The Brush Off

by Laura Bradley

  So I didn’t blame him for what had now lasted long enough to be considered ogling, but I didn’t especially like it, either. In fact, my stomach twisted in an odd way. I gripped the brush tighter to get a grip on my weird reaction.

  “Ouch,” Bettina protested, in her alto, not her tenor.

  Apologizing, I tugged through her hair more gently and bit my lip instead.

  “So, you don’t know Claude?” Scythe, whose eyes had traveled back up to her face, asked Trudy. Cutting me a confused look, she shook her head wordlessly. Scythe picked up on the undercurrents and read way too much into them, as usual. He cleared his throat.

  “Are you someone who would know him?”

  That did it. Trudy was insulted. She planted her hands on her hips.

  “I guess so. I’m her best friend. I know everything about Reyn,” Trudy announced.

  “Then you and I need to talk,” he said, flashing a grin so inviting it sparked a girl’s imagination. How come all I got were frowns, groans, eyebrow hitches, laser-beam stares, and leers?

  “Jackson Scythe, SAPD,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Trudy Trujillo.” Trudy’s affront visibly melted as she took his large hand in her fine-fingered one. I noticed with a small degree of satisfaction that he was the one to drop the handshake. Good thing, too, because from the looks of Trudy, they might still be standing there at the turn of the next century. I was in real trouble if these two talked. Scythe had Trudy so under his testosterone spell that he’d know everything about me—even about the boring underwear. That thought drew me up short. I have bigger secrets than that; I don’t know why that particular one came to mind first. As if he were reading my mind, Scythe threw me a look, then half hitched his left eyebrow. I thought about my toad-green bra and had a sudden urge to run to Victoria’s Secret.

  “If you have time, I have some questions now,” Scythe said to Trudy.

  Uh-oh.

  I heard the front door open and prayed it wasn’t the National Enquirer. After all, if I was tromping around all over the TV, it wouldn’t be long before the media figured out who I was and where to find me. Argh. Sherlyn was taxed to her limit by having to answer one phone call every half hour and greet an occasional transvestite customer. How was she going to be able to hold the press at bay? With her iridescent tennis shoes? I’d probably have to close up the shop. Damn.

  “Miss Sawyer, none of your employees saw Mr. Montoya come by the salon last night.”

  I looked at Scythe, whose hard face told me he’d taken a time-out from charming Trudy to harass me. “First of all, the only employee is my receptionist, and she goes home at five. The rest are independent contractors and go home whenever they choose. Yesterday, they were all gone by seven-thirty when Ricardo came by.”

  “How convenient,” he murmured, noting it on his steno, “for you to be all alone.”

  “But she wasn’t alone, señor,” Mario interrupted as he loped his lumpy body down the hall. “I was here, along with mi cara.” He kissed each one of Trudy’s knees and then peppered her face with kisses as she cooed in pleasure, Scythe’s dry-ice blues apparently forgotten for the moment. Bettina viewed the scene with mushy tenderness. Scythe looked like he needed to use his own barf bag. Maybe we had something in common after all.

  “And you are?” Scythe tapped the butt of his Bic on the pad.

  “Mario Trujillo,” he answered between smooches.

  Scythe shot me a questioning glance. I shrugged. Nobody ever understood. It was like finding Nicole Kidman married to Danny DeVito. No, that wasn’t it, either, because Danny was funny. Mario didn’t even have a wicked sense of humor going for him.

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted, my left hand cradling Bettina’s curls like a baby, my right hand wielding an industrial-size can of style freeze. “I’m about to spray.”

  Nothing got men out of the room faster than threatening hairspray. Mario and Scythe rushed out to stand by the sinks, where Mario began regaling the detective with the events of last night without being asked. Bettina closed her eyes. I pressed the trigger, meeting Trudy’s eyes over the fountain of black curls. She cocked her head toward my office and disappeared. I remembered why she was my best friend: her ability to read my mind. I heard the squeak of the door that led to my living quarters. I described the way out the back to Bettina. She nodded silently and waited until I moved to stand in front of the chair, where the men could see me but not anything else in the room. I could hear Mario’s emotional description of his fantasy hairstyle to a visibly dismayed Scythe. I bit back a chortle; they’d be there awhile. I couldn’t think of a better torture for the arrogant detective. After a parting shot of hairspray that would repel them a little longer, I slipped out of sight, through the door, and into my den.

