The trouble with hairy, p.39
The Trouble With Hairy, page 39
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
“So, he’ll be fine. What’s the problem?” Becky slapped Grant away lightly and scowled playfully in his direction. He grinned in response and, ignoring her, moved to stand behind her, cupping her breasts in his hands.
“After two fights in one night, if he hurt himself, can you imagine him not making a big tsimmis out of it? Just for sympathy?”
“Tsimmis? Where did you learn Yiddish?” Becky was surprised at this new talent of Chris’. “I thought you were Catholic,” she accused. She backed up against the wall, trapping Grant, and wiggled her ample behind provocatively. She was rewarded when he let out a low moan.
“Church of England. Hanna and Gustav, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” Becky had met the elderly Jewish vampire couple several times and adored them both. Gustav was a teddy bear-like man with a passion for computer games. His wife, Hanna, spent most of her time in the kitchen, cooking, even though she was long past the point where she could taste the fruits of her labors. Her cinnamon and honey schnecken, Becky recalled, were nothing less than divine and her chocolate ruggalah were truly inspirational.
“He’s probably still sulking somewhere,” Becky said. Fond memories of Hanna’s culinary artistry caused her to move away from Grant and open the freezer. Grant followed and her gasp of delight was not entirely due to the presence of a Sara Lee coconut cake in her freezer.
“What’s wrong?” Chris asked.
“Nothing.” She removed the frozen cake, debated about letting it defrost and then decided that it would probably taste even better frozen. She ripped open the box.
“I’m just worried,” Chris said slowly, “that he’s upset enough to try something crazy.”
“Like what?” Becky’s voice was muffled as she licked vanilla frosting from her fingers. Then, she cradled the receiver under one ear, opened a drawer and took out a large carving knife.
“I dunno.” Becky could mentally picture Chris’ shrug. “But the last time we had a major fight was about thirty or forty years ago. I’d made the mistake of giving him a puppy. Eventually, it died. He was devastated. Threw himself across the body and wouldn’t let me bury it for two days. Part of it was him being a drama queen but, underneath it all, he was really upset. I finally got it away from him by promising to buy him another one.” His voice trailed off.
“And…?” Becky could tell that the story was bothering Chris badly. She handed the knife to Grant and motioned for him to try and saw through the cake. Hopefully, it would occupy him for a minute so that she could concentrate on her conversation with Chris.
“I lied,” he said softly. “I couldn’t bear to watch him go through all that grief again when the second one died.”
He paused for a moment and then added, with a weak attempt at levity, “And you’d faint if you knew how much the funeral for the damned thing cost. The flower bill alone was something like two hundred dollars. That was a lot of money back in the sixties. Not to mention the pallbearers. He wanted to send it out to sea in a little wooden boat and shoot flaming arrows at it, but I put my foot down.”
“Chris,” she said, a little testily. Although she loved Chris dearly, this petty squabble with Troy was keeping her from interests she’d much rather be pursuing right now. The Sara Lee cake was merely one of such interests. The other was eating his own piece of cake.
“He broke a picture and stayed out one night. The only dead dogs are the ones Louis ate. I appreciate that he was upset when you yelled at him, but for crying out loud…”
“That’s the point!” Chris interrupted. “He was so hurt that I’d betrayed him — those were his words — that he went and filled his pockets with silver dollars and tried to walk into the ocean.”
“A Star is Born,” Becky said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “I should’ve known.”
The line was quiet for a minute.
“I was really hard on him,” Chris murmured, finally.
“Oh well,” Becky sighed with resignation, “I can see I’m not gonna get any…uh…sleep tonight either. Thank God I… Never mind.” Her voice trailed off as she thought of the incredibly intimate evening she’d had with Grant the night before. He’d shown up late, as he had warned he might do. However, he’d brought along a his and hers set of candy underwear, licorice-flavored. Becky had decided that the wait had been well worth it.
