I applied my newfound theory to myself, first connecting up my apartment with Eyrie Street and then the Precinct. Neither produced any obvious results. I tried my old house. Same deal. Then, on a hunch, I plugged in the Long Room—that, after all, was where I’d spent most of my meaningful time in the last few years. That result was very different. The halfway mark turned out to be down to the number on the door, the bar where Briannon had shot me, the same bar where I’d first gone for a drink with Stacy. Danger, blonde ice. I got a cold clear tingle when I drew the pencil line through it. Then the icy feeling of a chilled knife at the neck.
With that success in hand, if that’s what you want to call it, I punched in the other player in the drama that I was concerned about. McInnes. I didn’t bother with his old house or the apartment where I was pretty sure he now lived. I didn’t worry about the Precinct he just quit working from. I ground the pencil tip into where the Jaguar House was and brought it down to Eyrie Street and I saw straight up that the place he’d chosen to meet that night had a significance I hadn’t understood before. I wondered if he knew. I wondered what he knew. I could only wonder. I drove home.
Hartley called on the way. Earnest young schmuck. Ringing me on a Saturday. Wanted me to know we had an FTA of a key witness in the Grimes case on Friday. I texted Chris. First rule of disappointment—share the love. Keeps you sane. At least it used to.
Back in the cat box of my apartment, the scanner had a four car pile-up on the old 95 and a man exposing himself in Peralta Park. Too bad he didn’t wait until after dark. We’d have had a good old-fashioned lynching to look into.
I copped a bonus in the late afternoon movie on TV. Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo. Kim Novak looked so hot—and that line where Jimmy Stewart says, “One final thing I have to do, and then I’ll be free of the past.” I heard that. Then I took a long walk. It helped a bit, but you can imagine the kinds of scenes I saw in every window. The mannequins and misread signs.
I came back and gave Pico a slow, full grooming. She sucked up all my stroking and gave it back to me. Her fur was soft and smooth. I fed her then and microwaved a Health Lite Malaysian Treat for myself that had been crusted with frost in my ice box since Day 1 in the apartment. It was OK. Especially since I ate real slow.
I took a long lukewarm shower after that, my skin couldn’t take either hot or cold water. Then I tried to find something to wear from what was left of my clean-out. Maybe I’d gone overboard. Nothing fit. There was no underwear at all. The only thing I could find was a clump of Polly’s old panties down at the bottom of a drawer. They were the color of my mother’s nasturiums. I tried them on. Silky smooth like Pico’s fur. It was fucking tragic, but it sort of turned me on too. What was the big deal? Polly had worn my shorts in the past.
Chris and I played telephone tag as I took a roundabout route over to Cliffhaven. He was probably getting horizontal with the “girl.” The second floor windows at Eyrie Street were beaming, but there were no cars parked nearby. After a half-hour, I walked down to the seawall and back. Then I dug into the fever night traffic for my rendezvous with McInnes … afraid of what he had to tell me and what I might let slip, but knowing I had to see him. Face him.
The Cabaret du Neant was in a side street off Peralta Avenue, the old Harbor Highway. In the bad old days, the Harbor had been almost two miles of nookie-on-the-side motels, adult bookstores, gunshops, pawnshops, and the all-night commotion of Devil Doughnuts (now that was a place worth buying a doughnut from). A bit of the grit still remained closer into the city, but now the strip was mainly fast food chains, a bunch of self-serve car washes and superstores like Ikea and Wal-Mart.
The Peralta District retained some of the sawed-off-cash only character because on the water side, the closed up Grain Terminal collapsed down to the 32nd Street Pier and was home to a bunch of homeless folk. Across the disused tracks, however, gentrification had started kicking in big time. People called it Poodleville because it had been colonized by the gay community. There were several meat rack bars and all the usual boutiques, decorator shops and design studios—a couple of advertising agencies had moved into the old warehouses. The one exception to the yupscale trend seemed to be the Cabaret. I arrived early and made a note to tip off one of the health inspectors I knew.
