by Rob Rosen
“The other girls are going to need to help us. They and you don’t know what Auntie’s associates look like, and I can’t go down to the club and point them out. I have video of them at the bar, but it was dark, and they were in the distance.” He rubbed his hands together. “So, we need pictures of them.”
Finally, I got it. “And the photos are in this basement.”
“When Tom and I broke up, the photo albums wound up down here. I know there’s pictures of us with them; we just have to find a few.” He pointed to a far corner, to a stack of boxes eight feet high and equally as wide.
“Um,” I said, “I just recently almost died; maybe I should sit this one out.”
They rolled their eyes in sync. “Grab a box,” said Arthur. “If you find an album, look for photos of me and Tom, then give a holler.”
I felt like giving a holler there and then but hunkered down and walked over to the massively daunting city of cardboard. I reached for the top box. It was heavy, and I set it down with a grunt. Inside was nothing but musty clothes. I sneezed, then went for a second turn. The lid popped open. “Bingo,” I said.
They both turned, eyes wide, expecting. “Bingo?”
I lifted the telltale cage filled with balls. “Bingo.” I rifled around. Bingo, cribbage, Yahtzee, backgammon, but no photo albums. “No longer into games, Arthur?”
He winked at Chad. “Who has the time?”
I cringed. “Gross.” I shut the box and moved on to the next one, then the next, my nose running like the Mississippi from all the must and dust. “Is there a case of Claritin somewhere in here?” And then, on box four, there they were, “Photo albums.” It came out in a hushed whisper more than a holler, but they heard it nonetheless and came running.
There were a good dozen albums, and we divided them into thirds. I began to flip through the pages. It was weird. I hated the man, even at the best of times, but here he suddenly was as a carefree child wrapped in his mother’s arms, at the beach, graduation, then behind what I assumed was his first desk job. He was smiling. He was young. He was, most surprisingly, handsome. Age, it seemed, was a karmic bitch. Maybe, I thought, Chad could still see the boy in the man.
“Nothing,” I eventually said, closing my last album.
“Wait,” said Chad. “Here you are, Arthur, with Tom.”
I sat on one side of Chad, Arthur on the other, all eyes on the pages, which quickly flipped and flipped, until…”There!” And, yes, Arthur was indeed hollering.
There were three photos, all of Arthur and Tom, dressed sharply, separated by a good foot. They didn’t look like a couple; they looked like the business partners they were. Joining them were two men, less dapper looking, seedier, meaner. They looked like the kind of guys you’d see walking your way and you’d cross the street, just to be on the safe side. They were old pictures, given that Arthur was, you know, old.
“Do they still look like this?” I asked.
Arthur nodded from Chad’s other side. “If you saw them together, you’d know it was them.” He frowned. “They were a nasty pair back in the day. Age could’ve mellowed them, but I’m betting it only made them nastier.”
I was guessing he was speaking from experience. I thought to say something snarky but had suddenly grown tired of the game. I still hated Arthur, mainly because it was oh so easy to hate the man, but my rage had been put on a low simmer. Instead, I took pictures of the pictures, using my cell phone. I sent them to Chad. Chad distributed them to the other girls.
“I have to go,” I said. I looked at Arthur. “Thanks for not trying to kill me again.” Sorry, snarky is a hard habit to break.
We left the basement, which was all too fine by me. Place gave me the willies. And while I do love willies, not these so much. Before I departed their less than humble abode, Arthur handed me a slip of paper with the bad guys’ names written across it: Hall Pruitt and Jackson Jackson.
“You’re kidding, right?” I said as I read the paper. “These are their real names?”
Arthur shrugged. “Far as I know.”
I nodded. I left. Quickly. I had work to do, after all. Plus, willies, like snarkiness, were hard to shake. Putting some distance between me and that house would hopefully help.
Fingers crossed.
* * * *
I went home and plugged their names into the database. Hall’s real name was Halston. Halston Pruitt, as the name seemed to imply, came from money. Poor people, after all, don’t often name their kids after dead fashion designers. Sadly, at least for Hall, the money was ill-gotten and, when his parents were arrested, promptly vanished. Hall wound up in foster care and, eventually, jail for drug dealing and drug possession.
