“Why? Why’d you have to tell me? Why not just trade for the video and let it go at that?”
“Because I know you. You’d never let up until you found out everything and then a lot of people might get hurt. That’s the way you’re built. I know that. I’ve seen you in action. So knew I needed to bring you in on this, Marco. I need you on my side.”
“Your side? You expect me to keep quiet about this?”
“In a word: Yes.”
“Why? You’re perpetrating a fraud. You’re hurting people.”
“No. Actually I’m not hurting anyone. I’m keeping people from getting hurt. Mainly me. Wouldn’t you commit fraud if it meant you’d be saving your own life?”
“I—”
“Don’t give me any high-flying speeches. I don’t need to know what you think is morally right. I need you to understand.” He gripped my shoulder. Ray was lots stronger than he appeared. “I need you to understand and to help me.” He couldn’t keep the sob at bay any longer. His voice choked. A tear tumbled over his chubby cheek and splattered onto the filthy floor. “You’ll be saving my life.”
“Tell me how.” I wasn’t sure I wanted any part of this, but he seemed genuinely panicked.
“It’s a long story. But the short of it is that the mob, several mobs in fact, there are so many these days, are out to kill me. All because of Marsha’s. Stupid club.” He sighed and it was a shuddering sound. “Stupid, stupid, stupid club. Why I ever wanted that, I’ll never know.” He drew in a breath and pounded his generously large fist on the old desk. The wood cracked. “Why did I let anyone talk me into it? Why? It was nothing but trouble from the start. Then they got involved. Those lovely Italian friends of mine. They came in full of ideas, wanting this and that for the club, urging me to do things their way because they knew better. They lavished money on me and the club, but there was a price. There’s always a price. And if that wasn’t enough, their Russian cousins wanted a cut. And there were others. Soon there weren’t any cuts left. Not even for me.”
“You could’ve decided to close the club. Shut it down and walk away.”
“I could? You think so?” He slapped a hand on the crumbling desk. “No, I couldn’t. Do you have any idea what it was like? I was walking on clouds by that time. And it wasn’t just the club. You can’t possibly imagine what it meant to me.”
“You’re right. I can’t imagine.”
“What was I before the club? An aging drag queen who’d had a few lucky breaks. Got on somebody’s list, made a few cameo appearances here and there. And that’s all. I’d never been anything else in my life. Never went to college. Never had a job anyone respected. Never did anything I was really proud of.”
He paused again. Wiped the sweat from his forehead and heaved a sigh. He looked exhausted and frightened.
“When this club idea came along, I was hooked. Like the big fish I am, I sucked down hook, line, and sinker. It was too much of a draw for me.”
“For anyone, I guess.”
“But especially for me. The little queer everyone only ever laughed at. From when I was a kid in school and had my face pushed in the dirt more times than I can count. I ate that dirt and cried myself to sleep. But the club. The club. That piece of real estate was gonna make a difference. When the idea came up and people signed on, I knew things had changed for this silly little queen. From that point on, I’d have everything I ever wanted.” His eyes shone with the memory.
I watched as he stood there lost in his thoughts, reliving what must have been the most exciting moment in his life.
“The club would be mine. Named after me. Marsha’s. My name in huge lights over the door. My name on friggin’ everything from napkins to swizzle sticks. I was a blind fool. It was all about me, and I wasn’t going to let anything stand in my way,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I never saw, no, scratch that, I never wanted to see what was really going on with those guys. Funny, little, no-class guys. Dressed like every day was Bad Taste Day. I wouldn’t even let myself think the word ‘mob.’ I let them have what they wanted and allowed them to give me the money I needed until I was in debt up to my tits.”
“That’s the way they work.”
“All those good feelings I’d had didn’t last long. It took a while, but one thing after another eventually forced me to see those guys for what they were, and it frightened me. Really shook me up. I knew I was in deep shit. I knew then that I’d be a slave to those people for the rest of my life. My club would become my prison. Marsha’s would be where I’d end my days and I didn’t really want that. It would’ve been a kick for a while. I would’ve squeezed it for everything it was worth. But that’s all I wanted, really. With those guys… well, let’s just say I could never repay them. The debts just grew larger. There was no way they’d ever decrease.”
