The Case of the Missing Drag Queen

by Michael Rupured

  “Listen,” Luke said. “I really appreciate you coming when you did and your concern, but I don’t have health insurance and can’t afford a trip to the emergency room.”

  Rusty nodded. “I can appreciate that. Let me take a look.” He held a finger up in front of Luke’s face. “Follow my finger with your eyes.”

  Luke complied. Focusing on the finger gave him something to do besides stare at the handsome, beefy man. Then he got closer. Luke could smell his breath as he pressed his fingers against Luke’s forehead, the back of his head, and along his rib cage, back, and sides. Luke winced a few times but didn’t cry out.

  “Your head hurt anywhere?” Rusty moved his hands around Luke’s head again. “He hit you hard enough to knock you out, but I don’t feel any lumps or swelling.”

  “I have a headache and hurt all over,” Luke said. “But nothing is broken except the abrasion on my cheek.”

  “I’d feel better if you saw a doctor,” Rusty said. “Just to be on the safe side.”

  “I’m fine,” Luke said. “Other than being tired, hungry, and upset about the money and credit cards, I just want to go home.”

  “Okay,” Rusty said. “If you insist.”

  “I do,” Luke replied. He pulled his keys from his pocket.

  “Then I insist on following you home.”

  “But—”

  He cut Luke off with a raised hand. “What if he’s waiting at your apartment?”

  Luke shuddered. “That would be great, Rusty. Thanks.”

  Driving all the way home with a police cruiser in the rearview mirror was unsettling. Rusty wasn’t going to pull him over but fear he might kept Luke on edge. He kept one eye on his speed and the other on the road and was nearly rear-ended by the cruiser when he slammed on the brakes for a yellow light.

  When they reached the Sinclair Arms, Luke parked along the curb. Rusty pulled in behind him, got out of his cruiser, and walked over to Luke. “Let me check inside your apartment and I’ll leave you alone.”

  Luke unlocked the door, reached inside, and flipped on the living room light. Here he was again, alone in his apartment with a gorgeous cop in uniform. Knowing Rusty had a lover, however, was a wet blanket on his fiery fantasies.

  “Stay here,” Rusty said. He turned on his flashlight and proceeded to inspect every possible hiding place in Luke’s apartment. After a moment, he came from Luke’s bedroom and nodded. “All clear.”

  “Thanks again, Rusty. For everything.” Luke extended his hand.

  “No problem.” Rusty enveloped Luke’s hand with his and pumped twice. “Sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

  “Positive,” Luke said.

  “Okay.” He glanced at the legal pad on the coffee table. “If you see blood in your urine, or changes in your vision, or feel like something’s wrong, promise me you’ll see a doctor.”

  “I promise.” Luke closed the door behind Rusty, locked it, and slid the deadbolt into place. Then, too exhausted to eat and without even brushing his teeth, he fell into bed.

  Chapter 27

  Sunday, October 31, 1982

  LUKE GROANED and pulled the covers over his aching head. Getting up was more than he could manage. The abrasion on his cheek stung, his upper back and ribs were tender in several places, and searing pain shot through his tortured shoulders when he moved either arm.

  Pain, however, had little to do with his reluctance to get up. Why bother? A long series of setbacks had defeated him. Sleep was his escape. Springing out of bed and facing the world merely invited more trouble.

  Forget about getting ahead—he couldn’t even catch up. Paying his own way was a pipe dream. He’d had enough of learning things the hard way.

  Losing Ruby’s rent had taught him to never leave anything of value in sight and to always lock his car.

  Having his tires slashed and getting mugged had taught him not to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. From now on, he’d mind his own business. Fate be damned. He was done searching for Ruby. Let somebody else find her. Pixie and others might be disappointed, but he had no choice. Self-preservation came first.

  Luke groaned when the telephone rang, threw the covers back, and lifted the handset to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Thank God,” Aunt Callie said. “You’re alive.”

  Luke furrowed his brow. Between her network of friends and her job at the newspaper, Aunt Callie didn’t miss much that went on in Lexington. Had someone seen the police report and called her?

