangerous places. Their Gaza Strip was the long walk to the Nova from the house. Caramela wanted to be out and proud, and Chenco wanted to keep his teeth and his brain matter in their proper places. His neighborhood made crack dens look like Boy Scout me
etings. Their peace treaty was a plastic hairnet like the old ladies wore strapped under a hoodie. It went on in the trailer and came off in the parking lot behind the empty Blockbuster Video three blocks from the highway.
Tonight Caramela didn’t berate him for squashing her hair. Sensing Chenco’s nerves, feeling plenty of her own, she forewent their usual tussle and invited him to focus on the careful application of liner and fake lashes, to let becoming beautiful erase his weariness.
She emerged like a sunrise, claiming his already pretty features and making them runway-worthy. His nose became a perfect slope toward his plump, raisin-colored lips. His cheekbones were lifted and defined, with shading which begged for those soft lips to be admired. The eyes, though—even Heide crooned over Caramela’s brows. They were works of art, taking thick Latin caterpillars and taming them into fine, delicate lines—not penciled, not ruthlessly plucked so he had feminine brows when he went out as a man. The other queens all wanted to know how he did it.
With a hell of a lot of swearing, seriously sore arms, and the magic combo of a watercolor brush and a washable glue stick. That was how.
Once Caramela’s face was on, Chenco felt better. As he tugged on the evening’s wig—eighteen inches of dyed auburn, real human hair—Caramela slipped over the last of his skin. Smiling at herself in the mirror, she touched the underside of her locks, slid her hand to her faux breast and gripped it hard as she bared her teeth.
“Chica. You are so fabulous, they’re all gonna cry.”
Spinning elegantly toward the stereo, she cued up her favorite remix, cocked her hip a few times to the opening bass, and went to work.
She sang along with JLo, communing with her goddess and the center of her soul as she selected her wardrobe. Chenco felt uneasy, so she’d give him something fierce, something to make everyone shocked and off balance, to give her space to remind him how powerful she was on the floor, how one hour of drag could right a year of wrongs in his life. This meant sequins and glitter. She selected the faux-chain-mail dress which made her look nearly naked—thank God he shaved his junk, as this outfit cut a bit close to the Spanx.
Heide had allowed the loan of the dice shoes with a promise Caramela return them without a single scratch. They went into the bag to be put on in the parking lot. The only real question remaining was jewelry. The nested silver hoops were obvious for earrings, but what necklace? What bracelets?
The silver-blue bands reminiscent of Wonder Woman’s Bracelets of Victory caught her attention and went immediately onto her wrists. That’s right, hookers, I can deflect anything you shoot at me, even you, Daddy. Speaking of Cooper—she smiled as she selected the antique pewter trefoil knot Chenco had rescued long ago from the back drawer of Cooper’s dresser. Armor chosen, donned, and ready.
Ready but packed, at least as far as the shoes went, Caramela zipped the bag, her gaze falling on the drawstring sweats and hoodie.
With a grimace, she reached for the plastic rain hat. She fucking hated this part.
IN THE END Steve did have to hack to find Chenco. He asked local funeral directors about any twenty-four-year-olds who’d recently buried their fathers, but none would readily give out any information, not even when Steve asked nicely in Spanish. He should have let it go, but he hadn’t been able to get the kid’s look of betrayal out of his head.
Randy helped him search. They kept their project from Mitch, because he had enough going on right now.
Steve’s longtime friend had come back to the valley for his asshole father’s funeral, but out of some strange nostalgia he’d lingered well past his original reason for coming. Steve knew Mitch was putting things to rest, closing a circle. That his once-stoic friend would so much as consider working through his old shit was huge, and Steve credited the change to Mitch’s husband. Every time Mitch came back raw from a trip down memory lane, one smile from his husband seemed to help Mitch reclaim another piece of himself.
Chenco didn’t have anyone to level him. Steve wanted to change that.
Hacking didn’t take long, and though he couldn’t come up with a mailing address, just a post office box in Donna, Steve did learn Chenco held two jobs, one at a local fast food chain and one at a glitzy gay bar called Club 33. Randy had sniggered at the name.
“Man, that’s an old one. Thirty-three?” When Steve continued to stare at him, still not comprehending, Randy pulled out a piece of paper and drew two number threes beside each other. “Look at those two numbers next to one another and think like a dirty-minded, gay twelve-year-old boy. Two asses lined up for buttsex. If you want to go all Escher, the middle of the second three can double as an itty bitty penis.”
Steve rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help a little grin too. Yeah, now that Jansen pointed it out, the two numbers did look like a couple of butts. This didn’t help them find Chenco, however.