I was greeted at the castle-like door by a prissy ghoul who gave me a green-lipped grin and said the cover charge had been waived that night. I took up a position at the bar that gave me a view of the johns and the main entrance, ordered a club soda and tried to still my nerves.
After my experience with Genevieve and the Haunted House, a horror-themed nightclub for pansies or even fauxmosexuals was the last place I wanted to be on this earth. McInnes was my only hope of some inside track. For the first time in a long time, I really wanted to see him.
Jack was five years younger than me, but he acted a lot older and looked a lot younger. I don’t know how, because he made a practice of drinking more expensive Scotch than he could afford—in industrial quantities. He liked a Thai stick and a Swedish massage and knew where to find blow in almost any part of town on short notice. Still, I hadn’t once seen him even close to sloppy. Never slurred a word or ever let his guard down. Ever. A natural cardshark. Blackjack of course. He’d been known to slip off to Laughlin and work out on the riverheads—but not so hard as to draw heat. His game was always tight. The only hint of any lack of confidence was the heavy cologne. He was three-fifths my size at the outside, but he was hell on wheels in a bar brawl, with flinty psychopath eyes that had made even trigger happy ex-cons and gang-bangers go to jelly. Had a thing for hard anal sex and rough stuff generally—and yet he always had a lot of ladies looking after him—and out for him, with real devotion. They called him Pappa Man. I just thought of ice water, 40/40 oil and Manilla quick-knives.
He’d grown up in Biloxi, Mississippi, which he always proudly claimed was the most corrupt town in America. His father had died on top of a big booty working girl, just like Freddy Valdez, and his mother had moved them to Detroit in his teens, which went a long to explaining his eat-the-wounded ethics (or lack of them). But he had a wry sense of humor. “The one good thing about a flat-chested woman is that you know what you’re not getting.” I shudder to think what he’d really gotten up to over the years, but he distilled the wisdom of his experience down to three principles, The Rules of Jack: “Never take an underage girl to a hotel with a roller coaster, fat men should never drive small cars, and if you like watermelon, you better spring for a big fridge.”
He was as cold-blooded as they come on either side of the law—and yet, if you had to have somebody in a very dark alley on your side, the smart money would’ve picked him every time. Jack always did what was good for Jack, but if that was good for you, then you had a goddamn army—which is why when I left him, I spread nothing but good gospel for good measure. “Make peace with your darkness, Rit,” he told me once. “Porn stars need to make wood on command. Guys like us need to have a monster to let out at the right time. Make a deal with your monster. It’ll save your ass.”
I suddenly missed him more than I could say, even if he had set me up. I’d put my life in his hands on more than one occasion and lived to tell the tale. I wanted to believe in him now, Brut 33 or no. And a part of me wanted to warn him about what had happened to Stoakes and Whitney, in case he didn’t know the connection. Whatever it was going down, we may very well have all been in it together.
But that stuff Genevieve had suggested about us two was way off the mark. In fact, it made me feel better because it proved she wasn’t infallible. If Jack was bent when it came to money (and he was a lot less crooked than many), he was pipe straight in the sack. She was way off the beam on that one. Just like she was with my sister.
Serena had epilepsy. It manifested early and caused a lot of havoc in our family. OK, I should’ve been looking out for her better. But she’d been up in that tree house hundreds of times. I didn’t make her have a seizure. And I didn’t push
her out. We were having some fun—I wanted her to have some fun too. Cherine Derry was there for me—she had acne too. Tommy, Cherine’s twin brother, was interested in Serena. We’d been drinking some of the booze I’d snuck out of Rod’s liquor cabinet. Juan and Julio came by. Some girl named Caitlin. Serena had a seizure. She fell. I felt sick.
“Another drink, girlfriend?”
“How about a fat lip?” I replied.
“Just asking.”
“It’s the same when the glass is empty.”
Man, was I in the wrong bar. Where was McInnes?
I checked my watch. The atmosphere was starting to come to life and the smell was putrid—a mix of Halloween party latex, fuck-me cologne and carbon dioxide haze rising from the floor around the stage. The tables in the place were “gravestones” made of plywood and the sight of them—the memory of the night before—started bringing on El Miedo. And that got me wondering about that old ghost—how it had receded into the deeper shadows when Genevieve had come into my life. Or I’d fallen into her web.
