Tats Too: The Case of the Devil's Diamond

by Layce Gardner

  Vivian, on the other hand, has all the right parts in all the right places. Lulu duct-taped Viv’s tits together until they squished up out of her neckline and made a nice little shelf. If I still smoked, I’d set my ashtray on them.

  Her hair is bumped up so high she single-handedly raised the sea level of Las Vegas (now she’s taller than me), and her body is rockin’ that dress so hard that even Lulu has declared her flawless. And in drag queen-speak that’s as good as you get.

  “Just remember that you’re not a man, you’re not a drag queen. You are a woman with attitude,” Lulu lectures.

  Vivian replies, “I’ve always been that. It’s in our genetic code.”

  Rachel and I steal a glance at each other and snicker our assent.

  “More!” Lulu gestures wildly, almost tipping over the Mt. Everest of hair on Vivian’s head. “More attitude than normal. Less is not more. Whoever said that was stupid. More is more and less is less and less is not more.”

  “Got it,” Vivian says, molding her hair back in place like it’s a clay pot on spinning pottery wheel.

  “I once knew a Cherokee guy named Les Moore,” I throw in just for the hell of it.

  “And you, shut your cakehole,” Lulu says. “In your case, less is more.” She points at Vivian, saying, “More.” She points at me and says, “Less.”

  Lulu puts both palms under Vivian’s tits and pushes them higher, then pulls the dress down lower, then squishes the tits in toward each other—it’s like she’s kneading dough. “Cleavage is like chocolate. There’s no such thing as too much and it makes you feel good. It’s also the highest form of advertising there is,” she explains while shaping Vivian’s loaves. “But…” she emphasizes, “if you show sidetit, undertit or nipple, you’re nothing but a cheap whore.”

  “I didn’t know there were tit rules,” I say.

  “Of course there are. But I don’t have time to explain them all to you right now.” She nods to Rachel and orders, “Introduce them. We’ll see what the girls have to say.”

  Rachel heads for the door. “Wait,” I say, grabbing her by the elbow. “Don’t we need drag queen names?”

  “Did you hear anything I just said?” Lulu spits, putting her fists on her hips.

  I take a couple of steps backward, trying to give myself some reflex time.

  Lulu gestures both hands symmetrically up and down her body, referring to herself in the third person, “Lulu is grand marshall of the Gay Pride Parade not because she’s a drag queen. But because she is a woman, a lesbian and the epitome of flawlessness. She is not a drag queen. She is everything that drag queens adore and revere.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that you’re like a drag queen queen.”

  She squints one eye at me. “Yes.”

  I offer up, “But I’m in drag. So, I want a drag name.”

  Lulu looks up at Vivian and asks, “Is she always this way?”

  “No. Sometimes she’s worse.”

  Rachel comes to my rescue with “Okay, quick way to get drag queen names. Your first name is the name of the first pet you ever had. Your last name is the name of the street you grew up on.”

  We all think for a moment.

  Vivian pipes up with a giggle and says, “That makes me Weenie Jones.”

  I laugh. “Weenie Jones…Weenie?”

  “He was a wiener dog. Gimme a break, I was three. What’s your name?”

  “Choo-choo Walnut,” I respond in my most dignified tone.

  “Choo-choo?” she laughs.

  “Hey, I liked trains.”

  “Fer chrissakes,” Lulu mutters. “Okay, Rachel, introduce them. Throw them to the sharks.”

  Rachel takes three steps to the bedroom door, opens it, then quickly shuts it and says, “Should I use their new drag queen names?”

  “No!” we all three shout at once.

  Rachel flings open the door and the tangle of voices in the living room hush. She assumes her master of ceremonies stance and in a ringmaster’s vibrato announces, “And, now, without further ado, introducing…the irresistible, the tempestuous, the flawless—the hostess with the mostest: Lu…lu!”

  Vivian sallies forth into the din of expectant, tentative applause. She freezes, stretches out her arms, one held above her head like an inverted C and the other at her side like an upside down question mark. She tilts her chin high, daring anybody to not openly admire the womanly perfection that is her.

  The biggest Liza and a Cher grab Vivian under her elbows and lift her to the top of the coffee table, Ann-Margret style.