After their lack of headway with Chenco’s other contacts, Steve and Randy decided to pay the club a visit and inquire directly rather than risk anything on the phone. Confronting him at a bar seemed easier than a fast food restaurant and also more fun.
They brought Mitch and Sam along because when Sam heard where they were going, he declared it the perfect way to spend their anniversary. Ten minutes inside 33, Sam started swinging his hips to the beat, smiling slyly at Mitch and dragging him onto the floor with sultry promise.
Randy cast the pair a longing look, but he let them go and went off with Steve to search. It got them nowhere. Chenco wasn’t anywhere to be found.
“It’s still early,” Randy pointed out. “Maybe he’s not here yet.”
“Possible.” Steve rubbed his goatee and frowned at the dance floor, trying to think. It was hard with all the damn club music.
Randy indicated the far side of the room. “Why don’t I go flirt with the bartender, see what I can wheedle out of him?”
Not having any better ideas, Steve nodded his agreement and went back to scanning the crowd for Chenco, just in case.
There were quite a few patrons present for as early as it was in the evening, but a poster on the wall near him proclaimed a drag show was coming up at ten, so perhaps it’d be a draw.
Everyone seemed so young. Steve had a hard time believing they were old enough to drive, let alone consume alcohol. No doubt they wondered what Grandpa was doing glowering at them. Steve tried to imagine what he’d done on a Friday night at their age, but of course the analogy didn’t hold. At nineteen, he was in the Persian Gulf. When he got home, there was no Club 33. Even at Stanford, he hadn’t gone to a club like this, though there might have been a small one somewhere. His hookups had happened at the gay video store and the biker bar on the edge of town, or with Gordy. Discretion was the name of the game.
Looking out at the sea of rainbow-colored hair, raunchy clothes, and open groping on the dance floor, Steve had to admit every now and again he missed discretion.
Drag queens, though. Steve turned back to the poster. Drag queens were familiar turf. He had zero interest in putting on a dress himself, but there was something about watching a man put on a wig and heels and work a floor under punishing stage lights. Nothing said screw you, gender stereotypes like a queen. Drag was a man doing what society said emasculated him and yet making the act about power, control, upending of norms. Steve loved it. If they didn’t find Chenco, he thought he might stick around to see how the game had changed since the last time he’d been to a show.
Caramela, the playbill read. The Rio Grande Valley’s Own Superstar! She was certainly gorgeous, and slightly familiar. He was still examining the poster when Randy came up to him.
“Holy shit, Monk. You aren’t gonna believe this.” He laughed. “Well, goddamn. You beat me to it. Here I thought I was gonna blow your mind.”
Steve frowned at him. “Beat you to what?”
“I found Chenco. He’ll be here later. Except you found him too. Look a little harder at the poster.”
Steve grimaced at Jansen before turning back to the adver
tisement for Caramela. He scanned it for Chenco’s name, but he didn’t see it anywhere. Then something in his subconscious prickled, and he dragged his gaze to the drag queen’s face. “Holy shit.”
“Exactly.” Randy tapped the poster. “About an hour and a half until show time. You want a drink to fortify you? I figure we can’t jump him until after, anyway.”
Steve stared at Caramela, who melted all too easily into Chenco Ortiz’s pretty, sensual face. “Yeah, I’ll take a drink.”
“I’ll grab you a Bohemia.” Randy disappeared toward the bar.
Steve resumed staring at Caramela/Chenco. When Randy returned, he handed Steve his bottle with an I’ve been thinking expression on his face. “I flirted a little harder with the bartender when I got the drinks. Guess where Chenco’s from? Donna. His trailer is in the flats.”
Mitch’s father had lived there. “He should be glad to be rid of the fucking thing, then. The flats are a toxic waste dump.”
Randy tapped his fingers against the label of his bottle. “Something really obvious is right in front of our noses. After his show, we’re going to sit Chenco down at the bar and figure this out. He’s got no reason to run from me, or you, and if nothing else, the kid could use some new friends.”
Admiring the poster one last time, Steve nodded his agreement, thinking it sounded like as good a plan as any.
Chapter Three
CARAMELA CROSSED THE parking lot at eight forty-five, swinging her jeweled Gucci clutch as she covered the distance between the Nova and the club in powerful strides. It made her cringe that people had to see her climb out of the piece-of-shit vehicle. Work those tips, honey, and you’ll get your BMW.
“Caramela,” random strangers cried out, waving and laughing and blowing her kisses. She blew them back with a saucy wink and a delicate flash of her gloved hands. The security guy at the door welcomed her, telling her she was a precious, beautiful angel in Spanish. She was pretty sure that’s what he said. She tossed him a gracias and thanked God she didn’t need to fumble any further in the language.
Tough Love Page 3