Backstab

by Elaine Viets

  Going to see Michael/Maria’s roommate wasn’t a big deal. Maria’s last address was on Crittenden, a mile or two from my house. Crittenden was a handsome street of old-fashioned brick houses and flats with big wide porches, near Tower Grove Park.

  Todd, Maria’s live-in manager, was a pretty boy who was fast becoming an ordinary man. The pale blond hair was darkening to a dull brown. A few more years and a few more pounds would turn that delicate Grecian profile into a round dumpling of a German face. The soft skin was already thickening and turning pale from too many late nights, too much junk food, and not enough exercise. The small frame was already carrying more weight than it should. Todd was dressed in the theatrical uniform: black turtleneck and black jeans. His black square-toed shoes had silver insets.

  He had quite a talent as a decorator. He’d sponge-painted the walls of the flat turquoise and gray and then decorated it with fifties furniture. I always hated that period, but Todd made it seem witty and smart. It was a fantasy for a time that never existed. I admired the kidney-shaped table with the turquoise-and-tangerine inserts, the pole lamp, and the black couch with the wrought-iron legs, and I told him so.

  “Flea market finds,” Todd said, proudly. “Can you believe it?”

  “They’re in remarkable shape,” I said.

  “But you’re here to talk about Maria Callous. That’s what Michael wanted to be called. I gather you’ve met the mother.”

  “Saints preserve us.”

  “Girlfriend, have you ever seen anything like her?”

  “She was god-awful,” I said, “in all senses of the word. Poor Michael. Or Maria. She didn’t have a chance, did she?”

  “That’s the sad part. I thought Maria was really turning her life around before she died.”

  “Who do you think killed her?”

  “I haven’t a clue. The police dismissed it as some kind of fag killing, but Maria wasn’t fighting with anyone. She was extraordinarily happy the last weeks of her life. That’s why I didn’t report her missing when she dropped out of the pageant and didn’t come home. I thought she was with her man. She’d talked about giving it all up for him. It would be like her to do something romantic. Then, the police called and said they’d found her body in the Dumpster. What a brutal end for poor, elegant Maria.”

  “How long did you know her?”

  “We lived together about five years. We weren’t lovers. Maria just wanted a friend to manage her. Once she started listening to me, her career improved. I gave her a lot of advice about her act. Did you ever see it?”

  “No. I heard a little bit about it. Can you describe it?”

  “It was different from most drag acts. That’s what was good and bad about it. Maria didn’t go in for sequins and glitter. She was fairly subdued, at least for a drag queen. It was part of her charm. She had this navy-blue designer suit—a genuine Chanel. It cost a fortune, even secondhand. She had a tailor take it apart and make it break apart for the stage, with Velcro. She added the little bow at the back. I thought it spoiled the lines, but it did set off her heart-shaped rear end. Most men have flat butts. Hers was nicely rounded. She was proud of her remarkable rear. No padding, you know. It was all natural.

  “Onstage, Maria minced around for a bit in the suit, removed her white gloves, then got serious about stripping down to her lacy underwear. The crowd loved it. She’d leave the stage with her bra stuffed with tens and twenties. She could make three or four hundred dollars a night. By the time she perfected her routine and took it to the Miss American Gender Bender Pageant, she got Third Place. Maria was smart, though. She knew that was about as far as she could go. It really was a one-joke act. It wasn’t a flashy, high-energy dance routine like some of the girls did. Her club dates were starting to dwindle. She knew she’d have to come up with something else, or get out of the business.

  “She was working on a new act, but her heart wasn’t in it. She really was a true transsexual—she felt she was a woman in a man’s body. Part of her was like Maria Callous—she wanted to be classy and proper. Part of the act was a dig at her mother, who was so prissy she was half dead. A lot of people become impersonators to escape the poverty of life in the projects or the trailer court. Maria was running from the emotional poverty of life with her mother.”

  “Is that why she became a prostitute?”

