Pursuit, p.11
Drag Queen (Robert Rodi Essentials), page 11
“I’m going to remind you that you said that someday, when you’re president of the whole bang shoot.”
“Don’t hold your breath just yet. When is this meeting, anyway?”
“Early next week. I’ll call you.”
That night, when Bereneesha peeked her head into his office to say she was leaving for the night, Mitchell looked up at her to say goodbye, and he saw, in her soft face, full lips, and slight shoulders, nothing less than The Enemy.
19
On Saturdays, the Tam-Tam put on its all-girl revue, featuring the full galaxy of starlets with whom its patrons had passed the work week. Even so, Kitten found herself arriving for the curtain earlier than usual—summoned, once again, by Gordy. She knew nothing good could come of this, and entered the club with her stomach roiling in dread.
She removed her sunglasses and untied her scarf. In the light of day, the club looked embarrassingly tawdry—like a showgirl wearing her stage makeup to a picnic. The harsh light also revealed the less than pristine condition of the club’s chairs, tables, shelves—even the frayed red felt that lined the bar. And the mirrors were revealed to be thick with dust. Kitten felt depressingly cheap in these surroundings.
She wasn’t here alone; the other girls had already arrived and were congregated around the bar. There was Raquel Dommage, the Unliving Doll, with all her Goth accessories: black bra, black leather jacket, black full-length skirt, black lipstick, and ash-white makeup. And Tequila Mockingbird, America’s Sweet Tart, decked out in pastels and high stockings and Mary Janes, and a bright, blond Shirley Temple wig. Also May Oui, the Sultana of Sass, looking sharp in a simple blue Brooks Brothers suit, a white silk blouse, flat heels, and pearls, with her natural hair in a ponytail. (May was the only one of the girls with hair thick enough to forego a wig, and she was well hated for it.)
And, of course, Regina Upright. The Idol of Millions was seated on the bar, her long legs crossed provocatively, her hair up under a baseball cap, and her tiny size-three frame slipped into a clingy white jumpsuit. Scarcely a trace of makeup on her face, either. Nothing much about her that should express femininity, and yet everything did. How Kitten longed to slay her.
“Miss Kitt!” exclaimed Tequila as she ran up to her friend and bussed her on the cheek. “Any idea why we’re hauled in forty minutes early?”
“No, sweetie,” said Kitten, squeezing her hand in solidarity, “but then I’m currently in disgrace, and would scarcely be the first to hear.”
“Oh, hon,” said May, putting her hand over her heart, “don’t look at it that way! We’ve all had our ups and downs, and you of all people—”
“I’m down right now, yes,” Kitten said, cutting her off. She flung her purse onto a nearby table. “Thanks ever so for the reminder. So where’s our august leader?”
“Right here,” said Gordy from a darkened corner.
All the girls jumped. “Christ!” snapped Tequila. “We didn’t see you there!”
“You been there the whole time?” squealed Raquel. “That’s goddamn creepy!”
“Scare a girl half to death,” panted May, seating herself at a table and pressing her palm against her chest.
Gordy came out of the shadows and Kitten could see that he was grimacing. “Wanted to spy on girls and maybe get clue how girls feel about Gordy,” he said.
Kitten let out a little bark of disbelief. “You—you admit you were spying on us?”
He took his nasal inhaler from his shirt pocket and had a quick hit. “Yes,” he said. “You don’t like? So what. You going to sue Gordy?”
She frowned at him and wrinkled her brow. What was he up to?
Then he broke into a smile. “Have difficult choice to make, is all,” he said, popping the inhaler back into his pocket and plopping himself onto the piano bench. “Have to decide between girls for great honor. Hoped to find that one loved Gordy better than the rest. No such luck. Not even mention Gordy! So, must put hurt feelings aside and choose on merit. Aw shucks, right?”
They were all on alert now. Regina leaned forward, put her elbow on her knee, and rested her chin on her hand. “An honor, you say? C’mon, Gordy. What’s the D-E-A-L?”
