Drag Queen in the Court of Death (18 page)

What surprised me was that my anger was almost all directed toward Julie. I thought she had some principles. I knew Ryan didn't have any, but he wouldn't have done anything with Ronnie's diary and pictures unless someone bribed him. Someone like Julie, whose drive to get ahead in journalism was so strong she would do anything for a story. I knew this was the first major piece she had published. I wondered what she had given up for it besides her principles.

I forced myself to read the whole thing all the way through. It was well written, I had to admit that, but it made me cringe to see the slant she had on me. The gist of it was: former private-school boy from patrician Rosedale background falls for pot-smoking US street kid who claims to be a draft dodger. Street kid? I suppose that was preferable to leering teacher seduces innocent young pupil. She could have gone that way easier. But the class thing seemed to fascinate her. Luckily my part in the saga was only at the beginning. I was relieved I hadn't told her anything of what I had discovered since. It was obvious too, she hadn't had any help from Shaw and McGinnis, Ronnie's partners. The dichotomy between the flamboyant drag queen and the sober accountant also fascinated her, but there wasn't much she could do with it. The parts that made me see red were the quotes from Ronnie's diary, his private, raw emotions spread so carelessly across the glossy page. I wondered if I could sue? I made a note to ask Lew that night. I also wondered how the magazine could have printed this without checking about permission.

I called the editor. I started in as soon as I got him on the line. "You don't have permission to use the photos or the quotes for that article on Ronnie Lipinsky," I said. I could hear the tight anger in my voice.

"Who is this, please?" he asked.
"My name is Michael Dunn-Barton. I'm the executor of the Lipinsky estate and none of that material was released to Miss Kates by me."
"We were told she had permission," he said.
"Did anyone bother to check? Don't you use fact checkers at the
Rag
?"
"We do, yes. We check all quotes, but these were written down. We had the assurance of the writer that all—"
"And since when do you take the word of a freelancer about something like that?"
"Mr. Dunn-Barton, I saw the diary myself, and some of those pics are from the Gay Archives."
"I don't think you understand. That diary and most of the pictures used were stolen from my home. You'll be hearing from my lawyer." I hung up.
A few seconds later, the phone rang. I let the machine pick up and went for a long walk.
Finally I arrived at Ronnie's old place. I found Ryan sitting on the back steps, smoking. Evidence of recent painting was on his T-shirt and hands.
A smile spread across his face as he saw me coming, then faded just as quickly.
"What's wrong?" he said uncertainly, his hazel eyes anxious.
"Didn't it occur to you I would find out eventually? That the damn article was going to be in a magazine for all to see? That I would see it?"
"Sure. That's cool, isn't it?"
"Cool?
Cool?
How could that be cool?"
"But it's like, a tribute, right? About what a great guy he was and that?"
"Is that what she told you?"
"Well, yeah. Why else would I help?"
"Money."
"She only gave me fifty bucks. That's not much."
"A few blowjobs would get you more than that."
"So? What's your point?"
I sat down beside him. For the first time in years, I longed for a cigarette.
Ryan laid his hand in the inside of my thigh and leaned in close.
"Not now," I said irritably.
"I don't get it," he said, removing his hand but still leaning against me. "How come you're pissed at me?"
"It didn't occur to you I wouldn't like you letting a stranger into the house when I wasn't there?"
"But she's not a stranger; she's a friend."
"No. She's my tenant. There's a difference. And you gave her access to private papers."
"They were just sitting there in an old carton," he said.
"It doesn't matter what the hell they were in, Ryan. They were private! Don't you get it?"
"I thought you'd be cool with it," Ryan said sulkily.
I stood up. "If you thought that, why all the whispering and secretiveness?"
"She didn't want me to tell you till the article was out."
"I wonder why."
"It was a surprise."
"You got that right." I paced around the small patch of greenery at the back, trying to think. Ryan watched me, smoking and pulling up bits of grass at his feet. "Let's see what you've been doing down there," I said, heading for the basement door.
Ryan perked up at once. "I'm almost finished," he said, trotting along behind me. "It looks real good, doesn't it?"
I agreed it looked real good. "When will you be ready to start on the hall in the front?"
"As soon as I finish the doors. Should only take another hour."
"Good. You can move into the apartment when the paint dries."
"You want me to live here?"
"Yes. While you finish the painting you can live rent free. After two months, you can stay and pay rent or move out."
"Can I come back to you then?" he asked in a small voice.
"No, Ryan. I don't think that would work."
"Fuck. She said it was a cool article," he said.
"It's not," I said. "She lied to you."
"The bitch!" Ryan exclaimed. "That fucking bitch!" * * * *