  Illusions, here we come.

  Fortunately, Bettina had parked halfway down the block. Unfortunately, what she’d parked was a minuscule Karmann Ghia painted saffron.

  “Love this color,” Trudy said as she slid into the passenger seat and looked at me like I’d better prepare to ride on the roof.

  “It’s custom,” Bettina answered proudly.

  “It’ll be great for losing that police tail,” I observed.

  “Tail?” Alarmed, Bettina looked in the rearview mirror.

  Trudy waved off her concern. “There’s no tail. It’s just Reyn’s pessimism talking. She always thinks the worst.”

  Except when my friends are dying. I thought Ricardo was looped and getting a quickie when he was really bleeding to death. The reminder forced me to squeeze into the passenger seat with Trudy. We grappled for position until Trudy insisted that, being taller, she deserved the seat, and I, the shrimp, had to sit in her lap.

  “Just call me the human air bag,” I muttered.

  “That wouldn’t be accurate, hon, your breasts aren’t big enough,” Bettina corrected.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Remember, hon, God wouldn’t have given us the gift of plastic surgeons without intending us to use them,” Bettina pointed out.

  That appealed to Trudy’s warped Catholicism. “Wow. I never thought of it like that. You think I should get my eyes done?”

  “No,” I answered sourly. Trudy was only thirty-three and looked twenty-five.

  Bettina assessed Trudy with a serious look. “Maybe not for a year or two. I’ll give you the name of a great surgeon.” She turned the ignition and adjusted herself carefully in her bucket seat. When I remembered what on her needed tucking, I felt a twinge of pity for how dicey a proposition sitting might be.

  Then, with a lurch that sent my forehead cracking into the windshield, Bettina popped the clutch, and we were off.

  “I’m so glad I talked you into that perfume, Reyn,” Trudy said, giving my neck a sniff as I rubbed the egg on my forehead. “It’s sexy.”

  Now, I knew she meant sexy to, perhaps, Lieutenant Arrogant, but the sidelong glance Bettina slid us told me she thought different.

  “I know a great club you two might enjoy. After my show, I’ll take you there.”

  I held up a hand. “No, thanks.”

  “It’s very discreet,” Bettina insisted.

  Trudy, oblivious as usual to nuances that didn’t have to do with shape or color of furniture, rugs, or window treatments, shoved my shoulder as punishment for what she perceived as rudeness. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Bettina. Maybe we’ll have time.”

  Shaking my head, I let it go. The silence dragged on for a few minutes before Trudy couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “You said you did a show, Bettina. What can we look forward to seeing?”

  Considering my position, which would likely soon be catapulting out the windshield if Trudy got the whole truth at this moment, I answered before Bettina could, “She’s an entertainer at Illusions.”

  “How exciting,” Trudy enthused. She never read anything beyond design magazines and books on feng-shui and antiques. She carried a copy of Color Me Perfect and color swatche
s in her purse. A night out for her and Mario would be to Bible study or salsa dancing (scary thought, I know). So, if she hadn’t decorated Illusions herself or been paying attention when her idol Amethyst Andrews mentioned the city council debate over the club on television, Trudy would have no idea what we were walking into. In fact, I couldn’t swear she knew what a transvestite was.

  That was probably for the best.

  As we passed through the stately but overpriced homes in staid Olmos Park, then the more modest circa-1950s neighborhoods on our way to the freeway, I couldn’t help having an out-of-body image as I sometimes do. What if I were that slightly dumpy yet very normal-looking bottle blonde pushing a baby stroller on the sidewalk there, and what if I knew that a transvestite, a murder suspect, and a model-beautiful airhead married to a troll were the trio speeding through my neighborhood in a little off-yellow bullet?

