by Renee James
“He’s back on the case,” I tell her. “The murder victim was someone important, and the city wants the crime solved, so they’ve turned him loose, and he’s bugging me.”
Betsy looks puzzled. “You would never kill someone.” She thinks for a moment. “Would you?”
“I haven’t yet,” I say. I’m being coy but not lying. “But he can make it hard for me anyway. He can bring charges and make me spend thousands of dollars to defend myself. That would really hurt. Money is tight right now, and the publicity would be bad for the salon.”
She bites her lip, thinking.
“I have retained an attorney, just in case,” I say preemptively. “He has advised me not to discuss this with anyone but him. That includes you, Betsy. You can be subpoenaed and forced to testify and a good prosecutor could turn the most innocuous statement into something that appears to corroborate wild allegations from someone else. That’s the gist of what he said.”
Betsy digests this, deep in thought. “I don’t understand.”
“I can’t explain our legal system. I’m just asking you to let me take my attorney’s advice.”
“It feels wrong,” she says. “I don’t like us having secrets, especially when Robbie and I are so dependent on you.”
“I don’t either, Betsy,” I reply. “Sometimes there’s just no right answer.”
“That’s too slick, Bobbi,” she says. Her face is angry. “I tell you everything, you tell me nothing. You kept your transition a secret, your lovers . . .” She goes on about my lovers for a while, not really fair, but I get her point. I didn’t tell her about my transition because I was terrified she would find me repulsive. I’ll share that with her at some future time. She’s not in the mood to hear it now.
“Do you really think I’d betray you to the police?” she asks. Her face is flushed. I have hurt her deeply.
“I don’t want to put you in a position where you would have to choose between lying and betraying me,” I answer.
“And I want to make my own decisions. Do you think I’m so pure I haven’t lied for someone I love?”
Actually, that’s what I was thinking.
* * *
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 14
Every night this week, I have been wakened by tortured dreams. They’re always some variation on the police crashing into the apartment, hauling me away in cuffs, Betsy and Robbie sobbing with terror, me rotting in a cell, my salon closing, my loved ones taking shelter with Betsy’s parents in the village of malicious trolls.
The bitter irony is that to overcome the telltales of sleep deprivation, I have to get up a half hour earlier each morning to do battle with the rings and creases in my face.
Fortunately, things are going a little better in the salon. We’re still struggling financially, but the staff is upbeat. We haven’t had any blowups or incidents. And everyone has been very nice to me. I know that sounds stupid. I’m the boss. But I’m endlessly vulnerable. I can keep going in a shitstorm of setbacks, but life is so much lovelier when I am surrounded by people with warm hearts and glad smiles.
My legal problems still bother Betsy, but she knows I’m not a danger to society or to her or Robbie and she has gotten on with her life.
Tonight I have joined Betsy and her coworkers for drinks and dinner at a nice restaurant in the north Loop area. There are four of them from the office, plus Betsy. They are a nice group of people and they have welcomed me. I can’t help feeling like this is the event where the new employee introduces everyone to her husband or boyfriend, except Betsy is substituting her ex-husband who has gone through some changes. No one else seems aware of it, and I have been made to feel at home from the moment I entered the restaurant.
Her colleagues are two gay men and two lesbians. There are another half dozen people who log time regularly at the office, a mix of gay, lesbian, and straight people, and one transgender woman. They rave about the transwoman, whose contributions are limited because she is active in so many transgender groups. As they talk about her, I realize the woman sounds a lot like Lisa, the young leader at TransRising. I make a note to myself to tell Betsy not to mention me when she meets this lady. It will go much better for her.
After dinner, we stroll down to a small jazz club on Dearborn. It’s a cold night, but the door is open and the lush tones of a saxophone drift out onto the street, telling the story of Billy Joe with a drawn-out bluesy sadness that is unspeakably beautiful.