Meanwhile, the booths were designed to look like coffins, and there was one real coffin in the corner that led to a ladder that took you down to a private lounge area where you could probably arrange for a session with some young “goblin.”
It was still early for a place like that, but the crowd was starting to thicken—and harden. Maybe the waived cover charge and the rumor of a new shipment of Liquid Crystal had influenced people’s decisions for the night. A local fashion guru I recognized from the newspapers showed up with two anorexic Asian women in black Lycra, and a couple of very affected hairdressers batted eyelashes at a steroidal bodybuilder in chain-mail. I kept darting Long Island peeks and I noticed there were a few older homos dotted between the coffins or poised at the far end of the bar doing the same thing. They tried to peer surreptitiously over their drinks, but their eyes lit up whenever a chicken appeared. One of the more ghastly ones actually licked his Campari lips. Made me feel sick. I wished McInnes would hurry up.
I sipped my fizz as the minutes bubbled, working through what I wanted to say. Then the Midori green magic lantern slides began. Spirit photography from the gaslight era … chintzy bats and Day of the Dead faces. They slithered off the walls as a drag queen that looked like Boris Karloff’s sister did a breathy Blue Angel number and the line to the Men’s bathroom lengthened.
I ordered another soda. Beings began arriving that I’d bet money drank blood as well as Cosmopolitans. Even if I was wearing my second ex-wife’s panties, nothing would have made me feel at home amongst such specimens. I just wanted answers.
What did McInnes really know about Genevieve? Was he somehow in all this with her—or just as foxed as I was? How much could I reveal of what I’d been through to get him to spill to me? What would anyone else believe? I looked at my watch again and thought about ordering a real drink as two middle-aged pantywaists bickered over a young ginger with a rhinestone studded codpiece and nails through his nipples. They were working up to a real pillow fight.
The Boneyard Band, who were obviously already cranked, snuck out of the wings and launched into a funky take on that old song “Spooky.” They followed it with a decent cover of “I Put a Spell On You,” the lead singer hollering like he had fluid on the spine and a wolf spider down his pants. I put a spell on you … because you’re mine … I took another peek at my watch and belched some soda gas.
The band finished up their set with a presumably original and unbearably campy metal number called “I’ve Got a Resurrection For You,” as a mad scientist had simulated sex with a Frankenboy, and two backup singers dressed like Morticia Addams screeched in a purple spotlight. I think one of them was a woman. Hard to tell in the dry ice mist.
The phantasmagoria of the lantern slides dripped over made-up gothic faces and I wondered if there were any cops in the joint, working undercover. Maybe one of the specters at the back tables doing jelly skull shooters. I was starting to think McInnes wasn’t going to show.
“You look like you’re waiting for someone,” a husky voice next to me said, as the live musicians fumbled backstage through their papier mâché cemetery.
A shemale had slipped in beside me. Black widow evening wear, scarlet lips, and an unnatural blend of some heavy masculine scent and Poison, Briannon’s fragrance.
“I’d want to be in a place like this,” I answered, pulling back.
“Looking for answers?” the thing said.
“I’m just having a drink.”
“Of course,” she/he smiled. “Just admiring the flesh. The lights. The theater.”
“I’m not into the flesh, the lights or the trashy theater,” I replied, as an Igor-costumed DJ and the Skeleton Dancers took the stage, waggling their lightning bug bottoms to some slow building disco anthem.
“You want some drugs then?”
“No, I don’t,” I returned. “And I’d be careful who I said that to, if I were you.”
“You want to be like me?” the thing breathed, bringing its mixed perfume face close. “You know it’s Teabag Night at the Tab Hunter.”
“Listen,” I clipped. “I’m happy to buy you a drink if that’s what it will take to get you back on the dance floor with your friends … but I really wouldn’t mind being left alone.”
“That’s why you’re in the Dead Zone. That’s what this place is, you know. It’s where the desperates go … the ones who can’t get play in the bars down the street.”