  “Yeah,” Luke replied. “Still kicking. What’s up?”

  “Hadn’t heard from you and thought something had happened.”

  “Sorry.” He paused. Telling her he’d been mugged would upset her, and if he didn’t and she ever found out…. “The week flew by. How are you?”

  “Ready for a break. Things have slowed down at the paper so it’s a good time to get away.”

  “Oh? Where you going?” He noticed makeup on his sheets and sat up. His pillowcase was even worse.

  “Red River Gorge. Bunch of my high school friends chipped in to rent a five-bedroom cabin. It even has a hot tub.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Luke fell back on his makeup-smudged pillow. Before Frank’s revelation, he wouldn’t have given her trip another thought. She and her presumably female friends hit the road several times a year. “Who’s going?”

  “Junie set everything up—I’m not entirely sure. I’m looking forward to peace and quiet and beautiful fall foliage. What have you been up to?”

  Luke noted the change of subject and matched her vague response. “Just work and stuff.”

  “There’s nothing you want to tell me?”

  Luke’s heart jumped into his throat. She wouldn’t ask if she hadn’t heard something, but what could she have heard?

  “Don’t think so,” he murmured.

  “You’re not going to tell me about the gorgeous woman you had lunch with Friday at the Brougham House?”

  “Oh.” Luke let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Pixie Wilder. She’s… er… helping with research for a story I’m working on.”

  “I’m happy to hear you’re writing again. She from Lexington?”

  “Yes,” Luke replied.

  “Hmm. I don’t know any Wilders. What part of town?”

  “North side. She went to Bryan Station.” He smiled. Like Jon, Aunt Callie would wonder who Pixie was, but she had more resources at her disposal and just might find out.

  “Odd I haven’t run into her somewhere or even heard of her before. What does she do?”

  “Um. I’m not sure.” Luke searched the ceiling for a moment. “Something to do with country music.” His turn to change the subject. “We ran into Buddy Sinclair. He was having lunch with Tippy Berger.”

  “Ironic those two are such good friends.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Buddy and Amber have been sleeping together for years. I thought it was common knowledge.”

  “First I’ve heard of it.” Luke furrowed his brow. “Does Tippy see anyone?”

  “Last I heard, he had an escort on retainer. A former athlete of some kind.”

  “Retainer?”

  “Townhouse at Merrick Place, a sports car, and I’d imagine a generous allowance.”

  Luke furrowed his brow. “Amber doesn’t care?”

  Aunt Callie laughed. “Heavens, no. She’ll drop Tippy like a hot potato when Buddy inherits the Sinclair fortune. The happily married routine is just for show.”

  They chatted a while longer and then said their goodbyes. She didn’t ask if he needed money, and Luke didn’t bring it up. No point spoiling her trip. When she returned, he’d know how much Pixie could lend him and how much more he’d need to survive for another month.

  The sun streaming through his bedroom windows mocked him. A dreary, rainy day better suited his mood. He curled up under the covers and tried to sleep.

  The telephone rang, and he rolled his eyes. Now wh
at? He yanked the handset off the cradle. “Hello!”

  “Mornin’, sunshine! I can tell by the tone of your voice you didn’t get pounded last night.”

  Luke groaned. “Oh, I got pounded all right, but not the way you’re thinking. A guy in a ski mask mugged me.”

  “Yer shittin’ me! Darlin’, are ya okay?”

  “I’ll live. Before he beat me up and took my wallet and nearly three hundred bucks, he told me to forget about Ruby.”

  Pixie gasped. “Any idea who it was?”

  “No.” Luke shook his head. “And I don’t care.”

  “What do you mean you don’t care?”

  “I’m done, Pixie.” He shook his head. “This guy means business. I’d be in the hospital—or dead—if Rusty Gates hadn’t come along when he did.” He massaged his temples and braced for her verbal assault. “You there?”

  “Yeah.” She paused. “I got stuff to do. Guess I’ll see you Thursday night?”

  Luke recoiled like he’d been slapped in the face. “Uh, sure.”

