by David Stukas
9
I’ll Fight You for That Dress
Day three of our lunchtime interviews took Monette and I to the epicenter of the fashion world: Seventh Avenue. Next on our list was one of the hottest fashion designers around: Frank Addams. In true designer fashion, Frank had been working for years relatively unknown, turning out tight-fitting, colorful, unisex Lycra jumpsuits that were probably snapped up by people far too out of shape to wear them. Then, 9-11 happened, followed by the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq. Frank, seeing a golden opportunity, jumped on the militarization of the United States and began turning out military-inspired clothing in bright colors. His brilliant marketing ploy, coupled with the hiring of a hot publicist, made Frank an instant success. The fashion press—as usual—screamed in headline type sizes usually reserved for World Wars that Frank’s embrace of all things military would change the way men and women dressed in the twenty-first century. Instead of merely going to work or dinner, people would storm offices and restaurants with fashion bravura, decimating hostile bosses and haughty hostesses in a victory guaranteed by leather cargo pants, Desert Storm cammies in silk, and Ultrasuede flak jackets. As usual, the call of the fashionistas went unheeded by the masses, but Frank had managed to tap into the deep-seated feeling of insecurity and helplessness that characterized the trendy and monetarily foolish strata of society and they began paying huge sums just to be the first on the block with a real Frank Addams. No, Frank had his finger on the pulse (or was it the jugular?) of America. It would, however, be a cold day in hell before we would be seeing Baptist housewives in Dallas, Texas, donning Frank’s creations to wear to the local Piggley Wiggley for groceries. But no matter how you looked at it, Frank was as hot as hot can be.
His offices said that he was hot, too. Some equally crazed interior designer had spent a lot of money to make the lobby look like Baghdad the day after it was invaded by U.S. troops. Large, simulated blast holes penetrated several walls, permitting visitors to get a glimpse of Frank’s troops furiously working to rush fresh supplies of his bellicose collection to stores everywhere. Equally disturbing was the fact that mannequins were poised climbing through the holes, raising defiant fists and dirty rifles and garbed in the latest Addams, conveying the unmistakable message that Frank wished to telegraph: Frank Addams is victorious in the war of designers.
“Will you look at that?” I said, gesturing toward a mannequin that had apparently jumped through a plate-glass window in Frank’s lobby, her acid green paratrooper jump suit giving her all the protection she needed to leap unharmed through glass shards and smite the cunt-of-a-saleswoman at Bergdorf Goodman who looked at her sideways. “I’m afraid that all this belligerent fashion is going to lead to scores of people going postal. It’s like a license to kill. I mean, people are so angry already nowadays.”
“No doubt. Soon the news will be filled with stories about fashion rage,” Monette replied.
“You know, if Frank’s girly pictures get out, can you imagine what they could do to his image?”
“Now, Robert, are you hinting about the macho image he tries to convey on television?”
“Yes—quite over the top.”
“You mean like Ralph Lauren’s carefully cultivated image that he’s some kind of old-line WASP?” Monette replied.
“Yes, like that.”
“Oh! Listen to this, Robert!”
“What?”
“You know when we had the pizza delivered to my apartment a few days ago?”
“Don’t tell me it was poisoned,” I relented, figuring that life couldn’t get any worse.
“No, it’s better than that! Remember when I was surprised that Gino, the guy who regularly delivers the pizza, was replaced by another deliveryman?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it turns out I saw Gino delivering pizza last night in my neighborhood and I told him I hoped he was feeling better.”
“So?”
“Robert, Gino said he wasn’t sick. He told me some guy approached him and told him he was a good friend of mine and that he was going out for cigarettes. The guy said he was heading back to my apartment and would take the pizza back for Gino.”
“And I suppose that the next thing you’re going to tell me is that you think the mystery pizza deliveryman and our burglar/assassin were one and the same?”
“You betcha,” Monette said, nodding her head in affirmation of my conclusion.
“Okay, so the reason he came to the door was to case the joint for points of entry and gauge the resistance any occupants might offer,” I reasoned further.
“Probably. If he’d meant to attack us there, he would’ve done so. But there are two of us and only one of him.”
