With a diva voice that neither matched nor contradicted her appearance, she asked, “Someone else?”
I was so taken aback I only stared for a second before asking, like an idiot, “What?”
“Someone else. You said you were here asking about someone else. Not me?”
“Not you. No. But …” I looked over my shoulder and saw nothing, but I didn’t trust that the walls had no ears. “Could we have a moment in private? Is it private in there?”
“As private as anywhere.” She shrugged. “Come on inside, if you’re gonna.”
I let her hold the door ajar while I passed into the inner sanctum, where it smelled like talcum powder, wax, and hair spray. I waded through knee-deep piles of stockings and playbills before excavating a seat in front of the largest mirror with the smaller set of lights. The smaller mirror had brighter lights, and Sister Rose took the seat there.
She took a moment to glance at herself, pick at a stray false eyelash, and pretend I wasn’t present, then she eyed me with an eyebrow lifted in an arch that Wolverine would’ve died for. Then she said, “Who are you looking for again? I don’t think you ever said.”
I ducked the question by asking another one. “You’re Adrian deJesus, aren’t you?”
Sister Rose froze mid-eyelash-investigation, and her whole body went rigid in a dangerous way. Without moving, and in less than a second, she’d gone from casual interest to a defensiveness that was ready for violence. I didn’t want any violence, even if I was pretty certain of my capacity for coming out on top.
She said, “You’re a cop, are you? Just a cop?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you’re a cop, and I want you out of here, right now. Sooner than now.” She was standing again and looming, prepared to bully me if it came to that.
“I’m not here to make any trouble for you,” I babbled. “I spoke to your parents last night.”
“Get out.”
I stood up, too, since I wasn’t willing to be the only one with my butt that close to the floor, and I wanted to give her the impression that I wasn’t the kind of girl who takes bullying lying down. “I won’t get out, not until we have a chat about your sister,” I said, running with my practically-totally-obvious theory that I was talking to the estranged brother.
She was visibly thrown, for all she tried to hide it. Her breathing was suspended for a pair of shocked seconds, and beneath a trowel’s worth of cream shadow, her eyes widened, then contracted. “My sister?” she asked, committing to nothing, but not ordering me out of the dressing room, either.
“Your sister. Your little sister,” I added, extrapolating from the approximate age of the person in front of me. Sister Rose was in her late twenties or early thirties, by my best approximation. “Isabelle deJesus, who went missing about ten years ago.” I then parroted everything I knew from the closed and semi-sealed police report. “She never came home from school.”
Rose went from discreetly shocked to stricken. She wanted to know, “Why now? Why you? I don’t even know who you are. You say you’re a cop, but I’m sorry, I still don’t buy it, and I want to know what’s really going on. What do you want from me?”
“I only want to talk about your sister. I know you’ve had a falling-out with your family; I went there first, and it was your father who finally gave me this place, and your … your stage name, as a lead.”
“But why?” she demanded, more desperate than commanding. “Are there any new leads? Nobody cared a decade ago. Why now?”
I held out my hands and said, “Please, sit down. Let’s both sit down, and just have a little talk. I’ll tell you what I know, and you can tell me what you know, and maybe we’ll have a productive conversation, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, not certain that she meant it, I could tell. She descended slowly back onto her seat—a small, round vanity-style stool that didn’t look large enough or strong enough to hold her. “Okay, but you have to tell me the truth.”
I agreed and likewise backed down gingerly into my seat, being careful to keep eye contact. “Let me start over,” I tried. “My name is Raylene, and yours is Adrian—yes or no?”
“Yes.”
I was almost surprised. I almost expected a token denial, or at least an insistence that it used to be her name, and now it was Rose, et cetera. But no. All she said was, “Yes.” So I said, as a gesture of good faith, “You’re right, I’m not a cop. But I don’t work for the government, either, and that’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?”
She didn’t really answer, except to flip her head in a disdainful shrug. She said, “Motherfucking meatheads.”
“Right now, those are my sentiments exactly,” I commiserated.
She countered loosely with, “Oh yeah? What have they done to you lately? Did they ever kidnap your little sister and refuse to give her back? Did they ever try to hunt you like a dog, and chase you into hiding?”
“The first part, no. The second part, actually yes.” I was already out on a limb anyway; I figured I’d go in for a pound if I was in for a penny. “That’s how I ended up here, in a roundabout way.”
“Looking for my sister?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?” It wasn’t quite a question. It was more of an accusation. “Who are you really, besides some very pale woman named Raylene?”
“I’m not a cop, but I am an investigator,” I said.
“What kind of investigator? And why won’t you tell me what you know about my sister?” Something funny in her tone made me wish I was a stronger psychic; I wanted to surreptitiously poke around in her mind while we talked, but I’m not good enough to get away with it. It’s not like walking and chewing gum at the same time. It’s like patting your head and tying your shoes.
“You’ve already expressed some hate for the government. Was that because they had your sister’s case closed?” The scowl I received wasn’t a satisfying response, so I kept pushing. “Someone went to great lengths to seal your sister’s case. Were you aware of this?” I asked, which pretty much exhausted my guesses and credible suspicions.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?” She drummed a set of flawless acrylic nails on the vanity table and pretended to adjust the dress around her knees.
