Drag Queen in the Court of Death (10 page)

Next morning found me on the 401, heading west to London. I had stopped at the bank first, to put the pile of US bills into my safety deposit box, and I had given Ryan detailed instructions about the garden. It was heavy work and should keep him busy all day. I was reasonably sure he would stick to it, since he was still acting apologetic and anxious. With Ryan back in the house, I was feeling restless and jumpy again. I had to get out. But I admit waiting till Julie left for her temp job.

The air was clear today, washed by the recent rain. Asphalt steamed. Clouds still rolled dark and threatening in the east, but as I drove, the sun came out. This had once been a familiar route for me. When I was young, there had been many trips to the Stratford Festival to get our annual dose of Shakespeare with my family, and as I grew older, I kept up the tradition.

As I drove, it was the family trips I remembered, the muted bickering in the back seat between me and Trish, the lofty discussions between my parents, who tried to ignore us. Hildy used to pack a sumptuous picnic lunch that we were never allowed to poke into until we arrived. We would have it by the outdoor pool at our motel or on the grass by the Avon river. My mother's carefully tended eyebrows always arched in surprise by what Hildy had chosen—the ham and deviled eggs, the European sparkling cider, the cubes of cheese and thick slices of home-baked bread and mouthwatering strudel—even though it was always the same every year. I think Trish would have been just as happy to stay in the pool all the time, it was such a novelty for us, but of course that was not allowed. Later on, when I was in university, there were memories of friends, apprentices with the company who carried spears and lugged dead bodies offstage, or worked in the props department or making costumes. There were cast parties and people sleeping haphazardly on the floor in tiny basement apartments or third-floor aeries with ugly Danish furniture and lava lights, a feeling of adventure and camaraderie with people who were almost total strangers. I had wanted to bring Ronnie here. I had even bought the tickets, but everything exploded in my face before we got there.

At any rate, it was to London I was headed this time. I used to know a few people who taught at Western University and longed for the bright lights and gay streets of Toronto for most of the year. But I had lost touch with them, and now my only purpose in coming here was to search out Al Vecchio.

The drive seemed longer than I remembered, perhaps because I was alone. I listened to CDs of world music that I had bought to share with Logan. The pipes of pan, the jumbled rhythms were unfamiliar, taking me away from my small claustrophobic world as I listened. At last I came to the turnoff at Hightower Road and swung the car north. This was a section of malls, of fast-food joints, and motels, with a strip of small bungalows now and then. It was not a part of the city I was very familiar with.

The gaudy triangular flags flying along the front of the car dealership came up fast on the left. It took a few moments to ease over to the left lane, make a turn, and edge back. I glanced at my watch as I drove onto the lot. Ten to twelve. Good timing.

So far I had been relying on Julie's research. From now on, I was on my own. As I got out of the car, I saw a salesman heading my way, swinging out the door with a wide smile on his round face. He was too young to be Al, too fair.

"Anything I can help you with today, sir?" he chirped. "Looking for a second car for the wife? Or something a little more sporty?"

"I'm looking for Al Vecchio," I said.
"Sure. He's in the office. I'll take you through." As I followed him through the glass doors and down a

narrow hall past several open doors of empty cubicles, he told me his name was Walt Loomis, and he was Al's brother-inlaw. "No shit," I murmured.

He knocked at the door at the end of the hall and opened it without waiting for a reply. "Hey, Al. Someone here to see you." He gave me a pleasant grin and headed back down the hall.

This cubicle was larger than the rest, with a window looking out on the back parking lot and walls paneled in the ubiquitous fake wood. Cheap photos of a soccer team the dealership sponsored decorated the walls, along with several awards for best salesman, best dealership, service to the community, and the like. Al was getting to his feet from behind a large metal desk covered with forms and several plastic baskets overflowing with paper. I remembered Al as stocky and solid, with melting dark eyes and bright red fleshy lips. He had put on a lot of pounds. Even his nose was spreading, covered with the telltale tiny lines of the heavy drinker. Now he looked more like an extra in
The Godfather
.