From his pants pocket he produced a tattered envelope, which he waved at the girls. “Sultry vixens have bewitched one of customers,” he said giddily. “Have letter here from him, wishing to remain anonymous, but saying he will donate large amount of money to put Tam-Tam float in Gay Pride parade.”
“But we’ve never been in the parade before,” said Kitten suspiciously.
“First time for everything—especially when somebody else paying.” He swiveled on his hip in order to slide the envelope back into his pocket, making the keys dangling from his belt jingle like it was Christmas. He sat up again and said, “Float to have one star—one girl to perform up on top. All others to be down below, on four corners.”
“But it doesn’t have to be like that,” said May, who was the only girl there who really nursed no hope of being chosen as the star (her personal style was far too androgynous for the part). “You can make the float so we can all be on top together.”
Gordy shook his head. “Forgot to mention: anonymous donor has also submitted design for float. We either use it, or no moolah. So we use it. Gordy has decreed!” Another quick hit from his nasal inhaler. “So. Gordy must choose star. Must pick from among you all, each very beautiful, each good choice in own way. Very difficult. But…decision is made.”
A quiver of excitement ran through the club. The girls squealed and huddled into a group, clutching each other’s shoulders—all except Kitten, who shut her eyes and frowned. She knew instinctively what was coming.
“It’s just like Miss America,” whispered Tequila with breathy excitement. “Just like goddamn Miss Universe.”
“Have decided,” said Gordy dramatically, “that star of Tam-Tam float in Gay Pride parade will be—”
Then he paused. He actually paused. The theatrical old flamer! Kitten couldn’t resist opening her eyes and gazing with contempt at the four others, whose faces were rapt with anticipation, their eyes glued to Gordy’s ravaged-handsome mug.
“Shit, Gordy, just fucking tell us,” snapped Raquel.
“Regina Upright, Idol of Millions!” he practically sang out. And immediately Regina was engulfed by her sisters, who hugged her and wailed their congratulations. She couldn’t respond, however; she was too busy shaking and sobbing, tears fairly ejaculating from her eyes.
The sorry spectacle went on for a full forty seconds, during which time Kitten quietly retrieved her purse and slipped out for a smoke.
20
“Sister’s on line three,” said Bereneesha over the intercom.
Mitchell put down his sheaf of papers and reached for the phone. He paused for a second when he thought of Donald; then he shook his head, muttered, “Wouldn’t dare,” and picked up the receiver. ‘Mitchell Sayer here.”
“Well?” said a woman on the other end, rather abruptly.
He knit his brow. “Paula?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Yes, it’s Paula! God’s sake, Mitch, you don’t know me by now? So, what’s going on? I’m calling for a report.” She sounded even more peremptory than usual.
“Report?” He sat back. “Oh. You mean Mother.”
She emitted a little hiss of impatience. “Yes, I mean Mother. What else? Mitch, you said you’d talk to her. Ow! Damn it!”
A short pause. “Paula? Are you there?”
“Yes. I just got my heel caught in an escalator. Pulled my shoe right off my foot. Excuse me, please. Excuse me, that’s my shoe!”
“Where are you?”
“Nordstrom. The escalator’s eating my shoe. Could someone please turn this off? Miss? Are you a manager?—Are you a manager?—I am speaking English, am I not?”
“Paula, maybe I’d better call you back.”
“Don’t be silly, if I can just get someone with the competence of single-celled organism to help me, I’ll be—excuse me, ma’am, that is my shoe.”
Cyrus Trilby stuck his head in the door. “Got a moment?” he whispered.
Mitchell covered the receiver and said, “Just a sec.” Then, speaking into the phone again, he said, “Paula, I have to go. Give me your portable number.”
“I want to see the store manager. Are you the store manager?—Damn it, I didn’t say department manager, I said store manager.”
“Paula! Paula!” Mitchell shrugged at Cyrus, who grimaced and departed.
“All right, Mitchell, calm down,” she said at last. “I’m here. They’re just getting the store manager. I can’t believe this! These are Claudia Ciutis! Do you know what I paid for them? Honest, you’d think a person would be safe at Nordstrom…”
“Paula, I have to go.”