The next day Ryan and two of his scruffy pals moved all his things out to the basement apartment. I helped, mostly to make sure nothing walked out of my place that wasn't supposed to. I let him take the bed and bedding and pillows. There was a small dresser and old dilapidated armchair already there. There was a table and several chairs in the basement storage area, and I said he could have those too.

"What about cable?" Ryan said as he gave me back the key.
I just looked at him. He shrugged and grinned, his eyes sliding away from me. "See ya," he said with a wave.
My place seemed empty without him and his nervous energy, his rampant young sexuality that had oozed into every crevice of the old house. I aired out his room and decided it would make a good study. I spent the afternoon painting it and the next day bought a bright Bhutti rug, a desk, and a bookcase at IKEA. As I put it all together, which took another whole day, I tried not to think about Julie. I could hear her moving around sometimes, but I never saw her. In the old days, she would have been down like a shot to see what was going on. I imagined she had a pretty good idea and was lying low.
I ran into her at last in the supermarket. Literally. She rammed around the corner into my cart, talking into her tiny tape recorder and reaching up to the shelf for detergent. We stared at each other.
She snapped it off and slipped it into her bag. "Hey, sorry about that. I gotta watch where I'm going."
"I hope they paid you well," I said.
"The
Rag
? Yeah, they pay pretty well," she said, shifting her big bag up on her shoulder. "So what did you think? Good? Bad? What?"
I looked at the box of cleanser in my hand, dropped it into my cart. I felt very calm and very tired. "I'm suing the paper, and I'm thinking of suing you," I said. "I'm also giving you notice. It'll come in the mail. You should get it soon."
"What?" Her face flushed and she leaned forward, hands on her hips. "You're doing
what
?"
"You heard me."
"You have no right to do that!" she said. "Everything in that article can be backed up. It's all true!"
"And you didn't have the right to quote any of that material," I said.
"I didn't break in and steal it!" she cried. Heads turned. She didn't care. "You can't say I did! Ryan invited me in. He'll tell you."
"If you're counting on Ryan to stand up for you in court, you've made a big mistake."
"You're just doing this to ruin me, aren't you?" she snarled. "Because I'm a woman and you hate women!"
"We don't have anything to talk about," I said and pushed past her to the checkout.
"You go, girl," murmured a tall black queen sidling up behind me. "That youngster is way too pushy. Besides, she doesn't know how to accessorize."

It rained the morning of the Dharman Foundation Garden Party. Poor Trish. Her luck improved, however, and by noon the sun was out, sparkling on the white gravel and flowers and dripping from the miniature trees in my garden. I was going to pick Laura up at her place at two fifteen. The event started at two, and Laura always arrived a careful thirty minutes late.

Trish had chosen the Old York Club as the venue. It had been built by a wealthy whiskey baron more than a hundred years ago and was now home to the golf, cricket, and lawn bowling set. I was surprised she hadn't chosen the Royal Canadian Yacht Club, but maybe there had been a date conflict. Or maybe this place gave more the feeling of being in someone's home.