“And thank God I had the lesbian equivalent of Mike Tyson with me,” I joked.
Monette looked me straight in the eyes. “You know I’ll get you for that, Robert.”
“I have no doubt about that, my little Belle of Ireland,” I said, patting her on the shoulder.
Presently, a fashion victim posing as a secretary met us in the reception area and ushered us to Frank Addams’s office. Frank was seated behind a cobalt blue desk that was stacked high with fashion drawings, model headshots, and fabric samples. The walls were painted a bright orange with framed black-and-white photos of soldiers from World War II. The ceiling was a sunny yellow. Even Frank’s eyeglasses were tinted a deep red. There was no doubt about it—Frank’s father must have been Benjamin Moore. I looked down at my black pleated trousers, black shoes, and black T-shirt. I felt like a black hole.
Frank shuffled through stacks of papers, talking to us as if we were hidden in the papers he riffled through. “Sowhat-canIhelpyouwith?” he asked, firing words at us like a machine gun with a jammed trigger.
Monette cleared her throat and began. “Mr. Addams, we just want to ask a few questions about the murders of Cody Williams and Eric Bogert.”
Frank continued shuffling and talking at the papers. “Inmyopinionallbodybuildersandpersonaltrainersand-peoplewiththinmuscularbodiesshouldbemurdered.”
I could see both Monette and myself shoot a glance down at our toned bodies, wondering if we were going to be stabbed at any moment.
“Idon’tknowifIwanttotalkaboutanyofthis.”
Just then, there was a knock on the door and a woman with a figure that wasn’t made for Frank’s clothing entered with an envelope.
“Francis,” the woman pleaded, “Marakova backed out for the show. She said—and I quote—that ‘zhe von’t vear das ug-lee clothes dat da fuckhead Frahnk Addumz dezines. He insult me lahst time I vuz here for his assho fashion show ven he say Marakova need to vehr the deodorent cuz she smell like de Russian army.”
Frank put his head in his hands.
“Did you say that, Frank?”
“Eileenyou’veknownmeforyears—youknowIdid,” Frank admitted.
“Frank, I warned you to take a few Zolofts before the show,” Eileen reminded him. “You know how you can get a little wound up and you tend to fly off the handle.”
Eileen was being kind. Frank was like a badger on speed.
“Frank,” Eileen continued, “now the public relations department will be giving me shit because they’ll have to do damage control so the fashion press doesn’t get ahold of this. You know the trouble we had when the press found out your garments were being made in China by slave labor.”
“Eileenthereyougoexaggeratingagain,” Frank protested. “Theywerecriminalsworkingofftheirsentencesforreading bannedbooksbyDanielleSteel.”
Eileen huffed at Frank. “Some of them were shot when they didn’t sew their daily quota of capri pants.”
“CanIhelpthat?”Frank exclaimed. “Youcan’tdoanythingin thiscountryanymorewithoutsomeoneboycottingyou!PETA hatesmeforshowingfurlastyear.Lesbianshatemebecause thetunaservedatmyStopWorldHungercharitydinnerwasn’t dolphinsafeandtheNationalOrganizationofWomenhatesme becausemymodelslookedliketheyhadbeenbatteredwith clubs. OkayEileenwhatdoIhavetodotogethertoforgiveme?”
“She says you have to ... to ... stick your head ... uh ...” Eileen stalled, searching for a way to express what the three of us in the room already knew.
“ThatwillbeallEileeenthankyou.Iwillcallherlaterandthink ofsomething.”
Eileen left the room as exasperated as when she’d come in. I found myself fascinated by all the idiocy of the goings-on, but lunchtime was ticking away and we had gotten nowhere. Monette tried to get things moving again.
“Frank, could we get down to the bottom of things?” she asked.
“Ithoughtwehad,” Frank stated.
“No, the only thing that was discussed here was that you would not stick your head up somewhere that would be physically impossible. My partner here and I want to ask a few questions.”
“Fineifitwillgetthetwoofyououtofhere.”
Monette began. “So which personal trainer did you have at Club M?”
