by Paul Neuhaus
Amanda laughed as she examined Panagopoulos’ shaving mug. “Mick Jagger is a rock star. Dwayne is a good-looking hobo with better-than-average pipes. Here, see for yourself.” The lawyer had found a detail that I had missed. Stuck in the frame around the vanity mirror was a strip of photo booth photos. She pulled it out and handed it to me. It was a series of four snaps. A good-looking guy (in the general resemblance vicinity of Sting and Rutger Hauer) along with a girl that looked kind of like me. High cheekbones. Big eyes. A little on the severe side.
“Speaking of pipe... Did you ever fuck him?” I tucked the photo strip into my purse with the pepper spray and the brass knuckles and the handcuffs.
“Dwayne? No, I didn’t fuck him. What did I tell you? I said I met him once in a crowded conference room. Besides, any boyfriend of mine’s gotta have a j-o-b.”
“The unemployed need love too.”
“Not from me they don’t.”
I sat down on the bed and looked around, frustrated. “Why is it that, sometimes, you sound like a sassy black lady? But not like a real sassy black lady. More like a sassy black lady from a McDonald’s commercial.”
“When she was pregnant with me, my mother was frightened by a sassy black lady from a McDonald’s commercial.”
I pushed over a discarded tennis shoe with my kicky boot. Size twelve. (A clue to Panagopoulos’ frightening power over Harper Adcock?) “Well, what now, Sancho?”
“‘Sancho’?”
“Sidekick. From Don Quixote.”
“I don’t read. Not unless somebody makes me.”
I started to say something pithy in response, but I looked at the sneaker again. It was a black Converse with a light brown rubber sole. Stuck to that sole was a wad of gum. Stuck to the wad was a rectangular piece of paper. I bent over, picked up the shoe and carefully pulled the paper away from the gum. It was the cover from a book of matches. Slumberland. A bar in West Hollywood.
Amanda looked at the logo and the address over my shoulder. “What do you think? Worth a look?”
I sighed and stood. “I guess. It’s not like we’ve got any other leads.”
We reentered the house and Max was there waiting for us. Gloria Mae was nowhere to be seen. The snippy little butler led us back to the front door, let us pass through and slammed it behind us, cutting off our goodbyes.
West Hollywood (AKA “WeHo”, AKA “Boys’ Town”) has been gay and lesbian friendly almost since its beginning. It wasn’t incorporated until nineteen eighty-four, so it was laxer than Los Angeles proper. Given Slumberland’s address, I had to wonder if Dwayne Panagopoulos was a switch hitter. I also had to wonder if he’d stepped in gum and picked up a completely unrelated matchbook cover. Ms. Venables and me could easily be walking up a blind alley. I parked the Firebird by a meter on Santa Monica Boulevard and looked around. Amanda too was peering through the windshield at the activity on the sidewalks. Finally, she said, “Why’re there so many dudes here?” She was being cute.
“Funny. Let’s peek into Slumberland and see what we can see.” Turns out we’d parked in front of the bar without realizing it. We went in and I was reminded what the “L” in “LGBT” stands for. If we’d been men, we would’ve been the only men in the place. The ladies in the smoky, starlit bar looked at us briefly and then returned to their conversations. (When I say “starlit”, I mean the walls and ceiling were painted black and little white lights were strung high above us. Pretty without breaking the bank.) Against all odds, Tegan and Sara played in the background.
A voice called to us from the right. I looked over and there was the bar. Behind the bar was the bartender. A black woman with a huge poofy afro. The afro was there, no doubt, to mitigate the fact she was only about four foot ten. Still, she was trim and the whole thing was working for her. “Come over here,” she said. “Sit.”
Amanda and I looked at one another and shrugged. “We’re looking for a dude,” Venables said.
The bartender smiled with huge, ultra-white teeth. “Sweet Lord Jesus in a Suzuki Samurai have you come to the wrong place, counselor.”
“How’d you know I was a lawyer?”
She put a coaster in front of each of us. “Are you kidding me? Only a lawyer would wear those shoes.”
