Transition to Murder

by Renee James

  “What makes you think I killed Mandy?” he asks. His eyes fade back to a reptilian setting. Piercing, cold.

  “She was your girlfriend!” I snarl the words. An accusation. I should just shut up and get out of here alive, but I can't help myself.

  “She was my hooker.” He says it with an eerie calm.

  “You abused her!”

  “How? By buying her things? Paying her doctor bills? Putting her up in a nice apartment?” He looks at me casually.

  “By having her fuck other guys.”

  “Bobbi, she was a hooker. Hookers fuck guys. She was well paid.”

  “You beat her up!” As I say it I half expect him to hit me.

  Strand shakes his head from side to side. “Bobbi. Bobbi. I never hit her. Once in a while one of her johns beat her up, that’s all. Not me.”

  “Why did she say you beat her up?” Lying to a liar.

  “Is that what she said?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Was that when she said I was her boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she imply to you that she wasn’t a hooker anymore?”

  “She said it, she didn’t imply it,” I respond. “And she had a good job and worked hard at it.”

  “So when she got bruised up, she couldn’t tell you it was some john who did it, right? Not without telling you there wasn’t a boyfriend and she was still a hooker. Right?”

  I don’t answer. He could be telling the truth, but I don’t want to think that Mandy was living a lie. Not for me.

  “I didn’t kill Mandy,” he repeats. “I didn’t hit her. We had sex together. Really, really hot sex. That’s it.”

  It’s the way he says it that bothers me. There is no emotion in his voice. He’s like an athlete or a politician reading a prepared statement apologizing for cheating on his wife. And yet his argument is persuasive on a logical level. There's no evidence that he actually killed Mandy, just Cecelia's accusation.

  He stands in front of me, putting his hands on the armrests of my barstool, leaning his face inches from mine. We lock eyes. I let mine tell him I have absolutely no fear of him and I’m not buying his bullshit for a minute.

  “Come on, Bobbi, let’s dance.”

  Suddenly my senses are blind to everything but his hot, hard body against mine. He’s a liar and mean bastard but when he gets close like this I can’t think of anything but how horny he makes me feel. I let my gaze flow over his face, his masculine nose, his strong chin, his lips. I recall how his kiss felt. I want him to kiss me again, and caress my breasts and run his hand to my crotch. I want badly to take his tongue in my mouth and suck it. I want him have his way with me in as many ways and as often as he wants.

  We don’t dance so much as shuffle our feet a few inches at a time, swaying slowly, out of rhythm with the music but in perfect time with each other. His hand on the small of my back pulls me flush against him. Our bodies are glued together from our loins to our faces. I can feel him become erect. I make it through the song on rubbery knees, but I can’t hide my arousal. I am breathing deeply, like a woman approaching orgasm. When the song ends I am clinging to him with both arms. His hand rubs my bottom. I rub his. He brings a hand to my breast and cups it, rubbing my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. I inhale and gasp. Reflexively, my hand moves to the front of his pants. I feel his erection, run my hand up and down a few times, and then open his zipper. We fall more than sit on the sofa.

  And just like that I surrender my she-male chastity like an oversexed teenager.

  ***

  I AM IN STRAND’S CAR. He is driving me home after our “drink.” I have traded my virginity for thirty minutes of animal sex. The only smart thing I did all night was to use the condoms that were in ample supply in Strand’s love nest.

  To be honest, though, I’m not feeling used or guilty. I needed this. My body can still feel his. I’m still aroused. To be honest, if he wanted to do any of it again, or all of it, I’m ready. It’s been too long. I haven’t had sex with anyone in more than a year and even before that I had a crappy, fragmented sex life. I feel so good now. So relaxed. Fulfilled.

  Strand has been quiet during the short drive. As we pull up to the curb in front of my apartment building it occurs to me that he didn’t have to ask where I live.

  The car stops. Strand puts it in Park and looks at me. I’m wondering if he will walk me to my door. I’d like that.

  My question is quickly answered.

