Forever Haunt

by Adam Carpenter

  “I left her a voicemail message to call me.”

  “Is it possible those awful men have her, too?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Inshan. Have you called the hospital where she works?”

  “Yes. They say she left early this morning, around six.”

  Jimmy didn’t like this. If she wasn’t at work, and she wasn’t at home or at her in-laws or with her husband, where else did she have to go? Had Melissa Harris-J’Arnoud called her, or the other way around? Could she be under protective custody of the Help Is Here staff? He could only hope, but hope didn’t always live up to its promises.

  “Mrs. Inshan, let me worry about Carmen,” he said. “You need to concentrate on your son. Please, have him call me. Not that I should need to explain the gravity of the situation; his son is missing and if he cares for him as he should, tell him I can help. He of all people knows what Mr. Wu-Tin is capable of. Wait here at home, and if either of us hears from Carmen, we will let each other know.”

  “Yes, yes, I will do as you ask. You are a good, new friend to our family.”

  Jimmy just hoped there would be a family left by the time he was done with the case.

  He hung up while still standing in the middle of his office. Not only was the floor a mess with the various files, so were the cases themselves. The Ramirez situation had just taken another twist. Because not only was the father on the run, the son abducted, now the mother appeared to be missing as well. Could Ranuel have contacted her, had she gone to him seeking comfort while awaiting word about their son? If so, surely she would have told Jimmy. The other possibility, far worse, was that she too had been taken by Mr. Wu-Tin’s associates, an added incentive for Ranuel to return to town. Had Jimmy’s appearance at the Imperial Dragon exacerbated this unexpected twist?

  Whatever had precipitated this latest development, the truth was that an entire family had vanished into the shadows. Jimmy hated to think there was something else going on, his trust level beginning to lean toward suspicion. Had Carmen been using him? Taking advantage of the fact Jimmy had offered his investigative services? If he’d said it once, he’d said it for forever: he didn’t like coincidences.

  He hated being manipulated more.

  He’d give it till the morning. Give himself a chance to understand what was happening. Then he was going to the police.

  § § § §

  Actually he was seeing a member of the NYPD just a few short hours later.

  The text read: BE RIGHT DOWN.

  He replied: CAN’T WAIT

  Night had fallen on this cool Sunday night, a cloak of darkness surrounding him. The only light came from a lamppost that had trouble staying on. Jimmy leaned against it and it flickered on before going out again. A wire was no doubt loose. Metaphor for life? Jimmy allowed himself an ironic smile, and that’s what he was wearing—in addition to his jeans and a button-down shirt, his trademark leather jacket—when Frisano made his appearance street level.

  He was dressed in smart casual: jeans, boots, and a blazer, his V-neck shirt allowing a thick tuft of hair to pop out. His face held a dark scruff, like he hadn’t shaved all weekend. The sight of this sexy man widened Jimmy’s smile. What he would have done to skip the night, move onto the nocturnal events they could share upstairs.

  “Hey sailor,” Jimmy said. “Going my way?”

  “Well, since you haven’t told me where we’re going, I can honestly answer no.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “And you’re in a playful mood. What’s going on?”

  “Just need an escape from my usual role as Jimmy McSwain, Savoir of the World. Maybe I’m looking for a hot distraction.” Jimmy paused and sized up Frisano. “Which I believe I’ve just found. A hunk of a man who just filled the sidewalk.”

  “You’re like a dirty Hallmark card tonight, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy leaned over and planted a hot kiss on the man’s lips. He placed his palm against the man’s strong chest, felt muscle and beneath, a beating heart. He felt strength.

  Frisano returned the kiss. “Later, definitely.”

  “All night,” Jimmy said.

  Their banter was sexy, and Jimmy was glad for it. Seems their troubles from the beginning of the week were now water under the bridge. Jimmy checked his phone, suggested they start off because they wouldn’t want to be late, saying so with a conspiratorial grin. Frisano had to dash to catch up to him.

  “Still not telling me where we’re going.”

  “If I told you, you might want to bail.”

  “Oh, no, what have you done?”

  “Just want to see some old friends. I think you’ll like them.”

  “Your tone says otherwise.”

  “Just relax.”

