by David Stukas
“Miss Waldron, I asked you a blunt but simple question. There are lives at stake here, and my group and I intend to get to the bottom of who killed Rex Gifford and Leo Thomas and took a potshot at Colorado Jackson. So if you don’t mind . . .”
“Listen,” Darlene broke into Grayson’s conversation, slashing the air with her voice, “I told you that you are misinformed and I’ve already talked to the police, and I don’t care to stand around talking to a bunch of jerk-ass sleuths with too much time on their hands.”
“One other question,” Grayson asked as if he hadn’t heard a word that Darlene hissed at us. Perhaps he hadn’t. “Rex complained that people like you were colluding to keep other vendors and suppliers from working with the Red Party.”
Darlene, who was checking the contents of a box with such intensity as to convey the impression that she couldn’t hear us, replied without even looking in our direction. “It’s a load of fuckin’ crap—the same that Rex was filled with. Now get out of here before I call Security.”
And that, as they say, was that. Grayson wordlessly motioned to us that we should go, but as we did, there was a series of huge crashes behind us, causing our group to stop in its tracks and turn on its heels. A large display of glow-stick hand sabers had fallen over, causing them to domino into another display, which fell into another display. Grayson shrugged his shoulders as if he had nothing to do with it.
“Well, that went over like Smellovision,” Grayson said.
“Not exactly,” Monette commented. “I learned quite a bit from our brief encounter.”
“Oh, and what did you pick up—besides the fact that I’d rather face a wolverine with PMS instead of Darlene?” Grayson commented as he tottered along.
“The most obvious is that she’s a desperate woman.”
“I’ll say,” I chimed in. “I’m sure that she’d be lucky to get even a eunuch to come near her.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Monette responded.
“Oh.”
“But that was good. What I meant is that her manner suggests that she would do anything to keep what’s hers—or make something hers. In other words, she seems quite ruthless... a person easily capable of murder.”
“Who is next on our list?” Grayson asked eagerly.
“May I make a suggestion?” Monette asked the four of us.
“Go ahead, Monette; we’re all ears,” I said.
“If we split up, we’d cover more ground and we’d also be less intimidating.”
“Yes, Monette,” I replied. “I think that we frightened Darlene, fragile little flower that she is.”
Monette smiled at my comment and continued. “I just think our suspects would be more willing to talk if they didn’t have eight pairs of eyes breathing down their necks, if you’ll excuse the mixed metaphor.”
“That sounds like a fine idea,” Grayson concurred.
“Okay, how about if Grayson and Clifford take on Jimmy Garboni and Martin Stevers, and Robert and I question Kip Savage and Brian Keeper? Remember, the one thing they don’t know about is the missing money. It’s the one fact that the newspapers and TV stations didn’t pick up on yet. So mum about the missing money, okay? We’ll meet up here at the car in an hour? Everyone, synchronize your watches.”
Monette and I went off in search of our prey. It didn’t take long for us to find Kip. He was watching as workmen were hoisting speakers the size of a Range Rover to be hung on a huge steel scaffold over the dance floor.
“Mr. Savage?” Monette asked politely.
“Yes? Are you with the riggers?”
“No, my friend Robert and I met you the other night at Leo’s party.”
“Oh, gosh, wasn’t that tragic!” he said, shaking his head. “First Rex, then Leo. They were both such terrific guys.” Kip waited for the obligatory number of seconds to pass, grieving for his competitors, then looked up at the scaffolding again. This guy was as cool as a cucumber. Real cool. “So what can I do for you?”
“Well, if you don’t mind, Robert and I are working in a semi-unofficial capacity for Marc Baldwin and the other partner in T-Rex Productions.”
Kip snorted a little laugh at our title. “Semi-unofficial, huh? Well, I’ve already talked to the police.”
“Oh, so they talked to you already?” Monette asked.