"Come on in. Sit down. What can I help you with today?" Al was struggling into his jacket. Sweat stained his underarms. "Want a cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks."
"Know what you mean. Trying to quit myself." He laughed. His smile was all professional salesman. He finally got into his jacket and perched one fat thigh on the desk. "So, what can I do for you?"
"It's been a long time, Al."
"I know you?"
"Not since the '60s."
I watched his smile melt, his eyes grow still and watchful. "You've got the advantage of me here, pal. My memory's not that good these days."
"I'm sure you remember Ronnie Lipinsky."
Al stood up and looked at the door. He closed it. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Michael Dunn-Barton. I met you back when I was with Ronnie. I'd like to talk to you."
"Why, for God's sake? What's the point of dredging up that nonsense now?"
"'Nonsense'?"
"Look, Michael, I'm a different person now. I've got a wife, kids, a good business—"
"Al, all I want is a little of your time."
"It was the '60s! We all went a little crazy."
"Look, I'm talking to everyone who knew Ronnie then, trying to piece things together."
"You a journalist? TV or something?"
"No. This is personal. Just for my own peace of mind, Al. Come on. Let me take you to lunch."
He ran a pudgy hand over his flushed, sweaty face, his eyes darting around the room as if seeking escape.
"Or we could talk here," I went on, pulling a chair in front of his desk.
"Time for lunch anyway," he said quickly. "Let's go."
We went in my car, with Al giving directions and in between times talking nonstop about what a great car the Mercedes was, how good this particular model was, what kind of mileage it got and on and on. I tuned him out, just letting him talk until we were in the restaurant, a big place in the middle of a large parking lot, with rough barn board paneling on the walls, hung with farm implements and copper pots and old-fashioned ads for chocolate and oatmeal and whiskey. The music was loud and all the wait staff wore jeans and red and white checked shirts with red kerchiefs around their necks and big name tags. Our waitress bounced up and announced her name was Karin, accent on the last syllable, and she was going to be our server today.
"Goody," I said.
She recited the specials, took our drink orders, and bounced away, unperturbed by my surliness or Al's heavyhanded flirting.
"So what are you into these days?" Al asked, rubbing his hands as if he was cold.
"Well, I haven't changed much, Al. I'm still into boys, same as before."
"Christ! Do you have to talk like that?"
"You asked me a question, I answered it. If you don't like the answer, I can't help that." I felt so much anger against Al I wanted to hit him. Barring that, I would hurt him other ways.
Our drinks came and Al finished his rye and ginger in three gulps and ordered another. "What do you want?" he said, eyeing me across the table like a cornered animal.
His second drink came. I waited until Karin had bounced away. "1965," I said. "I want your memories of Ronnie in 1965."
"Fuck, you were there. Haven't you got your own memories?"
"He left me and went to you."
"You care about that now? Christ!" He wiped his face again and loosened his tie.
I stirred my Bloody Mary with the celery stick, then bit off the end and chewed it.
"I'd never met anyone like Ronnie before," he said, looking over my shoulder into his memories. "I was really hot for him. I was officially going with a Loretto Abbey girl named Carmela, but after I met Ronnie it was all just going through the motions with her, know what I mean?"
"I never went out with a Catholic girl," I said.
"No, you were married."
"Touché. Still, I did see you in a gay bar now and then, as I recall."
"Yeah. I was ... conflicted."
I laughed. "So that's why you were so violent."
Al sighed, took another drink, and signaled the waitress for a refill. I wondered if he ever hit his wife. The muscles had gone to fat, his gut hung over his belt, but he looked as if he could still pack quite a wallop. Still, the fight seemed to have gone out of him. Maybe he had poured it all away into a bottle.
"Okay, so I read the papers. I know why you're here. But I don't know nothing about the corpse."
"At first I thought it might be you," I said, more to get a rise out of him than anything else.
"You
what
? You thought I killed someone?"
"No, no. I thought Ronnie had killed you."
Al threw back his head and roared with laughter till the tears poured down his cheeks.
"That's the funniest thing—Ronnie wasn't much of a fighter, ya know. God, I don't remember you having such a sense of humor."
"I must have improved."
Lunch arrived, and Al dived into his steak and fries. I forced myself to begin the hot chicken salad.
After a few minutes, Al said, "So, what do you want to know? I can't promise how accurate my memories are, but I'll give it a shot."
"That's all I ask. When was your first date with Ronnie?"
