Drag Queen in the Court of Death (16 page)

I arrived in New York a few days later to the kind of humid, unrelenting heat that seemed worse than anything at home, maybe because of the constant noise and smog and honking of horns. I remember finding this all very stimulating when I was younger. Now I put down my head and headed to the Warwick Hotel on instinct, already longing for the quiet, old-world elegance of the place. This hotel was all dark paneling and quiet efficiency. The rooms here were not cookie-cutter bland, and there were none of the usual tourist type things in the small lobby.

I unpacked, checked my map, and headed down to the street to catch a cab to the West Village. I was in luck. It was air-conditioned. I noticed the cabbie checking me out in the mirror. I guess I didn't look like the usual Christopher Street habitué to him. The cab dipped and wove through the heavy traffic, my driver muttering curses in what sounded like Russian. When we stopped for a red light, two guys to my left jumped out of their cars and began shouting at each other. My cabbie opened his window and joined in. I felt a headache coming on. I would definitely be ready for
Les Sylphides
tonight at Lincoln Center.

I gave the cabbie a big tip, mostly out of relief that we managed to get there in one piece, and walked along the street looking at the numbers. There was a bar that looked cool and inviting. I decided to drop in after finding the store. This part of New York still felt like a community, though not quite as much as I remembered, perhaps because I had no ties here, was not meeting anyone later on in A Different Light or going dancing in one of the clubs after dinner. I had a sudden picture of Jaym here with me, his dark serious eyes taking everything in, making comments. I pushed the picture away quickly.

Christopher's Curios turned out to be smaller than I was expecting. founded in 1962, it said on the sign. It must be one of the very few establishments in the area to have survived. That meant an alternative source of cash, I thought. Was the place a front for drugs?

Just like in the photo, the window was made to look Victorian, slightly bowed with small panes of glass. The display was artful and not overdone, with the spotlight on a ceramic Georgian footbath and matching water pitcher of the same era, along with silver platters and a large candelabra beside a substantial plaster cherub, coyly holding a length of blue velvet. Everything was polished and in good condition. The place looked flourishing, although the forest green of the paint could have done with a new coat. The gold letters were fading.

As I entered the shop, an old-fashioned bell tinkled above my head. A willowy young man dressed in a tight-fitting olive top and tight fawn trousers drifted toward me. His head tilted slightly to one side in an inquiring manner.

