by David Stukas
Don’t Miss These David Stukas Novels!
Praise for David Stukas and
GOING DOWN FOR THE COUNT
“Readers will laugh out loud as Stukas brings his unlikely trio of sleuths back for a second mad romp. Though the tone is high camp throughout, Stukas piles the layers of froth onto the sturdy frame of a clever, intricate whodunit.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A trendy, madcap comedy.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“Fans of Joe Keenan’s laugh-out-loud novels Blue Heaven and Puttin’ on the Ritz, and mystery buffs who enjoy a fast-paced, highly amusing yarn should rush to their favorite bookstore for a copy of David Stukas’s Going Down for the Count. Stukas has a great gift for fast-paced, funny dialogue, laced with memorable similes . . . his prose is light and he keeps the story moving swiftly, keeping the reader turning the pages, eager to learn more about New York’s A-List Gay World, which he brings to life with such precise hilarity.”
—Bay Area Reporter
And praise for David Stukas’s
SOMEONE KILLED HIS BOYFRIEND
“This breezy page-turner is laugh-out-loud entertainment. Irresistible.”
—Booklist
“A clever combination of mystery and social satire with a dash of fantasy . . . Those readers who miss Joe Keenan, both gay and straight, will appreciate this promising and witty writer.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Stukas has a natural, fluid style that makes this first novel a quick and easy read.”
—I Love a Mystery
“While David Stukas’s Someone Killed His Boyfriend is billed as a mystery, it is more of a comedy—and, at times, a laugh out loud one, containing pages of playful, sparkling dialogue.”
—The Lambda Book Report
“There’s a great deal of merriment and mirth. It’s a fun, off-the-wall take on life in the gay lane.”
—The Denton Record-Chronicle
Books by David Stukas
SOMEONE KILLED HIS BOYFRIEND
GOING DOWN FOR THE COUNT
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
GOING DOWN FOR THE COUNT
David Stukas
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Don’t Miss These David Stukas Novels!
Praise
Books by David Stukas
Title Page
Dedication
1 - Stand By Your Man
2 - My, What a Big Crown You Have!
3 - Take a Walk on the Wild Side
4 - How to Make a Sow’s Ear Into a Sow’s Ear Purse
5 - The Third Wives Club
6 - Ich Bin Ein Berliner ... Sort of
7 - From Lady of Leisure to Lady of the Evening
8 - What’s Good Enough for Princess Grace Is Good Enough for You
9 - I Haven’t Got a Thing to Wear
10 - I’d Kill to Get into this Party
11 - Someone Killed His Boyfriend. Now When’s Breakfast?
12 - Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Dyed Hair
13 - From Hopeful to Hopeless with Enthusiasm
14 - I’m Just a Prisoner of Love
15 - I Won’t Speak Ill of the Dead, But . . .
16 - Agatha Christie Who?
17 - Click Your Heels Together Three Times and Those Big Shing Boots Will Take You Home
Wearing Black to the White Party
Copyright Page
To Gary Stanton, mastermind,
To Rainer and Georg, meine Freunde,
To John, my extraordinary editor
And to Jack, always Jack.
1
Stand By Your Man
When Count Siegfreid von Schmidt, one of the richest, handsomest, and most openly gay men in Germany, fell madly in love with me, my friends couldn’t believe it—especially my dearest. Monette, my lesbian friend, was naturally very happy for me, but insanely jealous, also. This probably explains why she stated—and I quote her—that she must have been sucked through a wormhole in the space-time continuum and come out in a wacky, parallel universe where nothing made sense. I made a mental note to get back at her in a completely childish manner at a later date.
My other best friend, the gorgeous, chronically untalented, and sex-crazed heir to a herpes-ointment fortune, Michael Stark, had a different reaction. He laughed. And laughed. And laughed. In fact, he laughed so hard he lost a cap from one of his meticulously polished teeth.
But in all sincerity, I was the most stunned. Who, me? I thought, looking around at everyone but myself. Me? I had a right to be skeptical, after all. In fact, not just a right, but a proven track record.
Rich, handsome, internationally traveled, and cultured are not the sort of terms normally used to describe my dates. Mine were mostly 3-D: drunk, drugged, or desperate. Did I mention psychotic or mentally crippled?
But it was true. The count and I were seen everywhere around New York, eating in trendy restaurants, dancing in cutting-edge clubs. Yes, my life had turned around from tear-inducing boredom to jet set in a matter of weeks. Everything was going my way.
If it weren’t for his dead body lying with his head in a toilet, a knife in his back, and me being the last person to see him alive, I wouldn’t have had a thing to complain about.
When I began to think how I got into this situation, I had to look back in a vain attempt to unravel the whole mess. It didn’t take long, however, since the two largest crises in my life had one thing in common: my friend Michael Stark. The man could provoke disaster in my life from three states away. In fact, I can blame him with complete assurance for getting me into the largest fiascos of my existence. This particular one started when I was having dinner at a very nice restaurant with Michael in my adopted city of New York.