  “Coming from you, Jimmy McSwain, I’d say the pot is calling the kettle black.”

  Jimmy stopped on the corner of 19th and Eighth. He impulsively kissed Frisano.

  “Watch the PDA, my officers patrol this area.”

  “Sorry, you look so hot, can’t resist.”

  “Move,” Frisano said, with a surreptitious slap of Jimmy’s butt.

  Down 19th Street they walked, approaching Ninth Avenue, where a neon sign immediately caught their attention. Frisano paused mid-step, but Jimmy grabbed his arm and ushered him across the street to the front entrance of the Dress-Up Club. A sign read: “Cabaret for Men, Women, and Everyone Else.” Frisano gave Jimmy a wary look.

  “Trust me, you’ll have fun,” he said, “Besides, as captain of Chelsea’s precinct, Terry is a person you should know. If he doesn’t know you, you don’t matter. If he doesn’t like you, he’ll let you know. But I have a feeling he’ll adore you. He has a type. Come on, we have a reservation.”

  “I have many,” Frisano said.

  They went inside the small cabaret, met by soft music, dim lighting and the colorful swirl of a disco ball over the small stage. Intimate round tables had been set up in the main area, a few couples already seated and enjoying drinks and light snacks. A mix of types, gay and straight. The Dress-Up Club never turned away a paying customer, so long as they understood what they were getting themselves into. The man who ran the club, the memorable Terence Black, was as open to anything as he was open to the world about his own lifestyle. And speaking of…

  Wafting across the room—which was the only way to describe his movement—Jimmy saw that the approaching figure was half-Terence, half Terry Cloth, his alter-ego. Severe make-up on, dark eyes heightened and lips bright red, but he’d yet to adorn his bald head with his wig of choice. He was dressed in his trademark white terry cloth robe, clutching it at the neck as he neared. Jimmy wondered if he’d already put on his gown, or if he was currently going commando underneath. He wore red ruby slippers. And a wide smile that showed his pleasure at seeing the two men before him.

  “Well, well, as I live and breathe, and hopefully happily die in your strong arms, if it’s not everyone’s—certainly mine—favorite private dick. The dashing Jimmy McSwain, hello dahling,” he said, leaning forward to plant a kiss on each of Jimmy’s cheeks. He rubbed his rough, unshaven chin. “Why I haven’t seen you since the opening night party for Triskaidelapobia. You did get my thank you flowers for inviting me, yes? Oh, you are a gorgeous sight for these bloodshot eyes. And if you weren’t yummy enough to look at, you have a certain slab of hunkiness on your arm. Why, Jimmy McSwain, a man, not to mention a woman, or someone in between, could get jealous.”

  “Hey, Terry, you’re looking as lovely as ever.”

  “Ha, just you wait. My new gold lame fits my curves beautifully, not to mention my other assets. Are you going to introduce me, or shall I just take this fine specimen into the back room and make him blush? Just like I did with you last year.”

  “Now, now, Terry, don’t be telling tales out of school,” Jimmy said. “Ms. Terry Cloth, I’d like you to meet…”

  Before Jimmy could say anything, Frisano stepped forward, “I’m Frank. Just Frank.”

  “A promisi
ng name, if not quite truthful,” Terry said, with a wink. “So mysterious. Though I was only just playing with you, Jimmy dear. Of course I know who this gentleman is. You don’t get to hold the honorary title of mayor of Chelsea by not knowing your local…” – and this next part he said with a whisper – “head of law enforcement. Frank, welcome to the Dress-Up Club. I must say, I do hope you grace us with your fine presence more often. You too Jimmy, though I may just have to push you aside in favor of the local attraction.”

  “A pleasure, uh…”

  “For now, just call me Terry.”

  “And since we’re trading info, I’m well aware of the good work you do here.”

  “You humble me, Frank. Now, enough chatter, there’s a fabulous show to put on. Follow me to your table, I have it all set, right up front. You’ll have a turtle’s eye view. But remember, no pulling up the dresses, you never know what you might find underneath.”

