"Did... did you have that...? I mean, was your hair blue the first time we met?"
Zach reached up and felt his locks. "No, it's new, but you likely wouldn't remember. It was dark that night."
"Oh, right," Brad said, blushing. "And the tattoo I saw yesterday?"
"New, too," Zach said, pulling up his shirttail to reveal the horse's head covering his taut abdomen.
Calmness suffused the boy's eyes and radiated in his features. Brad felt mesmerized.
"Can you help me get up?" he said. "I've got to get back to my house. I have a lot to do this afternoon..."
"Your pain will be pretty severe for another day or two. You should probably take it easy. The aspirin will wear off in a few hours, but I don't think you need to see a doctor."
"Thanks for the prognosis," Brad said ironically.
"You're welcome to come back for more healing, if you like. I'd recommend at least two week's worth of treatments." Zach looked away awkwardly. "It you don't want me to do it, I'm sure you can find someone else in P'Town who can."
"I'd better get going," Brad said.
Zach helped him to his feet. Once he'd dressed, Brad stood by the door. Should he just walk away and end it here? That's what he'd done the last time.
"Zach, I... well, thank you."
Zach extended his hand. "Glad to be of service, Bradford."
Brad hesitated. Surely he owed Zach more than a handshake? He shrugged. "Can I... take you out to supper this evening?"
Zach's mouth fell open, but nothing came out.
"Unless you've got a hot date already."
Zach looked up sheepishly. "Not even a cool one."
"Meet me at Cafe Edwige tonight at eight."
Zach grinned. Suddenly he was just an attractive young man with nothing stranger about him than his blue hair.
16
As he limped home from Zach's guesthouse, Brad pondered the recent turn of events. Two days earlier on the P'Town Fast Ferry, a female impersonator dressed as Marilyn Monroe had tipped him off to the probable murder of his ex-lover. That same evening he'd discovered a drowned body at the breakwater. Next, he was almost run over on Bradford Street, but at the last second he'd been rescued by a diminutive lesbian named Big Ruby. Ruby had warned him to watch himself at a disreputable guesthouse where he'd been felt up by a drug-addicted singer with a foot fetish. Then he'd been attacked at the same guesthouse by an unknown assailant and thrown from a moving car, only to be rescued yet again by a young man with blue hair who radiated healing energy through the palms of his hands.
Who knew Provincetown could be so scary?
When he reached his house he tried to phone Grace, but was told she was currently out of contact. It was strange for his boss not to be available, even in an emergency. He left an urgent message saying they needed to talk.
In the marbled bathroom, Brad turned the Jacuzzi on full, tossing handfuls of sea salt into the swirling water. He undressed and gingerly lowered himself into the enveloping warmth. Zach had been right—he felt plenty of pain, but fortunately nothing seemed to be broken.
The water lapped at his sides, massaging and soothing his muscles. As the jets whirred he tried to formulate a game plan. Considering the events of the previous evening, it seemed that much more likely that Ross had been murdered. But why, and by whom? It was clear that someone was aware of Bradford's true identity and possibly even his whereabouts. Unless that person now believed him to be dead, of course, but a quick glance at the morning papers would tell his assailant otherwise.
Who was behind the attack? Cinder knew about Brad's relationship to Ross, but what else did he know? Not only had he arranged Brad's visit to the guesthouse, he'd also conveniently been at the house the same evening. Cinder could easily have tipped someone off to Brad's real reason for being there. But if that were the case, why invite him to the house in the first place? If Cinder hadn't told Brad about the suspicious circumstances of Ross's death, they would almost certainly have gone unnoticed. So why expose a murder one day and then try to kill the person who might help solve it the next? Or had he merely been set up by Cinder in order to implicate someone else in the crime? A drag queen's revenge! Now that was possible.
And even if Cinder wasn't involved in the killing, how much could Brad trust a public drag queen to keep things to himself? What was it Rosengarten had said about the need for absolute discretion? That it was a necessary complement to both the deadly and the tempting. It sounded like something out of a secret service training manual. An idle word in the wrong ear could have unintentionally led to Brad's discovery. And God knows how drag queens loved their gossip!
