by Renee James
He shows the photos to the bartender, trying not to notice two guys at the end of the bar kissing each other. The bartender is no help. He wasn’t here five years ago and he’s never seen any of these people. Wilkins sighs and puts the photos away.
“What about a tranny named Barbi? Barbi Dancer?”
“You don’t want to be calling these ladies trannies,” says the bartender. His face is serious. He’s chastising Wilkins in a polite way.
“Oh?” Wilkins can’t think of what else to say. What else would you call a man who becomes a woman?
“For them, being called a tranny is like you being called a nigger or me a fag. They prefer transwoman. Actually, they prefer woman.”
Wilkins nods his head and thanks the bartender for the advice.
“The guy you need to talk to is Kong,” says the bartender. “He’s been a bouncer here for years. Works the party nights. Knows everyone, especially the transwomen.”
“Does he play in that field?”
“No. He’s strictly a man’s man, if you know what I mean. But he likes the girls and kind of looks over them. A lot of the trouble he deals with is someone trying to cop a feel or saying something crude.”
“And his name is Kong?”
“That’s what everyone calls him. Like King Kong, you know? He’s huge. Six-five, maybe two-eighty. When he tells someone it’s time to go, they go.”
“What’s his real name?” Wilkins pulls out his pen and notepad.
“Don’t know. But he’ll be here tonight, and you won’t have any trouble finding him.”
Wilkins thanks the man. He walks a few blocks to Wrigleyville and finds a coffee shop where he can have a cheap dinner and wait without being surrounded by gay men kissing each other. They’re okay to talk to, but he can’t overcome the revulsion he feels when he sees gays holding hands or kissing, and in the bars at night he has to avoid looking at the videos playing on the TV screens showing nearly naked men bumping and grinding with each other.
At eight, he’s back at Chicago Sizzle. The place is still almost empty, but Kong would have been easy to spot even if it were wall to wall. He looms like a giant spirit in the dim light of the club, a small head atop huge shoulders, towering over everyone else, his face ugly enough to be an ape’s. He’s engaged in tough-guy banter with one of the service staff, smiling and throwing out his chest, flexing and stretching his huge arms the way tough guys do when they’re being nice to someone they could squash.
“Excuse me, sir, are you Kong?” Wilkins asks.
The man turns and evaluates him deliberately, head to toe. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m Detective Allan Wilkins with the Chicago PD.” Wilkins shows the man his badge. “I’m looking for information about some people who might have been guests of this establishment five years ago. Your colleagues said you know everyone and might be able to help me.”
Kong rolls on the balls of his feet like a big shot, his ego fully stroked. “What’s it about? I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“Nah, nothing like that,” says Wilkins. “I’m investigating a murder from a long time ago. I’m trying to find a lady who might have known the victim, see if she can tell me something about him that might help get me going in the right direction. She’s not a suspect.”
Kong nods. “Okay.”
They sit on two stools next to a small round table. Wilkins pops a couple of breath mints and pulls out his photos. “Ever see this gentleman?” He shows Kong the photo of Strand.
Kong rubs his chin. “He looks kind of familiar, but I’m not sure.”
“His name was John Strand. He was the victim. He was seeing a transsexual woman around the time he was murdered. I’ve been told she hung out here.”
“Her and every other trans-hustler on the north side,” says Kong, smiling.
“Her name was Barbi. I’m told some people called her Barbi Dancer. White girl, blond hair, looked like the doll. Large breasts.”
Kong smiles his wise man smile, like he just split an atom. “Oh sure, Barbi Dancer. Yeah. She used to be in here a lot. I haven’t seen her in a while though. She might be working for one of the call-girl services. Her stock went way up when she got her boob job. I don’t know if she got the rest or not, but if she did, she doesn’t have to do fifty-dollar blow jobs anymore.”
“Was that where she was five years ago?” Wilkins asks. “Backseat blow jobs?”
“Actually, I think she had a steady gig back then. That’s when she got the boobs.”
