by Renee James
“We’re off the record.”
She nods again. “Okay. He was a very sharp attorney and a great fixer. He knew every judge, every politician, every department head in the city, and a lot of the same kinds of people in Springfield. He could get a lot done, in court or out. Very smooth. Being his protégé was a first-class ticket to the fast track in the firm.”
“But . . .” Wilkins bridges her silence.
“But he was inappropriate with women. With me.”
“How so?”
“At first it was just innuendoes and talking dirty and talking down to us. Like we were stupid. I was a lot more upset by the talking down than the innuendoes, to tell the truth. But it got worse. He’d come up behind me when I was working and kiss me on the cheek and hug me. Once he stuck his tongue in my ear. The year I left, he’d cop a feel now and then and laugh like it was a big joke. It didn’t feel like he was doing it to get laid. It was more like he was showing me who was boss. That he could hump me or fire me any time he wanted.
“Thing was, I think he was impotent. After he was killed, one of his corporate clients, a woman, supposedly told someone in the firm he was a stud lawyer but a gelding in bed.”
“Did you ever sleep with him?”
She makes a face. “Never.”
“What else did you know about him?”
“Nothing in the way of hard facts.”
“What did you hear?”
“After he died, a lot of stories started making the grapevine. One was that one of the assistants was tending the entrance to the firm’s big Christmas party and this transvestite or transsexual person shows up, asking for John Strand. She gets him and Strand blushes crimson. He whisks the transperson away, comes back a few minutes later, and tells the assistant it’s a pro bono client he’s helping off the books, a charity case, doesn’t want anyone to know because of complications it would cause in billings and hours and all that.”
Wilkins nods.
“Here’s the eerie part. A few weeks later the assistant reads about a transsexual prostitute found beaten to death. The story was in a neighborhood paper. North side, where the body was found. No photo, but the description of the girl could have been the one she saw at the party.”
“Do you believe it?”
She shrugs. “Do I think John Strand could have beaten someone to death? Yes. He was really artful in disguising it, but I got this eerie vibe from him. I don’t think he had a conscience and he hated women. Plus, I think he loved to dominate people. It made him a killer litigator.” She pauses a moment, realizing the significance of her word choice. “I think the only person in his universe was him and it was a violent, cruel universe.”
She pauses as she stares at the tabletop for several beats. “Speaking as an attorney, I have no proof of anything. Speaking as a woman, I think he was a creature from hell. I’d be surprised if he only had one victim.”
“Who do you think killed him?”
She shrugs again. “A vengeful ghost? A guardian angel? A lightning bolt from heaven?”
“No remorse from you, then?
“None. The world is a better place without him.”
“Where were you the night he was killed?”
“I was on vacation in California. Lots of witnesses. Class reunion.”
“You weren’t a suspect anyway. Just some cop humor.”
* * *
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1
Halloween is one of the biggest days on the transgender calendar, which is why I spent much of my day at TransRising helping do hair and nails and makeup for legions of young transwomen preparing for a night of colorful parties. I did get a selfish benefit from it, though. Two volunteers from my salon gave me a Halloween look—something I’ve never had before. I’m going as my favorite Disney princess, Ariel, she of long red hair.
As Betsy and Robbie and I head for Cecelia’s costume party, I don’t look much like Ariel, but temporary color has given me flaming-red hair and theatrical makeup techniques have provided a regal and kind of exotic look.
Cecelia’s parties are always tasteful events, which is why we are taking Robbie with us tonight. We won’t stay long. She’ll pass out by nine. But that works, too. Betsy and I are easing back into some kind of compatibility after things bottomed out last weekend.
Betsy has curbed her anxiety to get moving. She’s mulling a job offer from a nonprofit group that lobbies for LGBT rights, and I think she’s going to take it. It’s time. She’s still mourning for Don, still spends parts of her days in sadness. She is sometimes withdrawn from me, sometimes close and familiar. I can see both sides of her on the same day sometimes. I try not to let the distant Betsy leave scars on my always fragile ego, and I try not to rejoice too much when we share moments together the way I have dreamed we would.