So far the only real clue seemed to be the familiar-sounding voice that had spoken his name before he was knocked unconscious. Brad still couldn't place it. Maybe it would come to him.
He reached up to feel the bump on his head. It throbbed. He was lucky he didn't have a concussion, but perhaps he should see a doctor just in case. On the other hand, he couldn't afford to waste time. Someone certainly seemed to think he was hot on the trail of something. If only he knew what!
He tried again to recall the voice. There'd been something throaty about it. Could it have been Hayden's? His head ached with the effort to remember. Cinder could change his tone in seconds from a Betty-Boop falsetto to a Don't-Fuck-With-Tallulah bass. Who knew what he really sounded like?
There was also that kooky singer with the foot fetish. He'd had a reedy tone when he spoke. Yes, it could have been him. But again, why? And what was his connection with Ross?
Brad's mind sifted through the possibilities for a likely suspects list. There was also Big Ruby, now that he thought about it. Brad had told her enough about why he was in P'Town to catch her interest. Obviously, Ruby couldn't have been anywhere near the guesthouse last night. Or could she? It would be a stretch, but she might have followed him there. She could be far more involved than she let on. From the anger she'd expressed toward Rosengarten, he'd bet money she held a personal grudge against him. And by her own admission, Ruby certainly seemed to feel that murder had its uses.
The jets buzzed and whirred as the water flowed around him. He definitely needed a plan. Right now, talking to Big Ruby seemed like a good place to start. He stood and reached for a towel, gently dabbing at his aching body. At least there was no damage done to his tattoo. He flexed his abs, admiring himself in the mirror. The wings rippled as if waiting to take flight.
He glanced out the window to see a man watching him with a pair of binoculars from a neighboring house. Bradford flashed him and shut the blinds. Peeping Tom, he muttered.
He walked naked into the bedroom where he threw on his usual attire of walking shorts, T-shirt, and moisturizer.
His phone rang. He snatched it up, expecting to hear Grace.
"I have some interesting news for you," Tom Nava said. "You asked if there was a connection between the two dead boys. I forgot one thing."
"What's that?"
"Ross died from a drug overdose and the other boy died as a result of drowning. But there was one thing they had in common—a snake tattoo."
"Is that right?" Brad said, recalling the cobra on Ross's shoulder. It had been dark when he found James Shephard by the breakwater, so he hadn't noticed any markings. Suddenly, he remembered the coiled snake on Quentin's chest and felt the hair rising on the back of his neck.
"Any idea what it might signify?" he asked, reaching for his discarded pants and retrieving the boy's business card from his pocket.
Nava paused. "Why do you think I'm telling you?" he asked gruffly. "I was hoping you would."
The cop's growl made Brad tingle.
"Oh!" he said, ignoring the stirrings in his groin. "Ross got the tattoo last summer. It's a Buddhist symbol."
Nava grunted. "Buddhist symbol, huh? Could be they just went to the same tattoo artist."
"I may have a way of finding out," Brad said. "I'm going to call a friend who's an expert on these things. I'll let you
know what I hear back."
Brad dialed the number on Quentin's card. After what had happened the night before, he couldn't just announce himself as the client who was knocked unconscious. He'd have to inquire discreetly when Quentin was going to be home and make an appointment under another name. Then he could turn up and find out what the talkative blond knew. The phone rang eight times without an answer. Brad set the receiver down. He pocketed the card to remind him to call again later.
In the mirror, his neck sported a large bruise ranging from yellow at the center to an ugly greenish purple around the edges. Unfortunately, they weren't fashionable colors, he noted, and tied a bandana around his throat.
He walked the few blocks to Coffee Joe's. Brad wasn't sure how long Joe's had been in P'Town, but it'd been a local hangout for as long as he'd been going there. Two men occupied a bench on the outdoor patio. Both had the chiseled cheekbones and bristly mustaches of the daddy type Brad found irresistible. The first wore a sleeveless T-shirt, showing off his burly arms. The second was a bare-chested Viking. A garden of wiry hair sprouted from his massive pecs. In another era he would have stood guard at the gates to Valhalla.