I threw a bill on the bar. “Two Budweisers.” Now that I was sitting, I could see the bartender had an elevated platform she was standing on. “What’s your name?”
“What’s my name?” she echoed back to me. “My name’s Lisbeth. Like the bitch with the dragon tattoo. I’m gonna warn you, though: I already got a lady.” She looked me up and down. “That being said, I would fuck you nineteen ways from Sunday, you tall, Monica Bellucci-looking thing, you.”
Wow, and I wasn’t even wearing Mrs. Padovano’s wig. Amanda squirmed uncomfortably on the stool next to me. She probably wasn’t used to such overt girl on girl banter. They don’t have many cheeky lesbians out in the Valley. “I do appreciate it,” I replied. “Maybe someday soon I could come back and make you forget about your lady. Right now, though, I’m doing work. My friend here wasn’t lying. We are looking for a dude. Not to date, but to put a hurt on.”
She held up her hands and said, “I don’t wanna know from that. Don’t think ‘cause I... am who I am, I’m some kind She-woman man-hater. I got four brothers, all of ‘em fine young men. Dumber than doorknobs, but upstanding nevertheless.”
“Okay, I wasn’t trying to push the misandry button.”
“Misandry? What’s that?”
“Opposite of misogyny,” I replied. I took the photo strip out of my purse and slid it toward Lisbeth.
“Oo, I like that. Good word. I’m gonna file that one away for later.” She picked up the photos and looked at them for half a second. “Today’s your lucky day. Him, I recognize. Her, I work for.”
I looked at Amanda and smiled. Now we’re getting somewhere. “Please... go on.”
The tiny barkeep grinned at us again with those perfect (if gigantic) teeth. “Ain’t this the part of the detective show where you slip a little something my way? You know... for the effort.”
It was my turn to squirm. The cash I dropped on the two Buds was the last I had. I looked sheepishly at Venables. She sighed and picked up her purse.
Lisbeth waved her free hand at us and laughed. “I’m just fucking with you. Buy another round, and we’ll call it even.”
Amanda smiled. “Hell, I was gonna do that anyway.” She laid down a bill of her own and we got two replacement bottles.
“Okay,” the bartender went on. “Anybody asks, I’m gonna deny speaking to y’all. We understand each other?” My partner and I nodded. “Only reason I’m saying anything at all is the woman in these pictures is a real see you next Tuesday.”
“What’s that?” Venables asked.
I touched her elbow. “I’ll tell you in the car.” I turned back to our hostess. “Start with the guy. What do you know about him?
“He has eighties hair.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for the tip. What else you got?”
“He’s loud. He’s obnoxious. I don’t know his name. Do you know his name?”
“Dwayne.”
“Dwayne.” She rolled it around in her mouth for a moment. “Yeah, that fits. You met him?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Well, here are the two things I can tell you about your boy Dwayne. Dwayne is Dwayne’s biggest fan, and Dwayne has a terrible sense of humor—which he’s not afraid of using. You ever meet somebody and think to yourself, ‘Man, why can’t this guy hurry up dyin’?’ For me, that’s Dwayne.”
“You met him here? Why’d he come here?”
“To talk to Dee. Otherwise, believe me, he’d have no reason at all to be in WeHo. He’s a big, dumb pussyhound.”
Amanda smiled around the mouth of her beer bottle. “I’m still not sure... Do you like Dwayne or not?”
“Put me down as a ‘no’,” the bartender replied.
“Dee is the woman
in the pictures,” I said. “The owner of the bar.”
“Kee-rect.”
“What do Dee and Dwayne have to talk about?”
“Other than their name’s sounding cute together? I have no idea. I never got close enough to overhear and Dee ain’t exactly forthcoming if you know what I mean.”
“Not a people person this Dee?”
“Naw. What’s the opposite of a people person? You got a fancy word for that one, too?”
“Misanthrope.”
Lisbeth grinned. “Look at you, getting all Molière up in this piece.”
That took me aback. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be into French farce.”
“Theater nerd,” she replied.
I didn’t tell her I’d known Molière back in the day (nice dude). Instead, I put us back on track. “So, if I was to hang out here long enough, I’d eventually see Dee come in?”