  “Goodnight, Bobbi,” he says. Dismissive. Curt.

  I wait for the rest, a kiss, the line about great sex, “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.” It doesn’t come. He’s looking out the window, away from me. I realize he expects me to just get out and leave. He turns to me finally and slips a hand into my blouse. He grabs one of my breasts and squeezes it with all his strength. I try not to scream but it’s a shock and the pain is blinding. Tears pour from my eyes. He twists it a little. I push his arm away and he finally relents. I hold myself and try to catch my breath. I look at him without comprehension. Why? I start to cry and try to stifle my sobs. He smiles that cold smile of his.

  “The party’s over,” he says. “Time to go.” He gestures to the door. Get out.

  I stare at him in disbelief. His handsome face is silhouetted against the light from a street lamp. It is blank. Not angry, not sad, not happy. Nothing. He is waiting for me to get out so he can get on with the important things in his life.

  I get out of the car quickly, trying not to let him see my tears. That would be further humiliation, to let him see me cry like an ugly she-male.

  Men have used me before, that’s not what’s making me furious. They take you home, go through the motions with the “had-a-great-time” stuff. You know they won’t call again, and they know they won’t call again, but it’s not the end of the world. Disappointing, yes. Maybe a little ego-bruising. But it was about sex and now the sex is over. I can deal with that.

  This is different. He wants me to know he used me. Fucking me was fun, but this is the real John Strand. He wants me to feel like garbage because it makes him feel like God. It isn’t about sex, it’s about power. Twisted, perverted, mean power. Cecelia warned me, but I was stupid.

  I walk to my building. Tears are streaming down my face. I can’t hold them back anymore. My breast and nipple are very sore. It hurts just having the fabric of my blouse brush across it. It will be sore for days. Just like he wanted.

  Strand has sent me a message, but I've received two messages. He thinks I’m shit. That came through loud and clear. So did the other message: He's the son of a bitch who killed Mandy. It would have happened just like this. A kinky romp in the hay, followed by an irritation, followed by some abuse. Fatal this time, but nothing to lose sleep over.

  If he had killed me tonight, he’d be sleeping like a baby in an hour. I should be scared by that thought, but mostly I’m angry. Not stomp-your-foot angry. Get even angry. Put a knife in his gut and turn it angry.

  I peel off my dress and throw my panties away. I start a hot bath and inspect my breast in the bathroom mirror. It is discolored, streaked with angry purple. I recline into the hot tub and let the waters soothe me. I will contemplate my revenge as soon as I wash all traces of that sick bastard from my body. The stains on my soul are there forever, I fear.

  ***

  His body still tingles. His loins still feel tight. The beast is glowing. A sumptuous feast. He glances at the tranny. She’s looking out the window, a slight smile on her face. From his angle she looks like a man. His hands reflexively recall fondling her male parts. He grimaces. It was a turn-on then. It made him wild. Now it makes him sick. How could something so disgusting turn him on?

  He concentrates on his driving. Don’t want a ticket now, not with a tranny in the car. Especially not this one, so obviously a girly boy. It would be all over the police force in a few days. Then City Hall. He would be a laughing stock. A queer lover.

  He pulls to t
he curb in front of the tranny’s apartment building, tells her goodnight in a deliberately dismissive way, then looks out the window, wondering what it would be like to really rip loose on her, make her bawl like a baby and beg for mercy. Maybe jump her, tie her up, share her with Andive and his dimwitted buddy…a jump and hump. He likes the sound of that.

  His serenity is interrupted by the realization the tranny is still sitting in his car. It irks him. The freak wants to be treated like a prom queen. Thinks it’s a real person.

