His grim expression gave way to a smile as he moved. Then he hopped off the bars, grinned at the audience, swung his arms wide to accept their cheers, and ended his exhibition. He acknowledged the applause once more with a bow, then swept off the stage.
Wade was next and I expected a similar display of strength and masculine prowess. But, when Wade stepped through the glittering curtain and out onto the stage, there was a collective gasp. A single baby blue spot was trained on his oiled, upper body leaving the rest of his totally naked form in tempting shadow. Blond curls framed his serious face as he stood, eyes closed in contemplation.
Stan, the owner of Bubbles, rushed to my side and made a strangled sound of alarm. “Nudity!” He whispered. “The Liquor Control Board will have my ass if they’ve got a spy here tonight.”
“Shhhh! The lighting’s keeping things hidden,” I said. I assured him it was unlikely there’d be an agent in the house. But he remained wide-eyed and bit his fingers waiting to see what Wade might do next.
There were no contest rules against nudity since the competition was not usually held in bars. In any event, whatever nudity there was would be only a fleeting part of a one-time performance and not a regularly scheduled act. I ignored Stan’s nervous gibbering and turned my attention to the stage.
I had to give the lighting tech a lot of credit. He lit Wade’s Body so everyone watching knew he was nude without actually seeing anything clearly. The tech skillfully hid parts of Wade’s anatomy in deep shadow. Wade had undoubtedly worked closely with the lighting techs. It was no wonder he never wanted anyone around during rehearsals.
Wade stood gracefully still, with the blue light lending him an ethereal aura. I felt waves of tension from the audience as they waited. Wade hadn’t yet done a thing and already I knew he’d moved into position to win. If his routine was at all good, he would take the crown and I’d never hear the end of having a straight man win on my watch.
Slowly, golden spotlights swept the stage, caressing Wade’s body, creating the shimmering effect of gold flecks on water. At no time was he completely visible and, though nude, it was difficult to see anything through the expertly played lighting.
Curly bronze-blond hair glistening, eyes still closed, Wade gradually extended his arms out from his sides until he stood like the Renaissance figure of human perfection. There was something primal about his presence on stage. He was a sleek, intelligent animal. Yet there was also an innocence about him, which I had seen in his eyes earlier.
Having spoken to him a few times before the contest, I knew it would be difficult to be angry if he won, even if he was straight. I could only hope the others would gracefully accept the results. After staring at him a moment, I mentally slapped myself for getting sentimental about a straight boy who’d managed to mesmerize the entire house.
My attention was seized by the lights which swirled and turned and caught Wade in a virtual hurricane of illumination. Just as suddenly the swirling lights stopped. A shaft of intense blue light cascaded down over Wade as his rope, chain, and sling contraption slipped down behind him to the sounds of a haunting Enya piece. The audience, still entranced, remained silent as they watched.
Reaching up, stretching his body, biceps flexing, Wade placed his hands on the ropes and chains. Wrapping the ropes around his arms and placing his feet into slips made of chain which gently pinged and clinked against itself as he worked, he maneuvered himself into position gracefully. He paused, the lights still strategically shadowing him, arms at his sides, legs together. His oiled torso shimmered in the pink and yellow light. Bathed in this more gentle illumination, Wade looked like a demi-god fallen to earth.
Without warning, he spread his arms, elevated his legs like a gymnast balancing on the rings, and began his program. His routine was smooth and sensual. Gradually he gained speed, and with precise, swift movements, Wade slipped in and out of the ropes and chains. Holding himself aloft with his powerful arms, he made no missteps.
As he slithered in and out of the rigging, he climbed higher into the flyspace above the stage in the web he’d devised until he was out of sight of the audience.
Those of us backstage could still see him wrapped in the rigging high above the stage. With one graceful flip, he turned head over heels, his back to the audience, and began moving down toward the leather sling. The strength in his arms was his only support. Though ropes and chains coiled themselves around his body like boa constrictors, he deftly maintained control and guided himself down inch by inch. When the audience could see him again, there was a spontaneous cheer.
My muscles tensed each time I saw Wade let go of one handhold to grasp the next, stabilizing himself with his calves smartly wrapped in the chains. Tiny bell-like sounds made by hundreds of silvery chain links clinking against each other filled the silence. Wade’s oiled body, wrapped within the ropes and chains, shimmered in the spotlight as he continued his descent through the complex pattern which only he knew how to navigate.
Nearing the sling, but still well above it, he appeared to miss a handhold. Then another. His movements quickened. His hands slipped furiously over the chains and he fell fast through the now tangled contraption. His movements became erratic and panicky as he abandoned his carefully orchestrated plan.
Puzzled, I’d stepped forward without realizing it and saw one of the ropes snap.
A sudden and violent snap of the chains sent a loud, final ping through the air.
Wade’s frantic movements slowed.
Another rope split off at the top and slipped lifelessly down. Wade frantically clutched at the elaborate contraption again which caused it to tangle and grow tighter the more he struggled. His hands slipped with each attempt to gain purchase. His movements became increasingly frantic.
