The Case of the Missing Drag Queen

by Michael Rupured

  “Just ignorant frat boys and rednecks showin’ off for their friends.” She shook her head. “They won’t hurt ya, so long as you don’t provoke ’em.”

  A beat-up red pickup truck slowed, the passenger-side window came down, and a fast food soft drink tossed from the truck exploded on the sidewalk, missing Luke and Pixie by inches. “Faggots!” Tires squealed as the truck sped away.

  “Most of the time,” Pixie said, unperturbed. “Some motherfuckers come unglued when they see a man in a dress.” She shook her head. “And I’m the one who’s sick.”

  “For real,” Luke said, picking up his pace again. They reached Bertha, and he opened the door for her. “This is it.”

  “You left it unlocked?” Pixie clutched her throat.

  Luke nodded. “Who’d steal it?”

  She looked over the banged-up Impala then slid onto the big bench seat. “You’d be surprised.”

  Luke hurried around to the other side to find his door already open. Pushing the lock button instantly relieved his anxiety. “I call her Bertha. The mileage sucks, but the insurance is cheap and the price was right.”

  “Bertha? The name fits.” She scanned the roomy interior. “And you’ll always have a place to sleep.”

  He laughed. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “So, Luke Tanner. Tell me about yourself.”

  Luke shrugged. “Not much to tell. I grew up here, came out five years ago, then moved to Atlanta to live happily ever after with Mr. Wrong, who kicked me out two months ago to make room for his new boyfriend.”

  Pixie clucked several times. “No good, dirty-rotten bastard.”

  “Caught me totally off guard,” Luke said, shaking his head. “I was happy.”

  “Well, darlin’.” Pixie slid across the seat and patted his knee. “You had five good years with the sorry sombitch. My record is one year, five months, two weeks, three days, seven hours, and sixteen minutes.”

  Luke laughed. “My aunt says I only wanted someone to take care of me.”

  “Douchebag is older?”

  Luke chuckled and nodded. “Yeah. Seventeen years.”

  Her eyes widened. “My God! How rich is he?”

  “Not that rich.”

  “Big cock?”

  Luke snickered. “Not that big.”

  “Well.” Pixie tugged the hem of her skirt into place. “If ya ask me, yer better off without the dinky-dicked old codger.”

  “Stop!” Luke wiped a tear from his eye. “You’re going to make me wreck. Tell me about you.”

  “Been here my whole life too. Momma up and left when I was four and ain’t nobody seen hide nor hair of her since.”

  “I can relate.” Luke nodded. “My parents disappeared when I was nine.”

  “That’s just awful!” She shook her head. “At least I had Daddy. Who raised you?”

  “My mother’s little sister,” Luke said. “Aunt Callie has never been anything but good to me. Well. Up until I ran off with Donald.” He shook his head. “I should have listened to her.”

  “Don’t go shouldin’ all over yourself.” She patted his arm. “Where’d ya go to high school?”

  “Lafayette,” Luke replied. “You?”

  “Dropped out of Bryan Station on my sixteenth birthday. Got tired of gettin’ beat up.” She shrugged. “Daddy was disappointed. He never finished high school neither, but he didn’t make me go back.”

  “Did you dress like a girl in school?”

  “No,” Pixie said, shaking her head. “But I didn’t dress like other boys, either.”

  “How long have you been doing drag?”

  “More or less my whole life,” Pixie said, smiling. “Soon as I figured out pretty little girls has a hell of a lot more fun than short, homely boys.”

  He found a parking spot in the small lot in front of Polly Jo’s. “Must not be very crowded,” Luke said.

  “In between the grab-a-bite-before-drinkin’ and the eat-somethin’-to-sober-up crowds,” Pixie said. She gestured toward the door. “Come on. I’m starvin’.”

  “Me too.” He looked around. “I haven’t been here since college.”

  “Better ease back into it then, darlin’.” She grabbed his elbow to steady herself on the buckled asphalt. “That Polly sauce will unclog your pipes.”

  “Really?” Luke held the door open for her and looked around to see if it was available for purchase. “I need some liquid plumber.”

  “Well, you could try it, but those ain’t the pipes I was talkin’ about.”

