"Does room service offer the full menu from the restaurant?" I asked.
"Not usually, but we can work something out for you, Lala," the host smiled and winked. It always confused me when a fan recognized me. He stood slightly taller than me, his blond hair almost covering his eyes. "You should have won, you know. I mean, you were the best diva on that sta-"
"Can I order here and have it sent to my room?" I interrupted, reaching for a menu from the stack piled on the hostess stand. If I didn’t stop the poor guy, we’d be there all night. I wanted my food, and I wanted quiet. In that order.
"Sure. But we’re running a little behind. It’ll take about 45 minutes...is that ok?"
I nodded as I thumbed through the menu. I scanned the pages of chicken, steak and shrimp entrees and settled on the healthiest option.
"I’ll take a turkey avocado Cobb salad, dressing on the side and a pitcher of ice water."
"Sure thing," the host said, writing my order down. "Room number?"
I hesitated. I didn’t know this guy, and I didn’t want to just tell him where I was staying. The host seemed to read my mind and leaned in to whisper.
"I’m not the person who delivers the food to your room," he looked around to see if anyone was listening. We were alone at the hostess stand, so he continued. "But I can be."
"Thanks, but I need my dinner. Room 250." I thought a moment before adding, "I’m expecting a friend, but thank you."
The lie rolled off my tongue. I didn’t need The Horny Host knocking on my door with a Cobb salad. Discouragement would make my night easier.
"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "That’ll be a turkey avocado Cobb salad, and a pitcher of ice water. Is that it?"
I nodded and paused. The smell of grilled chicken and rosemary filled the air, it sounded a lot more...fun than what I ordered. I held up a hand to object.
"Wait. Scratch that," I glanced a the menu and pointed at what I wanted. "Rosemary chicken with mashed potatoes, no gravy. With apple pie for dessert."
"That’s my girl," the host said, smiling as he drew a line through my previous order and wrote my new requests.
"I’m not your girl, but I will take the apple pie with me now. You know, as an appetizer."
Apple pie in hand, or on plate, I took the elevator to the fifth floor. The inside of the elevator crowded with other guests, to avoid chitchat or silly banter, I pretended to read the poster advertising the hotel’s free breakfast, pool and spa. The elevator stopped at the fifth floor. I rounded the corner to toward my room and walked down the hallway. As I walked, a dark figure, dressed in black turned the corner. I wasn’t in the mood to engage, so looked to the floor. As the person passed I noticed the shoes; blue penny loafers with quarters in the slots. Big coins must have been hard to wedge into the slots, I thought. I heard the door to the stairwell creak open and clodding footsteps as the person walked down the stairs. The doors to the stairs closed with a sharp click as I fumbled in my satchel for the room key.
Key in hand, and still staring down, I stopped at my room. The door was open. Not all the way, only an inch from being closed, but still...open. I knew I closed my door all the way before leaving, but I was in hurry to leave and could have forgotten.
No wait, I thought. I couldn't have forgotten. I never forget to close the hotel door. I watch too many episodes of Forensic Files and Law And Order. I take the time to lock up my living space.
I’m the "on time is 15 minutes late’ type of person. I don’t make these kinds of mistakes. When I’m doing a client’s makeup, I show up early and with extra supplies. I’m the one people stop to ask if I have extra finishing powder or if I brought brush cleaner or baby wipes. When I show up as Lala, I’m even more prepared. I know who’s in charge, why I’m there, and the street address so I can send a thank you card after I get home. I’m that girl. I lock the door and jiggle the handle to make sure it's locked, and then try to open the door to make sure no one can get inside. I locked that door. Which meant someone else had been inside, or maybe they were still there.
I took a few deep breaths to calm myself down and remembered a conversation I’d had during the Empress of Drag contest. A visiting celebrity queen, Anita Kiss warned us all about the price of fame.
"I’ve had fans sneak into my car and my hotel; and once, into my bathroom stall," Anita explained. "Be careful, darlings."