“Personaltrainer?!” Franksnorted. “Honeydoyouthinka manwithafigurelikethisevergoestoagym?Incaseyoudidn’t noticeI’mfatfatfatfatfatfat!”
“So how did you meet Eric or Cody?”
“Idon’tknowanEric.JustaCody.”
“But if you didn’t belong to Club M, how did you meet Cody?”
“Oneoftheguyswhoworksformehererecommended him.HebelongstoClubM.”
“Could we talk to this person?” Monette asked matter-of-factly.
“Noyoumaynot.”
I tried a different tack.
“Frank, did Cody Walker talk to you about paying money in exchange for the pictures of you?”
“No,someotherguy.Bigguy.”
“Was his name Eric Bogert?” I hinted.
“Eric?” Frank said. “EricEricEric.Yes,thatwashisname. Nevermethimbeforethetimeheaskedformoney.Ifiguredhe wasworkingwithCody.”
“That’s something we’re not sure about,” I answered. “Did you pay Eric for the pictures?”
“Why?!”
Frank didn’t seem to care about anything except dealing with a furious runway model who was probably shooting up as we spoke.
Monette tried one last question.
“Frank, you haven’t tried to retrieve these pictures, have you?”
“Retrievethem? Whatdoyoumeanretrievethem?” Frank spat.
“Robert has the pictures on a CD in his apartment for safekeeping. You know, you wouldn’t break into someone’s apartment and take them back?”
Frank twisted his face in horror. “Breakintosomeone’s apartment?HoneyIcan’tevengetintomyownapartmentwith outthesuperhelpingme.Enoughquestions!Ihavetogettowork socouldyouleaveme?”
Monette and I got up, shrugged our shoulders at each other, then left the office wondering what the hell we had accomplished. Monette was looking particularly defeated.
“I fucked up,” she confessed.
“We did not, Monette.”
“Yes, I did. I had no line of questions prepared. I didn’t ask the right questions to test my theory.”
“What is your theory?”
“I don’t know. I thought Frank would give me an idea for one.”
“Monette, we’re just trying things out.”
“Well, I think we can safely assume that Eric got hold of the CD without Cody knowing about it and decided to blackmail Cody’s clients. In three out of three stories so far, Eric is the one who approached the clients. Cody doesn’t seem involved, except for the hustling part and the staged sex scenes. Cody probably got pushed off his terrace without knowing what Eric had done, then Eric was forced to do his own swan dive.”
“I have to agree with you, Monette.”
She scratched her flaming red mane. “I feel there’s more to come. What I don’t understand is why, if you want to get your hands on the CD, would you kill Cody or Eric? It’s like killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“Maybe our Mr. X was pissed ... pissed at Eric trying to extort money from him, whether he got the dough or not.”
“I don’t know. Revenge on top of retrieving the CD? That is weird, but maybe,” Monette commented. “Maybe if you can’t get to the CD, or you’re not sure if there’s a copy, you just kill the holder and hope that the CD and any copies get misplaced by a relative who inherits the possessions and throws the CDs away thinking Cody or Eric was into kinky sex.”
“It seems like a stretch, Monette.”
“You’re right, Robert. The killings don’t make sense—right now. That’s what’s bugging me. This is so different from many mysteries. See, we already know who the suspects are. We even know their most likely motives—to prevent a scandal. I just feel that we blew an opportunity to get some real answers. We’ve got to remember that we’re not just out to solve these murders. The main thing is that we figure out if someone is really after you, if they’re capable of causing you serious danger, and who is behind it all.”
“You don’t have to remind me, Monette. That fact is very much on my mind right now.”
As we stood on the corner of Thirty-Eighth Street and Seventh Avenue, a blue van came screaming out of nowhere and headed right toward us. Like a movie in slow motion, we watched the van jump the curb with its two right wheels and come scraping the sidewalk with its axles in a shower of sparks and screeching metal. It was the worst thing you could imagine. Well, not as horrible as watching the Anna Nicole Show, but it wasn’t pretty.