Jackson Jackson was born poor and, for most of his miserable life, stayed that way up until his incarceration for, yet again, drug dealing and drug possession. I thought about his name. Andrew Jackson is on the twenty-dollar bill. One could imagine that his parents were being clever, that Jackson Jackson equated to twenty-twenty, to perfect vision. One could imagine this until one saw two rap sheets; two rap sheets of two parents who seemed to get arrested every few years for—oh God, not again—drug dealing and drug possession. Apples, it should be noted, almost never fall far from their trees, not without a decent breeze. In other words, the Jackson parents didn’t strike me as all that clever so much as, more than likely, too lazy to come up with a first name. Meaning, poor Jackson didn’t stand much of a chance. Or, for that matter, two Jacksons to rub together.
The two men must’ve met in prison and were released from said prison within a week of each other. They had not been arrested since, and so the database records ended there. There were no last known addresses listed, no current phone numbers, no known whereabouts. They no longer had to check in with a parole officer, and so no current records were necessary. Still, we had names, we had photos, and we knew they had hung out at the bar. The trail, like my patience, had grown thin, but at least there was still a trail.
Of course, now we just needed a plan.
Chapter 11
I finally came up with a plan. Well, that is to say, I came up with part-one of a plan. We, I knew, had to turn Halston and Jackson against Auntie and Pearl. The police needed to get involved. Auntie and Pearl needed to go to jail without the queens’ secrets being made public. On paper, it sounded daunting. On paper, in fact, it sounded damned-well impossible.
In any case, part-one of the plan was to throw suspicion Auntie and Pearl’s way. The bad guys needed to know, or at least to think, that the other bad guys were throwing them under the bus or potentially planning to.
I was in drag when the moment of inspiration hit. True, I was alone at home at the time, given that I had nowhere else to practice now, but lip-synching without a dress and a wig and makeup on wasn’t the same thing, not anymore. Plus, I had to practice. Nothing worse than a rusty drag queen. And, you know, playing dress-up is fun. And it was that dressing up that led me to my a-ha moment—no Oprah needed.
Marge the Barge, my mom’s roller derby friend, had given me a whole pile of clothes. And, as previously mentioned, a bunch of those were theme-wear. Specifically, a couple of those were police costumes, albeit ones with baubles, bangles, and beads, but police costumes just the same, badges and hats and sunglasses included. Okay, albeit ones with baubles, bangles, and beads glued to them. Meaning, put a spotlight on me, and nearby disco balls would dim in comparison. Or, you know, just simply put a spotlight on me. Please!
I called my mom.
“I need your help,” I blurted out.
She sighed. “Psychological or medical?”
“Neither.”
“You sure?”
It was my turn to sigh. “I’m sure, Ma. See, I need a partner for a mission. Care to see why drag is all the rage these days?”
“Not really, Barry. Can’t I live vicariously through you?” She paused. “Plus, don’t you have a whole gaggle of drag friends to turn to.” She paused again. “Is that the correct termi
nology? A gaggle of queens?”
I too paused. “I’d think it’s called a troupe of queens. Herd might work, given what some of them look like. Litter, too, then. A flock in frocks?” I shook my head. My mother had, as usual, taken me to Tangentland. “Anyway, I can’t turn to my friends; they might be recognized.”
“Where?”
“At the club.”
“You want me to dress in drag at a drag club, Barry? Can a woman dress like a man dressing like a woman?”
“Julie Andrews was nominated for an Oscar for it.”
“She’s British.”
My sigh returned in full force. “What’s that got to do with anything?” I held up my hand, though, clearly, she couldn’t see it. “Never mind, Ma. Look, I need to dress up like a female cop so that I won’t be recognized. I need a partner to divide and conquer with. I can’t use my friends because everyone knows them down at the club. Meaning, I need my mommy.”
She laughed. “You think that’ll work on me, Barry?”
“Did it?” I asked, hopefully.