  They ordered at the counter, got their drinks, and Pixie paid the tab. Heads turned as she and Luke found a booth in the back. He followed her lead and ignored the whispers, giggles, and gaping stares as they settled in across the table from one another.

  “Quit scratchin’ at your crotch, darlin’. Folks gonna think you got crabs or somethin’.”

  Luke’s face got flaming hot. He glanced around to see if anyone else had heard.

  She studied his face. “You do, don’t you?”

  He met her gaze and nodded.

  She reached across the table and held his hand. “Honey, ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of. Shit. Dumpster divin’ after a big break up is perfectly normal.” She shrugged. “Sometimes ya bring stuff home you really didn’t want. Happens to the best of us.”

  “That’s just it,” Luke said. “I haven’t been with anyone since before I left Atlanta.”

  Pixie met his gaze. “You sayin’ ya got ’em off a toilet seat?”

  He shook his head, but didn’t elaborate. “In the last month, I’ve been at the Gilded Lily, my apartment, my aunt’s house, or my car. I found them this afternoon, but didn’t have time to do anything. I’m going to see a pharmacist tomorrow.”

  She dismissed him with a wave. “You don’t need no pharmacist. Get you a lice kit and enough laundry detergent to wash everything you own.”

  “Great.” Luke palmed his forehead. “Like I don’t have enough to do.”

  “Beats waitin’ to be seen out at the VD clinic.” She shook her head. “Next thing you know, everyone in town thinks you got the clap.”

  A runner dropped off scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash-brown potatoes for Pixie and a Polly Jo burger with tater tots for Luke.

  “Oh, man,” Luke said, wiping Polly sauce from his chin. “This is great. I’d forgotten how good that sauce is.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

  “Something wrong with yours?”

  “No.” She shook her head and poked the scrambled eggs with a fork. “Not as hungry as I thought.” She looked Luke in the eye. “Kinda worried about Ruby.”

  “You’re not the only one.” He told her about his job at the Sinclair Arms and the conversation with Mrs. Maxwell.

  “She’s right.” Pixie nodded. “I’ve known Ruby for years. Honey, that queen don’t shit without printin’ up flyers to let everybody know where and when she’s goin’.”

  “I felt sick when Frank left her name out of the lineup.” He shrugged. “Nothing I can do about it.”

  “You’ve got a key to her apartment, right?”

  He nodded. “I thought about going in, but I wouldn’t want anyone snooping around my place if I wasn’t home.”

  “Even if you’d stood up a friend for lunch and didn’t show up for work later the same day?”

  Luke furrowed his brow. “What if she caught me?”

  “You tell her how glad ya are to see her and how worried everyone has been with her runnin’ off like that without tellin’ nobody.”

  Luke nodded. “Okay. I will. First thing in the morning.”

  Chapter 7

  Saturday, October 23, 1982

  LUKE COVERED his ears with a pillow, clinched his eyes shut, and waited for the goddamn alarm to wind down. Getting up at nine o’clock was ridiculous. Persistent itching was all the reminder he needed that rolling over and going back to sleep was not an option. He tossed the covers back, sat up, and stretched. If all went we
ll, maybe he’d get a nap in before he had to be at the Gilded Lily to set up.

  He stripped the sheets, blanket, and pillowcases from the bed to wash them, but the apartment-size washer was too small, and he had to remove the blanket. The comforter would never fit, so he decided to leave it and the blanket at the WashNFold on his way to the drugstore. Getting everything laundered was tempting, but a luxury he couldn’t afford—especially after making only eighty dollars the night before. If tonight wasn’t any better, he’d have to ask Aunt Callie for help. Again.

  The telephone rang as he was leaving for the drugstore. He grabbed the handset, certain Mr. Patrick in Apartment 4 couldn’t wait until noon to call. “Hello,” he snapped.

  “Luke, it’s Buddy Sinclair.”

  “Oh,” Luke stammered. He hadn’t seen or heard from his employer, landlord, and insurance agent since he’d signed the month-to-month lease and paid his insurance premiums. “Hello, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Now, I told you, son. Call me Buddy.” He laughed. “Mr. Sinclair was my daddy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Luke said. “I still can’t afford the medical and life insurance policies we talked about. Sorry.”