It’s a classic Chicago jazz/blues club. Small, dimly lit, a semicircular bar in one corner ringed by maybe fifteen stools, a small stage in the middle of the back wall, elevated a couple of feet above the floor, the rest of the room filled with small tables and hard, functional chairs. There’s a five-dollar cover, and only serious drinkers and people with iron buttocks will make it through more than a couple of sets.
A trio is performing on the stage: piano, sax, and bass. It’s early so there are lots of chairs open. We sit at a table near the stage. The group goes into one of their original numbers, upbeat, bouncy, filled with adventure and promise. There are close to two dozen people in the chairs and another ten or so at the bar, but more are arriving every minute. We order drinks, and I settle back to let the music wash over me and enjoy the eclectic crowd.
As the musicians finish their set and take a break, I feel a strong hand on my shoulder, followed by a voice in my ear. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
It’s Officer Phil. When I turn my head, our faces are inches apart. For once, my first impulse isn’t a mental orgasm. It’s a self-conscious impulse to hide my mental orgasm from Betsy and her friends. I try to act like Betsy would have acted if I approached her like that back in the day. I smile, say hello, introduce Phil to Betsy and her colleagues. We exchange small talk for a few minutes, then Phil gives me a friendly hug and retreats back to his own table. There are two other men at his table, and three women. Two of the women seem to be in their fifties, like the two men. Probably the wives of the two men. The third woman, Phil’s girlfriend, obviously, is younger, maybe thirtyish, and beautiful. Not quite in Betsy’s class, but way beyond mine. Slim, cute figure. Long, honey-brown hair cut in long layers so it swirls with each turn of her head. Beautiful eyes with naturally long lashes, light brows, the facial structure of a model. I feel like an idiot for entertaining fantasies about a man who has his pick among women this beautiful.
Our group rises to leave, which is fine with me. I need to get my mind on something else. As we make our way to the door, Phil comes over and asks if he can buy Betsy and me a drink. Betsy thanks him but says she has to get Robbie from the babysitter.
“But you go ahead, Bobbi,” she says. She’s trying to be nice, but the thought of spending close-up time with Phil and his lovely date is not at all attractive to me.
“I don’t want to intrude on your date,” I say. “Some other time, Phil.” I say it kind of frostily. I’m a little insulted by the offer, to tell the truth. It’s insensitive.
He blinks and does a double take. “My date?”
I start to point to the pretty lady at his table. There is a young man sitting in the chair Phil had occupied just a moment ago.
“Her?” he says. “She’s not my date. She’s with my brother. Pete. I’d like to introduce you.”
I feel the usual arousal starting, but shake it off. “Thanks,” I say. “I’d love to but I need to get Betsy home. Another time?”
He nods his head yes, but Betsy interjects. “You don’t need to see me home, Bobbi. I’m with friends. They’ll drop me. You go have a good time.” She kisses me on the cheek and whispers in my ear, “You’re not my husband. You’re my sister. Go have a good time.”
“Okay,” I tell Phil. “But I can’t stay long.”
He introduces me around. The two couples are his cop colleagues and their spouses. His brother Pete is a rising star with Boeing, staying an extra day after a meeting at corporate headquarters. Millie is his fiancée. She loves Chicago. The
y’re having a great time. They’re thrilled to meet me. Phil told them that I am a rock-star hairdresser. Millie wishes we’d met sooner. I tell her whoever did her hair did a great job, but it would be fun to do her next time she’s in town. I give her a card.
When the combo comes back onstage, I tell Phil I need to get going. I have to work tomorrow. More than that, I’m just uncomfortable. Millie isn’t Phil’s date, but other Millies are. If we were just pals, it would be fine, but for me, it’s more than that, and I just can’t pretend to be a beer-drinking buddy.
“Okay,” he says. “Let me take you home.”
I try to decline, but he insists. The others at the table say goodnight as we leave.