  He turns to it, trying to hide his anger. He doesn’t want to yell, doesn’t want to hear the tranny’s boy voice, doesn’t want any crap about how great it was. The tranny’s blouse is open on top and he can see a bare breast. It seemed sexy before but now it looks like a big zit. He snatches the repulsive growth with one hand and squeezes. Hard. The tranny squeals in pain and starts crying. Good! He squeezes harder and twists, trying to make it pop. The stupid freak scratches at his hand, crying. He starts to get erect, but in another part of his mind he doesn’t want any scratches. Too hard to explain, too dangerous. He relents. “The party’s over,” he says. “Time to go.” He gestures to the door then looks away. He can’t bear to see the thing anymore.

  The tranny struggles out of the car, sobbing like a pussy girl, but lurching like a big queer boy. He barely notices. He pauses to straighten his clothing and check his mirrors then pulls out, thinking about where to stop for a nightcap.

  ***

  I HAVE FELT LIKE human scum all day. Not just my usual giant hairy ape in a dress freaky, but worthless, despised. Strand’s final gesture last night makes me feel pathetic. An alien.

  My client is a middle-aged businesswoman. Her furtive glances in the mirror and stony-faced expression tell me she is clearly uncomfortable with me. I sigh. Why should she be different? Every client I’ve had today has been a bore or a snot or both. Color clients have been simple root touchups. Haircut services have been simple trims. They have been boring people, either incapable of conversation or unwilling to engage in it with a pervert like me.

  It has been a very long day. I hardly slept at all last night. I’m sore. My breast is killing me whenever I move. And I feel violated by every real or imagined sidelong glance I attract, on the street, in the salon, riding the El.

  Tonight is comfort night. Comfort food. Maybe a hamburger and greasy fries and a slice of chocolate cake. To hell with the diet. Comfort clothes. Comfort bath with perfume-scented oil and a soothing cleansing cream.

  I hope it all leads to a dreamless sleep, or even pleasant dreams. Last night was all about Strand. I don’t remember all the details, but whenever he had me aroused he would do something demeaning. Laugh in my face and call me a queer. Belt me with his closed fist, knocking out teeth and breaking my nose. Grabbing my breast and squeezing it with all his might until it popped, like a water balloon. Always followed by that scornful smirk as he looks away, done with the girly boy next to him, eager to get her out of his sight.

  With each episode I would awaken, sometimes sobbing, sometimes screaming. Always feeling degraded. Always crying like the helpless sissy I am.

  I have not been so low since…I don’t know when. I wasn’t hit this hard by my divorce. Or being disowned by my parents. When those things happened there was always something to at least partly counterbalance my heartbreak: I was at least going to be able to be me.

  But the genius of Strand’s abuse was that it showed me who I am. Who I really am. I’m not a woman. I’m not a man. I stood in front of the mirror last night and saw a ridiculous human form with breasts and a shriveled penis. Tears had made my makeup run in streaks down my face. One tit was obscenely black and blue. Pink lipstick was smeared around my mouth. I was a pathetic, disfigured queer crying like an ugly bitch. That image and that feeling are still with me now. I have expected everyone I see today to scream insults at me, to laugh, sneer, and point. I didn’t want to wear girl clothes this morning. I had to force myself. I’m so weary of being the village oddity.

  One thing that’s changed as this day has worn on is that my shame is beginning to turn to anger. When this client, Dollie or Ditzy or whatever the hell her name is, glances at my image in the mirror and frowns, I’m not self-conscious. Yes, it’s me, I think to myself. I’m a freak giving you a great haircut and when I’m done you’ll still be a plain, dull woman. Save your judgments for someone who cares.

  I’m just touching up her cut when Officer Phil walks in. He can see me from the door and waves as he goes to the receptionist. She listens to him for a moment then comes to my chair.

  “Bobbi, the officer wants to know if you can fit him in for a trim. I told him you were done for the day.”

  “Tell him if he can wait a minute while I finish up I’ll be glad to.”

  Ordinarily, I’d be tingling with arousal at the thought of being able to run my fingers through Officer Phil’s hair for a half hour. Not tonight. Tonight I’m just a pathetic hairdresser who needs the business.