  “No. She did that for money, honey, and only for a few months. She was saving up for her sex change operation. She was stopped once for loitering, but that didn’t bother her. She thought that was like a parking ticket. When she was hauled in for hooking, it shocked her. Maria really was a proper Catholic child. Her mother refused to bail her out, so I went down and got her. Maria was so frightened she never tried it again.”

  “Are you sure she stopped? Maybe she just told you that. Maybe she was killed by a john.”

  “Francesca, honey, we were roomies, remember? If she was hooking out of here, I’d know it. I could tell by the phone calls and messages. She had a boy friend or two, but she was giving it away, like a good girl. Oh, maybe she wasn’t above taking a gift, but she wasn’t selling it. That arrest scared her. Besides, she didn’t need to peddle it all over town. She had almost all the money she needed for her operation.”

  “Her mother said she called for help from jail. It was a rotten thing for her to abandon Maria.”

  “It was,” said Todd. “But she did Maria a favor by making the break final. The more she got away from her mother, the less outrageous she wanted to be. Maria’s goal was to have her operation and then pass as a woman. She could do that for a while with her straight dates. She’d tell them she had female trouble or say it was her period, but eventually either they found out or she broke off the relationship when she thought they were suspicious. She was scheduled to have her operation in a few months. She’d been through the counseling and she was taking the hormones. She just wanted to be a woman, and love some man.”

  “That’s what most women want to get away from,” I said.

  “Old-fashioned, wasn’t it?” said Todd. “But rather romantic. If she could have gone shopping at the Galleria and been mistaken for a West County doctor’s wife, she’d have been in seventh heaven. I think with the right man she would have given up her stage act and settled down. And she would have made him a good wife—or an even better mistress.”

  “The guy would never have to worry about getting her pregnant,” I said.

  “Please, no breeder bias,” said Todd. “I’m serious about the mistress part. Maria told me she was dating a married man. She knew he’d never leave his wife, but she thought they could have a long-term relationship.”

  “What was his name?”

  “She never said. Maria could be very secretive when she thought it was important, and after the first date with this guy, she was madly in love. She said he wasn’t handsome, but he was safe and solid and intelligent, all qualities she valued. I gathered from a few things she said that he was some kind of bigwig, maybe worked for a major corporation. She told me once that I’d recognize his name because it was in the newspaper.”

  “Todd, did Maria leave any letters or diaries or even an address book?”

  “She had very few papers, and I never came across any letters, except bills. Maria never kept a diary that I knew about. She did have an address book, but I gave it to her mother, along with all her clothes and papers and belongings.”

  “Her mother burned everything.”

  “Poor Maria. Her mother would, too, the miserable bitch.”

  “Why did Maria enter the Gender Bender Pageant this year if she was going to quit?”

  “I think she still wanted some insurance she could earn a living if this romance didn’t work. She was working on a version of her new act. She was going to perform it at the pageant. It wasn’t quite perfected, but it wasn’t bad.”

  “What was it?”

  “She looked a lot like Princess Di, you know. Maria bought a knockoff of one of Di’s ball gowns, and she
was working on this dance routine with a guy who looked like Prince Charles. At least, he had big ears and a long nose. The new act was quite funny. Di and Charles fight onstage, and she pulls his ears, slaps his face, and boots him out, which is what most people wanted her to do to him anyway. During the fight, he strips off her long gown, and she does this hot dance in her bra and garter belt. I’m not explaining it right—it’s better than it sounds. I wish you could have seen Maria. She was small and blond to begin with, but with the right makeup I could make her look enough like Di to get her into Buckingham Palace.

  “I didn’t tell you the best part of Maria’s new act,” he said. “She was talking about taking a new stage name to go with it. I thought it up. You know what it was? Di Tryon? Get it? Trying to be Princess Di.”

  “Or died trying,” I said.

