No, said Francine.
Carmen the barmaid filled Francine’s glass and said: Professional courtesy.
Thanks, hon, said Francine.
What about you, mister? Last call for happy hour.
I’ll pass, thanks.
You know you want it. Have one on me.
Okay, I said to be nice. Then I said: Francine, you add up.
So do you.
Thanks, honey. Then let’s be friends.
Lesbi friends, she giggled, and kissed the air in my direction.
Some Names Are True
Self is an error . . . See things as they are and ye will be comforted.
BUDDHA, date unknown
Crime is intimately associated with female sexual inversion.
FRANK S. CAPRIO, M.D., date unknown
1
The transwoman said: The thing about being a policeman—
Yeah, bitch, what would you know about that?
You’re not the only cop I’ve given blow jobs to.
He suddenly laughed.—All right, Judy. I believe you do know something. Now tell me about cops.
Well, you think you know people, and in a way you do, but only the bad parts and the hurt parts. That’s all you see.
What else is there?
Nothing much, with most of us. But Neva’s different.
Oh, is she!
I swear she is!
So she’s perfect. She’s got that women’s mark. Her shit don’t stink.
That’s right.
Then she’s lying to you.
Why would she?
Certain people, women mainly but also pedophiles and politicians, try to pretend to be perfect. A few of them even get away with it until they get in trouble. Where they get in trouble is believing their own lies. Now, Judy, am I perfect?
No.
Then pull down those panties, bend over and take it. Now you know what you have to say. What do you have to say, bitch?
The transwoman was grunting with pain. He kissed the back of her neck, then slapped her cheek so hard she fell down, and he was falling right on top of and inside her, continuing what he had started to do. But his heart started acting up and he lost his erection. Wheezing, he crabwalked to the bed and attempted to get into it. She got up, wide-eyed with worry, with her cheek still red from his slap, and helped him get safely under the blanket. He lay there gasping.
Honey, should I call the doctor?
Just get my pills . . . my pills . . .
The blue ones or the green ones?
Two greens and—a glass of water. Now I’m fine; I don’t need a pill. Fuck those pills. Well, maybe one.
Here it is; it’s good for you—
That’s what she said, he jeered, choking down the tablet to please her.
Please, honey, just rest now. Do you want to be alone?
C’mere. Sit on the bed and look at me. Gimme one more. Maybe a blue. Now, I want you to wonder something. Take a pretty little wonder and . . .
I—
Why’s Karen lying to you?
Why do you call her Karen?
Bcause she is. Now, what’s she want? Is she lying to you because she’s lying to herself, which is normal and harmless, or because she plans to get something out of you?
J. D., she’s not like that—
What the fuck do you know, living in your shitty little dream world where girls have dicks and ugly homos like you can be beautiful and someday someone’s actually going to like you? You know you’re sick, right?
I know. And—
Then say it, Frank. Say: I’m a sick homosexual.
I’m a sick . . . But, J. D., the weird thing is, all Neva wants is to make us happy.
Well, then she’s in some kind of business. She’s selling something.
What are you selling?
Whatever it is, you’re buying it, bitch. You keep coming back for more.
And you’re lying to me?
I tell you what you want to hear, which is that you stink. And you want to hear it because it’s true. You want to admit the truth so you can feel bad about yourself, and I like making you feel bad.
Because it makes me happy.
Sure, Judy. We do make each other happy, don’t we?
I love you.
But you love her, too, don’t you?
Yes.
Who do you love more, her or me?
Her. I’m sorry.
Good dog. Maybe she’ll take you off my hands. And she’s never asked you for money?
Not even for a loan, whereas Shantelle—
Now you’ve spoiled the mood. What the fuck, mentioning that skanky whore! Get the fuck out of here, and don’t come back till I call you. Get. Now. Go on, Frank. Out, out!
Weeping, the transwoman hurried out, slamming the door. At the Y Bar her potential special friend Sandra hugged her, stroked her hair and even bought her a bourbon and ginger ale! She bought Sandra what passed for a daiquiri, which Sandra took three delighted sips of, growing flushed and dizzy. Then Judy bought two goofballs from Shantelle, which sure as hell brightened life up! At three in the morning she was tapping out catchy syncopations on the retired policeman’s door.
What the fuck! Oh, who else would it be. Well, come in and come to bed.
Will you let me suck your cock?
Not tonight. It’s my period.
Oh, you’re so funny. Here goes.
And the retired policeman had to admit that just now his Judy was exceptionally industrious.
Ten minutes later she sat on the edge of the bed marveling: That was the most fun I’ve ever had from sucking dick!
Because you’re hopped up. Your eyeballs look like jeepers creepers.
But it was fun.
All right, you had fun. But Neva’s different, he bitterly quoted.
I still love you.
Then turn out the light, and no snoring.
2
She lay beside him thinking.
The lesbian served her breakfast in bed and was perfect to her in ever so many ways, but Judy had to admit that she still knew almost nothing of where this person came from, who her people were or even what she liked and hoped to get out of life, because even direct questions would be answered with such kisses and loving words that one quickly felt as ecstatic as being high on MDMA, which is to say not caring how the pills had been manufactured.