“And you know more than that, don’t you?” I only realized it as I said it. “It’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?” I had this moment of epiphany, and there was almost nothing I could do about it, because a knock on the door interrupted us. It wasn’t the firm, secure knock of I Totally Belong Here; it was a knock of Jesus Christ Get Your Ass Out Here.
This was heartily confirmed by a bitchy tirade on the other side of the door. “Honey, all God’s children need that goddamn dressing room, and Dave’s screaming about the electric lemonade. You going to get out here and set the bar, or am I going to tell him you’re holed up with a date?”
“Fuck off, Fanny,” Rose growled—all man, all of a sudden.
Rose swiveled, stood, and leaned the two steps across the dressing room to the door. Whipping it open, the drag queen added, “I’m having a little conversation with the police right now, if you don’t mind. I’ll be done here when I’m done here, and until then, you can piss right off, do you understand me?”
Fanny got it, but Fanny made a scene about it. “Oh fine, sir. You big scary bastard, you. I’ll pass it along, you giant fucking cock-up.”
Rose slammed the door, and under the makeup I was having a hard time not seeing Adrian, who was big and angry, and rather startlingly masculine. I questioned my pronouns as well as my personal security, for all that this was silly, I was undead, and what was he going to do, scratch my eyes out?
This stupid thought made me think of Ian, and I almost thinked myself into a panic spiral.
Rose was still standing there, hand on the back of the door, either holding it shut or holding herself upright with it. The performer was ponder
ing something, analyzing something. Evaluating something—me, I guessed—and I was worried about where the roulette ball was going to settle.
On Rose’s left biceps I saw a shadow that had a funny shape to it, and it took me a second to figure out that I was looking at a tattoo covered in makeup. I wondered what it looked like when it was unhidden.
I wondered what Rose was going to say, and then she started talking.
“Fanny will be back in under a minute. I swear to God, I don’t have time for this.” There was no softness, feigned or otherwise in what Rose was saying. If I hadn’t been staring at her, I would’ve assumed she was a thirty-year-old man who was royally pissed and ready to punch something.
“For what? For me?”
“For you. For this conversation. For right now. The doors open soon and I have to start the night working the bar, because our guy is out sick and there’s no one else who can do it, and if I don’t do it, I’ll blow this gig. This cover,” Rose added, almost as an afterthought.
Footsteps came clipping down the hall, and it was the sound of high heels on carpet that didn’t have any padding under it.
Rose said quickly, “Here she comes now, fresh from tattling. Look, you have to leave.”
“Not until—”
“No. Right now, but we can talk later. Not here. Not like this. I don’t trust it, and I don’t trust some of these people.” She waved at the door, indicating the people on the other side of it in general, maybe Fanny in particular. “And I don’t trust you, exactly, but I get why you’re holding back, and maybe we can help each other. I don’t know. But I’m willing to talk.”
“Later?”
“Later,” she said as the knocking on the dressing room door commenced afresh. “When I’m off tonight. Around the corner and down the street there’s an all-night diner. Meet me there.” The knocking grew louder and grouchier, and it was underscored by obscenities. “I won’t talk here. I can’t talk here, and you shouldn’t talk here.”
“Me? What do I have to do with anything?”
“Maybe plenty,” she said, eyes narrowed. She grabbed the door’s tiny hook fastener and slapped it into place, as if it could stand alone against the wrath of an impatient drag queen. She lowered her voice to something wholly unladylike and menacing when she said, “My sister might’ve run away, but after that she was taken. And I know who took her, and I know why they took her. So you’re no cop and Bella was no runaway, and neither one of you is alive.”
Now it was my turn to be shocked into a slack-jawed drool-drip of confusion. “You think your sister’s dead?” I asked, because it was the only thing I could think to stutter.
“I’m coming in there!” announced Fanny from the other side, and she shoved against the door. The hook-lock held for the first assault, buying just enough time for Rose to lean down into my personal space.
She said, “Oh, she’s dead all right. I just want to know if she’s any deader than you.”
The door burst open and Fanny strolled inside with a glare and a sneer. “You’re supposed to be in the bar, asshole, and it’s my turn for the mirrors. Who the fuck is this? This the cop you’re talking to? She doesn’t look like a fucking cop. She looks like a fucking real estate agent.”
I started to say, “And you look like—” but Rose cut me off with a very large hand, pushing Fanny aside so I had room to leave. It was just as well. I couldn’t think of anything suitably catty anyway. I was in over my head in the catty department, I just knew it.
“Get out,” Rose reiterated. “Tonight. After three. Around the corner. We’ll talk.”
7
Sister Rose turned back to Fanny and started swearing in Spanish, flinging her arms around like she was guiding a very flamboyant airplane onto a very bumpy runway. I squeezed out through the narrow space where the door was half blocked by their bickering bodies and shimmied out sideways into the corridor, which seemed unaccountably dark after the brilliant face-painting-worthy glare of the dressing room.