  When the line went dead, Luke sat in stunned silence for a long moment. Pixie wouldn’t hang up on him. They must have been disconnected. She’d call back.

  He stared at the phone and willed it to ring to no avail. A sick feeling took root in his stomach and grew each time he checked for a dial tone. The telephone worked fine. She wasn’t going to call.

  “Damn it!” He slammed the handset onto the cradle. He’d bent over backward and even broken the law to help clear Pixie’s name. What more did she want?

  Screw her. He stormed into the kitchen and slammed cabinets and banged things around to start a pot of coffee brewing. Then he stomped back to his bedroom, relocated the telephone to the bathroom floor in case Pixie called, and stepped into the tub for a shower.

  “Yikes!” Icy blasts forced him to the back of the tub. After a moment, hot water had replaced the cold. He faced the steaming jets and moaned with pleasure. Raising his arms over his head worked out some of the pain and stiffness from his shoulders. Lathering up wasn’t sufficient to remove the makeup. He scrubbed hard enough to leave angry red blotches.

  He blow-dried his hair, dressed, and then slam-banged around the apartment straightening up, washing the sheets, and otherwise not waiting for Pixie to call. He tore their notes from the legal pad, ripped them to shreds, and then threw the pieces and the rest of his trash into a bag he took outside and tossed into the dumpster.

  Millie Maxwell and Vince Patrick were waiting in the hall for him when he returned.

  Mr. Patrick looked him over. “You okay, Tanner?”

  Luke nodded. “I’m fine.”

  Millie folded her arms across her chest. “Then why all the door slamming?”

  Mr. Patrick frowned and put his hands on his hips. “Sinclair giving you a hard time?”

  Their concerned faces peered at him expectantly. Though tempting, after his recent breakthrough with Buddy, Luke couldn’t throw him under the bus. Besides, he owed his neighbors no explanation. That he was angry at Pixie for expecting him to find a complete and total stranger was none of their business.

  “No,” Luke replied, shaking his head. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “If you say so,” Mr. Patrick said. “Any news about Ruby?”

  “She’s been missing for ten days,” Millie said, shaking her head. “I’m worried sick.”

  Mr. Patrick gave her a reassuring hug, and she hugged him back. Nothing passionate or romantic—just old friends seeking comfort. They held each other close for a long moment and then turned to Luke with hopeful expressions that tore at his heart.

  He didn’t know what to say. Telling them he was off the case because the prowler had likely slashed his tires, beaten him up, and stolen his cash and credit cards wouldn’t allay their fears, ease their concerns, or lead to the kidnapper.

  “Nobody has any idea who kidnapped Ruby. Hopefully, the big reward the Garden is offering for her safe return will help.” He shrugged. “Time will tell.”

  “Please,” Millie said. “If you hear anything, please let me know.”

  “If you can’t reach Millie, call me,” Mr. Patrick added.

  “Will do,” Luke said.

  After they’d exchanged farewells, Luke stepped into his apartment, leaned his back against the door, and sighed. He couldn’t face them again. Unless Ruby turned up soon, he’d have to find another place to live.

  Chapter 28

  Monday, November 1, 1982

  LUKE HIT the carriage return, typed the rest of the sentence, and then lightly drummed his fingers on the keys as he pondered his next words. Try as he might, he couldn’t stay focused on the story. Whether Pixie would call, the faces of his anxious neighbors, and his dire financial situation intruded on his thoughts.

  After a moment, he yanked the page from the typewriter, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it over his shoulder. The story sucked. The premise was the problem. Writing about his pitiful life was a bad idea. Readers wanted a happy ending.

  He waded through an ankle-deep sea of paper wads to his bedroom, fell into bed, and stared at the ceiling. Forgetting about Ruby Dubonnet was impossible. Even were he to move and change jobs, their lives were inextricably linked by the man who was his mugger, Mr. Patrick’s prowler, and Ruby’s kidnapper.

  Luke reached for the ringing telephone at an awkward angle and yelped when pain shot through his shoulder. “Pixie?”

  “No, Betty Stevens in Apartment 8. Is this Luke Tanner?”