She replied with a question for a question. “Will it be dangerous?”
I hemmed. I hemmed some more. I could’ve made a nice frock I hemmed so much. “Um…”
“You’re asking your own mother to risk her life?”
I squinted at my phone. “Isn’t that what mothers do?”
She laughed. “Show me that in that manual.”
“You’ll be in disguise,” I told her. “Plus, you’ll be in disguise as a cop. Plus, it’ll be dark, what with it being a bar. Plus, you’ll be helping your son.”
“June nineteenth,” she said.
I scratched my head. “What is the holiday that commemorates the announcement of the abolition of slavery, Alex?”
“No,” she replied. “That’s the day you’re taking your grandmother to get her hair and nails done, thereby freeing me from my slavery. However temporarily.”
“Not quite a fair comparison, Ma.”
“Take it or leave it, Barry.”
“You’re extorting your own son.”
I sensed a shrug on the other end of the line. “I can live with that.”
I’d taken my grandmother out for dinner on her birthday. We ate at four in the afternoon. She had three gin and tonics, confused me for my mom’s brother the entire time, and farted throughout the entire meal. True, we were eating Mexican, but still. Meaning, could I live with it? “You think Dad might like dressing up like a female cop?”
“Outside the bedroom?”
I cringed, then threw in a shake of my head, trying to wipe the horrific image from my head—sadly, to no avail. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“Your father has rather shapely legs.”
“Please stop, Ma.”
“June Nineteenth?”
The last sigh was the loudest. “I’ll be over at seven.”
She hung up. I’d been dismissed. I won the fight, but as always, lost the war. Mom was like Napoleon; I was Europe: trampled underfoot. And tiny feet at that.
* * * *
I arrived at seven already in full cop drag. I’d de-bangled, un-beaded, and removed all traces of baubles from the outfits. It was a bit messy looking, but in the darkness of the bar, no one would be the wiser. Plus, we would have that lived-in look, like cops who had seen it all—instead of a mother and son duo who had seen every episode of Murder She Wrote.
“You look like Angie Dickinson on a bender,” she deadpanned.
“Nice to see you, too, Ma. Can I come in?”
She allowed me entrance. “How much makeup do you have on?”
I walked past her as I handed the uniform her way. “Pounds, Ma. Angie would be proud.” I shot her a wink as I shook my makeup bag. “Your turn.”
“I don’t like the direction our relationship has taken, Barry.”
“Didn’t you always dream of playing dress-up with your offspring?”
I walked to her bedroom. She followed. “Not even if I had a daughter.” She took the outfit to the bathroom. Through the door, I heard her shout, “Are you trying to tell me something, Barry? Do I need to start calling you Barbra?”
“I have the nose for it,” I shouted back her way.
“Just not the talent.”
My mother had a strange way of complimenting me—in that she didn’t. Anyway, she emerged ten minutes later. The outfit fit. A bit too short below and tight above, but it’d do. She donned the cap and slipped on the glasses. Her hair was pulled into a bun. She looked like a cop, albeit one in a lesbian porno. Or so I’m guessing. I’m not, after all, a lesbian porn aficionado.
My father took that moment to walk inside the bedroom. He looked at me. He looked at his wife. He lifted his hand out. “Please, don’t tell me; I don’t want to know.”
“Mom wanted you to wear the outfit.”
He smiled. “Not outside the bedroom.”
My cringe made a cringy reappearance. “Please, don’t tell me; I don’t want to know.”
He nodded and promptly left us to the business at hand. And eyes. And cheeks. And lips. It took an hour. It felt like an eternity. Mom had a captive audience, namely moi. Mom drilled me for dating, work, and even income details. My hemming returned in hawing proportions.
“We look like sisters,” she said when I was done.
I blinked. “Please don’t say that,” I said. “Ever. To anyone. Ever.”
“You said that already.”
“I want to make sure you heard.” I exhaled. “Ever.” I inhaled. “Ever.”
She examined herself in the mirror. “I look nice, Barry.”