Then, in mid-air, poised above the sling which was high above the stage, he quit struggling and his body relaxed. His head pointed down and his face was twisted away from me.
For a moment everyone stared in silence. No one could tell if this was part of the act or a terrible accident. Some might’ve thought Wade was showing off, teasing the audience, building the tension. I wasn’t so sure. Precious seconds passed as we waited for him to continue.
I looked at Wade and then glanced at the deejay. He shrugged.
“What do we do?” Stan asked, sweaty panic overtaking him.
I shouted to the deejay, “Is this part of his act?”
Eyes wide, he shook his head.
Stan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “If we interfere, he’ll say we fucked up his performance deliberately. If we don’t… think of the insurance problems.”
“Screw it,” I said and moved toward Wade.
Something was horribly wrong.
Someone in the audience screamed as I reached Wade. I saw one of his hands lose its grip and his arm dropped causing the chains around his neck to tighten further.
Desperately I grasped the chains and began pulling at them. They were slippery with the oil from Wade’s body. As if they were a living thing, each chain and rope gripped him more tightly with any attempt to untangle him.
Frustrated, I watched as his other hand released its grip on the chain. He seemed to have given up.
“Call 911. And get a ladder. Quick!”
Someone brought a chair and placed it near me. I stepped up to see if I could reach inside the rigging from a different angle. But the chair didn’t give me enough height. “A ladder. Now!” I yelled as I stepped down.
Wade’s head was suspended inches from my face. His eyes were open and glassy. I hoped he could see me or at least sense my presence and know someone was there with him.
“Wade?” I half whispered.
A sudden gasp and then his breathing came in shallow, raspy gulps. His mouth moved slightly as he tried speaking. Reaching out my hand I gently cupped his face. His skin was clammy and he trembled at my touch.
A stagehand noisily dragged over a ladder and set it up beside me.
I wanted to stay with Wade, let him know he wasn’t alone. I turned to the stagehand. “Climb up,” I said. “See what you can do.” But, I knew there was nothing anyone could do.
The skinny stagehand took each step keeping his eyes focused on Wade, not knowing what to expect.
Wade’s face grew darker as the blood rushed to his head. Again, he made an effort to speak.
“Don’t try to talk, Wade. The police will be here soon. They’ll help.” I whispered. Though I doubted it would be soon enough to save him.
I reached out again and smoothed his curly hair which was matted with sweat and oil. He struggled to draw a breath.
“Wa-was… good,” his voice came in sad, ragged bursts. “Di-didn’t… ha-have to worry… Michael? No one… I wouldn’t… t-tell…”
“Shhhh. Hear that siren? They’re here. Hold on, Wade,” I said. But this kid wasn’t going to wait for anything. He didn’t have much time.
“Ga-gay… not… angry?”
I touched his hair again and he shuddered. “They’re here, Wade. Stay with me.” I stroked his face. Despite everything, his skin felt soft and delicate. Suddenly I was angry. Angry and frustrated. I wanted to rip away the chains, get him out of the deathtrap. “Wade,” I whispered as I brought my face closer to his.
“Not… an-angry?” He looked at me as if I were all that mattered in the world.
“Angry? Not a chance,” I whispered, knowing he wasn’t talking to me but to someone else he thought was there.
“C-couldn’t help …had to…”
“Could never be angry with you, Wade.” I said trying to comfort him but unable to figure out what he meant. Why was he apologizing? And who was it that he thought was with him? I looked into his eyes. They became dull and lifeless.
His body jerked spasmodically a few times. Then he was still.
***
Things moved around me in slow motion. The EMTs, staffers, other contestants, everyone flowed around me and Wade. For a moment, I was barely aware of what they did or said.
I felt someone gently tugging me away, pulling my hands from Wade’s face. He took me by the shoulders and tried leading me away. I shrugged him off and watched the EMTs work to free Wade. That same person wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me back to stand a short distance away from the knot of emergency workers.
I became aware that it was Anton who stood beside me. It was Anton who’d pulled me to him and squeezed. His warmth rushed through me, and I felt as if I was returning from somewhere far off. I placed an arm around his waist and leaned into him, comforted by his presence.
Slowly I returned to the reality of the situation. Standing on the stage, bare lights washing the area with a cold, hollow feeling, I realized there were people all around. Some rushed back and forth doing who knew what. Others huddled in small groups crying or consoling one another. The contestants stood in stunned silence, their eyes riveted on Wade’s lifeless body. The judges pressed close to one another upstage, looks of shock and horror on their faces.
The EMTs worked quickly cutting ropes and untangling chains until they freed Wade. Several of them held him gently until they were sure he could be moved. Then, acting in unison, they brought his body to rest on the stage. One of the EMTs began working furiously on Wade. Eventually, he looked up at his companions and said something I could not hear from where I stood.
A cry of grief from someone nearer to the body let me know that Wade was gone.
I saw someone point at me and watched as one of the EMTs walked toward me and Anton. He looked grim, his face set in an expression I’d seen before.
“I’m sorry. He’s gone. I had to call it,” he said apologetically. He looked younger than Wade, who’d only been twenty-five. “There wasn’t much we could do. I’m sorry for your loss.”