Holding fast to the memory of his performance last night and wondering how she could avoid hurting his feelings tonight, she shoved as much of the slice of cake as she could into her mouth and resigned herself to, yet again, breaking off an interlude with Grant.
“Just let me finish up here and get dressed. I’ll be over in a few,” she mumbled, as she chewed, “and we’ll go out looking for the little bastar…I mean, the little dickens.”
Chris sounded relieved. “Thanks, Becky. I knew I could count on you.”
Becky swallowed and opened the refrigerator, hoping that there was still some chocolate milk left. But, as she did so, she spied the empty carton in the garbage can next to the fridge.
“Florence Nightingale. That’s me,” she said, ruefully, and hung up.
“What’s up?” Grant asked.
“I can’t believe this!” she said. She leaned forward and kissed away a dab of icing from Grant’s cheek.
“It’s Troy. He’s gone. Unfortunately, Chris wants him back. And guess who’s been volunteered to help?”
Grant lowered his gaze to the floor in what Becky assumed was disappointment. “So. You’re going over there?”
“I have to, honey,” Becky said miserably. “He’s my best friend.” She paused and thought for a moment.
“You could stay here until I get back. But there’s no telling how long it’ll take us to find the little brat. He’s probably sobbing his eyes out at some old Bette Davis film. We’re probably gonna have to make the rounds of every revival movie theater in town.”
“I guess,” Grant said, “that I should probably go home then.”
He looks like a hurt puppy with his head hanging down like that, she thought with affection.
“I’m sorry,” she said aloud. “But I promise you,” she added with steely determination, “best friend or not, this is the last time I’m gonna jump through hoops because of that little monster’s selfishness. Chris had damned well better teach him to grow up!”
She kissed Grant once on the top of his head and waddled off into the bedroom.
“Come on. Let’s get dressed and I’ll walk you out.”
“Okay,” Guy called out, “I’ll be right in.”
Well, well, well, he thought. The renfield’s gone and she’ll be with the bloodsucker holding his hand.
With a brutally strong motion, Guy drove the knife into the hardwood top of Becky’s kitchen counter hard enough to bury a half inch of the tip. He watched it quiver for a moment.
Which means, if I can catch the scent… A small smile began to play across his lips. There’ll be no interference tonight!
The smile blossomed full fold, but there was no joy in it. Had Becky seen it, she would have been shocked by the cruelty in her lover’s face. She would have been alarmed by the sharpness of Grant’s teeth. She would have been horrified at the sight of patches of dark hair blossoming and vanishing across her lover’s naked torso.
She would have begun to wonder just who — or what — she’d invited into her bed.
“Well?” Shanda asked, as she made sure the Mexican blanket loaded with silver trinkets was firmly attached to the wall. She detoured to the newly repaired telephone, dialed six digits, waited, and when she heard the recorded message, hung up.
“He’ll be here. I know he’ll be here,” Troy insisted as he checked his reflection in the mirror yet once again. “Just put some ice on your ovaries and relax.”
Shanda cleared her throat in mild irritation as she checked the clothesline running from the blanket to the top hinge of the hallway door for the tenth time in as many minutes.
Troy looked fabulous, in his own humble opinion. He’d vacillated between dressing to evoke the Lone Ranger or Don Quixote. Although the latter had more of a romantic appeal to it, he’d seen Man of La Mancha at least a dozen times and was wary of repeating the outcome of the movie in real life. Besides, Troy had completely forgotten that he’d ever owned a pair of emerald green leather chaps and was delighted that he was finally going to get some use out of them.
“Stop preening,” Shanda warned him, “or I’m calling the Fashion Police.” She dialed, waited and hung up again, glancing up at her chandelier that had been altered according to Troy’s plan and hoisted up into a corner of the living room.
“We’ve been waiting for hours,” Shanda griped, after dialing again. She was beginning to have second thoughts about the whole idea. Troy had entered into his plan with his usual disregard for any eventuality that was outside the limited range of what Troy expected to happen; things would either work out the way Troy intended, or not at all. It was the “not at all” part that worried the drag queen.