“They’d be fools if they didn’t. After all, I am the most likely suspect in Rex’s death. If anyone wanted Rex dead, I suppose I’d be right up there on the top of the list. But I would never do such a thing. I mean, why jeopardize what I’ve built up over the years? There was no way that Rex was going to push us off the map. At best, he’d be about as successful as I am. But I don’t think so. White Party followers are very loyal.”
“That’s funny, I always thought of gay men as very fickle. Dangle something shinier in front of them and they’ll follow it anywhere.”
“That shows how little you know about the party circuit, Ms....”
“O’Reilley, but call me Monette, please.”
“Okay, Monette Please. Rex had it in his mind that the Red Party was going to be bigger and flashier than the White Party. There’s only one flaw in that plan.”
“And what’s that?” she asked.
“He wouldn’t break even. You see that speaker going up over us?” he said, pointing to the behemoth that looked like it could blast Mt. San Jacinto into pea gravel. “That one speaker is costing me about three thousand dollars to rent for just three days. And that speaker is just one tiny part of the White Party. It’s not just the equipment that costs money, but it takes an army of people to get this show on the road. Electricians, security, DJs, sound system crew, lighting, bartenders, janitors—you name it.”
Monette nodded her head as if she understood. But her question showed that she didn’t completely buy Kip’s reasoning. “I guess that Rex was going to charge more for tickets, thereby making up the costs.”
“I warned him to keep an eye on costs. I helped him on a lot of things, Monette. Now, why would I spend so much time helping him if I wanted to kill him?”
“You have a good point,” she answered.
As Monette and Kip sparred with each other, I took mental notes of Kip and his reaction to each question Monette asked. He was friendly and helpful, while underneath he was as cool as ice—a poker face must come in handy in the rough-and-tumble world of party production.
I could see that Monette was adding things up in her head. “Kip, I have just one more question—if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Thank you. Rex made quite a commotion that people were conspiring against him—I mean, that your vendors and suppliers and perhaps even you were conspiring against him to stall services or items that he needed for the Red Party. Any comments?”
“It is completely untrue. I gave Rex all the help I could give, and he took a lot of it. I’m very disappointed that Rex would say such a thing.”
As I was watching Kip, I heard a crack above my head and had only a fraction of a second to push Monette out of the way before the one-ton speaker landed just a foot away from where we were standing.
“Jesus Christ, George, you lunatic!” Kip yelled as he got up and dusted himself off. “I told you to double that right side. It’s holding twice the load as last year! You could’ve killed us!”
I got up on my feet first and helped Monette up.
“Are you two all right?” Kip asked with genuine sympathy for our plight. Or was it?
“I seem to be in one piece,” Monette replied. “How about you, Robert?”
“Still here,” I reported.
“Shit, I’m really sorry that happened. Why don’t we move over here, where we’ll be out of harm’s way. Listen, I’ve got a conference with the DJs in fifteen minutes. If there aren’t any more questions, you’ll have to excuse me. Nice meeting you two, and I hope that you find whoever did this to Rex and Leo,” he said, waving at us and marching off. “Good luck,” he added.
I looked over at Monette, who seemed to be in the same dazed state as I. “The guy tries to drop a speaker on us and then wishes us good luck.”
“Well, you have to say one thing about the guy,” Monette conceded.
“And what’s that?”
“He has good manners.”
We met back at the car to trade stories, and everyone was brimming over with exciting things to tell. Grayson led the way.
“We didn’t get the chance to talk to Martin Stevers, but we had quite an encounter with Jimmy Garboni!” Grayson crinkled his nose in disgust. “We asked him if he knew anything that could help solve the mystery of Rex and Leo’s death, and he clammed up like an oyster.”
“So he didn’t talk at all?” I inquired.
“Oh, he opened up a little, but not much. But he denied trying to blackball Rex with vendors and suppliers—which, I guess, doesn’t mean a lot if you consider that he’s got ties to organized crime. It’s difficult to believe a person who breaks people’s knees when he doesn’t get his way.”
“That’s interesting,” I commented. “Kip Savage had the same answer to Rex’s conspiracy theory.”