I grinned. It was odd praise. She looked good. Not I’d done a good job. Still, I took what I could get. Besides, she was helping. With strings, sure, but beggars, choosers, blah, blah, blah.
* * * *
Thirty minutes later, we were at the club. Ray was working the bar. He did a double-take when he spotted me but didn’t blow my cover. It was early yet. Auntie didn’t work early. We didn’t want to run into her, so early was our intent. Still, the bar was crowded. Happy hour. I had a sinking feeling the next sixty minutes would be anything but that.
I sidled over to the bar. A jigger of Scotch was waiting for me. “Do I want to know?” he whispered.
“I’ll tell you later.” I pointed behind me and whispered, “That’s my mother.”
“I see the resemblance.”
I shuddered. Seemed the next step past cringe. “Been there, choked on that. And ugh.”
I walked back to Mom. Ray had poured her a white wine. “But we’re on duty,” she objected, downing the glass in one fell swoop. Meaning, no seconds. Or thirds, at most.
I’d already handed her the copies of the photos of Halston and Jackson. I had photo-aging software at home. The photos had that before/after vibe. Either way, the pair looked menacing. Oddly, Jackson also looked familiar. Like I knew him but didn’t know him. I chalked it up to being too close to the case. I’d filled my mom in on why we were there while I did her makeup, in between her drilling me for personal details. Meaning, she knew what to do.
She had a small notepad flipped open. Her sunglasses were on. Her badge displayed across her chest. The bar, indeed, was dark. My mother, indeed, looked like a cop—of the lesbian variety or not. She went right; I went left. We looked noticeable: two cops walking through a gay bar. That was our intent. We wanted to be noticed. Me, I wanted to be tipped, too, but there was that beggars, choosers, blah, blah, blah conundrum again.
Thirty minutes later, we’d hit up every patron, flashing them the photos, asking if they knew the men, knew their whereabouts, their names, their possible relationship to drug dealing in the bars, in that particular bar.
We met up in the middle of the place on full display. We pretended to compare notes in hushed whispers. “That was fun,” she said.
“Really?”
She nodded. “Beats playing backgammon with your father.” She pointed at the stage. “That’s where you perf
orm?”
I glanced wistfully that way. “Performed. Past tense.”
She frowned. “You miss it?” I nodded in the affirmative. Very female cop-like. “You make a pretty woman. You look like me, after all. You have my cheekbones.”
“Thanks?”
She didn’t catch the question mark. “You’re welcome.” She smiled. “Want to go out and fight crime now?”
I grinned. “I’m good, Ma. Thanks for offering. Thanks for, um, everything.” I pointed at her badge. It didn’t look plastic in the bar-light.
“Any time, Barry.”
“But then I’ll owe you any time.”
She nodded. “Naturally.”
We left the bar. We’d accomplished what we’d set out to: Halston and Jackson would, hopefully, hear that two cops were asking questions about them in the bar that Auntie owned. Drug dealers, which we guessed is what they were, if history repeated itself, had connections. The bar was somewhat crowded. Fingers crossed one of those connections was in the bar that night. Fingers, toes, eyes, and balls.
Thankfully, ball crossing wasn’t necessary.
Thankfully because I received a phone call the next night.
“They’re here,” came the whisper over the phone.
I gulped. It was Chad. And I tended to doubt he was talking about Drag Race talent scouts. “Go talk to them,” I told him.
There was a pause. “What do I say?”
“Tell them they look familiar. Tell them two cops were in the bar the night before, two cops flashing photos of two men who looked like them. Are any of the other girls there?”
“Connie and Maureen. They’re doing the Indigo Girls tonight. Gay guys dressed like lesbians. Pretty innovative.”
I sighed. “Chad, focus, please.”
He cleared his throat. “Right. Focus. And I’ll tell Connie and Maureen the plan. Three drag queens telling them the same thing should scare them a bit.”
“Is Ray there?”
There was another brief pause. “Uh huh.”
I nodded. Sweat had formed atop my forehead. I suddenly knew what Charlie felt like when he was instructing his angels. “Tell Ray what’s going on, too. See if he can join in on the action.”