Brad caught his eye. The man scowled, dismissing him in a glance. Try as he might, Brad couldn't approximate that hard-edged, brooding miscreant look that would have doomed such a man to the position of bouncer in a straight bar, but in a gay club would immediately elevate him to 'god' status.
In the Hierarchy of Gay, Brad knew, men like this were endowed by nature with thrillingly wicked—nay, almost evil—thighs that brought about despair in the general populace. And those types slept only with their own kind unless they were having an off day, having been mortally wounded by some skinny retail clerk at Bloomingdale's with an over-the-shoulder, "In your size? For you, I have only a serape. Try our camping department."
At that moment, three twinks exited the café slurping English-toffee cappuccinos and vanilla-crème lattes. They were what upscale porn magazines referred to as "hottie boys" and the downscale ones as "fresh meat." Brad caught himself humming "Three Little Maids from School Are We." They looked as though they never worried about their waistlines or missing the gym for a single moment. In fact, they looked as though they'd never been to a gym. The only thing weighty about them was an overdeveloped sense of style and irony.
One at a time they glanced up from their straws to look Brad in the eye, giggling and slurping their approval. All three of them combined wouldn't equal Brad's body weight. Why do I always get hit on by underage cha-cha queens? he wondered. Like the muscle daddies on the bench, he just scowled and looked away as they skipped past him down the sidewalk.
Inside, Big Ruby stood behind the counter beside a bald hunk. Tattoos covered the helper's shining scalp in an intricate design of violets and daggers. Brad gave the guy an admiring glance. It was coolly ignored. Strike two.
Ruby waved and adjusted her cat's eye glasses. The rhinestones sparkled in the halogens above the display counter.
"Hello there, friend!" she said, reaching across the counter to shake his hand. "Let me guess—a Tazo Chai lite?"
"Yeah! How'd you know?"
"Easy! You're the classy type—a little bit country, a little bit gourmet."
"You sure know your customers," Brad said.
Ruby turned to a shiny, chrome-covered machine and quickly whipped up a confection that was one-third froth and two-thirds steam.
"On me," she said when he tried to pay.
"Much obliged," Brad said. He took a sip. "Wow! That's great!"
Ruby beamed. "My best Sumatran with a splash of Key Lime Honey. By the way, how'd you make out last night?"
Brad smiled ruefully and rubbed the back of his head. "I should have listened to you."
Ruby's face paled. "What happened?"
"I guess I'm lucky to be alive today. I was ambushed and left for dead out on the highway near the dunes."
Ruby's hand flew to her mouth.
"Ruby, I'd really appreciate it if you'd spend a little time talking to me."
"Halle!" she snapped.
The bald hunk looked over. "Yeah, Rue?"
He was a she!
"Take over for me."
"Sure, Rue," the girl said, wiping her hands on her apron.
"The galfriend," Ruby explained with a nod of her head in Halle's direction.
They walked out to the back of the cafe and sat on a stone wall. Brad started in on the story of what had happened to him after meeting Ruby the previous evening.
"Hang on," Ruby said. She pulled a thick joint out of her apron, lighting up before passing it along. "This is good fair-trade dope. It'll help ease your pain some," she said.
Brad smiled as he reflected on all the alternative medicine being offered to him in P'Town. He took a toke and passed it back.
"I may be a Buddhist," Ruby said as she took the joint from his fingers, "but if I ever get my hands on that bastard, I'll tear him apart."
Another Buddhist, Brad noted with curiosity. "I've been meeting a lot of Buddhists on this trip," he said. "I wonder why that is."
"Well," Ruby began, "the Practice teaches that nothing is coincidental. There's probably a reason you're connecting with our energy right now..."
"Actually, what I meant is why are there so many Buddhists in P'Town?"
"Oh!" Ruby adjusted her glasses and smiled. "The Cape just seems to attract peace lovers—and I am a peaceful gal, despite what I've said against Rosiegarters."
"I believe you," Bradford said, as the joint went back and forth.