“Will you stop fussing with that?” Troy said in annoyance as Shanda moved away from the telephone and started to check the cords once again.
“I’m just making sure,” she told him.
“You know,” Troy said thoughtfully, “it’s a shame we couldn’t manage to dig a pit in the center of your living room.” He became more animated as his bizarre inspiration took shape. “I saw it in an old Tarzan movie once. We could line it with silver tipped spikes and cover it with one of your throw rugs.”
“Forget it,” Shanda replied. “I’m gonna have to refinish the floors anyway to get rid of the claw marks. You keep your picks and shovels to yourself.”
“You’re right,” Troy said, with a look of wistful regret. “Too butch for me.”
At first, Shanda had listened to Troy’s assurances that he knew what he was doing. But when he showed up at her bungalow door, dressed as a cross between Dale Evans and a large lime, Shanda had started to have the first pangs of doubt. As their preparations moved further and further along, Shanda’s doubts grew.
Refusing to give into panic at having stupidly placed herself in the position where, should Louis’ cousin attack again, the only barrier between Shanda Leer and the hereafter would be Troy’s version of the Jolly Green Giant, Shanda looked askance at the booby-trapped bungalow but decided it was too late to create an alternate plan and decided to stick it out the best she could. Nevertheless, she resolved to place herself so that she was an instant away from the telephone at all times. She dialed six digits for what seemed to be the three hundredth time.
“What are you doing with that telephone?” Troy asked. “It’s getting on my nerves.”
“I’m dialing your number,” Shanda replied.
“WHAT?” Troy spun away from the mirror in outrage.
“Don’t worry. I’m not dialing the last digit. But if Guy Chartreuse comes through that door, I want your lover on the phone, pronto.” The recorded operator’s voice came on the line, telling Shanda to hang up if she wanted to make a call. She pressed the receiver button down and quickly dialed six numbers on the keypad.
“But I’m here,” Troy said, hurt.
“I know,” Shanda said. “That’s why I keep dialing Chris.”
“If you feel that way about it,” Troy huffed, “I’ll just get out of your hair.” He stormed toward the door, furious at Shanda’s lack of confidence in him.
“Chill out, Troy. This isn’t a movie set. I just want to be careful.”
“After all I did to plan this!” Troy snapped, his hurt feelings turning to pique. He waved his hand to indicate the huge pile of teapots, trays, silverware, picture frames and every other imaginable household item that could possible be rendered in silver, which was stacked in the dining room entryway.
“I spent six hours prowling through every antique shop in West Hollywood for that stuff!” he wailed. “I’ve got blisters on my hands from all the hammering and sawing we did. I spent two hours at that silver plating place on Melrose. And you can just imagine the looks I got from people when I was laying that trail of your perfume all over the goddamned city.”
Troy stamped his foot in indignation. “I went through twenty-six bottles of Poison. Elizabeth Taylor’s gonna retire on what I spent today.”
“I told you it was a stupid idea,” Shanda reminded him.
“Stupid? I have news for you, Missy. If it worked for Hansel and Gretel, it’ll work for us!”
“That was bread crumbs,” Shanda was rapidly adding exasperation to her increasing fear.
“Even bread crumbs’d smell better than that shit you wear, Miss Thing!” Troy sniffed, a piss-elegant queen if there ever was one. “Talk about sweet! I’m surprised you don’t have swarms of bees following you everywhere you go.”
Shanda bristled. “I’ll have you know, that is a very expensive perfume.”
“Don’t I know it!” Troy shot back. “Chris is gonna kill me when he gets the American Express bill. A thousand dollars worth of something that smells like grape Kool Aid!”
“Don’t you talk to me about fruit! You’re the one standing there dressed like a head of broccoli! Where ever did we buy that get-up? Or did we just mug a bag lady?”
“Where did we go to school, dear?” Troy asked with sweet bitchiness. “For your information, missy, broccoli is a vegetable.” He folded his arms across his chest in an unsuccessful attempt to evoke manly defiance. “Even the president of the United States knew that!”