Laura was impeccably dressed as always in a deceptively simple challis dress with pale mauve flowers painted on it around the hem. Her stockings were white as well, and her shoes a pale mauve to match the flowers. I was wearing the Indian cotton shirt I had bought in All American Boy in New York and the white linen pants. When Laura and I walked into the old entrance hall, I felt like a character in
The Great Gatsby
. Except I wasn't wearing a jacket. "Do you mind?" I asked Laura. "About the jacket, I mean?"

"Laura! Michael, how good to see you!" Dodie MacPherson bounced up from behind her table in the hall and leaned forward to greet us. I kissed her cheek.

"I'm surprised you still recognize me," I said.
"You haven't changed a bit, either of you," she said, taking the invitations we passed over and marking off our names on her list. "The art show is through there," she went on, pointing to a room to the right of the door into the garden. "All the paintings and photos are donated, and the sales go directly to the foundation. You've got a new house, Michael. Surely you need some paintings for your walls! Buy lots and lots!"
We made our way to the art show and wandered about, meeting and greeting, making appropriate comments. I found a lovely mixed-media piece I bought for my new study; then we went out into the garden.
I heard my sister's voice at once. "Isn't it a perfect day for a fete?" she was saying, her voice as usual just a little too loud. The spacious lawns, blue and white marquee, the waiters with their silver platters carrying golden champagne flutes, the beautifully dressed people standing about in groups were all from another part of my life, a part I rarely visited these days. But it was familiar and soothing in a way. No one here read the
Rainbow Rag
. No one would be so gauche as to bring up anything unpleasant. I took some champagne and stopped to make a toast.
"To you, Laura, for suggesting this," I said. Of course she had no idea why it was so right, just now, but she smiled with pleasure anyway, enjoying the thought. "You don't regret it, do you?"
"Not yet," she said, "but the day is young." And she laughed.
Everywhere we went I was greeted like the prodigal son, embraced, welcomed, made to feel wanted. I felt their curiosity as they looked from Laura to me and back again. Trish, however was not pleased to see me.
"What are
you
doing here?" she exclaimed, her face a study in astonishment when she finally noticed me. She had looked so happy a moment before.
"Helping the cause," I said.
"You've done an amazing job organizing all this, Trish," Laura said, laying a hand on hers.
"Thank you." My sister's face slid back to party mode, but having me there made her anxious. I helped myself to some hot hors d'oeuvres and wondered off in search of a chair. Far off on the terrace, I saw Monica Heising talking to a crowd of people, her gray-streaked hair blowing in the breeze.
"My, my. Look at the riff raff they're letting in these days," said a familiar voice behind me.
"Lew." I turned around and shook hands.
"I thought you and your esteemed sister weren't on speaking terms," he said.
"We still hiss a few well-chosen words at one another every now and then," I said.
"Oh good. I do so love a happy family."
"You remember Laura?"
"Who could forget the lovely Laura," he exclaimed, kissing her hand.
Laura blushed. "Really, Lew," she said. "You look fit and tanned. Have you been up to the lake?"
"Alas, no. The poor cottage is languishing. I'm going to try for a weekend soon, though. Michael, why don't you go up some time? Someone might as well use it, and it would give it a bit of a lived-in look."
"Thanks. I'll think about it," I said.
"I know you prefer Georgian Bay, but—My, my. Look who's here. I didn't know your sister knew
that
."
"Really, Lew," said Laura, but she turned around and looked, just as I did. "You mean that tall man with the long silver hair and the cowboy boots? Who is he?"
"Amadeo, the designer."
"I hear he just made a video with some rock star whose name escapes me."
"Well, unless he plays the harpsichord, it would, wouldn't it?" said Lew.
Laura was laughing. "You two," she said. "I'm going to talk to Cathy. I hear her husband is having an affair, and it's driving her back to drink, poor dear."