Monette, whose quick reactions made her the star player on her lesbian soccer team, pushed me back behind a light pole into relative safety as the van came slicing along the sidewalk, missed the pole by a good six feet, crashed back into the side street, and fishtailed back and forth until it was out of sight.
Monette came running toward me, smiling and panting with excitement.
“This is so wonderful!” she exhaled.
“WONDERFUL?!” I screamed. “I ALMOST GOT KILLED!”
“But that’s the wonderful thing! Now at least we know that they’re really trying to do you in and not just get the CD.”
For a moment, I had to pinch myself to see if, indeed, the van had actually creamed me on the pavement of Seventh Avenue. Nope. I didn’t see myself lying in the road separately from my spirit. No hissing devils dragging me to the bowels of Hell. Nope, I was sitting here in Dante’s Inferno amid rolling clothes racks, cursing deliverymen, and honking horns.
I decided not to call Detective McMillan about the road kill accident just yet—I couldn’t stand another round of swarming policemen, another round of questions, and more warnings to watch my step without the benefit of police protection.
I took a cab back to my office and began thinking that today was a total waste until I listened to my voice mail and found that I had received a message from a frightened-sounding Frank Addams. It seemed that he wanted to make a deal for the pictures. A big deal. Half a million dollars, in fact.
“A half-million dollars!” Monette shrieked into the phone in her office. “Jesus, I could semiretire now ... until I figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Maybe a small cabin in Vermont. Of course, I’d have to split the money with you, but then I’m so desperate to get out of the Endangered Herbs Society of America that I’d have to kill you and take your half.”
“Monette, I thought just last week you said the job had its moments.”
“Yeah, moments—lasting just moments. No, it’s my boss, Hardcourt.”
“Him again? I thought he was calling you his best friend just a few days ago.”
“Well, yes, the borderline loved me a few days ago, that is until I killed a plant.”
“Killed a plant! For God’s sake! Plants kick and scream when I take them into my apartment because they know it’s the Green Mile for them: their last gasp.”
“It wasn’t just a plant. It was some sort of thyme that was almost extinct. Someone sent it to the office to transfer it to the botanical gardens, but we kept it overnight. Since they were fumigating the office at night, Hardcourt asked me to take it home because he had other plants to rescue.”
“Monette
, I’m sensing that this story doesn’t have a happy ending.”
“It doesn’t. I put the plant on the stove when I came home, and forgot about it. I put some lasagna in the oven to warm up and I ended up frying the plant.”
“Monette, it’s too bad you weren’t cooking turkey, because the thyme would have gone with it nicely.”
“Don’t laugh. I’m in serious trouble with Hardcourt.”
“Oh, tell Hardcourt to stop getting his Batman cape twisted into a knot. You said the plant is almost extinct. Tell him to get another.”
“He can’t because that was the last one. It’s now officially extinct. I, Monette O’Reilley, friend to animals and all things living, registered Democrat and a vegetarian as long as I’m dating one, has wiped a living species off the face of the earth. My cat won’t even speak to me now.”
“Did she ever before?” I asked.
“No, but I can tell she hates me. She left a turd on my running shoe two days ago and she won’t come out from the closet to greet me anymore. I tell you, word has gotten around.”
“I’d steer clear of Central Park for a while. The squirrels are probably planning an ambush.”
“I gotta find some way to make it up to Hardcourt. I need to be in his good graces because my yearly raise is coming up for review. How much did Frank say he’d give us for the pictures?”
“Now, now, Monette. Blackmail will never get you anywhere, except to the first floor at Tiffany’s.”
“So what did Frank sound like when he called?”
“Monette, he sounded really serious on his message. And get this—he was actually apologetic for the way he treated us. He pleaded for us not to release the pictures.”
“Did you tell him to stick his head up somewhere the sun don’t shine?”
“No, when he told me that he’d part with half a mil for those pictures, I wanted to call him and tell him something else.”
“And what would that be?” Monette ventured.
“Sold!”
“Don’t think about it, Robert. People like you and I were not meant to do those things, mainly because we look too guilty and we get caught. People like Michael have no morals. Doing this kind of stuff comes naturally because they can’t imagine getting caught or being denied anything.”