“So did Darlene,” Monette said. “That leads me to think that either Rex’s paranoia was getting the best of him after the extortion letters started to arrive, or ...”
“ ... everyone was telling a well-rehearsed lie and we have a genuine conspiracy going,” Grayson said, pouncing on the truth.
“We didn’t get a chance to—wait a minute ... Isn’t that ... ? Yes, it is!” Monette said, spotting Brian Keeper at the same time I did. “Clifford, Grayson, that’s Brian Keeper, the PR man for the White Party. Could you go over and question him while Robert and I try and find Martin Stevers?”
Grayson gave a quick nod and grabbed Clifford by the shirtsleeve and dragged him in the direction of Brian. When they had jumped on their prey, Monette and I started on our quest, and Monette spoke to me.
“This conspiracy thing seems to make a lot of sense. I think if we talk with Martin Stevers, we will find some very interesting things. Not even Darlene could hate Rex as much as Martin. Martin not only lost money to Rex on a job, but he lost a big lawsuit to Rex. I’m sure Martin is still fuming to this very day. Let’s ask someone where we can find him.”
We chanced upon a woman carrying enough electrical cable to wire New Guinea. When she turned her head and looked right at us, I was immediately reminded of Ellen DeGeneres. The resemblance was uncanny. To complete the picture, she was wearing a T-shirt that said, I’m not a lesbian, but my girlfriend is.
“Excuse me,” Monette asked gingerly, “could you tell us where we could find Martin Stevers?”
“I sure could—I work for him,” the lesbian replied.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Ellen DeGeneres?” Monette inquired. Of all the women in the world, Ellen was the one who really got Monette’s soccer shoelaces tied in knots. Her fascination and love of Ellen had gotten her into trouble more than once. She claims that she had once been arrested for following Ellen too closely. Monette’s obsession with Ellen sometimes caused her to stretch the truth a bit, so there was no telling what really happened, but one thing was clear: Monette was in love with Ellen.
“Only about fifteen million people. The truth is, I am Ellen. I’m just working here because it’s the only place Anne Heche won’t find me. Plus, I need the money.”
Monette broke out into a great big grin. “That’s good, real good. Where’d you get a quick wit like that?” she asked, clearly engrossed in this woman.
“I grew up in a family of seven kids—you had to be quick.”
“My name’s Monette. Only child.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m Djuna. It’s spelled D-J-U-N-A, but pronounced ‘Juna.’”
“Interesting name,” Monette commented.
“I’m named for a famous American lesbian expatriate, Djuna Barnes, who wrote in Paris in the twenties. I guess my parents knew I was going to grow up to be a dyke when I was born, so they named me appropriately.”
“Well, I’m Irish but named for no one in particular. My mother thought I was going to grow up to be a famous ballet dancer, but my height kind of got in the way. Listen, my friend and I—oh shit, I forgot to introduce you to Robert.”
“Nice to meet you, Djuna. I’m Robert.”
“Nice to meet you,” she replied.
“My friend and I have to see Martin, but could I stop back and talk?”
“Martin’s behind that van over there. I’ll be wiring the sound over on that scaffold—the one that almost fell on you. That was a close one! Listen,” she said, bending toward us and lowering her voice. “George isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. I don’t stand anywhere near him when he’s setting something up. Anyway, you know where I’ll be. Stop by,” she said with a wink that suggested that Djuna was interested in plugging her cables into Monette’s socket.
“I’ll take that under consideration,” Monette said as the two of us headed toward Martin.
“Did you see that?” I said, grabbing Monette’s arm excitedly. “She’s really hot for you. I could almost see the sparks flying. Who’d ever think that you’d find a potential date at the largest gathering of gay men in the U.S. besides a Margaret Cho concert?”
“You never know when love is going to fall right into your lap,” she said.
“Or dance around once they get there,” I added, winking in my own suggestive way. “I’m so happy for you, Monette!”