“Do you know her real name?”
Kong shakes his head.
“Any idea how I can find her?”
“Sure, ask the girls when they come in. They all know each other. If they know you’re not going to bust her, they might help you out.”
Wilkins thanks the man, puts the Strand photo back, starts to leave, then stops. “Just for kicks, do you know either of these people?” He shows Kong the photos of Logan as a woman and as a man.
“She looks a little familiar,” he says, pointing at the female Logan. “Not a regular, but maybe someone who drops in now and then. He looks . . . I think I’ve seen him somewhere, too, but I can’t place when or where.”
“What seems familiar to you?” Wilkins asks.
“Well, good looking, nice body, athletic, but with that ass. It’s almost girly. That’s very rare. He’d turn some heads in my neighborhood.”
Wilkins processes this information in two different compartments of his mind. One is registering the possibility that Logan was in this place in male disguise sometime around the murder. The other compartment is astonished at the attraction gay men have for other men’s asses.
The first two transwomen he talks to are an education. They are wary, but after he sets their minds at ease that he isn’t there to bust anyone, after they can see he respects them okay, they talk to him. They are a lot like regular women. Their voices aren’t quite right, and if you look hard enough, you can see how they were male to begin with, but they are real people, and they care about helping out. They weren’t around here five years ago and don’t know anything about Strand or the others. He thanks them and gives each of them one of his cards in case they hear something that might help. They continue chatting lightly, the girls waiting for a pickup, Wilkins for another transwoman to come in. The girls talk about their families, living on the street. Their dreams. One is trying to finish high school. The other wants to be a court reporter. It is hard to balance that with night work, she says. Wilkins is having his own balancing issues. He is enjoying the chat. He likes them. They are decent people just trying to survive. He wishes he could help them.
When girl number three walks in, they introduce him to her.
Rosa is her name. She’s thirtyish, blond, tall, slim. Her face is pretty and feminine. Her breasts bulge from the top of her blouse like water balloons ready to burst. Wilkins’ eyes dart to her chest several times, even though he tries hard not to look. When his eyes finally settle on her face, she is staring at him.
“I’m sorry,” says Wilkins. “I meant no disrespect.”
Rosa’s face is still hard.
Wilkins shows his shield, explains what he’s after, apologizes again for his ungentlemanly lapse, promises it won’t happen again.
Rosa smiles, laughs lightly. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “For a minute there I thought you were shaking me down for a freebee.”
Wilkins shoves a couple breath mints in his mouth, offers the pack to her, she takes one, they sit down. He shows her the photo of Strand.
Rosa’s eyes get a little rounder. She stares at the photo intently, looks up. “I know who this is. This is John Strand. He got himself murdered a while ago.” She looks away, thinking, calculating. “Five years ago, I think.”
“That’s correct,” Wilkins says. “How did you know him?”
“I didn’t actually know him. I knew of him. He had a reputation in our little sorority. He was rich and he bought nice th
ings for girls. But he was rough trade. He liked to beat the shit out of a girl every now and then.”
“Did you ever date him?” Wilkins asks.
“Date? Mr. Detective, you are the most polite cop I’ve ever met. What a nice way to put it. Thank you. But no, I never serviced Mr. Strand. He wouldn’t have wanted me then anyway. I was too ugly for a big spender like him. A lot has happened since then.” She gestures to her breasts and her face. “But even if he had, I wouldn’t have gone with him. He was certified dangerous.”
Wilkins draws her out. Her information is second or third hand, but graphic. Girls he beat bloody. Rumors he beat some to death. Bruises and black eyes on the girl Rosa said was once his main squeeze.
“He paid for her breast augmentation,” she says. “And she thought he was going to pay for her GRS. He might have, I don’t know, but even if he did, it wasn’t worth it. He treated her so bad. He beat her, called her terrible things. And the way he made her feel about herself—like she was a freak and her only chance at being someone was getting that surgery and being his whore. Sick bastard.”