"Why does that matter?"
"What month? Do you remember?"
Al put down his fork. "Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. I had been dropping into this gay bar on Church Street to play pool and that for several weeks. I was hoping to meet a certain guy who had picked me up a few times there, but he never came in again. So anyway, I just hung out and played pool. I felt sort of invisible, you know? It was a secret part of my life, totally separate from anything else. And it gave me a charge of adrenaline every time I was there, doing something forbidden. A rush. But it was sort of seeping into my life with Carmela, you know? Anyway, it all kind of blew up just before her graduation dance, so that would be May, around the middle of May. Somebody had given me Ronnie's number, and I was calling him all the time but he wouldn't bite. Then suddenly, right out of the blue, he said okay, come over. I couldn't believe my luck. I canceled a date with Carmela for him. I thought he wanted some weed, you know? So we smoked up and then we went to bed. He was wild." He took another drink. "And another thing—I remember the smell. Ronnie said a raccoon got stuck in the crawl space and died. Anyway, after that, Carmela told me to get lost." He shrugged.
"Okay, now we're getting somewhere," I said, though I had lost any appetite I may have had. I remembered the raccoon smell. That was about the time we were getting rocky, and I didn't know why. "You remember your first fight?"
"Sure do. It was the second or third time I was with him. He got a phone call, then threw me out. Said you were coming over so I had to go. I was mad as hell. I hit him. He tried to kick me in the balls. He had spunk, I'll say that for him."
I smiled. But I wondered why Ronnie needed Al, when I was still there? "Did you ever lend him money?"
"Me? Are you kidding? I was a stock boy in my uncle's hardware store. I barely made minimum wage. Every penny went onto my back and into my car. I loved that car more than anything."
"But you scored weed for Ronnie."
"Yeah. That's the third thing I spent money on. It wasn't that much, though, back then. It was a way to get chicks. Or guys," he added, with a glance at me.
"Did you ever move in with Ronnie?"
"You're kidding, right?"
"Why would I be?"
"Look, pal, I was just fooling around then. Just
experimenting, trying it on, you know? I'm not into guys."
"Just Ronnie."
"We were kids. And he was a bit of a slut, anyway."
"What?"
"You know, pal, I think you're conveniently forgetting a few things about that guy. Really. I wondered a few times if he was selling his ass, but I never had any proof. He always seemed to have money and didn't have a job back then, so..."
"His parents were—"
"Oh come on. He didn't have that money look, you know what I mean? You should. You've got it." He tossed back the rest of his drink. "You want to know what finished it for me? That little cocksucker almost got me arrested!"
"How did that happen? You hit him in front of witnesses?"
"He kissed me, right on Yonge Street! After that, I never called him again. Okay, go ahead and laugh, but it was no laughing matter back then. I could have landed in jail. My dad would have killed me! Look, I gotta go."
"Do you remember Rey Montana?"
He stared at me, his eyes hard and angry. "You prick. You think I had anything to do with this you're crazier than Ronnie was."
"It's a logical question. You were there. So was he."
"And so were you, remember?"
"Montana probably showed up in June or July. Maybe even later. By then I was out of the picture."
Al shrugged. "I can't help you, Michael. It was just a fling for me, you know? Nothing serious. And as for that Montana guy." He shook his head. "Sorry, I don't remember him at all."
"It was a long shot."
"One other thing I remember." He grimaced. "Around the first of July, long weekend, it was. I had a hell of a time getting out of some family outing. Ronnie talked me into taking him to some party on the island. Hanlon's Point, I think it was. Next thing I know he had his swimsuit half off and was pulling me into the bushes. High as a kite and not giving a damn. He was nutso and getting worse by the minute! I took off like a bat out of hell, I tell you. You know, you've got rosecolored glasses about that guy, Michael."
"He never was a closet case," I said.
"Whatever. Look, I gotta go. I can't take too much time away from that place or they'll give it away from under me, know what I mean?" He laughed, a false-hearty salesman's laugh, and started to dig for his wallet.
"My treat," I said, pulling out some bills.
"Can't say it's been a pleasure," he said, as Karin rushed off to get change.
"Every piece of the puzzle counts," I said. "Thanks. I didn't mean to come down on you like a ton of bricks."
"You were always a hard-ass, Michael."
I was so surprised he was almost to the door before I caught up to him.
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