I placed my key back into my satchel, shifted the bag behind me and used my toe to open the door a crack.
"Hello?" I said, trying to sound tough, but realizing my voice sounded scared.
Nothing. No answer.
I sighed and pushed the door open a little more. All the curtains were open, and the fading afternoon light surprised me. I remembered closing the curtains before I left; I needed the room to be like a cave when I returned. Seeing the now-purple sky threw me off.
Maybe the person left, I thought, stepping into the room.
Nothing prepared me for what I walked into.
My first glance into the room gave me a glimpse of a man’s back, face down on the floor. He was covered in blood and had what looked like bullet holes in his back. A dead man was in my room. What’s worse, he had been killed in my room. The bedsheets lay tucked and untouched, as was the desk near the window. The only thing abnormal was the body in front of me. I felt the room dip as I stumbled, trying to make sense of everything around me. I stood next to a dead man. Someone shot this person, which meant the killer could still be in the room. The bathroom. I tried to tiptoe backwards out of the room. I didn't want to bring attention to myself, in case the killer was hiding, waiting for the perfect moment to attack.
I shouldn’t have said ‘hello’, I thought, as my heart thumped inside my chest. I can’t stand here forever. What should I do?
Ok, I thought. Stay calm. You will step out into the hallway and you will call the police. I was unsure of what to do, but years of watching true crime shows told me not to touch anything and to call the police right away. I turned to leave. Before I could run to the door, the phone on the desk rang.
Who would call me? I don’t even know this number.
I debated about whether I should answer, but picked up the receiver. I walked to the desk, careful not to touch anything. I used the hem of my shirt to pick up the phone.
"Hello?" I whispered, keeping the phone away from my skin.
"Welcome home," said the person on the phone. And then a dial tone.
I blinked. Welcome home? What did that mean? Who called me? How did he even learn I was in the room? I walked in here, found the body I began to leave and...
The window. I hung up the phone and looked out the window. The room overlooked a busy downtown street. With the curtains open, anyone on the street below could see inside. Searching the other side of the street, I could see the shadow of someone as he turned the corner. I couldn't tell much in the glimpse I got before he left, but I swore I saw blue shoes.
I heard the door open behind me and I turned to find myself face to face with two police officers, guns drawn. They screamed at me to place my hands up and keep them there. I dropped my satchel and raised my hands in the air. My left hand covered in lipstick swatches, and my right hand still holding that damn apple pie.
Shit, I thought. This….would be hard to explain. I was the only person in the hotel room, with some dead guy. One of the other hotel guests heard the gunshots and called the cops. And now they think I killed him. The phone call meant someone planned this. But who. And why me?
"You have the right to remain silent..."
2
Detective Joseph Stephens sauntered into the interrogation room with a cup of coffee in his right hand and a wide smile across his face. I saw all I needed to in that smile. That smile said confidence. That smile said his investigation was over. I slid my gaze from his face to the floor and kept it there.
I took another breath and remembered I still had Lala's clothes on. How would she handle this? I thought. She’d stop being such
a mess, that’s what she’d do. Get your shit together and do what you well. You’re used to working less than a foot from your clients. You get in their faces and can read them like a book. That’s your superpower. Use it.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. From my brief glimpse, Stephens looked to be in his 60s, with a shock of dyed hair. He was the kind of person you could tell was a cop before he showed a badge. His shoulders were so straight, you could balance a lunch tray on them. His smile and his hair told me he got his own way. This could be tougher than I thought, I realized.
Detective Stephens walked to the interrogation table and took a seat across from me. He nodded at my lawyer, who sat beside me. He took a sip of his coffee and watched me as I made myself look him in the eye.
"You wanna cup?" he asked, holding up his coffee. "I can get you one."
I shook my head. No.
"Your lawyer sure got here fast," Stephens said.
"I called my mom. This is a family friend who lives here in town," I said, blinking back tears. "I don’t even know his name."