"You are looking for something particular?" he asked in a nasal voice, his enunciation a bit too careful.
"Would Misha Vishnikov still be here?" I asked.
He looked at me blankly. "I've been here for two years and I never heard of him."
"He used to own the place," I said.
Ms. Willow shrugged his sloping shoulders. He drifted over to a small woman with red hair who sat at a table near the back, doing paperwork. "Ever hear of some guy called Misha ... something?"
She looked up as if he had slapped her. "Who wants to know?"
The young man jerked his head in my direction. He turned and frowned at me. I was right behind him. This close I could smell his expensive cologne. And I could see the woman was older than I was. She could have been here awhile.
"Misha is dead," she said, her voice flat.
"I'm sorry. He had a partner.... "I let my voice fade out.
"I'm a partner," she said. "What do you want?"
Her apparent hostility was unexpected. I spread my hands in a conciliatory manner. "I'm looking for someone who was here in the '60s," I said.
"Oh God," she said. "Just leave us alone. They're all gone, you know, or old and sick. Just leave us alone." She looked back at her paperwork. Ms. Willow still hovered in the background.
"I came down here from Canada today," I said, "looking for Misha's partner, a man whose name I can't remember, because I'd like to talk to him about a friend of mine who died last month."
"What the hell are you talking about?" she said, looking up, annoyed.
"Want me to get rid of him?" asked Ms. Willow.
I laughed. So did the woman. He pouted.
"Get lost, Evan," she said and got up from behind the desk. "I'm Patsy Waldheim." We shook hands. "Sorry for being so cranky, but we still get journalists and voyeurs sniffing around here and I'm sick of it. I bought into the business about fifteen years ago. I was a friend of Misha's."
"When did he die?"
"About six years ago," she said, sitting down again and motioning me to a chair I hadn't noticed before. "Now, about your friend. Did he work here?"
"Honestly, I don't know." I took out the blown-up photos of Ronnie and put them on the desk.
She took one look and sat up straighter. "What are you trying to find out?" she asked.
I leaned back in my chair, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. I didn't understand why she was so cagey, but I didn't want to give her any more ammunition. "I met Ronnie in September 1964," I said. "He told me a lot of things, most of which I have just discovered were false. Now I just found out he was here before he came to Toronto, and I'd like to ... fill in the blanks, I guess."
"So you're one of those people who always has to know, even if you don't like what you find out?"
"That's right."
"You a lawyer?"
"Teacher."
She nodded, as if I had passed some kind of secret test. "I wasn't around then," she said, "so I can't really help you."
"They used to live upstairs?" I asked.
"Back then, yes, but that was a long time ago."
"And who did Misha live with?" I asked.
There was silence for so long I thought she had forgotten I was there. I cleared my throat. "Patsy?"
"You know, I think you need to talk to Jem." She picked up the phone and talked to someone in a soft voice, asked if he could see me, if she could send me back. "He worked here then," she said. "Talk to him."
She waved me back into the shadows. "Around the corner to your right there's a spiral staircase," she called. "Go on up."
I thanked her and headed for the shadows. Patsy was back at her paperwork before I made it around the desk. The metal rungs of the staircase shivered under my tread. I held on to the iron railing, feeling slightly dizzy as I spun slowly higher. The place had very high ceilings.
As my head emerged into the light, I found myself in a cozy sitting room, surrounded by books. They were in bookcases, piled on the floor, some even displayed in glass cases. Discreet track lighting glowed on polished wood and brass and the dim leather bindings of many of books, most of which were in clear plastic covers.
"Rare books and first editions," said a stocky man with a shining bald head and drooping gray mustache. "Nice to have company," he greeted me, shaking my hand. "I'm Jem."
I gave him my name. "I didn't know the place had anything to do with books."
"A sideline that's threatening to get out of hand." He laughed. "They've always done a trade in rare books. Misha was a real connoisseur. That's why I joined the staff back in the '60s, fresh out of school. Then I left a few years later and moved to San Francisco and worked there for years. Opened my own place. Expanded too fast. Went belly-up. So here I am back where I started. It's a funny old world sometimes."
He led the way between the piles of books to a grouping of sofa and chairs near a surprising stained-glass window of two Greek boys in short tunics holding hands. Jem laughed as he saw my expression.
"Another one of Misha's little artistic efforts," he said. "Not bad, for an amateur, don't you think? At least it's at the back so no one who wasn't invited ever saw it. Tea or something stronger? We have gin and vermouth and tonic, and some brandy around somewhere."
"Gin and tonic sounds great, thanks."
He pottered about, chatting as he prepared the drinks, talking about the books he was cataloging, about how hard it was keeping the humidity right.
"Mold is not our friend," he said, handing me my drink. I was trying to place his age. His skin was pale and lined around the eyes and had lost its elasticity. His waist had spread, but he looked pretty fit. Late '50s, early '60s, I thought, taking a sip of the gin. I hoped I would look that good in ten years or so. He had added just the right hint of lime to my drink.
"Patsy says you're looking for someone who was here in the '60s?" he prompted, sitting down opposite me on the velvet armchair. He crossed his legs at the ankle and leaned back comfortably. "I was here from '64 till, let's see, '66. I followed the love of my life to 'Frisco and proceeded to lose my virginity, my innocence, and my shirt, in that order." He laughed. "Never mind. It was worth it."
"Glad to hear it," I said.
"I was twenty-eight when I came here, and I thought I knew it all. Doesn't everyone at that age?"
"As I recall it's more like seesawing between thinking we know it all and being afraid we know nothing whatsoever."
"Maybe you're right. It's been a while. To the '60s!" He raised his glass. "But it was really the '70s that were more fun for me."
I grimaced. "If you like disco," I said.
"I think there may still be some disco whistles 'round here somewhere."
"Don't go looking on my account!" We both laughed. I pulled out the pictures and showed him.
Jem put on a pair of reading glasses and studied the photos carefully. He shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe they just had their picture taken outside the store as a souvenir."
"It's possible."
"I wasn't part of the inner circle, so I never came up here to the infamous parties. Frankly, I suspect the whole thing was blown way out of proportion. They loved being the center of attention and speculation. They were perfectly capable of creating their own rumrs to enhance the mystique of the place, just as they did those window displays that got them so much publicity."
"Sounds like a weird PR ploy to me," I said.
"I'm not saying they weren't into boys in a big way. I remember all the young guys always hanging around." He bent over the picture again, frowning in concentration. "I don't know. This guy looks a bit familiar."
He was pointing to Ronnie's friend, the dark boy with the long, straight hair wearing a woven headband. He had dimples and a sort of pixie charm that would make him very attractive.
"I don't remember his name, but he was around for a long time, much longer than most. Wait." He took off his glasses and tapped the picture with them as he gazed into space. "He had a weird name, one of those hippy names like River or Summer. Haven! That's it! He was called Haven. Whatever happened to him?" He put his glasses back on and studied the picture with a faraway look in his eyes. I wondered if he had had more than a few wet dreams about Haven back then himself.
"Ronnie wasn't in New York more than three months, as far I can figure it out. Maybe three and a half. He left home in May and was in school in Toronto in September." Had he registered late? I couldn't remember. Surely I'd remember if he had arrived late!
"Not very long," he said. "Good-looking kid, though. Blond. Carlos may have noticed him. He was partial to smooth, boyish blonds. Maybe you should speak to him."
"Who's Carlos?"
"The silent partner. The boss. Misha's lover."
"I was beginning to think he didn't have a name."
"Oh, he had several. Misha called him Choo, for some reason. His full name was Carlos Maria Teodoro Iglesias y Sepulveda. The boys called him Uncle Bunny."
"What?"
"Uncle Bunny. We called them Bunny's Boys."
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I took a cab back to the hotel. This one was not airconditioned, and we drove with all the windows open, the roar of the city pounding in along with the dust and grime. As we lurched up Fifth Avenue, my thoughts jumbled together, refusing to sort themselves into any order. Once we arrived, I stumbled into the dim hotel bar to recover from the onslaught of the heat and sudden revelation of Uncle Bunny's identity. I hadn't put the two together in my mind—New York and the mysterious uncle, but it made sense.