Wilkins lets the silence hang for a few counts, looking at Rosa, deep in thought. “Was that girl’s name Barbi?” he asks.
Rosa nods. Her face is solemn, sad.
“I’d like to speak to her, Rosa.” He says it gently, as he would to his daughter. “She may be the last person who saw Strand alive. Other than the murderer. Can you help me get in touch with her?”
She looks at him for a long time. “I’ll see if she’ll talk to you. Where can I call you?”
Wilkins pulls out a business card. Under the department phone number he handwrites his cell number and hands it to her. “I’m out a lot, so go ahead and use the cell number anytime.”
“Anytime? Detective, you’re talking to a hooker.”
“Anytime.” He gives a sharp nod of his head to add emphasis.
As they stand up to leave, he scans the room for the other two women he spoke with. The club is filling up, and he can’t see them. He leans closer to Rosa and says, “I don’t see the other two girls I talked to, but I’m going to say this to you and ask you to pass it on to them. You all three have my card. I can’t break the law for you, but if there’s a time I can help any of you, call me. I’ll do what I can.”
Rosa stares at him. After a beat or two she leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. As she finishes she brings her fingers to the spot she kissed and touches his skin. Her touch is surprisingly soft, as if her fingertips were made of silk, as if she were petting a butterfly. Wilkins feels the need to say something but can’t find the words. And then she’s gone. He tries to understand what he wanted to say as he makes his way back to the stark confines of his empty apartment.
* * *
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 8
In the strange world of transsexual women, I feel like a fraud. In the opinions of the transgender thought leaders, we are supposed to be more like genetic women than genetic women. I don’t pass the eye test, I have no feminine wiles whatsoever, and my personality is a strange blend of the man I was and the woman I want to be.
One of the awkward manifestations of my gender blending is how I respond to sexual attraction. I’m kind of feminine in that I don’t have urges to engage in sex with someone I just met who looks nice. But when I have the hots for someone, I think my urge to act out is less inhibited than a genetic woman’s would be.
Which is why I’m really glad I no longer have a male appendage. I’m cutting Officer Phil’s hair in my home salon, and hard as I try to keep it strictly professional, inside I’m aroused. If I still had a penis it would probably be erect right now, and poor Phil would be horrified, never to entrust his person to my touch again.
He called for an appointment just as I was finishing my last client for the day. It was an emergency, he said, a big press conference tomorrow and his captain saying he looked like a hippy with the long hair and all. I told him I could do him at my home salon and spent the next several hours entertaining breathless fantasies about this service ending up in my bedroom.
Unfortunately, all that’s on Phil’s mind is a haircut and more brotherly advice for me to keep out of Detective Wilkins’ way.
“It would be a good idea for you to have a lawyer on retainer, or at least familiar with what’s going on,” he says. “It’s worth worrying about.”
“Does Wilkins have photos of me gutting Strand?” I’m being sarcastic. Strand died of a slit throat, not a sliced gut. It was in all the papers.
Phil grimaces as I glance at his face in the mirror. “Very funny, Bobbi. What’s not funny is, he’s stacking up a lot of circumstantial evidence.”
“What? That I hate men? That I thought Strand killed Mandy?” I’m acting flippant, but inside my stomach is churning. I know Phil means well, but I really don’t need any more anxiety in my life right now.
“More than that, Bobbi. He says the guy who got mugged in the alley was following you when it happened, and Strand was the one who hired him to follow you. He says you had him beaten because he was one of the guys who raped you. He says the guy will testify.”
My mind seizes in shock. I never thought that goon would incriminate himself just to get revenge on me. I stop cutting and stare into the distance. I can’t fake nonchalance anymore. It’s deathly quiet in the room. I can’t think of anything to say and neither can Phil. Actually, I can’t even think about talking. All I can see is that train bearing down on me.
My brain thaws finally. “How does that man know it was me? I have no idea who that person is.”