“Sure, you could do that. Or you could walk out of here, go to the alley on the left side of the building and climb the steps. Dee’s apartment’s above the club. If you was to do that, though, I’d have to question your sanity. Ain’t nobody ever had a good time socializing with Dee.”
“Dwayne seems to’ve.”
“He tried. I could see he wanted her to like him, but he never seemed to realize Dee doesn’t like anyone. I could tell, at least as far as Dee was concerned, theirs was a strictly business relationship.”
I sighed. “Well, I got no other ideas, so I guess I’m gonna have to risk it. If you’d like to relieve us of these dead soldiers, we’ll be on our way.”
Lisbeth took the bottles from the bar top. “Good luck,” she said with a wink.
Just then, Amanda busted out into raucous laughter. It would have felt awkward had she not immediately explained herself. “‘See you next Tuesday’,” she said. “I just got it. C-u-n-t. Dee is a cunt.”
As we stood to exit, I patted her on the head. “You’re learning, girlfriend.”
We headed for the door and Lisbeth called after us. (Well, me specifically.) “I better see your ass around here again soon, Monica Bellucci.”
“Count on it,” I said over my shoulder.
I stopped to slide my card through the parking meter again then we took the alley on the left side of Slumberland. There was an elaborate staircase leading up to the second floor. Very Grecian. Very Doric. We walked up and came to the door. Next to the door was a vintage (real vintage) statue of three women standing back-to-back in a triangular arrangement. Actually, they were three aspects of the same woman.
Amanda took the sculpture in. “Weird. Who’s that supposed to be?
I ran my hand down the front-most aspect. “Hecate,” I replied. “Goddess of the crossroads, entrance-ways, light, magic, witchcraft, knowledge of herbs and poisonous plants, ghosts, necromancy, and sorcery.”
“She had a lot on her plate. Why is she split into three?”
I pushed past her to stand in front of the door. “I dunno. Do I look like a statue-ologist? It’s symbolic, or some shit.” I knocked.
The door opened so quickly, Amanda and I were both startled enough to fall back into the railing behind us. “What?!” Dee said, not at all pleased to see us. (To be fair, I could tell from her demeanor she was never particularly glad to see anyone.)
I regained my composure while Venables hyperventilated next to me. “I’m Dora. This is my friend Amanda. You’re Dee. We were just wondering if we could ask you some questions.”
Dee started to shut the door. “I made my GLAAD donation this month. Damn, you dykes are persistent.”
“We’re not dykes!” was all I could manage. It was enough to get Dee to hesitate. “I mean, I sometimes swing both ways when I drink, but I think Amanda’s a full-on cock fan. And we’re sure as hell not a couple. We just met. I think we’re getting along well, but bumping uglies would be... Well, I think it’d be premature.”
“TMI,” Amanda hissed next to me.
Dee, while still cranky, looked as much confused as anything. “What is this about?” she said with suspicious eyes. Again, she looked a lot like me. A meaner, shorter version of me. Definitely, of Mediterranean stock. I opened my purse and was happy to see the brass knuckles, the pepper spray and the handcuffs. Good to know they had my back. I took out the photos from the photo booth and handed them to Dee. “That’s you in the pictures, right?”
She looked at the pictures for a second before passing them back to me. “No,” was all she said.
“No? So, that’s not you with that dude there? It’s someone that looks exactly like you, and who is even wearing the same earrings you’re wearing right now. In your actual ears.”
Dee was unfazed. “Sure, looks that way.”
I sighed. “Look, we’ve talked to some people on the strip. Some people who’ve seen you with this guy. They even identified you... and him too. Your name is Dee. His name is Dwayne.”
Her black eyes narrowed. “Who’ve you been talking to? Was it Lisbeth? Was Lisbeth telling you my business? If it was Lisbeth, I swear to gods I’m gonna fire her then rehire her, so I can fire her again.”