Shanda drew a deep breath, realizing that the argument was getting them nowhere. She thought about reducing the blond boy to a quivering wreck via skillful use of barbed and catty comments but refrained. It was beginning to look like they were in enough trouble already. “Look, Troy, will you relax?” she began, trying to placate him. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Yes, you did!” Troy said, stamping his foot petulantly. “All that work we did in here to trap the bad guy, all that effort, and this is the way you say thanks? Insulting my outfit, indeed!”
“Do you honestly think any of that stuff is actually going to work?” Shanda said, her own temper finally getting the better of her. “Booby traps, my ass!”
“It worked in Revenge of the Jedi,” Troy said with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Maybe he’ll just die laughing when he sees your little Ewok traps,” she riposted viciously. “Unless I die laughing first!”
Troy fixed Shanda with a withering stare. “You are a very wicked queen!”
He shifted the plywood in the front doorway aside to strike a dramatic pose, back of his hand pressed against his forehead, and continued. “Don’t bother to come chasing after me. I want…to be…alone.” This last was said in a passing good imitation of Garbo and, then, without another word, he swept out into the night, deaf to Shanda’s shouts for him to come back.
The recorded operator’s voice came onto the line once again. This time, when Shanda hung up, she dialed all seven digits.
How dare she! Troy fumed as he flounced down the path toward the sidewalk. Nobody has any confidence in me! Everyone treats me like a baby! Everyone yells at me!
He kicked in frustration at a half crushed paper cup that was lying in the grass by the path. “Everyone hates me!” he mourned aloud. His frustration gave way to self pity, and with only a brief thought for grass stains on his green outfit, he sank to the ground by the curb in a flood of tears.
Becky was right. And Shanda, too. When it came down to something really important, he was useless. Oh sure, he was fabulous in bed, even in the depths of his misery, he wasn’t going to belittle that fact. But, other than that, the best he could say for his value to others was that he was mildly amusing and rather clever. Perhaps that was why Chris had kept him around all these years, a sort of court jester, something to haul out to entertain his friends and then abuse and yell at when he wasn’t needed any more.
“What happened to wit?” he said into the night, in a tragic voice worthy of an Oscar nomination. “Or style, or repartee? The things that make life truly worth living?”
His innate sense of the dramatic caused him to throw himself face down, full length on the ground, one arm sprawled above his head, his tears buried in the other for the benefit of anyone who might be happening by, the picture of abject sorrow. Maybe, he thought, he’d just worn himself thin after all these years. Maybe what used to funny and bright was now merely irritatingly quaint. Maybe, in fact, in more than half a century, Chris had just grown tired of him.
Troy sobbed noisily for a minute or so. So noisily, in fact, that he almost missed the low growl from the yard next door. Sitting bolt upright at the sound, straining to hear it again, his tears stopped, and unaccountably, he sneezed.
The growl was repeated and Troy sneezed again, this time accompanied by a familiar swelling and itching around his eyes. He coughed twice and wheezed for breath as his throat started to close up on him.
“Oh, shit,” he said, and suddenly, his self-pity was forgotten. His eyes brightened as he let out a muffled gasp, partially from joy and partially to take in air. There was still a chance to redeem himself! He scrambled to his feet, and coughing and sneezing, he dashed back toward Shanda’s front door.
“About two minutes ago. If I hurry, I can probably catch him.”
“No,” Chris’ voice was angry. “You stay put. The last thing we need is you wandering the streets looking for him. You’d be too easy of a target. God damn him!”
Shanda could hear Becky’s voice in the background and Chris’ muffled reply. They seemed to be arguing.
“Chris?” Shanda asked tentatively. “If you two are having problems, don’t you think you’d better chill out a little yourself? He’s upset and his feelings are hurt. The last thing he needs is more rejection. I was just so scared when I realized he didn’t have the slightest idea…”