I sat at a small round table in a corner of the bar. I wondered what Uncle Bunny would be like. Jem had finally given me his address, after a few phone calls and a consultation with Patsy downstairs. Carlos was eighty-one, I learned, which made him fifty-one when Ronnie was here.

"Don't expect too much," Jem said, as we stood at the door of the shop as I was leaving.
"Does he have Alzheimer's?" I asked.
"No, but he is forgetful at times. When it's convenient, I suspect." Jem smiled. "I just mean it was a long time ago. And your friend may just have met Haven somewhere and someone took their picture in front of the store, like I said. Could be, you know."
I hoped that wasn't the explanation. Somehow I doubted it. There seemed to be real friendship in the pose of the two boys. Had they kept in touch? Could I find Haven and talk to him?
I stopped any further speculation, finished my scotch, and ordered another. I was glad
Les Sylphides
was on the program for tonight. I wasn't up to anything difficult or modern. The rest of the day was for the comforting and familiar. Like this hotel. Like the ballet. And the snack afterward at La Fondue. Tomorrow was Bunny day. I took out my book, a mystery by Peter Robinson, and immersed myself in Yorkshire.
* * * *

Next day the sky hung over the city like dull pewter. The heat was unremitting. My appointment with Carlos was at four p.m., after his siesta. I spent the morning at the MMA and the MOMA, had a late lunch with an academic acquaintance at a local Italian place, and took a taxi to the address Jem had given me. For some reason, I was nervous and was thankful this cabbie was the taciturn type. Maybe he didn't speak English. He looked fiercely foreign and drove with the manic concentration of a Formula One driver on the home stretch. This didn't help my nerves.

Carlos lived in an unpretentious low-rise building not far from the shop. I buzzed number 33 and announced myself to the staticky voice that answered me. Inside, the place looked well cared for. The ancient elevator seemed incongruous in its gilded splendor, but it rose smoothly and without complaint to the third floor. The door to number 33 was opened almost at once by a tall boy with tight blond curls, wearing a loosefitting black top and the loose, low-riding jeans showing the requisite bit of underwear that seemed popular with black teenagers. He had a red bandana tied around his head. I wondered if this was some new SM code, gang colors, or just a fashion statement.