He sat down, leaned his elbows on the rickety desk and placed one hand against his forehead.
“That’s how they worm their way in, you know. That’s how they get their glittery leash around your neck. And there’s no way to remove it. Well, I didn’t want that. I don’t want it. I can’t pay them back, and I refuse to be a slave. Now, they want to kill me. They know I want out. They’ve said they’ll kill me if I don’t change my mind and get back to the club.”
“They didn’t leave you with much of a choice, did they?” I felt sorry for Ray. He’d had stars in his eyes for so long about that club. It meant everything to him and now it had cost him nearly everything.
“It was slavery or death. I chose death. My kind of death.” Ray Stone, stood and came around to the front of the desk. He looked more like Marsha again, standing erect, his regal bearing intact, his dignity restored. “I can’t expect you to help me for any reason other than that you’re a decent guy and you don’t like what those thugs will do to me.”
I said nothing. I stared at Ray.
“I know,” he said. “You’re thinking I should have been smarter. I should have known better. Should have kept my eyes open and should’ve seen them coming. But I didn’t. I let them take the club. Piece by piece while I watched. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let them take my life.”
***
Anton, unconsciously striking a very sexy pose, lay on his bed back at the hotel as he recuperated from his “hunk in distress” ordeal. I’d booked the suite for one more night. No one was up to struggling with Amtrak and training it back to Philly that night. Anton was exhausted but unharmed from his kidnapping and imprisonment. His captors didn’t fare as well. He’d given one of them a really juicy black eye and another had a broken jaw. No one was permanently damaged. Everyone was unhappy about what had to be and all of them played their parts reluctantly but out of loyalty to Marsha. Even Hedda called me to apologize for her part in the whole thing.
I told Anton only that we did what we needed to do to get him back unharmed. He was grateful and still struggling with grief for Marsha, so that he didn’t ask further questions. Anton’s smart, though, and sooner or later, he’ll start adding up discrepancies which will lead to questions for me. Anton was no fool. Until that happened, I’d do what I could to keep my promise to Ray. If Anton eventually guessed on his own, I wasn’t sure how I’d handle it.
After a while, after he’d reconciled himself to the idea that Marsha was gone, Anton began to tell and retell the story of how he’d come close to unmasking Marsha’s killers. Every time he told the tale of his capture, there were several additional muscled thugs and masculine drag queens the size of King Kong, who he’d taken down before they managed to tie him up. But each retelling held a sad undercurrent, his grief for Marsha still coloring everything he remembered.
Later that night, when Anton had recovered enough, and when things had been settled, more or less, I took Luke and Anton and Canny to dinner. We celebrated Anton’s safe return and toasted Marsha’s memory.
The next morning, as we taxied to the train, Anton asked about the memory cards and his video. I’d anticipated this and had a
story, no matter how unlikely, prepared. Much as I hated lying, I reminded myself of my promise to Ray. So, I told Anton that we’d been instructed to trade the cards for his release. Though we’d prepared phony cards for the swap, we’d accidentally given the real cards and they were now gone. As for the copies on Canny’s hard drives, they’d all mysteriously been erased, thanks to an arrangement I’d made with Luke before anyone knew what was happening.
Canny remained silent never mentioning anything. He was a lot smarter than people gave him credit for being. He knew something was going on, but he also knew enough not to ask any questions.
Sarge, the only other person to have seen the video, couldn’t remember clearly what he’d seen and hadn’t been able to ID any of the people on the video anyway. Whatever he thought he’d seen, and even he was foggy about that, would never have held up in court, even if that were a possibility. Which is wasn’t.
Marsha’s death was officially ruled an accident.