“Now hold on,” she cautioned. “We haven’t even had dinner together yet!”
“Yes, but this was meant to be.”
“Wait a minute. You, Robert Wilsop, the world’s biggest skeptic and unbeliever, telling me that I was fated to meet Djuna?”
“Yes, look at the Ellen DeGeneres resemblance—your all-time favorite. She’s been sent to you to make up for your last girlfriend.”
“The one who looked like Ricardo Montalban? Yes. That’s an interesting theory. I will ponder that thought—after we talk to Martin. Here goes,” she said, not without a little trepidation.
We approached Martin who was inspecting some plans rolled out before him. He must have been about the same age as Rex, his flattop haircut and carefully trimmed goatee showing just a hint of gray here and there. His muscular figure clearly showed through the tight, white T-shirt and skin-tight jeans. A daddy type if I ever saw one, and a sexy one at that.
“Mr. Stevers?”
“Yes,” he replied without even turning his head to see who was calling his name—shades of Darlene.
“We’re friends of Marc Baldwin, and if you don’t mind, we’d like to ask you a few questions that could help us catch the murderer of Rex Gifford and Leo Thomas.”
Martin turned around with a slow, almost theatrical motion.
“Why would you even think I would want to help find the guy who whacked Rex? On the contrary, if you find the guy, would you give me his name and address so I could send him ten thousand dollars?”
Rex was by no means an angel, but to treat a dead person with such disrespect seemed a bit too much. I defended Rex but wasn’t quite sure why—maybe because Marc was a partner in T-Rex, and whatever slimed Rex slimed Marc as well. “Mr. Stevers, I know Rex and you locked horns in the past. I don’t blame you for harboring a grudge against him and wishing him harm. But Rex wasn’t the only one who was killed. Leo Thomas is dead, and attempts have been made on the lives of Marc and Colorado. We’re trying to stop the killer before he strikes again.”
Martin looked at me with pity, the scorn plainly showing on his face. “You just don’t get it, do you? You haven’t the slightest idea of what that man did to me! I got tired of him cleaning me out.”
“But ...” I tried to get in.
“You’re right—I do hate Rex, and reading about his death in the newspapers was one of the most enjoyable things I’ve done in a long time. He deserves to be dead. So does his helper, Colorado. He’s a bitch who d
eserves to be shot.”
“I’d be careful about saying things like that about Rex, Mr. Stevers,” Monette warned Martin.
“What do I care? I have an airtight alibi.”
“And that is ... ?” Monette gently probed.
“I left Leo’s party and went to The Zone. It was a real slow evening, so I talked to the bartender for over an hour, paid for several drinks with my credit card, then, when the bartender knocked off work, we went home together. If MasterCard doesn’t back up my alibi, then Jeff the bartender will.”
“This all sounds very convenient for you,” I admitted. “Very.”
“It is—very. Just luck, I guess. I have great sex with a handsome bartender and Rex gets killed at the same time. What more could a guy want? Now, if you don’t mind, some of us have to earn a living, even though shit-heads like Rex will take it all away from us. If you want any more questions answered, go talk to the police.”
And with that, Martin turned away from us and went back to his work. As soon as we were out of earshot, I confessed to Monette the hopelessness I felt.
“I feel like we didn’t learn a thing.”
“To the untrained mind it may look futile, but you have to sift through the information, no matter how sparse, to find the tiny grains of truth that lie buried in all the chaff. Remember what Ptolemy—or someone—once said: ‘He who wishes to eat the nut must first crack the shell.”’
“My Lithuanian grandmother used to say that if you beat a rabbit on the head long enough, he’ll eventually learn to smoke a cigar.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I think it means she had ninety-five percent arterial blockage. So what do we do now?”
“We go back to your house, see if there are any messages from Sergeant Big Arms, and go from there. Oh, but first I have to make a pit stop and visit Djuna for a few minutes. Do you mind, Robert? I’ll meet you back at Clifford and Grayson’s car.”