In the morning he began to interrogate her again. He said: Tell me one goddamned thing that you know about her.
About her past, well, she told me she had some kind of a crisis, a love crisis, and then—
And then she went home to Mommy, right?
No, there was this older woman who—
And now she’s the older woman. Except she’s not old yet. So that’s a lie. The name Neva’s another lie. Have you ever heard the name Karen Strand?
No, except when you—
Anyway, she’s a fuckin’ fake. Judy. Hey, Judy. You wanna have fun?
What do you mean?
Let’s keep playing detective, and find out who your Neva really is. You got off to a good start. Now you’re gonna snoop deeper.
No!
I thought you loved going deep into your little bitch.
Oh, J. D. . . . !
You said you would.
Well, I changed my mind.
Oh, you’ll do it, because I told you so, and because you’re a fucking lying kleptomaniac by nature as you know perfectly well, Frank; don’t think I haven’t noticed how you steal from me all the goddamned time—
I’m sorry! I’m really sorry—
Say, I’m a no good thief.
I’m a . . .
And you steal from Neva, don’t you? Whatever you can get. A
ll her dirty undies and crusty old tampons and whatever else you can worship with your hairy hands . . . ! Admit it.
I’m a no good thief.
And do you filch her cash? How many fucking times have you gone through my wallet?
I’m . . . Oh, no, I can’t!
Can’t what? Can’t tell me, hey? Does she work?
No. I don’t think so, said Judy, whose face indicated that she found this interrogation as unpleasant as extracting tight-pressed corpses one at a time from a World War II memory hole.—I really don’t think so.
Does she use a credit card?
Cash . . . She’s all cash.
Hundred-dollar bills. From a so-called sealskin pouch.
How did you know?
And she gives you money.
Well, sometimes.
Does that add up?
She loves me.
Exactly. You know why I see through both of you? Because I’m honest. And you’ve been pecking at her nest egg, haven’t you? All cash, fucking right? Where does she keep it?
You said it. In a sealskin pouch.
Great. Well, where did she get it? You see what I’m driving at?
I’ve never taken a dime from Neva, except when she—
Do you fucking ask her? Does she give you money? Do you take her money? Confession time! Say it: I steal from Neva. Say it. Oh, you won’t? That means you’re a thief. Now look, Judy. Will you work with me on this or not? You can have Neva, but you need to keep me in the loop, or else! I’ve seen you taking your stupid selfies on that crappy little phone that you never answer anymore when I call. Next time she goes to the john, you open up her purse and take pictures of whatever you can. You run away when the toilet flushes, and she’ll never know. It’s called roving surveillance. Now I see that squirrelly look in your eyes; well, I don’t care. Just tell me yes or no.
I’m scared.
Not of me! Listen. Think of all the fun you have jerking off to all your trashy actress magazines. This’ll be like getting secret background on your favorite star. Don’t you want the dirt on Neva? I’ll coach you not to get caught. And I promise you something: We’re doing this together, and we’re having fun.
3
Before noon, darkbitch64 texted him that she had what he wanted, so he met her at four-o’-clock at the Blue Lamp. She had even brought Marcie.
Well, well, he said. Pay me fifty bucks for bringing you two lovebirds together.
She’s not that good in bed, said Latoya, and Marcie screeched in delight.
He bought them each a Bullpizz Beer, at which they looked disgusted. He ordered himself a shot of Old Crow. Then he waited.
Karen’s girlfriend was called E-beth, said Marcie. Kind of an unusual name. Must have been short for—
I get it, he said. What did she look like?
It’s been a long time.
But you saw them come out of hotels?
Not actually, but one time at the bus stop I overheard them planning to meet at the motel just down the street, which I think was the Lazy Dog, and I’m sure that’s demolished now. Anyhow, E-beth had a car, so they could have gone wherever.
Not good enough, said the retired policeman.
The ladies turned mean, demanding what he would do for them. He gave each a twenty.—And twenty more for E-beth’s last name, or the name of a hotel they definitely checked into, or any photo of them together. I thought you saw them in some bar . . . No? Then sayonara.
As he walked out, he heard them bitchtalking him.
4
Fuck this, he said to himself. I need a drink.
Having nearly run out of Old Crow, he providently crept over to Jojo’s Liquors, where Old Crow cost four dollars more than last week while Black Vulture was on special for twenty-nine ninety-nine, so he manned up and bought the Black Vulture. Fifteen minutes afterward his swollen feet were elevated, along with the rest of him, back home at Empire Residences. A water glass filled with Black Vulture lay literally at hand. Four swallows later, he was on the SpiderWeb, verifying that the Vallejo Police Department’s call-for-assistance log contained no records before 1997. Well, what else would wisdom expect? All those expungements by the liberals in the Clinton administration, and then fucking liability shields and don’t get me fucking started. The way he saw it, flag burning wasn’t protected speech; it was arson, and he blamed Clinton for that. If some pinko lit a flag on fire and the flames burned down a building, then what the fuck was that, my fellow Americans? Sooner or later he’d need to shake down whomever Karen had lived with, her parents for certain, but they might be dead. First he wanted a positive visual identification; then he’d watch their faces when he . . .