  Todd told me a little about Maria. But not enough to lead me to the person who killed Ralph and Burt, and tried to kill me. Besides, something about Todd bothered me. He was pleasant and helpful and a hell of a lot more concerned about Maria than her mother. But if he really cared, and I think he did, why wasn’t he worried when she dropped out of the pageant? He said it was because she’d gone off with the love of her life. But would she really leave him flat right before the debut of her new act, when they’d worked so hard together on it? Wouldn’t Todd have called around to find out where she was? Or checked with her friends? Why didn’t he get upset or curious? She sure didn’t call and tell him where she was.

  I needed to know more, and I suspected I wouldn’t find it out from Todd. I called Jamie, Ralph’s ex-lover. Ralph had introduced him to a lot of female impersonators, and Jamie stayed in touch with some of Ralph’s friends. Maybe he’d know something.

  I was lucky. Jamie was home. “It’s my turn to cook dinner tonight,” he said. “Roast baby chicken with baby squash.”

  “Sounds like child abuse. Ever eat anything that grows to adult size?” As soon as the words fell out of my mouth, I knew they were wrong. Jamie’s snicker confirmed it. “Cancel that sentence,” I said. “Let me start over. Hi, Jamie. I need your help.”

  “Hi, Francesca. What can I do for you?”

  “Ralph left me some information about a female impersonator named Maria Callous. She has a roommate-manager named Todd. I need to know more about him. Ever heard of the guy, or Maria?”

  “No,” said Jamie. “But if it’s important, I can do some checking.”

  “It’s important. I think it may have gotten Ralph killed.”

  Now I had Jamie’s attention. Even though he was happy with his new partner, the doctor, Ralph was still important to him. “I’ll start checking now. I’m out the door.”

  “You can get me at my place,” I said. “I’ll be here all night. Should I call the poultry welfare department and have someone watch your baby chicken?”

  “Screw the baby chicken. Domino’s delivers. So will I,” he said, and hung up the phone.

  Two hours later, he was on my doorstep with a fey blonde in his early twenties—a discount David Bowie. His golden hair looked like a very expensive dye job, and he looked like a very expensive young man in a very old profession.

  “This is Jordanne,” said Jamie.

  Jordanne gave me two fingers to shake. I wondered if I’d have to kiss his ring, too. He looked aghast at my grandmother’s decor: the Naugahyde recliner, the lamps with the shades still in the original cellophane wrappers, and the slipcovered davenport. The eyes of the picture of Christ over the television set followed Jordanne around the room like store security on a shoplifter. I thought Jordanne’s eyebrows would disappear into his hair at Grandpa’s bowling trophies. Wait till I showed him Aunt Jemima hiding the toaster under her skirt in the kitchen. Unfortunately, Jamie ruined everything. “This is Francesca’s grandparents’ original decor,” he said. “A New York decorator said this was the finest collection of kitsch this side of a museum.”

  “Or a garage sale,” I said.

  Jordanne allowed himself to give me a smile, but it was an effort. Still, he made it. After all, New York had blessed this room.

  “Tell Francesca what you saw the night before Maria died,” prompted Jamie.

  “It was Underwear Night at a bar on Washington Avenue,” said Jordanne.

  “What’s that?”

  Jordanne looked like he couldn’t bear to explain it to someone so unhip, so Jamie did. “You get free drinks at this gay bar if you wear only your underwear.”

  “I was with an older gentleman, trying to get him to go in,” Jamie said. “He was from out of town, from Malden.” Malden was a small, rich town in the Missouri Bootheel, an area not known for its tolerance of the gay lifestyle. I’d bet the gentleman had a lot of money. And a wife and kids.

  “He said he wanted me to show him some fun, but he wouldn’t go for Underwear Night. He said, ‘Son, I’m fifty-two years old. At my age I pay to keep my clothes on.’ I was trying to persuade him to try it, but he refused. He did agree to go in with me, and I could take off my clothes. About that time, I heard another couple arguing in the alley next to the bar, and their argument sounded so much more interesting than ours that we both stopped and listened.

  “I could hear one person yelling, ‘You’re giving it away! Giving it away! I could fix you up with plenty of people who’d be happy to pay for your company, but you want to give it away.’ Then we heard weeping, and the other person said, ‘But I love him.’