I’ve got a pretty solid poker face. “Who’s Lisbeth?” I said. Even I was convinced. “Stop busting our balls, Dee. You wouldn’t’ve gotten all excited and asked who was ratting you out if you weren’t you. Plus, you just said, ‘swear to gods’ instead of, ‘swear to god’.”
That widened her eyes back out again. “No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I misspoke.”
“You didn’t.”
“I’m a Wiccan.”
“You’re not. I mean that’d explain Hecate here, but I think you’re more old school in your worship than the mopey, Stevie Nicks-looking motherfuckers running around today.”
Dee stepped out of the way. “Come inside,” she said.
The apartment had the same vibe as the bar below it, but creepier. Black walls, black ceilings, lights strung above. What made it creepier was the idea that anyone’d wanna live in it. And the place wasn’t bare, either. Dee had furniture and decorations and knickknacks, and all the that was black, too. “Nice place you’ve got here. Very cozy.”
“I’m getting a reverse-retina burn,” Amanda said.
Dee shut the door behind us. “Have a seat. Let’s get this over with.”
Venables and I looked at one another, then we sat down on two wooden chairs (painted black) facing a faux fireplace (also painted back). On the mantel were two statues. Children. One boy and one girl. Interesting detail. There was another odd element. The wall from the top of the mantle to the ceiling was a mirror. Stuck into the frame of the mirror were several photos—not of people but of a place. A place I recognized. It was a restaurant between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. A Greek joint called The Parthenon. A place with a lot of thematic detail. A miniature Mount Olympus and whatnot. I guess Dee was a fan too. It was just weird she had half a dozen pictures of the spot stuck into her mirror frame.
Once we were seated, the lady of the house flitted into the kitchen without speaking. I don’t use that word much. “Flitted”. But that’s exactly what she was like. Like a nervous bird. The whole time she was gone, she didn’t say a word. Nor did she say a word when she handed us each a mason jar of iced tea. She grabbed a black chair of her own and sat down between us and the fireplace. “Make this quick. What do you want?” Not much for pleasantries this one.
“Where’s Dwayne?” I asked.
“Why? I mean, even if I knew, why should I tell you? I don’t know who you are. How do I know you’re not going to harm Dwayne?” Even her delivery was staccato. If it’d been the eighties, I would’ve assumed she was on coke. She wasn’t frightened, though. Just scattershot.
“Dwayne has something of mine. I want it back.”
“That sounds like it’s between you and Dwayne.”
“It was. Now it isn’t. Until I get my property back, I’m gonna shake every tree Dwayne ever climbed.”
“What’s
your name?”
“Dora.”
“As in ‘Pan’?”
“Guilty. This is my friend—”
She interrupted. She didn’t care who Amanda was. “Last I heard you’d crawled into a hole somewhere to rot.”
“And I might still be there if Dwayne hadn’t ganked my shit.”
Amanda sat looking back and forth as Dee and I took turns speaking. She looked fascinated as she sipped her tea.
“I can think of only one thing you’d have you’d give a shit about.” Dee said.
“That math wasn’t hard. Me and the jar are a package deal. Peanut butter and jelly. Ham and cheese. Beavis and Butthead.”
“Why do you think Dwayne stole it?” she said, cocking her head.
I took a sip of my own drink. “Because I saw him do it. Or I saw his accomplice do it. He was driving the getaway car.”
Dee shook her head. “No, I mean why do you think he stole it? What would he want with a jar full of evil?”
“I’m open to suggestions...”
“This is your party, not mine.”
“Alright. Let’s take the roundabout route. You figured out who I was pretty quick. Did you figure out who Dwayne was? I’m assuming he’s one of us.”
Dora smiled. “We don’t out people in West Hollywood.”
“You outed me with no reservations.”
“I outed you to you. A minor offense.”
“Okay, have it your own way. What if—?” Then something really, really weird happened. Two identical Dees snapped outward from the middle Dee and then snapped back in again. The middle Dee—the original one—was blurrier when the snapping was done. I tried to shake it off. “What if you—?” But the effect came back immediately. This time, the two side Dees swirled counterclockwise around the center one. I looked over at Amanda and her eyelids were flickering and she was smacking her lips.