  “Yes.” Luke nodded. “I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”

  “My tub is backed up—water hasn’t drained from the bath I took yesterday. Is there anything you can do?”

  “Sure,” Luke replied. “I’ll be right up.” He grabbed the Drano and, in case Pixie tried to call, left the phone off the hook so she’d get a busy signal and call back.

  Helping Ms. Stevens was a welcomed but short-lived distraction. He left the jug with her in case the first dose didn’t do the job and returned to his apartment. The dial tone had been replaced by an obnoxious alarm so loud, even the soundest sleeper would know the phone was off the hook. He hung up the phone and checked his watch. He’d been gone less than ten minutes.

  He flipped on MTV, kicked off his shoes, and propped himself up to watch music videos. The current selection was a song he’d heard before and liked by an unfamiliar artist likely to become a one-hit wonder. She wore baggy pleated pants and a collared leather vest over a man’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and a pompadour slicked back on the sides like a 1950s biker. He watched the corner of the screen for the artist and title of the song to appear. “Everybody,” by Madonna.

  After a while he’d had enough of the irritating VJ and his annoying music selections and turned off the television. He checked the telephone for a dial tone again and flopped back onto the bed for another round of staring at the ceiling.

  His thoughts kept returning to taboo topics. Abandoning the search for Ruby was at least theoretically possible. Torching the ever-growing mountain of unpaid bills wouldn’t make them go away. They were his, to have and to hold, until death do them part.

  Aunt Callie probably felt the same way about Luke. She’d been two years younger than Luke was now when his parents disappeared. Like it or not, taking care of a nine-year-old boy had become her responsibility—a life sentence with no chance of parole.

  Running off with Donald had been the best thing to ever happen to her. He pictured her shouting “free at last!” and doing cartwheels down the driveway after he left. How disappointed she must have been to have only received a five-year reprieve rather than the permanent break she’d surely wanted.

  Forget about Pixie’s help. In a way he was relieved. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t stand on his own two feet. The kind of help he needed was more than he could ever ask from any friend.

  Pixie cutting him off so abruptly aroused Luke’s suspicions about her motives. Had she ever intended to lend him the mon
ey? Or was the loan offer just a ploy to keep him at her beck and call?

  Thanks to Luke, nobody thought the new headliner at the Gilded Lily had anything to do with Ruby’s disappearance. She’d known he was broke the moment they met and had lured him in with generosity and kindness and then played him like a fiddle.

  He was running out of options. Borrowing money from Frank or Buddy Sinclair was a bad idea, and he didn’t know anyone else who could possibly help. In a word: he was fucked.

  The phone rang, and Luke leaped across the bed to answer. “Hello?”

  “Ish thish Luke Tanner?”

  Luke furrowed his brow. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Tipsy.” He belched and then giggled. “Tipsy Berger. Frank gave me your number.”

  Tipsy was an understatement. The man was obviously shitfaced. Luke glanced at his watch. And it wasn’t even four o’clock—on a Monday afternoon.

  “Yes, sir. This is Luke.”

  “Shomething I wanna tell you.”

  “What’s that?” He waited a long moment for Tippy to reply.

  “I’m a little drunk.”

  Luke rolled his eyes. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

  “No, no, no. Not that.” He giggled again and Luke heard ice clinking against glass. “You see, Luke. My relations… relationships with Amber and Ruby ish strictly batonic.”

  “That’s what you called to tell me?”

  “No, no, no.” Ice clinked against glass again. “A man’s got needs you know. I’m shure you understand.”

  “Not as much as you might think, but go on.”

  “Picking up hustlers off the street is ashking for trouble, and with call boysh, I worry about getting caught in a shting.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Luke said.

  “You’re welcome.” He paused. “An arrangement ish what you want. Business deal.” He hiccupped. “World’s full of hot young men who like expensive things.”

  “Are you offering me a job?”

  “If you want it, it’s yours.” More ice clinking against glass. “I haven’t fooled around with anyone for a month. When you followed me into the bathroom, I thought my luck had changed.”