  “Well, Luke, like I said, if something happens—and it will—you’ll wish you had, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

  Luke sighed with relief. Buddy was more than a little pushy. Car insurance was a necessity, but health insurance was too expensive, and life insurance wasn’t a priority. He could have lived without the renter’s insurance too, but Buddy had insisted, and it hadn’t cost much.

  “Did Bonnet in Apartment 2 drop off his rent yesterday?”

  “No, sir,” Luke replied. He furrowed his brow. Another appointment Ruby had missed.

  “Dammit,” Buddy roared. “That cross-dressing freak said I’d have my money yesterday.”

  Luke winced.

  “Call me if you get it,” Buddy said. “I’m filing eviction papers first thing Monday morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” Luke paused, then decided not to mention Ruby’s apparent disappearance.

  Buddy cleared his throat. “One more thing. Get a letter to everyone before the end of the month that rent is going up thirty dollars starting December 1.”

  Luke cringed. “That might not go over—”

  “Fuck ’em,” Buddy roared. “The waiting list is a mile long. Anyone who isn’t happy is free to move someplace else.”

  “Yes, sir,” Luke mumbled.

  “What they got to be unhappy about, anyway?”

  “Well, Buddy….” Luke studied the ceiling in search of the right words.

  “Spit it out, Luke. Time is money.”

  “The building is kind of old, and, well….”

  “Yes?”

  “It needs a lot of work.” There. He’d said it. Let the chips fall where they will.

  “That’s why I hired you, son.”

  His mouth fell open, and he almost dropped the phone. “But sir, there’s only so much I can do with duct tape, two screwdrivers, and a hammer.”

  “What else you need? A wrench? Pair of pliers?”

  Luke rubbed his temple for a moment. “I was thinking more like a plumber, an electrician, and maybe a carpenter.”

  “What the fuck you think I pay you to do?”

  Luke sighed. “Do I have a budget for maintenance and repairs?” He waited a moment. “Are you there?”

  “Tell you what I’m gonna do for you, Luke. I’ll reimburse you up to seventy-five dollars a month for whatever you need. Just send me an explanation and the receipts.”

  “That’s great, Buddy. Thanks.”

  “Oh, one more thing. That rent increase? Make it forty dollars a month.”

  Luke hung up the phone and shook his head. “Chintzy bastard.”

  Though just a drop in the bucket, having money for repairs brightened his mood. He took seventy-five dollars from the coffee can where he stashed tips until he paid his bills. He’d stop at a hardware store for advice and a few essential maintenance supplies while he was out.

  Fearing someone he knew might see him buying a lice kit, Luke drove across town to a drugstore he’d never used before and was unlikely to visit again. Finding laundry detergent was easy, but the location of the lice kits wasn’t apparent from the signs hanging above the aisles. Having no idea what a lice kit looked like didn’t help.

  He roamed the aisles scanning the shelves but couldn’t find what he needed. He was about to give up when he found them, cleverly hidden on the bottom shelf. He hadn’t expected so many options. He dropped to his knee for a closer look.

  “May I help you?”

  Luke looked up past the Italian loafers, expensive-looking slacks, and white coat to the smiling face of the big tipper from Friday night. He stood up so fast he saw stars, and the blood that returned to his head was at least ten degrees hotter.

  “Well.” Luke clutched the jug of laundry detergent. “Um. You see….”

  “The lice kits are essentially different brands of the same thing.” He pulled one from the shelf and handed it to Luke. “I recommend this one.”

  “Thanks.” Luke wished the floor would open and swallow him whole. Not only was he looking at lice kits, he hadn’t showered, his hair was a wreck, and he wasn’t exactly dressed for success. He took the box from Michael Dean, Pharmacist, and forced his lips into a smile. “It’s for a friend.”

  “No problem,” Michael Dean, Pharmacist said. His face gave no indication that he recognized Luke in the stark fluorescent lighting. “Tell your friend to read and carefully follow the directions.”

  “Oh,” Luke stammered. If he had friends, they wouldn’t likely have lice. He forced another smile. “It’s a gag gift.”

  “Well, in that case.” Michael Dean, Pharmacist grabbed a different box. “This one is the cheapest, but I don’t vouch for its effectiveness.”