When we got back to Philadelphia, I told Luke everything. He’d never asked, he never would, that’s the way he is. Discreet to a fault. But since I’d drawn him into the conspiracy by asking him to erase the hard drives, I felt obligated to tell him. Besides, I could see he knew there was more to the story than what had been made public.
Over a good bottle of Merlot at Luke’s condo, we talked.
“If any of it gets out, and if they find her, Marsha’s dead. Knowing these people, they’d find her,” I said
“You don’t have to convince me, Marco. It’s sad, though. Marsha had everything and now, he’s just plain Ray Stone again. Where’s he going? I guess he wouldn’t trust you with that information.”
“I can’t blame him. His life depends on that secret. I hope he’ll be happy.” I sipped the velvety wine, silently toasting Ray.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Luke stared off into the distance. “That whole charade with the guys on the street. Why’d he engineer that? Why not just set up the accident and let it go at that?”
“I asked Ray about that. He said that he was being watched day and night. The mobsters knew he wanted out and they weren’t about to let that happen. So, dressed as Marsha, she staged the whole thing hoping the Italians would think the Russians had killed her and the Russians would think the Italians had her whacked. Or both of them might think it was one of the other crime groups who’d done it. Since they were tailing her to make sure she didn’t run out on them, she decided to give them a good show. Marsha’s final performance.”
“Pretty smart. We can only hope she gets away with it. She will, won’t she?”
“I’m guessing yes.” Actually, I was really hoping Ray Stone could find a new life that’d make him happy. It wouldn’t be easy.
I did my part because the only injured parties would be the mob bosses who’d lose some big bucks on Marsha’s restaurant when it closed without its star attraction. I got all teary eyed over their financial losses.
Marsha was a friend and a friend deserves a chance, especially when the alternative is so bad.
I never did get the full story about who exactly it was under that truck, but one thing I know is that it pays to know people who work in hospital morgues. Marsha knew just about everyone. The body was mangled enough to make identification impossible without expensive DNA testing. No one was interested enough to go that route. There was no family that would press the case and Marsha’s legal representatives knew enough to let the dead stay dead.
I figured we could do the same.
A Killing in Leather
If I could keep the contestants from killing one another before the show even began, we might just get through the night. But the tension backstage threatened to pull the whole thing down around us.
The audience already started filling up the place. Plenty of them had arrived early. I heard them before I took a look at them through the curtain. The rumble of voices and laughter crashing over the stage told me the crowd was wired. They’d expect their money’s worth and then some. Based on previous Mr. Philly Gay Leather contests I’d seen, the audience would be more than happy with this year’s show. If it ever got off the ground.
Backstage at Bubbles was familiar territory. It’s where my male stripper troupe, StripGuyz, is based and holds shows every night. But sponsoring this contest with all the new people and rules, my turf became strange, even weird. The knottiest problem had been building for days and had me playing defense against leather-clad, muscle-bound gay contestants, all of them upset that two straight boys would be competing for the gay leather title.
Ben Tadeo, a green-eyed beauty and a leading contender for the title, having placed second the year before, approached me. He placed one large, hairy, muscular arm around my shoulder and squeezed me to him, making sure my attention was fully on him.
I refused to be intimidated and wrestled myself free. Turning to stand face to face with him, I silently berated myself for agreeing to manage the competition. I’d put myself directly on the front line for complaints and complications.
“What?” I growled.
“You can’t let a straight boy win the Mr. Philly Gay Leather title. No way, Marco,” Ben’s clear, green eyes were riveted on me. He clenched and unclenched his hand threateningly. Ben was the kind of guy who never let good sense get in the way of his feelings. He was also, deep down, a really sweet man and a good human being. I’d known him for quite some time and I knew that though he was excitable, he wasn’t at all dangerous.
“Ben” I said his name softly, as placed an arm around his shoulders. “Ben, listen to me…”
“No, you listen.” He shook off my arm, folded his arms over his chest, and glared. Like a boulder in the middle of the road, he refused to budge.