“. . . so this guy takes out this rubber chicken and starts beating this guy up with it. Whack! Whack! The guy’s back was covered with big, purple bruises and he was loving every minute of it,” Michael spouted breathlessly, recounting a scene at a sex party he’d recently attended. “It was so perverse. You wanted to laugh. The guy on the receiving end didn’t do much laughing, though.”
“Michael, please, I’m eating . . . a rubber chicken?” I asked, weirdly interested.
“Yes!” Michael said excitedly. “Pretty wild, huh?”
“Michael, I know your sexual tastes and mine are a little different,” I started, but was cut off at the pass.
“You mean I get it on a regular basis?” Michael added cattily.
“If you mean hourly, Michael, then you’re correct. By the way, what’s keeping you from pillowing the waiter? After all, we’ve been here over an hour.”
“He’s not my type.”
“I thought any carbon-based life-form with a large you-know-what was your type.”
“Well, at least I have sex, Robert. I think the wives of Wall Street investment bankers get it more often than you do.”
“That’s because they’re paying for it,” I protested.
“Maybe you’re on to something. Yeah . . . the solution to all your problems, Robert! Pay! If you did, you’d be guaranteed to have sex. I know some escorts who would be perfect for you. They could dress up like a Catholic bishop and have sex with you. Or they could watch you organize your apartment while they jerked off.”
“Make fun all you want just because I’m not as kinky as you, Michael. I’m more of the romantic type. You know—soft music, champagne, candles.”
“That reminds me. I saw the most fascinating hot-wax demonstration on this incredibly hunky guy at the Bound for Glory Bondage Clu
b last Thursday night.”
“Michael, I’m trying to be romantic and you’re talking about dripping candle wax on some naked guy at some sleazy sex club where the term ‘groin pull’ takes on a whole new meaning!”
“Yeah, and?” Michael asked, incredulous that I thought there was something wrong with the scene he had just described. Michael was very muscular, gorgeous, rich, popular, vain, and unbelievably selfish. But above all, sex was what blew air up Michael’s skirt. “The reason why you can’t bed a guy—any guy—is that you’re so sexually repressed. Guys don’t want to date the Pope. You can talk all the romance shit you want, but you prove your worth in bed, believe me.”
“Michael, you’ve been on more mattresses than the quality control guy at Sealy Posturpedic. Just you wait. As traditional as my values may be . . .” I started.
“. . . prehistoric is more like it,” Michael added.
I brushed Michael’s comments aside and continued, “. . . they’ll help me snag some guy who believes love is very much alive. A guy who wants to spend afternoons walking along the beach, watching old black-and-white movies, or sharing a good book.”
Michael began grimacing as if I had just asked him to picture Donald Trump naked.
“That’s right, Michael, r-o-m-a-n-c-e. It’s all about being with someone and looking up at the stars at night . . .” I tried to continue, but was cut off by a stunningly handsome man at the next table who seemed to be finishing my sentences for me.
“... and picnics in the woods on a warm spring day, poking through old junk stores on a Saturday afternoon, and a glass of wine while overlooking the Amalfi coast of Italy. Excuse me for eavesdropping on your conversation, but I couldn’t help myself. I feel exactly the same way. My name is Count Siegfreid von Schmidt. I didn’t want to seem impertinent, but what you said touched something in my heart. I am looking for a man who feels old-fashioned love is not dead. That love is measured not by what you do in bed together, but by the time you spend with each other. How do you Americans say? The quality time. I feel there is more to be gained by spending an evening just staring into the embers crackling in a fireplace on a frosty autumn night with a lover than a thousand nights of sex.”
Before I knew what was happening, Michael was circling his newfound prey.
“My name is Michael Stark, and I think what you said is completely wrong. I’ll be happy to show you exactly how wrong you are,” he said, almost peeling the clothing off the count with his words.
I don’t know what got into me, but instead of abdicating my tenuous romance with this mystery man to Michael like so many before, I ran to my battle station.
“Michael, I think the count was talking to me. You see, he seems to be more interested in romance that leaves a person with a sense of personal and spiritual fulfillment, not some baffling urinary tract infection.”
“We’ll let the count decide, shall we?” Michael added, figuring his handsome face and muscular body would certainly steal the count’s affections.
“Actually, I don’t want to create discord among two who are obviously very great friends. But I would like to give my phone number to this marvelous gentleman here,” the count said, gesturing toward me with his Rolex-clad arm.
“Are you sure you don’t want me? Guys always prefer me. Always!” Michael replied, his voice suddenly reeking with desperation.
“You are very handsome and have the kind of body that definitely excites me. But it is your friend here I am most interested in.”
Suddenly, my world didn’t make sense anymore. This couldn’t be happening. Then it dawned on me: this had to be one of the extremely elaborate practical jokes my lesbian friend Monette played on me—and vice versa. I decided to test the waters.
“Did Monette put you up to this?” I asked.
“Monette? I don’t know what you mean.”
He seemed genuinely baffled by my request. Of course, it was difficult to tell completely, since the count was wearing dark sunglasses. His signature, I suppose. Or a way of fending off the flashes of paparazzi cameras I imagined were a fact of life for a person with a title—if he was indeed a real count.