  Luke shrugged. “Better get this one then, in case he ever needs it.”

  “Handsome and smart.” Michael Dean, Pharmacist smiled.

  Every drop of blood in his body sank, making his feet too heavy to move. Forget the floor opening. He prayed for death from a sudden lightning bolt, a bullet from the gun of a drug-crazed robber, spontaneous combustion, a heart attack from eating so much rich food. Anything. Nothing could be worse than standing dumfounded with a jug of laundry detergent in one hand a lice kit in the other in front of the best-looking man he’d ever seen.

  “Are you okay?” Michael Dean, Pharmacist looked concerned.

  “Yeah, sorry.” Luke managed a smile. “Thanks for the help.” He nodded and headed toward the cashier at the front of the store.

  “Happy to help.” He waved. “Enjoy the party!”

  Party? Luke furrowed his brow.

  “Gift wrap is on aisle eight.” Michael Dean, Pharmacist pointed. “Can’t miss it.”

  Oh. For the gag gift. Right. “Thanks again.”

  Luke hurried over to aisle eight, snatched a package with color-coordinated paper and bows from the display, and willed himself not to run as he beelined for the cashier, who took forever and a day to ring up and bag his purchases.

  Nothing could be more humiliating. Luke bolted from the store and jumped into his car. There had to be dozens of drugstores in Lexington. He may as well have saved time and money by going to the neighborhood drugstore instead of driving all the way across town in his gas-guzzling Impala.

  Gilbert’s Hardware was deserted. The last time he’d been there, he’d bought a tire for the bike he’d relied on for transportation before he got his driver’s license. Though not nearly so handsome as Michael Dean, Pharmacist, the owner, Doug Gilbert, was equally helpful. Luke left with two gallons of Drano, a can of WD-40, lime remover, a tube of caulk, a caulking gun, and a toilet repair kit.

  When he got back to the apartment, he moved the sheets and pillowcases to the dryer, tossed a load of towels into the washer, and then fastened one of the bows he’d bought to a gallon of Drano and ran down the hall to Apar
tment 4.

  “About time you got here,” Mr. Patrick said, stepping aside to let him in.

  “Sorry.” Luke held up the jug of drain opener. “I brought you a present.”

  “For me?” He smiled. “I’d be lying if I said you shouldn’t have.”

  Luke poured Drano in the kitchen sink, the bathroom basin, and the tub with Mr. Patrick watching his every move.

  “In half an hour,” Luke said, “run hot water for a few minutes.” He set the Drano beside the tub. “If the tub hasn’t emptied by then, pour the rest of this jug in, wait another thirty minutes, and check it again.”

  Mr. Patrick folded his arms across his chest and scowled. “And if it still hasn’t drained?”

  “Aw, come on, Mr. Patrick. Be an optimist and think positive!”

  “I am.” He snorted. “The tub looks half full to me.”

  “Don’t forget to flush with hot water,” Luke said, and headed for the door.

  “I won’t.” He held up a kitchen timer. “Thanks, Tanner.”

  Luke ran back to his apartment, wrapped the toilet repair kit, and stuck a bow on it. Then he grabbed the lime remover and hurried across the hall.

  Mrs. Maxwell let him in. “What’s this?” She took the package from him and unwrapped it. “You think I’m going to fix it?”

  “No.” Luke smiled and held out his hand for the kit. “That’s what Mr. Sinclair pays me to do.”

  She followed him to the bathroom and leaned over his shoulder as he drained the tank, flushed the rim holes with lime remover, and replaced the flapper.

  “Mr. Gilbert at the hardware store said that should do it,” Luke said. He waited for the tank to fill and flushed again. “Now for the big test.” He dropped some Toasted Oats into the toilet, flushed, and let out a whoop when the cereal disappeared.

  Back in his apartment, Luke turned on MTV, got naked, and slathered himself with lice-killing shampoo. During the required ten-minute waiting period—not a minute longer—he used the spray that had come in the kit on the mattress, pillows, and anyplace else where he might have sat, saving enough to douse Bertha. With two minutes to go, he removed scads of the little beasties with the fine-toothed comb from the kit. There were so many, he spent an extra five minutes combing every nook and cranny to be sure the nasties were gone before stepping into the shower.