  With a chortle, Terry sashayed through the cabaret space like a gazelle, leaping over a chair and delighting the crowd that had already assembled. So much for keeping their presence on the down-low, Terry had not only called attention to Jimmy and Frank, he sat them at the best table in the house, right up against the edge of the stage. With a quick snap of his fingers toward the bar, Jimmy turned to see one of the club’s hot waiters making his way over. He was model sexy, with thick blond hair; he wore tight black slacks that hid little, no shirt which hid even less, with silver glitter around his nipples and a red bow-tie adorning his neck. He wore a light coat of make-up on his face.

  “Ricky, hun, my finest champagne for these two handsome gentlemen,” Terry said, pausing for dramatic effect. “On me of course. It’s wise to stay in good standing with men who can protect you from all the evil that lurks out there on those mean streets. Enjoy boys…”

  “Terry,” Jimmy called back. “Is Harris performing…or should I say Miss Jellicle Balls?”

  “Haha, the answer, like much at the Dress-Up, is an ambiguous yes and no. Just you wait, Jimmy dear.” He leaned over and pecked Jimmy once more on the cheek. “Oh, could I die a happy man now or what?” He ran a hand across Frisano’s broad chest, too. “Just so you don’t feel left out. My, good thing this robe is absorbent.”

  An eager and horned-up Terry Cloth dashed off to prepare for the show—he was its emcee, one who could challenge the identical character in the musical Cabaret in a duel. Probably win, too. He knew how to make someone feel Willkommen. That left Jimmy and Frank alone at last, if you didn’t count all the eyes zeroing in on them.

  “Quite the colorful character,” Frank said.

  “He does good work.”

  “So says the community outreach manager at the precinct. He doesn’t just run the club.”

  “Terence owns the whole building, takes in mostly young boys who have been thrown out of their homes by their homophobic parents. Offers counseling, lets them be themselves.” Jimmy thought back to his first visit here last year, when on the hunt for the wayward Harris Rothschild, hired by the young man’s influential parents to track him down. Mallory had helped secure the job, one that had been a life-changing case for Jimmy. It had brought his investigation to Chelsea, and eventually to the 10th Precinct, where he had met the new captain. The man sitting across from him now.

  And here they were, nearly a year later and countless misunderstandings behind them.

  Not quite holding hands in public, but smiles abounded when the cork was popped and the waiter poured two glasses of bubbly for them into sleek, sexy flutes. Both men cheered and sipped. Frank went silent, and Jimmy felt eyes suddenly questioning him. Darkness had settled in them, light reflecting off those black irises.

  “Something on your mind?”

  “Curious about the case you mentioned the other day. The mother, the missing boy.”

  Jimmy put his glass down. “You want to talk shop?”

  “Was just wondering if the boy ever showed up. I mean, here we are sipping champagne. Seems odd.”

  “It’s gotten complicated.”

  “So he’s still missing.”

  “His father first. Now the mother, too” Jimmy said. “I’m not sure what’s going on, I might be being played. I’ve got an angle to work out, but really can’t do anything about it until tomorrow morning. I didn’t want it to interfere with…us.”

  “Sounds complicated. Sure you shouldn’t involve the NYPD?”

  “Depends how it goes,” Jimmy said, wishing they could talk about anything else.

  “And what about your investigation into Officer Luke’s shooting?”

  Jimmy paused, the glass of champagne midway to his lips, his mood now less effervescent than the happy bubbles. He set it down, just as he saw Terry Cloth in full costume, the gold lame dress as advertised, approaching the stage. He’d never in his life anticipated a drag show more. Any kind of distraction would do.

  But Frank wasn’t letting it go, not yet.

  “We know you went to see Dahlia Luke.”

  “Frank, not tonight. Okay?”

  The lights dimmed, the spotlight hitting the stage. Ms. Terry Cloth arrived to the sound of joyful applause from the nearly full house. Not bad for a Sunday night. When Terry welcomed all the young lovers in the audience, Jimmy wondered, sitting across from Frank but feeling as though a cold front had moved in, whether tonight would end worse than their previous one together? At least they’d had passionate sex before that fight. Now they were here toasting a fresh fight with expensive champagne. Jimmy shifted in his seat, wishing this night was over. Why had Frank gone and sabotaged it?