“Never mind,” I said, feeling it was safe to proceed.
“Here is my card, and I will write my cellular phone number on it so you may contact me.” He scribbled some numbers on a beautiful business card with a fountain pen that had obviously been owned by some countess or czarina. Yup, Count Siegfreid. von Schmidt it said right on the card. And two German phone numbers: one in Berlin and the other in Hamburg.
“Now, I have shown you mine. Please show me yours,” he said with complete innocence. Or did he?
Michael piped in, never losing a chance to vanquish a competitor. “You don’t want to see his. It would take a particle accelerator just to get a glimpse of it.”
“Thank you very much, Michael,” I replied, not knowing if it was a good idea to hit Michael in the face with the empty wine bottle that sat on our table. Too many witnesses ... plus, it wouldn’t make the best impression on the count. “For your information, if the count wanted to see yours, he could just rent any porn video from Mammoth Films!”
“C’mon, Robert, you know for a fact I only made one porn film as a lark.”
“Then why did Battering Ram have three sequels?” I queried Michael, not letting him off easily.
“I only starred in the first one, Robert. The other two were just cameo roles,” Michael responded.
The count merely smiled. Although his English was almost perfect, I couldn’t tell if he was being diplomatic and had decided not to get in the middle of our catfight, or if he didn’t quite understand what was going on between Michael and me.
“I don’t know what your plans are, but I would like to see you tomorrow,” the count gently begged.
“Well, let me see . . .” I said, trying to create the impression of having a busy and demanding social schedule.
“He’s probably going to a mesmerizing exhibit on book jacket covers at the New York Library,” Michael interjected, managing to throw one more punch before the bell rang.
Actually, I was going to hear a lecture by Amanda Preistly, best-selling author of Go Fuck Yourself—A Single Person’s Guide to Having Sex with the Most Important Person in the World. You! But in light of the fact that I had a live man interested in me, I decided to forego dragging the count to a book lecture about masturbation as the only orgasmic alternative to those who didn’t have the six-figure income to pay for love. If I wasn’t going to inform the count about my plans, I certainly wasn’t about to let Michael know them.
“I can rearrange a few things,” I finally relented. “Yes, I’d like to see you very much. It would be an honor.”
“Good. I would like to take you to a lecture. Gordon Kuzuleekas is speaking about his latest novel. It’s about a group of Lithuanian intelligencia fleeing czarist Russia and emigrating to America in the early 1900s. On their way to America, however, they enter a hole in the space-time continuum and find themselves in a futuristic world populated by robots. It promises to be quite engaging.”
“I’d love to go,” I gushed. I would go see a documentary on the love life of Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg if the count asked me.
“I will call on you tomorrow. Ten o’clock. Yes?”
“That’s perfect . . . Count,” I stumbled, not knowing what to call him.
“Siegfreid, please.”
“Siegfreid it is. Ten o’clock.”
“Until then,” he said. He got up from his table and left the restaurant, leaving an air of mystery and intrigue in his wake. I was in love! Maybe this was the way life really was supposed to be. Years of horrific dates that ended with stolen wallets, a stubborn skin rash, and vomit on my favorite bathroom rug—and then love walks in the door. And not just any love, but royalty.
“He’s not going to call you back!” Michael blurted out, trying to club my dreams to death.
“Michael, he’s the one who made the ad
vances. I didn’t ask him to talk to me. You can’t stand the fact that he’s interested in me and that you’ve finally run into a man you can’t have . . . no, worse—who doesn’t want you.”
“That’s why I think he’s a psycho. Any sane man would want me.”
This comment was typical for Michael. He was the most egotistical, selfish, shallow, oversexed, wealthiest, and handsomest gay man I knew. He also got me into a lot of gay society events I could never get invited to on my own. His personality could best be summed up as toxic, but I didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, either. “He seems pretty normal to me, Michael . . . except for the ‘count’ thing.”
“I tell you, Robert, the refrigerator in his hotel suite is full of frozen, decapitated heads, and he wants yours next. I’ve seen it all the time. These lunatics come across real suave and charming. They have expensive clothes, business cards, accents, and some of them act like they have some sort of connection to royalty. They look so normal, people don’t stop to think for a minute that there could be anything wrong with them. The thing is, they prey on desperate people like you. They’ll wine you, dine you, then take you back to their hotel or apartment and . . . skeeek!” Michael ran a finger across his throat for extra emphasis. “The next thing you know, the police break into the place and find you next to the frozen peas.”
Whether Michael truly meant to protect me or not, he succeeded in planting the seed of doubt in my mind. Landing on the fertile ground of my paranoia and low self-esteem, the doubt grew like Japanese kudzu vine landing in a tub of plant fertilizer. I went from seeing love on the horizon to seeing meat cleavers. Maybe I was too trusting, but growing up in the Midwest hadn’t taught me a lot about the world. “Do you really think he’s a psycho impostor?” I asked anxiously.