My eyes adjusted accordingly and I stumbled out down the hall until I found my way back to the foyer. There, the front doors had been opened (a few minutes early, I thought) and a couple of people had milled inside, past a smallish man wearing ordinary man-clothes. He was sitting on a bar stool that had been dragged over to the entrance, in order to check IDs.
I scooted past him with an “Excuse me” and darted back into the street, where I felt like I could breathe again.
I stood on the sidewalk and oriented myself, scanning the blocks for a twenty-four-hour diner and spotting what looked like a sign for one down at the end of the street. I made a mental note of it and went back to my car.
You may recall that I tend to keep a change of clothes in my trunk. You may also recall that among these clothes are such diverse elements as a hot skirt and heels. I didn’t intend to stick around the drag bar all night, but if I was going to hang out in this part of town, I wanted to look less like a fucking real estate agent. Because really, Fanny was right and I knew it.
I wished I had something more like party clothes handy, but there was no way in hell I was going to drive all the way back home, then all the way back out to the Poppycock Review. Not on a weekend night. I’d rather suck it up and wander around looking like … well … like a slutty real estate agent. But it was better than nothing.
Because I have literally no shame whatsoever, I changed clothes in the backseat. No one stopped to watch, which was not quite insulting and, technically, should be considered a mark in the win column. Then again, I was only changing into a skirt and swapping out shoes, so I guess I wasn’t exactly putting on a show.
When I emerged from the vehicle I looked a little more like I belonged in the neighborhood, or at least I hoped so. If nothing else, I appeared young enough that—it was to be fervently prayed—I didn’t look like a middle-aged swinger looking for a third.
And God, it was still early. I had five or six hours to kill before it’d be worth my time to stroll over to the diner. So it was a real good thing I have a secret soft spot for disco. I roamed from club to club, watching show after show, and pickup after pickup in bar after bar.
I only treated myself to one glass of wine, so I stayed plenty sober throughout the evening, even for me. And in that last hour before the end of Rose’s shift, I wended to the Poppycock Review in order to hang out as a patron and—in all honesty—make sure my new lead didn’t magically disappear in a poof of glitter and a hearty snap of her fingers. I didn’t like being put off until later, and I didn’t intend to be stood up.
By the time I returned, the Review was jumping and jam-packed.
Pre-menopausal Madonna chirped aggressively from every speaker, and the press of bodies was close, salty-smelling, and frankly delicious—so very delicious that I wondered if this was such a good idea after all. For the previous chunk of the evening I’d been crashing in bars and keeping to the edges of the social scenery as a matter of personal sanity, but this was invigorating and fun, if cramped. I hadn’t been out dancing in longer than I could remember (since disco was popular the first time around? Maybe), and although I wasn’t dressed as appropriately as I would’ve preferred, I couldn’t keep my body from moving, bouncing, lunging along with the crowd as I made my way back to the stage area.
It wasn’t really a stage, exactly. It was just a swath of the dance floor that was being forcibly cleared for the night’s grand finale. A small dyke herded swaying, bopping dancers off to the edges, underneath the balcony overhangs and up the stairs so they could dangle off the banisters and lean over the rails. Those below were splashed periodically with beer, Long Island iced tea, or other contents from drunkenly handled pitchers up above. I picked the driest spot I could reach without hurting anyone and braced myself against a support pillar to watch the proceedings—hoping they’d include Sister Rose. If she came out to perform, I’d know she hadn’t flown the coop while I was out.
I’m not sure why I was so confident she hadn’t tak
en off, except that she seemed to know something about me—and by extension, perhaps about her baby sister’s condition before she vanished. If I’d played my cards right, Rose would be dying to know what I knew, just like I was dying to know what she knew. Maybe we’d both come out of it disappointed, or maybe we wouldn’t.
But my desire to see Rose perform wasn’t disappointed. She was announced as the next girl up, and all the late-night, drunk-as-hell partiers retreated the last few feet out of the performance area from respect or fear. I stayed where I was, except that I took a half step back, up onto a short, low pedestal against which the pillar was set. It gave me about three inches of height I wouldn’t otherwise have, and that, coupled with my obscenely tall shoes, let me see pretty much everything.
“Everything” consisted at first of “not much.” The lights dimmed, and then changed color before exploding afresh into vibrant shades of gold, blue, and scarlet. From the DJ booth a swift, naughty beat began to blare, and with it came a deeply fey voice that announced, “Ladies, and gentlemen, and everyone in between … we’re saving the best for last here at the Poppycock Review, and you know what that means, don’t you?”
The crowd announced in raucous stereo, “Pussy Party!”
And I wondered what the hell I’d gotten myself into, until the spotlight appeared and the song began. Don’t ask me why I recognized it; I’ll only lie to you. But suffice it to say, it was “Pussy” by an old band called the Lords of Acid. And then, oh yes—there was Sister Rose in the spotlight. And running a little late, the DJ said, “That’s right! And leading tonight’s Pussy Party, I give you, Sister Rose!”
Bloodshot Page 17