  “Ooooohhhhh,” the crowd inhales.

  “Aaaaaahhhh,” the crowd exhales.

  Rachel moves under Vivian and booms, “Ladies! Introducing… the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, the Hillbilly Cat, The Memphis Flash… (I swear I can hear a drumroll) Elvis the Pelvis!”

  I wish I had a microphone with a cord to whip about, but I make do with a hairbrush. I don’t just enter the living room, I splash into the living room. I pose left with brush held high. I jump right for another pose. I jump onto the coffee table, land on my knees with arms outstretched to my adoring fans just below the footlights.

  Nobody breathes.

  And just when I figure I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life, the room rips into applause. They hoot and holler and fan themselves.

  I stand up next to Vivian and give my adoring public a few pelvic thrusts.

  They scream and beg for more.

  Vivian and I laugh and wrap our arms around each other. We stand still and allow all the drag queens to pet and fondle us.

  I’m just shoving Tina’s hands away from a little too much overt petting when the front door crashes open and Mikey and her Lick of lesbians pour into the living room.

  Mikey, Anything, Cat and Scratch, Toxic and Shock, and about a dozen other bikers I’ve never met fan out along the far wall. (Poke is conspicuously missing.)

  The drag queens turn to the bikers. Both sides face off like the Earps and the Clantons at the O.K. Corral. It’s Lulu who saves the day by pushing her way through the queens and boldly approaching Mikey.

  Mikey eyeballs Lulu’s attributes and smiles sloppily. “Hey, Tits.”

  “I’m her sister,” Lulu says, and regal queen that she is, extends her hand to Mikey who stares at it dumbfounded for a whole thirty seconds, then surprises everybody by gently lifting the hand to her lips and kissing it.

  All the drag queens applaud. Lulu turns to her Flame, shushes them with a raised hand, and says simply, “Our butches are here! Ladies, show them a proper welcoming!”

  All the queens flitter and flutter around Mikey and her gang like moths near a lightbulb. They pet, paw and fawn over the bikers until each and every one of them is glowing red and wearing big, toothy smiles from all the attention.

  ***

  So, I look like Rachel as Elvis and Rachel’s dressed as me. (One of the drag queens loaned her a dreadlocks wig.) Lulu looks like Vivian and Vivian is dressed as Lulu. If all this sounds complicated and confusing, that’s because it is.

  It’s a crazy plan. The old Parent Trap switcheroo again. But it’s so crazy it just might work. The Mafia and FBI are supposed to see Rachel and Lulu, think it’s us and be led on a wild goose chase. This will free up me and Vivian (after our grand marshalling duties) to get to the coffin factory, find the diamond and get the hell out of the country.

  Foolproof.

  But not as easy as it sounds. Especially when you’re standing on a giant tinfoil Charmin rose petal float riding down the middle of the drag in Las Vegas. I’m doing the Elvis pelvis-shaking thing, but that has more to do with the bumps in the road than any skill on my part. “Blue Suede Shoes” is blaring from the speaker system and my lip curl is getting more sincere by the block.

  Vivian has the easy part. She’s just standing up high on the float behind me like the Statue of Liberty, holding a phallic-looking gold scepter and doing the “twist a lightbulb” wave.

  I’ve learned
two important things in the past hour or so. #1—Polyester is itchy. It’ll also chafe your tender parts if you don’t wear underwear. #2—Jesus loves a parade. He even has his own float. He’s right in front of us, sans the old rugged cross, throwing fish and loaves to the masses lining the streets.

  Okay, not really. He’s really tossing little packages of condoms.

  Our float is surrounded by its very own secret service personnel: Dykes on bikes. Mikey’s riding in front of us, right next to the decoy me and Viv (Rachel and Lulu) and the rest of the gang is circling their wagons around us. That way any bad guys (Mafia or Feebies) catch on to our charade, they have to punch their way through our protective layer first.

  Lulu is an organizational genius. She figured out this whole plan in less time than it takes Fred to yell “Yabba Dabba Do!” She even came up with our secret word “rhubarb.” I think rhubarb is an excellent word because it’s one you don’t just say everyday in normal conversation and it’s so weird that it sticks out like a sore thumb.