The marvelous HonorShield police database remained tight-puckered against three deployments of his old password, which used to get him right in. There was another liberal improvement: running anybody’s name for so-called “private” reasons now triggered major felony charges. What a world.
Whistling (his Black Vulture had somehow finished itself), he logged on to alumni.connect.edu, which after seven dialogue boxes greeted him with: Hey, ho, Valley Joe! Looking up your classmate Karen Strand (1982). Processing your request. Looking up Karen . . . Looking up Karen . . . Please wait. Please supply your credit card number now. Looking up Karen . . . For a list of 250 Karens in Vallejo at $10.00 please wait . . . Processing your Karen . . . System error. Please supply your credit card number now. Looking up Karen . . . Current address for Karen Strand: 73664 Triumph Drive, Vallejo, California. Last updated June 23, 1982. To send Karen a message please . . . For a list of 250 Karens in Vallejo at $10.00 please . . . Thank you for using Alumni Connect! Thank you for—
Well, well. Karen Strand had fallen out of touch with her loving fans. He was not surprised.
5
I had to take the bus to Vegas in order to plead out to a misdemeanor charge before it worsened, but of course it was already worse. They let me out in ten days, since the public defender liked me. He said I’d made an impression on the judge, for which reason he advised me to stay clear of Vegas, and I cheerfully promised to do my best—because didn’t I expect a date or two with Neva? The reddish stone of the courthouse above its double row of palms had done nothing for me anyhow. Of course steering clear hardly required my instant departure, so I entered the crowded smokiness of the Lucky Trouble Lounge at midnight, in order to be patted down by the sternly beautiful black security guard who was shaped like a bowling ball. I asked her to slap me but she refused. Approaching the counter (where an electronic slot machine had been built into every spot), I ordered two beers for six dollars. An ageing overweight blonde squeezed my arm, which made me happy. Then I spied two white girls in leather jackets. By the look of them they were barely old enough to drink milk. Their faces were delicate and perfect, their hair cut in mohawks, their ears multiply studded; their many-ringed hands continually caressed each other. A third girl, plainer, heavier and older, followed them like a satellite. I, who could tell you their stories even without being there, being already expert in not being present for my own life, could hardly stop spying on the lesbian couple. For a moment I even forgot Neva in my joy of looking.
As soon as I got back, I went to the Y Bar—where else? It was two in the afternoon. Xenia was arguing with Francine over a glass of sodawater. The only sincere drinker just then was Judy. Although I could not tell whether she had lost any of her paunch, her face had definitely thinned, paled and slightly aged; her nose was sharper, but what counted was how joyful she looked. She moved less heavily, and smiled more. She would never be beautiful, except to whomever loved her, but she looked alive. In other words, I barely recognized her.
Behind the bar, a synthesized voice was singing robo-tunefully like the auto-announcer at a train station. It squeaked and scraped into a more frantic key until Francine, seeing the transwoman rise up and approach the juk
ebox, shut off the robo-song so that Judy could play “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” with her blissed-out smile.
What are you doing for pleasure? I asked.
She laughed. Aside from fucktime? It’s all fucktime.
I’m happy for you.
It’s like an adventure, she said. And I just feel it’s not too late, and I can do anything!
I slipped my arm around her. Her pupils were huge. Her back and shoulders felt so good to me under her rayon blouse that I didn’t want to stop. And I wanted so much to stroke her long, long, hair, which excelled the cheap fishing-line stuff of so many strippers’ and trannies’ wigs (we pretended those were real); I didn’t care that she had a penis; I would have been almost as happy, at least in that moment, burying my face in her warm fragrant hair as in Neva’s, and I craved to slip my hand up her skirt and grip her buttock in my hand, but then it occurred to me that it might be hairy like a man’s, and although that didn’t impel me to repulsion, it did dim down my desire, although I still felt so happy and steady and good; even if she were a man maybe it would have been sweet to cradle her in my arms. I said nothing of this to Judy, who could not have suspected my thoughts anyhow. And I continued stroking her back, up and down and up and down, until she presently, trustingly laid her head against my shoulder.
6
I do have a few bullet points for Judy, Kendra announced.
Oh, said the transwoman.
First point: personal hygiene. If you want to be a part of our team, you absolutely have to . . .
Judy nodded and nodded, knowing that she would lose this job also.
All right, said Kendra, do you fully understand that?
Yes, said Judy, red and sweating.
Then enough said. Now, Judy, I do have one opportunity to run by you now. I’m sorry to say that a certain member of our sales force is no longer with us. We don’t normally throw so big a challenge at our new hires, but, Judy, I’m prepared to let you work a double shift tonight. Of course you won’t expect us to pay you additional, since you’re on probation; it’s more of a favor the company is granting you, to, you know, let you prove yourself. And, Judy, I can promise you that we will be watching. Are you ready?
Okay, her victim whispered.
The Lucky Star Page 24