Phil’s car is some kind of upscale sporty sedan, one of those understated elegance models that look kind of common on the outside, but inside it’s all plush and comfort. It’s so quiet you can hear every nuance of the music and voices on the sound system with uncanny precision. When he turns off the sounds, it’s the same with his voice, his hard consonant sounds clear as a bell, his speaking voice resonant and rich. As we drive along, chatting away, I begin to feel like a girl on a date instead of Bobbi, the transwoman, wondering what it would be like to be a girl on a date.
When we get to my brownstone, he finds a parking place on the curb and turns off the engine. He reaches over the console and takes one of my hands in his.
“I’m really worried about you, Bobbi. Wilkins is not going to stop coming after you. He’s deliberately telling me what he’s finding. He wants me to tell you. He’s that sure of himself.”
I shrug. What can I say to that?
“He says the girl who was dating Strand identified you and said Strand talked about having a relationship with you. He says he has people who say you’re a bully. He says he’s got a friend of yours who’s strong enough to carry a piano up a flight of stairs by himself and has easy access to anesthetics and tranquilizers. Bobbi, when you put that together with the guy who got mugged saying he was working for Strand and following you when it happened, it looks bad. Really bad.”
My mind is racing as he speaks. It does look bad unless you know that lots of it is complete bullshit. Strand wouldn’t talk about me to anyone. Thomas does not have access to anesthetics. I’ve never been any kind of bully. He may have found people who don’t like me and say bad things about me, but I’m not one to pick fights or intimidate anyone.
“I’m sorry it sounds so bad to you, Phil. Here’s the truth. I’m a good person. I live a good life. I love doing hair. I love making people feel good about themselves. I love wearing dresses and feeling girly. That’s who I am. I can’t keep someone like Wilkins from hating me or thinking bad things about me. All I can do is live my life as well as I can. And that’s what I’m doing.”
As I finish babbling Phil leans across the console and kisses me. It’s not a friendly peck, it’s hot and deep and in a trice we are struggling awkwardly to embrace each other over the console. After several minutes of panting and groping, I ask if he wants to come in.
He sits back, puts both hands on the steering wheel, thinks. “You know I do, Bobbi. But let’s not. It could get too complicated.”
“Right. You mustn’t get a reputation as a tranny fucker.” I’m hurt and more than a little frustrated.
“I just introduced you to my brother and two of my best friends.”
“Not as your lover, Phil. As a friend you saw in a club.”
“It’s not that, Bobbi. I’ve already told you.” He mud-wrestles through another rendition of how he wants to make sure his motives are pure. “Plus,” he says, “if Wilkins brings a case against you . . .” His voice tails off. He doesn’t have to say it. It could get ugly for both of us, but especially for him.
“I understand,” I say finally. I bend across the console and kiss him again. “I don’t want any more warnings or updates from you, Phil. If you want to see me, call me for a date. You don’t have to take me to bed. We can be friends. Or we can be lovers. But I don’t want to hear about Wilkins anymore.”
He looks at me in silence for a moment, then nods his head. “Okay, Bobbi.” He puts two fingers to his lips, then to mine. “Sleep well.”
Nice sentiment, but the only question about tonight’s sleeplessness is whether it will be caused by erotic fantasies or visions of doom.
* * *
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 14
Wilkins sees her come out of the club on Pavlik’s arm. It still blows his mind. He wonders if Pavlik is balling her.
They walk past him, unaware of a man sitting in a car in the shadows, intent on whatever it was they were saying to each other. Damn, thinks Wilkins. He’s fucking her. He’s fucking a transsexual. How about that.
Moments later a dark sedan glides past. He can see Logan in the passenger seat. The car stops at the corner and the street lights silhouette the back of Pavlik’s head in the driver’s seat. Wilkins shakes his head. A great career going up in smoke. Wait ’til the suits find out he’s got a taste for transwomen. Well, Wilkins thinks, it won’t be him who says anything. Pavlik’s appetite for women might be kinky, but he’s a stand-up guy.