  I’d probably run screaming for the house, lock the doors, and hold my baby close.

  I sighed. What had happened to my life?

  “So, what’s the plan?” Trudy asked.

  I resorted to the technique my sister Pecan uses with her passel of preteen kids when they ask a question: Answer them honestly minus the details. Only supply those, one at a time, when pressed. In other words, make them work for it.

  “Bettina was a client of Ricardo’s.”

  “Three days a week for five years,” Bettina put in.

  “Really?” Trudy gave Bettina another once-over. I knew what she was assuming. Rumor was Ricardo liked his dalliances beautiful and busty. Bettina was currently one of the two. Just wait. She’d be both before long.

  “So, why are we going with her to work?”

  “She says he frequented her, uh, place of business and was closer to some of the other…” What did I say, girls? Boys? “Some of her colleagues than he was to her. Maybe they can give us some clues about his killer.”

  “Oh.” Trudy looked disappointed that Bettina wouldn’t be able to give us details of Ricardo’s sexual performance, details I’d rather not know but probably would by the end of the evening.

  McCullough Avenue brought us to Loop 410 East, the road noise reverberating around in the almost-car-size tin can preventing us from furthering our conversation until we pulled off I-35.

  Illusions was set discreetly off the access road, on a side street, behind a stand of ten-foot-high bamboo trees that hid everything but an asphalt driveway and a small gold-lettered sign. One would have to know where it was to find it, which had been one of the owners’ arguments before the city council. They weren’t trying to lure in unsuspecting youngsters looking for a good time. The club was members-only, with a strict carding policy. They didn’t convert, apparently, only admitted the converted.

  What would they make of us?

  I suddenly wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  “Wow,” Trudy exclaimed, wide-eyed. “I didn’t know this was here. I’ve gotta get Mario to bring me here one night.”

  That thought brightened my day.

  Bettina whipped into the only reserved slot left behind the gray stucco building and pulled the parking brake before she took the car out of gear. I would now have matching lumps on either side of my forehead.

  “I’ll take you backstage, then get one of the boys to get you front-row seats,” Bettina announced. She peeled off her espadrilles, fit her size nines into the four-inch gold pumps she pulled from behind the seat, and clipped up a short flight of stairs to an unmarked door. In her rush to follow Bettina, Trudy plastered my face up against my intimate friend, the windshield, as she wriggled out of the seat and ran to catch up.

  “Will you hurry up, Reyn?” Trudy shouted as Bettina held the door open.

  I considered a proper rejoinder but bit it back when I remembered Trudy would be getting her comeuppance once she stepped inside the club. Impatient, Bettina entered and left Trudy holding the door. She did so only as long as it took me to reach the steps, then she let it go, chasing after our reluctant hostess and leaving me to dive for it or be locked out. The muscles on the right side of my spine seized up again as I propelled myself into the half-lit hallway.

  I must have moaned, because Trudy poked her head around the corner. “What is it?”

  “My back.”

  “Horn-rims and hot dogs, don’t be such a wimp about a little twinge, Reyn. Get your priorities straight. We’re on the trail of a killer.”

  Showing great restraint in not reminding her that her husband was the cause of my “little twinge,” I followed her through what felt like a neon tomb. The rhythm of rock music from deeper inside the building shook the walls. The labyrinth of hallways were painted black matte, carpeted in a low-pile black, both blacks reflected in mirrored ceilings. Was this where Ricardo got the idea for his office? I tried not to think about why or how. The blackness was periodically broken up by closed doors outlined in neon lights, labeled in glittery gold. We passed one marked Office, one marked Stage Left, one marked with a star whose name was lit in colored neon, Randie Redeaux. Other stars glittered down the hallway, but Trudy had stopped in front of the fourth door, marked G Dressing Room. The G being general purpose, girls, or gents, take your pick.