Agreeing to manage the Mr. Philly Gay Leather competition was one of my dumber decisions. The Philadelphia Leather Coalition members said they wanted someone neutral, someone unbiased, someone who had taste and discrimination. And, they’d claimed, that I was the only one who fit the bill. I knew they were full of shit but I was intrigued by the idea of managing what amounted to a male beauty contest. Who wouldn’t want to manage a male beauty contest? I like a challenge.
Anton had warned me the competition wouldn’t be any fun. He’d tried to convince me that, at best, this gig would be nothing but a migraine. And most likely it’d be worse. I trusted Anton’s opinion, and as my right hand man with StripGuyz, I trusted his judgment.
Of course, I didn’t take Anton’s advice. How bad could it be? I’d asked him.
I soon found out, and it was beyond rotten. Nothing had gone smoothly. From pulling acts together for entertainment between rounds of competition, to signing up contestants, to working out logistics, I’d had to contend with one diva after another. Contestants, staff, some judges, and even the sponsors sniped, whined, and complained every day for weeks. Even my own StripGuyz dancers complained because they weren’t able to perform, since Stan, the owner of Bubbles, had “generously” given over the entire night to the Leather contest. Meaning my guys wouldn’t make a cent.
The whole Circus from Hell was the worst heartburn I’d ever experienced, and having to remain neutral put me on everybody’s shit list simultaneously.
Ben’s complaint was the latest speed bump. Looking at him standing there, I knew this was a useless battle.
“Ben, you’re better than this. Let’s just agree to—”
“Don’t try and sweet talk me, Marco. You can’t let a straight guy win.”
“I’m not letting anyone win, Ben,” I snapped out the words. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”
“Doesn’t look that way to me, Marco. You’re in charge, you can keep this from happening. Kick them outta the contest.” Ben balled up his fists and glared. His hairy chest, bulging biceps, and leather vest gave his words a certain weight, but I refused to be intimidated.
“He’s right, Marco,” Liam walked over and chimed in, his silky voice carrying a gentle anger. “
This is a gay contest in a gay bar in the gay neighborhood. Gay, Gay, Gay. You know what that is, don’t you?” Liam’s baby-smooth chest was crisscrossed by a studded leather harness which emphasized his well-worked pecs and which had a leather strap traveling from chest to crotch, where it disappeared behind the band of his posing strap. He raked one hand through his wavy brown hair and his bicep flexed nearly popping the leather band circling it.
As pleasant as staring at Liam should have been, all I could think was that I could be back in my office making some honest money investigating creeps. Being a P.I. isn’t always glamorous but at least I have a little more control over what goes on. The Mr. Leather hornet’s nest was nearly control proof. Not even the nice stipend they paid me was able to cut the pain much.
“I can’t tell people they aren’t allowed to enter this contest. Nothing in the rules says you have to be gay. If a straight guy wants to compete for a gay leather title, he’s allowed to try.” I frowned, then said, “Just so you know, I don’t like it either.”
Ben continued facing me, though his breathing slowed as he calmed down. “It’s not the title those guys want, Marco. It’s the cash prize, the car, and the all expenses paid trip to Orlando for the nationals.” He stared intently at me, hoping, I supposed, that I’d take his point and run with it.
“Yeah,” Liam chimed in. “There are some of us who aren’t gonna let them have what’s ours. Even if they do win, which they’d better not.” He tried looking as tough and menacing as Ben, but pretty-boy Liam couldn’t pull it off no matter how many muscles he developed.
I winced when Liam tossed out the threat, though. He might not be a menace, but throwing around threats in public wasn’t smart. I had to think that if all the gay contestants were this angry, I’d have my hands full if the judges actually gave the title to a straight guy.
“There’s not much I can do. I didn’t make up the rules. I didn’t recruit contestants. I can’t make the judges do me any favors, and neither can you.” I glared at them each in turn.
Crimes on Latimer: From the Early Cases of Marco Fontana Page 31