“Fine, just quickly tell me what Mother said.”
“I haven’t talked to her yet.”
Another pause; this one like a small Ice Age. “Mitchell, you said you would.”
“I tried. I called the ashram. Apparently the students all live in barracks. Seems there’s only a couple phones in the entire place, and those are in the administrative office. I have left a message.”
“I am getting just a little bit fed up with you.”
“Look, Paula, what more do you expect me to—”
“I said I wanted the store manager. Is that so terribly difficult? Shall I write it out for you?”
Cyrus peeked into Mitchell’s office again.
“Paula, I have to go.”
“Mitchell—wait! This is serious. We’ve got to do something. Call the authorities. Can’t you see they’re mistreating Mother? I mean, really—not letting her near a phone?”
“That’s voluntary, Paula. The students agree to it.”
“Mother would never agree to that. Step away from that shoe, please.”
He rose from his chair and began gathering up his papers. “Paula, we’ll have to continue this some other time.”
“I’m not busy, really, Mitch. Just waiting for the store manager.”
“I’m busy.”
“Yes, but you always are. Listen, we have to do something drastic. Do you think we should have Mother kidnapped?”
He dropped the papers, and his jaw. “What?”
“Have her taken away from that place and…what’s the word? Deprogrammed. That’s what they call it, isn’t it?”
He sat down again, appalled. “Paula, you don’t deprogram someone who’s cloistered herself away to study one of the world’s oldest and most venerated religions.”
“Why not? Watch the shoe, please.”
“Deprogramming is only for persons who are engaged in bizarre and cultlike behavior on the fringes of society.” As soon as Mitchell spoke these words, something turned in his mind. His left eyebrow rose to a telling peak.
“Are you the store manager? Well, it’s about time! Your escalator is eating my shoe. And it’s a Ciuti!—I said, a Ciuti!—Oh, very funny.”
“Paula, what is it?”
“Some joker just said gesundheit. Listen, Mitchell, I—what? I know my ankle’s bleeding! Who cares? Save the damn Ciuti!”
Cyrus stepped into the office again, arms akimbo, looking very much unamused.
Mitchell barked “I have to go” into the receiver, and hung up.
Cyrus glowered at him. “You about ready, then?”
He nodded. “Sorry, Cyrus. Family problem.”
The senior partner’s demeanor changed visibly; he actually appeared sympathetic. “Oh, I see! Something to do with your newfound sister?”
“Not really,” Mitchell said as he gathered up his papers and started for the door. But he added to himself, Not yet, anyway.
21
Kitten was on a half-hour break from a sports equipment catalog shoot, and had found a comfortable corner where she could nestle and read the latest tabloids while she spooned up her fat-free yogurt.
She was partway through an article on Loni Anderson’s previous life as a high priestess of Mithra in Ptolemaic Egypt, when she noticed that the constant drone of the photographer’s chatter to his assistants had been interrupted. She pricked up her ears.
“…bound to be around here somewhere,” said the photographer. “Who can I say is asking for her?”
“Tell her it’s her old Popsy,” responded a gravelly voice Kitten recognized at once.
She leapt from her corner and bounded across the studio and into the newcomer’s arms. “Pop! God, what a surprise! How’d you find me here?”
“That lady you work for—Miz Jerrold,” he said dryly. Vennor Sweet—a short, red-faced man, burdened by excessive weight and excessive care—clutched her waist with both hands and gently moved her away from him; not by much, but enough for her to notice. Chastened by the gesture, she released him and stood a few inches apart.
“To what do I owe this great honor?” she said brightly.
He put his hands in his pockets and, with one sidelong glance at the photographer, said, “Well, nothing pleasant. Came to tell you your mother’s passed.”
Kitten’s jaw dropped, and the photographer whispered something to his assistants that prompted them all to file quietly to the rear of the studio.