  For now, he had no choice but to concentrate on the entertainment, which was distracting enough. Terry Cloth started things off by singing “The Man That Got Away,” going full-out Judy Garland on them, her eyes primarily focused on Jimmy. She even dared come off stage, sidling in behind him, sexily slipping a nail-lacquered hand inside Jimmy’s shirt, stroking the exposed triangle of chest hair. She kissed his cheek and left a blood-red imprint.

  “Hmm, I’ve trapped me an otter,” she said, laughing, midway through the song. “Hmm, not sure the hunky bear sitting with him is all that happy with my amorous affections. Perhaps I’ll give him some loving, too.” And soon she was finishing the last strains of the song sitting on Frisano’s lap, again her fingers having their way with a bit of fur, twirling the dark tuft of hair sporting from Frisano’s T-shirt. Terry Cloth closed with lots of applause and a sheepish grin from Frisano. Jimmy attempted a smile but he wasn’t feeling it. He was pissed.

  The program lasted another hour, with some of the Dress-Up Club’s regulars singing a song, including Cher and Cher Alike, which was really two tall drags queens impersonating the famed singer from different eras of her legendary career. Finally the headlining act arrived, after a ballyhooed introduction by Terry Cloth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the unique, wondrous stylings of…Ms. Mister Mrs.”

  As the sequined curtain drew open, out stepped a slinky, lithe figure, the bright lights from the footlights casting a shadow upon the performer. First thing Jimmy noticed were the legs, long and stunning. A strut to the stage followed, where the singer ended up in front of the microphone. The piano player began to tickle the ivories, the first few notes familiar to Jimmy but the title not coming to him yet. He stole a look at Frisano, who shifted in his seat, having grown increasingly uncomfortable as the evening had gone on. Maybe Jimmy should have taken him to a ballgame, something more macho.

  Jimmy turned his attention back to Ms. Mister Mrs., who took up residence atop the grand piano, crossing those amazing legs, displaying even more while the slit in her dress opened. And then she began to sing, a husky sound that was somewhere between tenor and alto, with a strong vibrato. Jimmy finally recognized the song, an ‘80s classic called Broken Wings, which had been recorded, perhaps not ironically, by a band named Mister Mister. It was a power ballad Jimmy remembered from the radio; but here it was a torch song that brought down the ho
use. As applause consumed the small venue Jimmy thought that Harris Rothschild, aka Miss Jellicle Balls, now Ms. Mister Mrs., had come a long way in a year’s time. From running away from his hidden identity to embracing who he truly felt like, it was a stunning performance that had Jimmy thinking the Dress-Up Club was small potatoes for this big fry.

  As the set ended and Terry Cloth finished the night off with another Judy classic, a rousing “Trolley Song,” which had the entire crowd erupting in unison whenever it was time to sing “Clang Clang Clang…” And just like that, the evening’s festivities came to an end, with the house spotlight being doused and the lights coming up. Checks were delivered to tables, bills were paid, and Jimmy and Frank sat awaiting theirs, which never came.

  As they stood up to leave, Jimmy heard his name being called from behind him. He turned to see Harris coming from the stage, half himself, half Ms. Mister Mrs.

  “Jimmy, I’m so glad to see you,” he said, coming to the edge of the stage.

  “You too. I’m so glad everything is working out for you. You put on an interesting show.”

  “I’m still developing it. This Ms. Mister Mrs. thing, it’s new.”

  “Is it just a routine?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m transitioning. I think it’s what will make me happy.”

  “Hence you identifying as Ms. and Mister?’

  Frank joined the conversation. “Can’t forget the Mrs. You sang a nice ‘Memory.’”

  “My signature song, a leftover from my days as Miss Jellicle Balls. Hi, I’m Harris.”

  “Oh, sorry, Harris, this is Frank. And…will you still be Harris? Not Harriet?”

  “Oh, I hate that, just feminizing the name you were given. No, I’ll be called Nikita. I just like it. It’s strong.”

  “Good luck to you,” Frank said. “Can’t be easy.”

  “What can I say, I’m a living breathing Victoria Victor Victoria. Keeps people on edge.”

  “Your mother?” Jimmy asked.

  “Great. Spends most of her time in the Hamptons. Met a rich guy, of course. Except if she marries him she loses my father’s estate. She’ll never give that up…so, what’s a girl to do?”