"Wait!" called Lew, but she slipped away into the crowd. "Damn, I hadn't heard that," he said. "Never mind. Did you know Amadeo and Ronnie were an item back in the '80s? He designed the gowns for some of Ronnie's shows. And he did that early Fashion Cares show, remember? With Ronnie as one of the models."
"I wasn't here then," I said. The sense of peace was evaporating, thanks to Lew bringing my two worlds back together again with an unpleasant jolt. I looked around for Laura, but she had disappeared.
Lew was still talking, looking over my shoulder, taking frequent sips from his champagne. "Well, your sister certainly has covered all the bases," he said, almost crowing with satisfaction. "Here comes Nigel Ross, large as life and twice as phoney."
"The guy making a run for the Conservative Party leadership?"
"Oh, if I ever opened my mouth about him, there's be no way he'd get that."
"Lew, you are the worst gossip I ever—"
"Listen, I happen to know for a fact—"
"Llewellyn ab Hugh," cried Trish, coming up to us with outstretched hands. I backed away, leaving the way clear between them. "I'm so glad you could make it," she went on. "Your office wasn't sure."
"I always make time for a Dunn-Barton," Lew said. Trish smiled graciously as he kissed her hand.
"Did you see Nigel Ross has just arrived?"
"Oh good. Enjoy the fete." She made a beeline for Ross's party.
"Smooth," I said.
Lew snagged another glass of champagne for both of us off a passing tray and edged me farther away from the crowd. "Listen, Nigel Ross used to date Bianca."
"Mick Jagger's Bianca?"
"No, ours. Bianca Bombe."
"You mean—"
"Yes, I do. I'd forgotten all about that until seeing him just now, pressing the flesh etcetera, and that jogged my memory. I remember him at the Queen's Birthday Bash back in the '60s, with Bianca and Luna and the rest. I was dating the guy who runs the thing."
"Bobby Mason. I was there. I went to pick Ronnie up, and he wouldn't let me stay. He said to go ahead, so I did."
"That's right. You came without him. And then Bianca got smashed and went out on the balcony and began to shout dirty lyrics to whatever song was playing on the stereo. Remember?"
"Oh right. I wasn't paying much attention because Ronnie showed up about then, reeking of marijuana, which was unusual. I blamed Glori."
"Right, and then someone called the police, and Nigel almost pissed himself getting out of there. He ran off, leaving Bianca to get arrested for disturbing the peace and some bawdy house crap."
"That I remember. And what were you doing all this time?"
"Climbing out the bathroom window, what else? But I bailed her out, which was more than Nigel was willing to do. Where were you?"
"Up on Bobby's roof garden, trying to find out what was wrong with Ronnie, but he was ... in a really weird mood. Anyway, we missed all the excitement, I guess."
"So that's the dirt on Nigel Ross, prince of a fellow, queen for a day and all that. Think I'll go and say hi to the dear boy, just for old time's sake."
I watched him go, the crowds parting for him, closing around him again. He was a popular figure. Perhaps he should run for office. I looked over to where Nigel was standing. I watched the expression on his face, how it closed as Lew approached him, a mask sliding into place like armor. I doubted it would do him any good if Lew felt like going into joust mode.
"You just can't bear to let me have anything, can you?" Trish said quietly in my ear.
I spun around, surprised.
"Oh, don't look so innocent. I work my buns off, getting the right list of people, doing all the organizing, setting the tone, and you come waltzing in with Laura, monopolize the most notable guests, and who gets all the credit? You do. Everyone's talking about you. Just like when we were kids."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You bastard," she said, close to tears. She turned and almost ran into the house.
I was stunned. I looked around to find Laura standing behind me.
"She's always envied you," Laura said. "Don't take it to heart."
"But why?" I asked, feeling as if the ground had just slid out from under me.
Laura shrugged elegant shoulders. "Who knows? My brother killed himself. Do I know why?"
I opened my arms to her, and we held each other for a moment as the crowds chattered around us and the sun shone down on the string quartet that was just warming up under the marquee.
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