“Oh, wow,” Kitten said at last, putting her hand over her mouth. She had an uncanny feeling that she was in a movie, playing a part. Must remember to act like I feel something, she told herself. “Poor Mom. How’d she—well—”
“Highway accident,” he said, and his mouth suffered a momentary spasm. “You don’t need to know the details. For what it’s worth, she died quick. Instantly, the medics say.”
Kitten took a deep breath. The studio was suddenly too white—unbearably white, deafening in its whiteness; it felt like a hostile presence. “I think I need to sit down, Pops.”
He led her to a nearby stool and gave her his hand to help her climb atop it.
She pulled her lunch napkin from her sleeve and daubed at her nose. “Oh, boy,” she said.
“Though I’d best come tell you in person, seeing as how she went. If it’d been natural, in her sleep or something, suppose I’d’ve just called. But this is—well, it’s got to be a shock.”
“There wasn’t any drunk driver involved, was there? Or—”
“Like I said, best you don’t know the details.” That was like her father, always shouldering the worst of the family’s troubles.
The photographer and crew were looking her way; she was so far from being annoyed that she actually felt a hint of gratitude. It helped her acting to have an actual audience.
She put a hand on his shoulder. “This must be hell on you. Hell.”
“It’s surely that, Doo.” Doo had been her—Donald’s—nickname since childhood.
She bit her lip; pure theatrics. “And the other kids? How’re they all—you know—”
“You’re the first I’ve told,” he said, surprising her. “Guess I thought…I don’t know.” He shrugged, and his eyes reddened. “You weren’t real close to Mother, so I thought maybe it’d help make things right, or at least undo some of the wrong things, if I told you first.”
Oh, boy, she thought, as a huge weight thumped down on her chest, like a lump of wet laundry; fuck the performance. She swallowed a few sobs, then tried to say something and had to swallow a few more.
“It’s a lousy thing,” she said at last, her voice wavering. “Not reconciling with your mom before she dies.”
“Well, don’t let it ruin your day,” he said; and although she knew he meant that she had a job to do and she should soldier on with a stiff upper lip, it sounded so funny after he’d said it that they both broke into guilty laughter.
“Oh—huh—huhuh—oh, Doo, you know what I mean,” he said, plucking her napkin from her grasp and using it to mop his forehead. “Oh, God. Thought I’d never laugh again. I thought—uhuhuh. Aha.” He put the napkin over his mouth. “Got to stop this.”
She slid off the stool and hugged him. “Lousy fucking world, Pops. People you think are your friends screw you, people you love disappear before you can tell ‘em.”
“Well, I surely love you, Doo,” he said, actually returning her hug for a moment. “You’re a mighty confusing piece of work, and I’m not sure I look forward to explaining you at the funeral, but I do love you.”
“The funeral,” said Kitten, furrowing her brow and breaking the hug. “Oh, damn.” It was all happening too fast. She’d only just heard her mother had died, and before she could even come to grips with it, she was faced with the dilemma of the funeral. Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of decent interval in between? Say, a year or so?
“I’m not telling you how to dress for it,” Vennor said, a little defensively.
“I know, I know.” She glumly tweaked his upper arm. “That’s not it.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“How long are you in town?” she asked. “Can I buy you dinner?”
He looked embarrassed. “Just drove in to see you. Now I’m heading out to Skokie to see Ronny.” He looked at his feet, and used one toe to grind an imaginary something into the floor tile. “Thanks anyway, Doo.” He had too much innate grace to say that he couldn’t bear to be seen with her in public.
She kissed him. “Love you, Pops. We’ll get through this.”
He winked, squeezed her hand, and left the studio.
Too fast, too fast; it was all happening at just supersonic speed. Waiting for a pizza took longer than this, for God’s sake. Everything was dangerously out of balance, like a high-wire walker who’d just sneezed.
The photographer and crew were making throat noises, waiting for her to give them some kind of behavioral cue. She essentially had them paralyzed till then, and she wasn’t about to waste this fleeting power with a show of drippy professionalism. She’d keep them hemmed there in the back as long as she liked.
She closed her eyes and conjured up her mother’s image. Already it was fading. No, not already; it had been fading for a long time. Since their final break.