Betsy threw herself into getting Robbie and herself into costume. She is going as a sexy witch, something she pulls off by being beautiful, no prurient display of tits and ass necessary. Robbie is going as her kitty. They are both dressed in black. Betsy has a witch hat she crafted from black construction paper. Robbie has two sets of cat whiskers; the ones made from plastic bag ties fall off in the cab on the way to the party, but the ones that are painted on with eyeliner hold firm. She’s completely enamored of herself and her new identity. She walks up to everyone she sees and meows at them until they acknowledge what a beautiful cat she is. Then she tells them her mommy is a witch and her aunt is the princess Ariel.
Our cat introduces us to everyone at the party.
Betsy relaxes as the party gets under way. Her smile is the smile I remember, warm and light. Robbie is happy and well behaved. The people are friendly. Cecelia has a vast spread of finger foods placed on tables throughout her designer apartment overlooking Lake Michigan and the Chicago River. It’s an older, professional crowd. The costumes are tasteful. I would be the most outrageous exhibit but for Cecelia, who is presenting as an Amazon Queen, tottering around in heels the size of stilts. She’s wearing an enormous wig that’s teased so high and wide it seems impossible for her to make it through a doorway. Her bosom is padded to the size of a couple of grapefruits, and her dress shows off her royal legs to great advantage.
People float from one table to another, drift in and out of groups, glide from room to room getting different views of one of the world’s great cities from high in the sky. I bring a glass of wine to Betsy and tell her I’d like to take Robbie for a while so she can mix and mingle. She looks at me with a twinkle in her eye and an easy smile. “Okay,” she says. “But go easy on the sweets.”
I heap different foods on a plate and lead Robbie into the kitchen. The caterers are bustling in and out, but I find two chairs on an unused side of the kitchen table for us. Robbie picks through the food, unwilling to try much of it, not liking the rest. The head caterer sees the dilemma. He asks her if she likes hot dogs. They are one of her three current food groups. He is back in a few minutes with a plateful of tiny wieners wrapped in a puffy bread dough. Robbie eats four of them, dipping them in ketchup, and drinks a glass of milk.
When we go back to the party, Robbie immediately hooks up with an older couple who marvel at what a cute kitty she is. She takes each by one hand and brings them to the floor-to-ceiling windows in Cecelia’s living room. She fearlessly steps to the glass, her nose smashed against it, and encourages them to do the same so they can see the street below. As in, thirty-some stories below. I get dizzy just watching from the middle of the room.
As Robbie and her friends entertain each other, I look about the room. Betsy is in a cluster of people, chatting back and forth, at ease, engaged. She holds the wine glass near one shoulder. She has not consumed much of it. Her eyes drift to Robbie. Her smile widens. She finds me next, a few steps from Robbie. Her eyes sparkle. I feel my whole body glow. In that moment, I realize that she is having a good time because we’re here together, because she can trust me with her daughter. And because, underneath her misgivings about me being a woman no
w, she knows I am the terra firma in her life, the one place she can step where the earth beneath her feet won’t crumble away. That’s what makes me glow. That, more than anything in my life, is what I want to be. Though I wouldn’t mind having a lover, too.
When Betsy takes Robbie to the bathroom to get ready for our trip home, I take a leisurely stroll through Cecelia’s condo. I have a lot of memories here. Many great late-night talks with Cecelia. Meeting various people at her parties, corporate honchos, attorneys, politicians. I go into her bedroom to retrieve our coats. As I walk in a man exits from her private bathroom. It produces a flashback I don’t want to have. Another Cecelia party, long ago. Another man coming out that door, a very handsome man who makes several passes at me that night. Me, the half-formed transsexual woman, weak kneed by the attentions of such a handsome man. Him, the good John Strand. The seductive John Strand. The fake John Strand.