“Looks lively to me,” I quipped watching a zombie down a tequila slammer. “And I’m not trying to get play. Do you want a drink or not?”
“Oh, thank you, yes. A girl like me should take what she can get. And I still give as well as I get,” the hormone monster flirted.
“Very nice,” I replied. “But I’m not into it.” Made me nauseous.
“Ooh,” it giggled. “You’re waiting for a knight in shining armor. I can do that too.”
“I’m not … waiting … for anyone like you think.”
“I rather think you are, Detective.”
“What did you call me?” I demanded, as a waiter in a g-string minced past with a piña collada in a shrunken head. The music started to soar and the Skeleton Men went spastic in the clouds from the smoke machine. Had I heard right?
“I think I called you a desperado,” she breathed in my ear. “You don’t know what fun we could have in one of those private booths. What secrets I could tell you.”
“I don’t want to know those kinds of secrets,” I said, wondering if I was speaking too loudly. God, the last thing I wanted …
“Don’t be too sure,” the shemale kissed.
“Believe me, I’ll wait,” I insisted, and started to reach for my shield.
“Yes, you will. Thanks for the offer of a drink. But a lady wants more, especially on her last night.”
The thing gave my ear a lick which made me slap my head like an idiot—then she slunk off into the swill and jiggle of the dance floor, a fine curve of black polyester tush consumed in a gaggle of eyeshadow boys. Whatever he was, she’d played with my head.
Then, speaking of heads, I glimpsed one I recognized. The unmistakable flounder-shaped cranium of Detective Ron Haslett. His face swam up out of a red gel from above the stage. He was with a doughy guy we called Wadcutter, who worked in Infernal Affairs—and lo and be sick, Bruce Wyburn who’d moved to a Precinct across town. Well, well, well. Three holes in the ground.
They all looked a little high. It was perfect. The most notorious queer-hater in our Precinct, a fink from the Commissioner’s office, and a chavala I’d been dick enough to give my prize single action revolver to for his birthday. Who knew, huh? It all made sense though.
They were headed into the playrooms with a Frosty Boy and a black dude who was a foot too short to pull off the Baron Samedi costume he had on. I waited another five minutes. I had half a mind to bust into the nether regions and catch Haslett or Wyburn redfaced—twofaced. Explain to them about making a rod
for their own backs. But I couldn’t stomach it. I forked out for the tab. Wisps of nitrous vapor followed me out the door past the bouncer with the executioner’s hood and the packed leather jockstrap. McInnes had stood me up. Played me again, as he had with Genevieve. As she had—and still was. I wanted out of Lavender Land.
I made it back to the methamphetamine tilt of Peralta as a platoon of oiled and chiseled night commandos converged on the Anaconda Room. I kept expecting El Miedo to sneak up, but maybe the fresh air or all my questions about Genevieve pushed it back. I stepped up to the curb trying to pick out the profile of a taxi. Then I remembered my old deuce and a quarter was parked around the corner. No hay pedo. I could drive home. I was, after all, uncomfortably sober.
UST ON SUNRISE … AN ABALONE SHELL SKY—TWITCHING awake to find myself slumped in my car about half a block down from my apartment building.
I was naked—except for a woman’s camisole. Sheer black lace. I’d been sleeping or sleeping it off with the seat shoved back under some overcoat I didn’t recognize. I half expected to find someone else beside me. Given the size of the car, I expected to have found a few.
I had what looked like a trace of ballistic jelly on my thigh. I didn’t seem to have any cuts or bruises but I felt tender all over. Plastic. I stank of perfume and had the sort of shakes you get when you’ve been on rum drinks all night. I couldn’t remember anything—except for flashbacks of the Cabaret. I’d been doing club soda the whole time at the bar. Dim aquatic faces after that.
Until the boxing match. I had a watery recollection of a cab ride with other people—like people coming from a masquerade party. I hadn’t been to that Auditorium in years … down in Mex Town … all the street murals and placas on the brick walls.
Private Midnight Page 19