  Oh, shit. I see the Goodfellas. They’re up on the right, standing on the sidewalk scanning the parade and the crowd.

  I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “Rhubarb!”

  Okay, nobody heard me yell the secret word because the music drowned me out and the music is being drowned out by all the Harley engines.

  I try it one more time, “Rhubarb!”

  No luck.

  Good word, but we hadn’t figured on not being able to hear it over all the ruckus.

  I do the only thing I can do. I twirl my mic and cord like I’m Indiana Jones, crack the whip and boink Lulu in back of her helmet.

  She grabs her helmet and turns in the seat to look at me. I use my eyes to point up ahead and to the right. She twists back around and peers over Rachel’s right shoulder.

  When she spots the Goodfellas, she lowers her face shield and hand signals Mikey. Good, she’s got it under control and we’re all set to enter phase B of plan A.

  Phase B is simple. Rachel and Lulu are supposed to lower their helmet shields, obscuring their faces, let the Mafia get a good long whiff of them, then peel off from the parade route. The Goodfellas will chase them out of Vegas, leaving us free to chase down the damned elusive Devil’s Diamond.

  I turn my back to the right side of the street, just so the Mafia won’t see me before they see our decoys.

  Oh, crap!

  It’s the Feebies. Dillon and Festus are on the left side of the street!

  “Rhubarb!” I scream again.

  They still can’t hear me.

  “Rhubarb!” I screech as loud as I can.

  Shit.

  I drag the mic and cord back toward me, but, dammit…it gets hung up on something. I wrap the cord tight around both my wrists and pull hard…but, dammit…it’s stuck fast…

  Oh, crap, it’s stuck on a float wheel. Oh, crap, it’s pulling me. Oh crap oh shit oh my God it’s wrapped around my wrists and dragging me off the float. I’m losing this tug-of-war and fast.

  I do something that feels like a forward dive ending in a somersault before I can get the damn cord off my wrists. I end up on my ass on the pavement with my Elvis wig in my lap and me staring straight up into Dillon’s surprised face.

  I jump up and try to scramble back on top of the float. Vivian has left her high perch and she grabs my dreads and pulls me by my roots back onto the float.

  The first thing I do is sneeze all over both me and Vivian. Too many rose petals up my nose, I guess.

  “Goddammit, Lee, that’s gross,” Vivian says, dabbing her face of my snot spray.

  I sneeze again.

  A hand wraps around my blue suede boot. I look down. It’s Dillon. She’s running alongside the float and clawing at me.

  Thinking quick, Vivian uses her scepter as a club, bashing Dillon upside the head.

  Dillon stumbles and falls to her knees. Toxic brakes her motorcycle, skids and narrowly misses putting a Harley tire track down the middle of Dillon’s ass.

  Vivian and I run to the other side of the float just in time to see Rachel and Lulu rev their engine, flip off the Goodfellas and make a screeching right turn. The Mafia takes off after them.

  At least that part of the plan is working.

  Oh, Good Lord. Who built this float? I should’ve known that a bunch of drag queens, sorry, a Flame of drag queens, would be more interested in form than function. The weight of both Vivian and me on only one side rocks the float like a fishing boat on a windy lake.

  I dive for the middle in an attempt to redistribute the weight—

  —but I’m not quite quick enough.

  The float creaks and groans and—

  —flips topsy turvy over onto its right side, catapulting Vivian and me both high into the air. I swear there’s moment in mid-air where Vivian and I are flying side-by-side like Superman and Lois Lane and I look at her and she looks at me and we both mouth “Oh, shit” at exactly the same time.

  Then everything is black and I’m on the bottom of the ocean sitting on my butt. I hold my breath, flap my feet and dogpaddle up toward the surface. I see a distorted face coming at me, blowing bubbles out his nose. It’s George Burns from Heaven and he opens his mouth and says something through the water that sounds like “Blbblpht blubblempth.” I shake my head at him, indicating that I don’t understand and he swims in closer, saying it again, “Blp Bringing in the blp Sheaves.”

  “Bringing in the Sheaves?”

  Oh! That song wasn’t “Bringing in the Cheese,” it was “Bringing in the Sheaves”!