"I’m Mitchell and it doesn’t matter how I got here," the lawyer said, patting my shoulder as he begged me to not cry again. "It matters that I’m here."
"Ok," he started, pulling a small notebook from his back pocket and flipping a few pages. He identified what he was looking for and began again. "We received a call from The Fern. Shots fired. We received several calls. A patrol dispatched; they arrived on the scene within 9 minutes. The officers arrived on the scene to find you, Mr. Mercy, in the room by the window, alone. The body of the victim, Franklin Reeves, was on the floor. He was pronounced dead on the scene by the medical examiner."
Reeves. I know that name, I thought.
It sounded familiar but I couldn't place it. I remember the actor who played Superman was named Reeves, but he died a long time ago.
Reeves. How did I know that name? An old classmate? A neighbor?
Maybe that's how I remembered him. Maybe he was a neighbor. I didn't see the guys face. I had nothing in my memory. I was hoping this was all one big coincidence. Or misunderstanding. A misunderstanding would be better.
"Police found a gun near the body, registered to you, Mr. Mercy." the detective continued, "There were four bullets missing from the clip. We found four shell casings by the body, three bullet wounds in the deceased’s back, and four bullet holes in the wall on the other side of the room. One of those bullets was in the wall. The recovered bullets, both from the deceased and the wall, were the same caliber as the gun. The gun is on its way to the lab where the technician’s will run ballistics tests, but I have a hunch we’ll have a match."
I had a gun I bought for protection back in college. All those months of travelling back and forth from drag shows and makeup events...I’d heard stories of other queens getting jumped and beaten, I bought one as my little insurance policy. I never even shot the thing before I lost it when I moved.
"Do you have any fingerprints? Did you find any gunshot residue on my client?" Mitchell the Lawyer asked.
"The firearm was wiped clean. And Mr. Mercy could've worn gloves or washed his hands after." Stephens answered.
"The only thing your evidence proves is that someone found and then fired my client's gun. Anyone in The Fern could've murdered Reeves."
"Except we found Reeves’ body in your client's hotel room, while your client was staying there."
"C’mon Stephens, you know better. Your crazy conspiracy theory is that my client shoots random person in his hotel room. We've got no motive, there's no evidence that puts the gun in my client's hand. No jury in the world would to believe your story."
"Oh, I think Mr. Mercy knew the guy," the detective said. I fidgeted in the chair, trying to get more invisible, if that was even possible. This lawyer seemed to know his stuff and I was thrilled I didn’t have to talk anymore.
"Uh-uh. Nice try. You've got no proof they knew each other. No witnesses saw them together entering the hotel. Nothing connecting the two. Mr. Mercy is in town for an event at the mall and Reeves is a shift manager at a Burger Barn in Miami." Mitchell kept talking, and I settled back into my chair. I had a feeling the detective had more to tell us.
"Uh-uh. Nice try. There IS evidence they knew each other. Look at this." Stephens shuffled a stack of paper, chose one, and slid it across the table. "He has lived in Indianapolis for the past three years, but grew up in Bloomington. We did our research and found something...interesting."
In a flash everything clicked; long-forgotten memories forgotten came rushing into my brain like bathwater. High school. Freshman year. After lunch. I took the shortcut through the senior hallway on my way to American lit. I kept my eyes on the floor, like I did every day. Past the auditorium on my left and the media center on my right. I walked with my head down, trying not to make eye contact with the other students.
As I approached the end of the hallway, I heard the squeak of sneakers on the concrete floor. A white pair of battered Converse fell in line next to my black Supergas. I took a half a second to realize I had a walking partner and look up, but by then it was too late. I was face to face with a fist speeding toward my face.
"Smear the queer!" It took another second for me to feel the punch. One moment I saw the fist, the next moment I saw the ceiling as I lay sprawled out on the floor. Two big fists grabbed my t-shirt, pulled me up from the floor, and pushed me against the lockers. One hand held me up while the other punched me. In the face. In the chest. In the stomach. I remember the look on his face as he hit me. It wasn’t fun. It was a job. Something he had to do. That’s what terrified me. The...practicality of my beating.