"When the Chinese invaded Tibet, a lot of Buddhists left the country—those that weren't thrown in jail, of course." Ruby shrugged. "I've got my own Reluctant Rinpoche just a few streets over from me."
"Your own what?"
"Rinpoche.Rhymes with 'ricochet.' It's the name they give to reincarnating teachers who come back time and again to teach the rest of us lowlife types. They could float off peacefully into the bardo for all time, but they sacrifice themselves by coming back to help unevolved souls like you and me. Mine's one of the really big ones, but he doesn't have his own group yet. He just showed up a few months ago and said the Cape was calling him."
Ruby sucked on the joint and held her breath till her eyes watered. She passed it back to Bradford.
"Stuff s not bad, eh?" she said, watching as he took a toke. "Some dope rips the shit out of your throat and makes you feel like you've been sucking on sandpaper, but this stuff goes down real smooth."
Brad thought that was an interesting comment, considering all the throaty voices he'd been hearing lately.
"Anyway, my Rinpoche left Tibet when he was barely a child," Ruby continued. "When the Chinese invaded in '59, the Dalai Lama fled with two children and a handful of holy books."
Brad's interest twigged at the mention of the Dalai Lama.
"My Rinpoche was one of the kids," Ruby concluded. "I've been trying to convince him to teach, but he's not ready yet. Anyway, I'm sure that's not what you wanted to talk to me about."
Brad pulled a picture of Ross from his wallet. "I'm trying to find out what happened to this guy."
Ruby took the picture and nodded. "I remember him well. He was a sweet man, really and truly. Used to come in every other day for a caramel macchiato. Sometimes he'd sit and we'd talk for a while—nothing special, just shootin' the shit. I never knew where he worked or I would've warned him he was in bad company."
Ruby passed the picture back and shook her head sadly.
"Any idea why someone would want him dead?"
Ruby's eyes narrowed. "You sayin' he was murdered?"
Brad nodded. "I'm afraid so."
"What happened?"
"Drug overdose. But it was a drug he didn't normally use."
"Well, now!" Ruby took a final toke and blew the smoke slowly across her lips. She looked Brad in the eye and shook her head. "It doesn't make sense, a nice man like that. Who would want to harm him? There'd be plenty that'd want to s
ee his boss dead, though."
"Do you think someone who had it in for Rosengarten might have bumped off Ross to get back at him?"
"To send a message, you mean?"
"Something like that."
Ruby ground out the roach under her sneaker.
"Doubt it," she said. "This town's too small. Thing like that'd get around faster than a jackrabbit on speed."
"Could he have seen something at the house that made him a target?"
"Now that's possible!" Ruby paused. "I hear tell there's plenty of high-powered, closety political types that go to that place. Maybe your friend Ross sees somebody who doesn't want to be seen there—somebody real dangerous—and the guy has him popped."
Bradford had already reached a similar conclusion. He thought of Marilyn Monroe and her deadly tryst with the Kennedy brothers. Where many have cried 'conspiracy theory,' others simply knew better. Marilyn's death had always seemed too convenient. And who better to have done it than J. Edgar Hoover and his demented band? In their eyes, Doris Day could have been a communist sympathizer and a threat to the government. But it wasn't till the revelations of Hoover's personal life came out after his death that it really began to make sense. Everything had been tossed from that closet, including the dresses the old man liked to wear—all the way from kitsch to kvetch, and just about anything in between. Who would have benefited most from the death of America's love goddess but a dress-wearing, FBI-running, Johnny-come-lately rival? Marilyn threatened to blow the goods on the Kennedys and Hoover came to the rescue, taking the opportunity to get their love doll out of the picture and get himself in good with the boys in one foul move. It was that simple.
"How many other guys work in that place?" Ruby asked.
"Maybe a dozen."
She clucked. "You should ask one of them. They'd know more than me."
"That's what I was doing last night when I got conked on the head," he said. "Can you tell me anything more?"
"Not really, hon," she said. "I avoid the place like the plague. In a small town like this it's hard to stay out of people's way, but I try extra hard with that bunch."
P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery Page 10