* * *
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 15
Cecelia wrinkles her nose as the waitress sets the food in front of us. We’re in an organic food restaurant on the far north side. We’ve ordered salads for lunch. We are in a virtual state of fasting because Thanksgiving is coming up, with all its dietary excesses, and after that, Christmas and New Year. We have both labored too hard, too long to keep our bodies trim, such as they are. So we’re eating tangled masses of green hay and vines and other things you probably wouldn’t even step on let alone eat if you saw them in a field somewhere.
The people at the next table over have been staring at us since we came in. We’re used to it and usually just ignore it, but Cecelia sometimes can’t help being Cecelia.
“Would you like some of this for your goat?” she asks one of the women.
The person she addressed blushes and turns back to her own plate. Her dining companion laughs, though. “Are you sure it’s safe for goats?”
We start a good-natured banter between tables based on the proposition that one could run afoul of the Anti-Cruelty Society for feeding food like this to defenseless animals. When they leave, I decide to get my business with Cecelia done.
“I need to ask a favor.”
“Of course,” she says. “How much do you need?”
“No, not money.” I lean a little closer so I can speak in a low voice. “Betsy wants to know more about my situation with Wilkins, and I can’t talk to her about it.” I explain about my attorney insisting that I avoid any conversations about it with Betsy or other family or friends. “I know her. At some point she’s going to insist on knowing. I’d like you to tell her.”
“Why me?” Cecelia asks.
“Because you already know the stuff I want you to tell her. You can tell her about the lowlife bastard who got mugged, and you can tell her about the Strand murder. You can tell her that Wilkins suspects me because I’m a big, strong girl who has been known to fight back and because he hates trannies, especially me.”
“I don’t understand why you can’t tell her that,” says Cecelia. She’s not objecting. She’s curious.
“Because I can’t answer her next question. If I tell her, she has to ask me if I did either of those things, or both of them. No matter how I answer that question, if I answer it, she can be a witness in a trial. I don’t want her to have to do that.”
“And me? What about me, Bobbi?”
“When she asks, you can truthfully say you don’t know. And that’s the end of it.”
“What if I do know?” Cecelia opens her eyes wide, emphasizing the point.
That stops me short. “Do you know?” I ask.
Cecelia is too artful to answer a question we both know shouldn’t be answered. “Have you considered that maybe you should trust Betsy and tell her what she wants to know? She loves you. You wa
nt her to trust you, right?”
“What I know could end up being a curse for her, Cecelia. She could be forced to testify, or she could be forced to lie. I’m going with the attorney’s advice. He already has the last of my savings. If I have to start writing checks again, I’ll go under.” I let that sink in for a minute. “So will you tell her?”
Cecelia looks lost in thought for a minute. “You need to understand something, Bobbi.” Her tone is ominous. “Wilkins is asking around about me, too.”
My shock must be obvious. Cecelia nods her head up and down. “Yes,” she says. “He thinks I’m a big, strong girl, too. I don’t mind being a suspect, but I find his description of me insulting.” She feigns indignation and we share a laugh. But even as I laugh, I ponder the significance of Wilkins sharing my curiosity about Cecelia’s potential for murder. He’s a bigot and a cretin, but he’s a chillingly good detective.
Cecelia turns her gaze to me, and we lock eyes. “There will be a day in time when this is over, when Wilkins goes on to pursue actual crimes against humanity. When that happens, I want you to tell me what you know about that goon getting rolled in the alley, and what went on with you and Strand.” She pauses to sip some water. “Until then,” she says, “Betsy is going to have to live without all the answers, just like the rest of us.”
17
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 19
SWEAT POURS OFF Wilkins’ body like he’s being drenched by a hose. He mops at his brow with the last of the tissues the receptionist gave him. He can feel sweat flow down his neck and along his spine. It drips from his nose to his chin. His arms are dripping wet. His hands are so clammy he’s afraid to touch anything.
The place is as quiet as a morgue and just as antiseptic. His mind supplies the sound of a saw cutting off the top of a corpse’s head in a postmortem. The sound is a lot like a dentist’s drill, which is even more terrifying to him.