Everything else was a blur. I remember the crowd of kids. I remember a teacher pulling him off of me. I remember falling to the ground and him kicking me in the ribs. That's when the pain set in...after the kick. My legs were like jelly, but ribs felt like a lumpy pillow. I hurt everywhere. My stomach hurt. My back hurt. My ears rang from blows to the head. I wouldn’t wish that kind pain on anyone, ever. I wasn't conscious for much longer.
A few hours later, I woke up in the hospital covered in bandages. He’d cracked three ribs and broken two more. I had two black eyes. I’d fallen wrong and broken my left leg. My body felt like it I'd been poured into a blender and pureed into a smoothie. The painkillers helped, but I still felt tender. I only stayed in the hospital overnight, but that was enough. I left in a wheelchair and moved on to crutches by the end of the week.
"Blood In The Hallways: Gay Teen Hospitalized By Bully." The lawyer read the article out loud from the sheet and my stomach turned sour. Jacob Reeves was the guy that beat me and then outed me to the entire state of Indiana. The headline brought me back to that helpless moment and my vision blurred as tears welled in my eyes. I blinked to stop from crying. I didn’t want the detective to see me so emotional. I knew it wouldn’t help my case.
So I knew the dead guy. The killer found someone I would want dead. I couldn't breathe. I couldn’t talk. Everyone would think I murdered Reeves They thought I would kill this guy.
Hell, if Jacob Reeves did to them what he did most people would want him dead.
I'm not a fighter. I couldn’t take revenge on anyone. I might give you a shitty makeover, or tell you that horrible shade of pink lipstick looks good. But murder? Nah.
The problem is; everyone has a breaking point. As far as the cops saw it, this guy ruined my life.
But that’s the thing: Reeves didn't ruin my life. My life is amazing. I love my job. I have a career-a better career than I had ever imagined. I looked up, ready to make my point. Stephens had been watching me the whole time.
"I’m gonna tell you a story, Mr. Mercy," he said, not taking his eyes off of mine. "You had Stephens meet you in your hotel room. You had good intentions. You’re a little famous now. You wanted closure. You can afford to be nice. Reeves comes to your room, but doesn’t apologize. He may have even made a joke out it. Or he hadn’t changed, and came to your room to make
fun of you all over again. We'll never learn what he said, but things got intense. Whatever he said brought back all that anger and resentment and you unleashed your fury. You pulled your gun and pop pop pop... you killed Reeves."
"No. that didn’t happen," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I would never... I couldn’t...I wouldn't have invited him to my room. I don’t hang out with guys like that. Anyone that knows me knows that."
But then, no one knows me. I said to myself. Better leave out that little detail.
"I would never kill anyone," I finished, shaking my head so hard my curls bounced. "It's just not me."
I thought about telling Stephens about the phone call I received from the killer, but I decided against it. I knew they wouldn’t believe me. They didn’t need to; they had evidence.
Wait. The evidence.
"There couldn't have been enough time," I said. I sat so close the edge of the seat, I thought I’d slip under the table. "I left the mall, came back to the hotel and ordered room service! I ordered dinner. I had a freaking plate of pie in my hands when the police showed up. It would be impossible for me to do all of that, right? Ask the guy at the lobby restaurant! He can tell you! He even asked me out, so he’ll remember."
I held my breath as I waited for the detective to respond.
"We’ll ask him. Maybe he’ll remember you. Maybe you wanted him to remember you. Or you had already killed Reeves, and you rushed to the restaurant to cover your tracks."
My lawyer motioned for me to stop talking. I sat back in my chair and put my head on the table. I thought about my options. There weren’t many; if the man at the restaurant didn’t remember me or if the timing was wrong, I’d spend the rest of my life in jail.
The detective stood and motioned for me to do the same.
"Huh?" I muttered as I looked at my lawyer for an explanation.
Lala Thankyou_Dark Homecoming Page 2