16
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5
SHE DIDN’T WANT to meet for lunch, so they’re in a coffee shop in a hip north side neighborhood popular with liberal Yuppies. Wilkins was relieved she didn’t want to do lunch. He’s having trouble eating solid food because it hurts his teeth and gums. He can handle soup, but it drives him crazy watching someone else eat real food.
Wilkins places a mocha latte in front of her and sits down catty-corner to her with his bottle of water. He offers her a breath mint. She declines. He pops a couple. He thanks her for meeting him. She nods and tends to her drink.
She’s a young white girl, early twenties, hot like a lot of hairdressers are, cute in a cuddly way. Soft cheeks, big eyes, sexy hair. Swollen red lips. She dresses like a hairstylist, a short skirt and tight, low-cut top.
“Can I call you Brenda?” he asks. She nods her assent.
“I’m investigating a couple of incidents that occurred at Salon L’Elégance,” he begins. I believe you were present at the one last spring involving the estranged boyfriend of one of the stylists, a Trudy Dunbar. Is that correct?”
She nods.
He goes through his standard good-cop intro. This isn’t about her, she’s not a suspect, he’s just gathering background information so the district attorney can evaluate evidence. She nods her understanding, sips her latte. He produces the photo of Logan in a dress and makeup.
“Do you recognize this person?” he asks.
She nods, full lips curling into an unattractive sneer. “Bobbi. That’s Bobbi. She owns the place.”
“It seems you don’t like her.”
“The bitch fired me because I wouldn’t take shit from a client.”
Wilkins knows that already. It had taken some careful field work to find an ex-employee who might have a less rosy impression of Logan than the current staff did. What surprises him is how quickly young Brenda goes from a pouty sexpot to a foul-mouthed shrew.
“What is she like to work for?”
Another face. A deep breath. She crosses her legs imperiously. “She’s a mean bitch. She thinks she knows everything about hair. She’s always criticizing everything you do, if you’re young. She leaves the old ones alone because they don’t need her shit, and they’d just tell her to go fuck off. She’s got rules for every fucking thing. You can’t go to the bathroom without breaking a rule. That’s why there aren’t any young people there. It’s all old farts plugging away. Anyone with any life gets out of there.”
Wilkins jots some notes in his notebook. He won’t bother reading them. He does it to make people like Brenda feel important. It does something to their egos. Makes them say more than they might otherwise.
“Can you think of anything about Ms. Logan that would precipitate the kind of violence that has taken place there?”
“Have there been other incidents?” she asks. There’s an eagerness to her question. She’s looking for dirt.
“I can’t really talk about the investigation,” he says. “I’m just trying to find out if there is more to these things than meets the eye. What can you tell me about Ms. Logan I might not know?”
She smiles, not a pretty smile, a sarcastic smirk. “Well, she ain’t no lady, for one thing.” The smile gets wider. “She’s a he. A tranny. Had his wee-wee whacked off. Fucking degenerate queer.” When she says it, she finishes by leaning toward him and raising her eyebrows, waiting for him to be surprised. He wonders how dumb she is.
“Is she violent? Does she make others violent?”
“Well she sure messed up that poor bastard who came looking for Trudy, didn’t she? And in the salon she’s always giving orders and telling people what to do because she’s a fucking football player in a dress. Don’t let the big tits fool you, Detective. That’s not a woman.”
Wilkins winces a little. Her spiteful assessment of Logan sounds a lot like his, but it sounds ugly and unfair coming from her.
Wilkins asks a few more questions but learns nothing new. Brenda doesn’t like Logan, has nothing good to say about her. The bullying accusation might be more interesting if anyone else corroborated it, but the character stuff on Logan was coming in positive. Brenda wouldn’t do his case any good, cussing like a mule-skinner, full of transphobic bile. She would be a field day for a hyperaggressive defense attorney.
Still, her assertions have some value to him. At the appropriate time, he might reference the bullying testimony in a list of particulars to intimidate Logan, get her saying things in denial that can be used against her.