  “Bettina said we could go on in,” Trudy said, the haughty lift in her chin surely a sign she thought we were hot stuff to be admitted backstage to a semi-star’s dressing room. Feeling guilt knocking, I opened my mouth to warn her, but she opened the door faster.

  And, a second later, squealed and fainted.

  nine

  THOUGH MY BACK SCREAMED OVER SUPPORTING HER dead weight, I couldn’t blame Trudy for going limp. I knew what to expect, and I still felt a little woozy. A dozen drag queens in various stages of undress buzzed around like colorful, happy bees in falsies. Of course, some of the breasts were real, which was more than I wanted to consider at the moment. Elbow to elbow at the counter, some wearing only bras and girdles, they applied false eyelashes, rouge, and lipstick. At our end, one hiked up a skirt to slather body glitter on a bare, curvaceous thigh.

  I envied that thigh. Even men had better women’s legs than I did. How depressing.

  The blonde (courtesy of a custom-made wig) in the corner finally drew my attention. Ripping duct tape with his teeth, he stuck his hands down the front of his black French-cut silk undies in a delicate operation that left him with a profile as feminine as mine.

  Or maybe more so.

  Yikes.

  Bettina was nowhere to be seen. She’d directed us to the dressing room to shock us, perhaps scare us away. I wondered if it was just for sport because we’d become tedious or if she wanted to hide something. Hmm.

  The chaos and chatter in the room had kept anyone from noticing us, two real women in the doorway, one of whom was unconscious. That just goes to show how frenetic and loud it was in the G dressing room. Before I’d decided how to announce our presence, Trudy began slipping out of my arms. The blonde with the awesome legs looked up and rushed over.

  “Oh, girlfriend!” He (while I’d reconciled myself to calling Bettina a her, I couldn’t help thinking of the blonde as a male, considering I’d watched him shape his him-stuff into her-stuff) reached over with one arm, Lady Godiva tresses draping over Trudy’s face as he dragged her to the couch in the middle of the room and laid her down. Another performer, this one dressed in fluffy mules and a pink sequined and feathered robe—with no telling what underneath—put a damp washrag on Trudy’s forehead.

  “What happened to her?” Lady Godiva asked.

  “Low blood sugar.” Not true, but easier than saying they’d scared the consciousness out of her. Trudy moaned; her eyelids fluttered open just long enough to take in Lady Godiva’s five o’clock shadow before they snapped shut again.

  “Hand me those Calorie Cutter Caramels, LeDonna.” Lady Godiva grabbed them out of LeDonna’s hand and regarded what must have been a skeptical expression on my face. He patted his flat, hairless stomach, smoothing his hand around the swell of his hip. “A girl�
��s gotta watch the fat intake. This figure’s not easy to keep.”

  Understatement of the year, I thought as I watched him/her (damn, I was back to that!) unwrap a caramel. I took it, feeding it bit by bit into Trudy’s mouth, which—as I knew it would—brought her around better than smelling salts. Trudy despises caramel; her mother hid her childhood medicines in melted caramel.

  A wet brown wad shot out of her mouth, sending the “girls” scattering. The candy stuck in a neon-green feather boa, dragging it off its hanger and onto the floor. Someone gasped in horror. Gagging, Trudy sat up and batted my hand away. “Yuck. What are you doing, Reyn?”

  “Just getting you back on your feet.” I grinned, biting my lower lip to keep from laughing.

  That familiar light in Trudy’s eyes told me I was in trouble. “On my feet? I need to be on my knees—”

  “Ooo lala, baby,” one of the “girls” sang out. An odd mixture of baritone, tenor, and falsetto giggles rippled through the room. Trudy glanced around, a bit dazed and not cluing in to what everyone else in the room took to be a double entendre by one of their own.

  “On my knees to pray for your salvation,” Trudy finished a bit righteously.

  “Bible thumper, huh?” LeDonna commented, leaning over to zip up knee-high red leather boots. He really was a dead ringer for Tina Turner. It almost made me want to stay for the show.