  “The first person said, ‘He can’t love you. And certainly not for yourself. Which self would that be, Maria? Does your man know you’re still a man?’

  “Well, at that, we couldn’t resist. My gentleman and I peeped around the corner. And there was Maria Callous—I’d seen her act—arguing with her manager. She was dressed in her blue suit. Too bad they saw us. That ended the fight. But my older gentleman was thrilled by the drama, and he tipped…I mean, he was very grateful. I didn’t think anything else about it until Jamie called. I didn’t realize Maria was killed the next night.”

  Well, well. Maria’s death was indeed a loss for her manager. And he was managing both her careers. I also guess that’s why there was no address book. It was a trick book. Maria’s manager/pimp got rid of that incriminating evidence before the police showed up to search her things. It was time for another little talk with Todd, and this time I didn’t intend to be so polite.

  Maybe that’s why I didn’t call when I went back this time. Or maybe I wanted to catch him off guard. He was at home, eating popcorn and watching a Judy Garland movie. He answered the door and gave me a host’s smile. “Well. Francesca. Twice in one day. What an honor. What can I do for you?”

  “Try telling the truth.”

  Todd started to shut the door, but I stuck my foot in it. I’d had practice. “I found a witness to your fight in the alley off Washington Avenue. You were arguing with Maria. You accused her of giving it away when you could find her paying customers. You didn’t want her giving up her career. You were making money managing both. You didn’t want to lose your income. You didn’t give her address book to her mother. You destroyed it so the cops wouldn’t get it.”

  “No. Yes. You don’t understand.”

  “I do. I understand it all.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “Yes, I burned the address book after she died. I didn’t want the cops pawing through our life. Maybe they know anyway. I know they didn’t seem to care much that a fag died.

  “Yes, we had the fight. But only because I thought he was bad for her. He was only going to hurt her.”

  “Sure. He was definitely going to hurt your income.”

  “I loved Maria. I liked guiding her career. I didn’t want her hurt. I was protecting her.”

  “Oh, come on, Todd. If you were so concerned, why didn’t you call the police when she didn’t show up for the big number you’d been rehearsing? Didn’t you realize something was wrong? Maybe you didn’t go looking for her because you knew where she was: dead in a Dumpster. Did you m
urder her? Is that why you knew she wasn’t going to call and tell you where she was—because she couldn’t—she was dead?”

  “No!” Todd almost shouted. “When she didn’t show I thought she was still mad at me. I thought she was punishing me for our fight. I was mad at her for not showing. After months of work and that new outfit, it was all wasted. I was so mad I got drunk.”

  “Where were you the night Maria was killed?” I’d always wanted to say that.

  “Drunk in the Dungeon,” Todd said.

  “The what?”

  “The bar at the Louie the Ninth Motor Inn. I picked up a guy in the bar and spent four nights with him. We didn’t leave the hotel. By then she was dead and buried.”

  “A terrific alibi. Too bad you can’t prove it.”

  “But I can,” said Todd. “We were fooling around in the hotel’s hot tub and we got a little rowdy. By that time, we went through a lot of white wine, and several condoms. A guest complained that we were engaged in ‘an inappropriate public display.’ I remember that because the hotel security person could hardly say it. We started laughing and that only made him madder. He wrote down a report of the incident, and we were so drunk we gave him our real names.

  “It’s true. You can check,” Todd said.

  It was true. I had a friend who worked in PR at the hotel and she let me see the report, if I promised never to make it public. Hotel Security had problems spelling “inappropriate,” too, but he got Todd’s name right.

  Francesca solves the Case of the Gay Deceiver. Francesca solves everything except whodunit. Somebody killed Ralph and Burt and tried to kill me on the parking lot at Uncle Bob’s. He tried to run me down the day after I talked with Marlene. Maybe we needed to figure out what we said.

  Tom the Cook was waving to me at the window as I pulled into the Uncle Bob’s lot at noon the next day. I was going to dare to be different. I rolled down the window and yelled as I went by, “Make me a toasted cheese sandwich.”