  The one nice thing about it is my snotty client gets a peek at Phil and her body language tells me he makes an impression on her. I enjoy her mind-fuck. She just spent thirty minutes being disgusted with me and now the best looking guy she’s seen all day is waiting to spend quality time with me. Eat your heart out, honey.

  The ice princess leaves, no tip, no pre-booking, no thanks. It’s about me, but it’s about her, too. Having a friend like her would be like drinking a glass of sand in the desert.

  Officer Phil sits in my chair. He issues a friendly hello, how are you, and thanks me for taking him. I say hello back but my heart's not in the rest of the social banter. I ask him what he wants done while I conduct my customary scalp and hair assessment. He has nice hair, dark and thick with rich luster and some natural body that lets it hold a style well.

  I cut his hair in silence. Yes, there are a couple of pangs of desire, but they are fleeting. I’m in a crappy mood and I just want to get on with my comfort night.

  Near the end of the service he looks at me in the mirror and gets a questioning look on his face.

  “Are you alright, Bobbi?” he asks. “You don’t seem to be your usual self.”

  “I’m just having a bad day,” I respond.

  “Anything I can help with?” he asks.

  I look around the room to see if anyone is listening. It’s late. Only two other chairs are working and they are on the other side of the room. The receptionist is doing her cleaning rituals for closing. We are effectively alone.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact there is something you can help with.” My voice has a snotty edge to it that I’m too tired and too hurt to correct. “I’d like to know who you’re investigating for Mandy’s murder. It’s like nothing is happening. Have you guys written her off?”

  “You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation,” he says.

  “What I know is the police have been hiding behind that lame excuse for months,” I say. “Everyone in the community thinks you guys have just walked away from the whole thing because you don’t want to bust anyone for killing a tranny. Is that the deal?”

  Phil stares at me earnestly in the mirror. I pause to return the eye contact. “You know it’s not, Bobbi,” he says. His voice is filled with understanding, like a parent talking to a petulant child.

  “I don’t know that.” His sincerity pisses me off for some reason. “I know there hasn’t been any news out of the investigation in months. The cops dodge the question whenever it comes up.

  “I also know that none of the investigators have asked any of us if Mandy had a boyfriend. Well, she did. And some of the girls think that’s who did it. But you guys don’t want to look under that rock, right?”

  “You're wrong, Bobbi,” says Officer Phil. “We’re investigating several leads regarding men Mandy might have been seeing. I can’t say more than that, but believe me the case is getting a lot of attention.”

  I choke back any further comment. I want to tell him I know who did it and
I know they know who did it and no one wants to touch the bastard. But saying it won’t help anything. They either know about Strand or they don’t. Me telling them won’t change a thing. If they wanted to know what I know or think, they would have asked.

  Besides, I’m not ready to tell anyone what I know about Strand. And especially not how I came by the knowledge. Not until I decide what to do about it.

  Officer Phil interprets my silence as angry sulking. “Okay, confidentially, the detectives are looking at a guy who has a history of beating up transwomen, especially hookers. Please, don’t pass this around, especially not that I’m saying it. It could really cost me.”

  “Mandy wasn’t a hooker anymore,” I say. “She was straight. She had a job and a boyfriend.”

  “Everything the investigators have turned up says she was still turning tricks,” says Officer Phil. “Don’t be angry with me about it—it’s not my investigation. I’m just telling you what I know. We could be close to an arrest.”

  This is what creates jaded perspectives from the trans community, I guess. We are all being caught up in a giant mudslide and we can’t do anything about it. And the guy who should be getting buried is standing on the high ground watching it happen with a smirk on his face.

  “What about the rumor that you guys have arrested someone?” I ask.

  Phil looks at me in the mirror in surprise. “An arrest? Not to my knowledge. Who’s saying that?”

  “Pretty much everyone in the community, now,” I respond. “I don’t know where it started, but what everyone is saying is that you guys busted some guy who has a record of beating up trans hookers.”

  “No, Bobbi,” he replies. “The investigators brought a guy in for questioning a couple days ago, but that’s it. No charges.”

  “Who was the guy?” I ask.