* * *
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 12
I walk in the door, and heavenly aromas waft into my senses. Betsy greets me as I cross the threshold, sharing her beautiful I-love-you smile. She has a sumptuous dinner prepared and a nice bottle of red open and breathing. There’s a gleam in her eye, and she has enough energy to make me feel like a sloth.
She’s back! My heart turns a couple of cartwheels. I wish I believed in God so I could thank someone. Instead, I kiss her cheek and hug her and pelt my innocent niece with a torrent of kisses and hugs. Dinner is a slow-roasted pot roast rubbed with herbs and spices, surrounded by carrots and potatoes and onions and peppers.
When Robbie excuses herself to resume play in the living room, Betsy and I sip wine and lapse into that kind of languid, easy conversation people have when everyone is feeling mellow and no one wants the mood to pass. She talks about her day. She has been working for the Equal Rights Council for a week. Today, they asked her to start working on a position paper on marriage equality. She’s floating on clouds. She talks about the issues and her research with the passion of a missionary. Her beautiful face is flush with color. Her wide, oval eyes are filled with excitement. Her hands gesture and flow like a flag in a spring breeze.
She tells me about her coworkers. They are congenial, respectful of each other. They are committed to idealistic things. They are glad to have her on board because no one wants to pitch the position paper to the dailies and the radio and television stations. She apologizes for talking so much. I tell her I feel like I’m at a great concert and I don’t want the music to stop. She pooh-poohs me, but it’s true.
She asks me what I’ve been up to.
Perhaps because we’ve talked so little in the past month, perhaps because I’m giddy over her mood, or perhaps because I’ve had two glasses of wine, I tell her some of my truths.
“Well, the good news is that business seems to be improving.” I give her my theories: that our promotions are working, that we’re getting some business from salons that went under, that America is getting used to the idea of the recession and starting to resume some activities that were dropped after the financial catastrophe.
“What’s the bad news?” She asks it playfully.
“I still can’t afford to hire my male prostitute.”
She giggles. “Okay, I asked for that. But really, you’ve seemed very tense a lot of the time. What’s going on?”
The person who is the sun and stars in my life is sitting across the table from me aglow for the first time in weeks. I could never tell her
that most of my anxiety was about her and about my ability to be there for her.
“Oh, just frustrations at the salon and things like that.”
“You’re dodging me, Bobbi. Don’t do that. I’m not a child.”
“There’s a whole list of things, Betsy. If you knew them all, you’d never respect me again.”
“Like what?”
“Like I want Officer Phil to sweep me into a dark room and make wild, passionate love for a night. And another. And another.”
“What about that woman? Jen?”
“Her, too.” I should never admit these things to anyone but Marilee or Cecelia, but the wine has my defenses down. I expect Betsy to be repulsed, but she laughs out loud instead.
“Bobbi, you have this so wrong. You were so restrained as a man and so wild as a woman. It’s supposed to be the other way around.”
I blush. “Not really. I don’t actually do anything. I just have fantasies.”
“Join the female race.” She pours the dregs of the bottle into our glasses. “Now, stop dodging the question.”
I swear she has been getting shrink lessons from Marilee. My illicit sex fantasies were a painful confession, but of course not the biggest cause of my anxiety. I try blaming it on business worries.
“Come on, Bobbi. We’re supposed to be sisters, right? Sisters tell each other things. Things they might not tell a lover or a parent.”
“Do you think we’re there now? Sisters?” It’s a question I have, but it’s also a good way to steer the conversation away from dangerous topics.
“Do you think we aren’t?”
“Well, you’re hell-bent on getting your own place.”
“Most sisters who love each other don’t live together, Bobbi.”
I have to concede the point. Betsy still wants to know what I’m holding back. I’m out of excuses for not telling her.
“There’s a detective investigating a murder from five years ago. He would love to charge a transgender person with the crime. The victim was involved with transwomen. The cop would like to implicate me because he hates me even more than he hates transgender people in general.” I tell her about my run-in with Wilkins five years ago, getting the DA’s office to pull him off the case, him getting his hands slapped for being a bigoted shit-for-brains.