  I look back to George, but he’s disappeared. The Winkle Sisters are in his place. Their buns are loosened and their long, gray hair floats through the water like pretty silver algae. They tilt their heads right, then left and then open their respective mouths and say, “Stay away from the light. Follow the pig.”

  Light? Does that mean I’m dead?

  And what pig? Their guard pig, Wiggly?

  I continue swimming, but my arms are leaden and my feet have stopped moving. I’m out of air and my lungs force my mouth open. Water floods into my mouth and lungs and I’m drowning.

  The last thing I see is a great big, pink pig swimming down toward me. He grabs one of my floating dreads in his mouth, turns and paddles all three of his legs toward the ocean’s surface.

  “Ow!”

  My eyes snap open. I’m being dragged along the sidewalk by one dread. I twist around to find Jesus pulling on me like he’s a sled dog. He pulls me out of the pile of toilet paper and float rubble and I grab his feet.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” I grovel, kissing the top of one foot. “You saved me.”

  “No problem,” he says, wiping his foot on the back of his other leg.

  Vivian looms over me. Her hair looks like the Leaning Tower of Pisa and I giggle, “I found Jesus.”

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I sit up, shake my head, and take stock. I’m fine but the parade has turned into a fuckin’ melee.

  Mikey and her gang are taking this shit seriously. They have the Feebies surrounded. Mikey has Dillon in a chokehold and Toxic is slashing her knife at Festus.

  Even the drag queens are getting in on the action. A couple of them have their high heels off and are using them like machetes to beat back all the looky-loos that’re squeezing in to get a better look.

  I blink around at the crowd, but I don’t even see a glimpse of George, the Winkles or a pig.

  “This is one crazy-ass hullabaloo,” I say, rubbing my sore scalp.

  “Fuck your hullabaloo word,” Vivian says, grabbing my hand and pulling me to my feet. “We need to get the hell outta here.”

  She pulls me into the middle of the street, holds her dress up high around her thighs and chases down a Shriner guy in a little car. He sees her coming right at him and veers into a crazy figure-eight pattern. Vivian drags me in circles and I stumble bumble after her. She finally catches hold of the guy’s fez, yanks it off and throws it at him, be
aning him on the back of his head.

  He slams on his tiny brakes. “What the hell?” he screams.

  She grabs his rainbow-colored suspenders and pulls him out of the car. He lands upsy-downsy on the sidewalk and Vivian hops into the car. She looks at me and shouts, “Get the fuck in!”

  Okay. I guess.

  There’s not enough room for both of us in the clown car, so I plop my polyester-covered ass down on the trunk part and hold my feet in the air. Vivian mashes down on the gas pedal and squeals off down the street, going against the current of the parade.

  She’s a pretty good wheel man because she has to weave around drag queens and all those gay rodeo cowboys and cowgirls and their horses and piles of horse poop. After a couple of blocks, she makes a hard right, then after another couple of blocks a hard left, and then I see where we’re headed.

  A white and silver sign shaped like a paisley hangs on the side of a big, brick cracker-box building. The sign reads in cursive Cushman Coffins. Vivian swerves up next to the building which is surrounded by a tall chainlink fence with a locked gate.

  What the hell? Do they think somebody’s going to break in and try to steal a coffin?

  Well, I guess we kind of are, but still…

  Vivian halts the tiny car right in front of the gate. I roll off the trunk into the gravel, then straggle to my feet. She unwinds herself from the car and marches up to the gate.

  She loops her fingers through the fence wire and shakes it just to test the lock. “Looks like we’re going over.”

  “How’re you going to make it over the fence in that dress?”

  “When I said we, I meant you,” she explains.

  I blow a hot stream of air through my lips just so she’ll know I don’t like this crap.

  I hook one pointy blue suede shoe in the chain link, wrap my fingers through more of it and have my ass about five feet off the ground when I hear, “Hold it right there!”

  I stick my nose through the fence and see a guard all dressed in a gray uniform with his belly jutting out in front of him a good two feet. He’s got funny buck teeth and a red nose like W.C. Fields. But the weirdest part is that he’s only got one arm. His long gray sleeve is rolled and pinned up where his arm would be if he had one and his one hand is carrying one of those big mag flashlights like what cops carry.