“He told Wilkins that Strand hired him to follow you. So he would have known who you were. And a jury would probably buy that, Bobbi. You’re distinctive-looking.”
“Yeah. Ugly chick. With a dick, back then, anyway.”
“Stop that, Bobbi. That’s not true and that’s not what I meant. You’re tall. You have red hair. Very red back then. And you’re well endowed.”
For a fleeting moment my mind skips away from fear and dread to savor his compliments. Well endowed!
“So you’re buying that crap? The tranny did it?”
Phil winces. “I’m not buying anything. I know you didn’t do it and I told Wilkins you didn’t, you couldn’t. I’m just telling you how Wilkins sees the case. And please stop with the ‘tranny’ references. It’s an ugly word.”
“Why is he telling you all this? Are you going to lose your badge for telling me? Are you violating some kind of secrecy in the investigation?”
Phil shakes his head. “No, Wilkins told me to tell you, told me there’s nothing you can do about it anyway.”
I try to finish the cut, but the tears come. Just a couple at first, then a stream. I stop, dab my eyes. The tissue comes away smudged with makeup.
Phil stands, puts his arms around me, hugs gently. “I’m sorry, Bobbi.”
“You know,” I say, when I can speak, “I work so hard. At hair. At life. At keeping people employed. I work to just get people to treat me like a human being. This isn’t fair. It’s just not fair. He’s going to destroy me just because I’m transsexual.”
As I sob, Phil strokes my back and continues to hug me. I can feel the warmth of his chest on my breasts, his flat stomach nestling against mine as our bodies meet.
“It’s okay, Bobbi,” he says. “Just have a lawyer ready and don’t do anything stupid. He doesn’t have anything a good lawyer couldn’t neutralize.”
“He doesn’t have to convict me to destroy my life, Phil. If I have to spend money on attorney’s fees right now, I could go under.”
“Your salon?”
“My salon. My home. Everything I own. I’m right on the edge.”
Phil’s arms tighten around me. “Oh, Bobbi,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
I hug him tight. I can feel my arms tremble. I’ve buried my face in the nook between his shoulder and his chin. When we finally relax our grips on each other, I see eye shadow and mascara smeared on his neck. I dab at
it with my tissue. The makeup comes off, leaving slightly reddened skin where I rubbed. Reflexively, I kiss the sore spot, as I would with Robbie.
Phil looks at me through sad eyes. I start to wipe my eyes with the tissue, but Phil brushes my hand away and kisses me on the lips, softly at first, then firm and warm, his arms squeezing me to him. Me squeezing back. Me rubbing my body against his, any sense of reserve or decorum forgotten in the moment.
And just like that, he breaks it off. He takes a step back, blushing. “I’m sorry, Bobbi. I don’t know what came over me,” he says. “I was inappropriate. I apologize.”
A torrent of words and thoughts cascade through my mind, so fast and so mixed I cannot give voice to any of them.
“The only bad part was the end,” I say finally.
“I’m not good with words—” He starts to say it, but I cut him off.
“I don’t mean the words, Phil. I mean the kiss. We’re adults here, right? We both know what I mean. I’m this close to begging you to seduce me.” I show a small gap between two fingers.
He blushes beet-red. “Bobbi. That would be wrong.”
“Wrong? Like fucking a tranny is against your religion?”
“No. Wrong because . . . because . . .” He stumbles for a moment. “Because I don’t know if I’m sincere.”
“You’re going to have to explain that, Phil, because you felt pretty sincere to me.”
He self-consciously arranges his male member so it isn’t bulging so noticeably. “That’s not what I mean.” He struggles, looking down at the ground. “Actually, it is what I mean. Bobbi, you turn me on . . .” His voice trails off.
“Why is that a bad thing?” Says the girl who mostly provokes disgust in men. What kind of life is this, anyway?
“It’s . . . I’m not sure why . . . I don’t want to hurt you, Bobbi. I think the world of you.”