I nodded to him, then looked over at Wade. His friend, Michael, knelt over the body. His shoulders shook as he wept. An EMT placed a hand on Michael’s back and gently urged him to stand so they could place Wade in the ambulance.
As Michael stood he turned toward me, an expression of hate or rage twisting his features. He took a few steps in my direction, but stopped himself. Closing his eyes, he stood motionless then turned away, his back bent with grief.
Anton pulled me to him and we embraced. I wanted nothing more than to be alone with him, watching a movie or doing some other mundane thing. I wanted to forget the whole night had even happened. But I knew there was more coming and before I had a chance to think, the police arrived. There were so many responding, I figured there must’ve been several calls from people in the audience as well as the one we placed. Some officers stationed themselves at the exits while others filtered through the crowd. One plainclothes detective made his way toward the stage.
His clothes were drab but he was quick and alert. He took in the entire place as if wondering who was in charge. I realized I should take the lead, since I’d been managing the contest. Stan, as usual when there was trouble, had disappeared.
“Officer?” I said, stepping toward him.
“Detective. Detective Ransom.” He didn’t bother to extend a hand. “Looks like one hell of an accident.” The detective’s gaze swept the room again, eventually landing back on me. “But, I guess well see about that. What can you tell me?”
A tall older man, Ransom had salt and pepper hair and was built like a linebacker. His lined, unshaven face made him look as if he’d spent some time boxing in his youth. His gray suit barely contained his bulky figure. All business, he stood, chewing gum and sizing up the situation. His blue eyes were getting used to contacts and he didn’t look happy.
“Things happened fast, detective. I was right here, and it all went wrong in an instant.” I said. I fought a vague sense of guilt, wondering if I could have done anything to save the kid.
“And who’re you?” He tried sounding threatening. It would take more than some gum-chewing police detective to make me feel threatened or fearful.
“Fontana, Marco Fontana,” I said, moving closer to him.
“Fontana.” He savored the name for a moment. “I’ve heard’a you. Some kind’a nosy P.I. What I hear, you got lucky a few times at our expense.” He smirked.
I said nothing, but met his stare and didn’t blink.
“What’s your part in all this… what the hell is this anyway?” He did a half turn as he took everything in once more, as if he was having trouble grasping the meaning of his surroundings.
“It’s the Mr. Philly Gay Leather competition. Happens every year. I was managing the show this time,” I said.
“Managing a leather contest? What’d you do, crack a whip and make ‘em jump?” He laughed at his own joke.
“Hey, whatever works for you, detective,” I smirked.
“Wiseass, just like I heard,” he said. “Stay put.” Then he did a slow turn and in a loud voice said, “Everybody stays put where you are. Got it? On the stage, near the stage, backstage, in the audience, up in the rafters, wherever. Until we tell you to go.”
Ransom tossed out a look that said he meant it, then huddled with his officers, I assumed to instruct them. Waving his hand imperiously, he dispersed his men and directed his attention to Stan, the owner of Bubbles, who’d mysteriously reappeared and approached the detective. They chatted, but Stan said something which made Ransom turn abruptly and head back in my direction looking annoyed.
“You were with the deceased when he died?” It was less a question than an order for me to tell him everything.
“I’d gone over to see if I could do anything. I couldn’t.”
“You should’ve told us.”
“Told you what exactly? That I walked across the stage to help the guy? It’s not like I was up in the rigging when whatever happened happened.” I hated explaining myself, especially to someone who thought he could intimidate me. “By the time I moved toward him, he was already tangled in the rigging and beyond my help. Nobody could’ve done anything.”
“Did
he say anything?” He peered at me as if I were hiding something.
“He mouthed a few words but I couldn’t make sense out of it.”
Ransom was silent. He stared at me as if he could pull out more information using silent intimidation. When he realized I wasn’t fazed, he frowned and went back to questioning other people.
After collecting names, addresses, and phone numbers, they let the audience go, though quite a few had left right after Wade’s accident. Then Ransom concentrated on anybody who was closer to the action on stage. Anyone who might’ve had access to things backstage. The nine remaining leather contestants were herded together onstage, while the staff of Bubbles was placed near the bar. I and my competition staff were shunted off to the side and the judges were placed backstage. Ransom went about taking information from us, one by one.
He asked everyone if Wade had enemies or if anyone had witnessed arguments between Wade and others. All the standard stuff. If Ransom was thinking this was a murder, I was right there with him on that. Wade’s death might’ve appeared to be a bizarre accident, but that didn’t add up. Wade had set all the rigging himself. He’d rehearsed plenty of times without anyone present. He didn’t even allow the DJ in on rehearsals, since the music was meant to work in the background and nothing more. He knew how to handle the rigging without help. Could’ve been an accident, but I had a feeling someone must’ve had a hand in it.
While I waited to be interviewed, one of the crime scene investigators called for Detective Ransom. Since I know the layout of Bubbles so well, having to spend most of my evenings there, I managed to position myself so I could make out nearly everything the detective and the CSI discussed.
Crimes on Latimer: From the Early Cases of Marco Fontana Page 33
