Drag Queen in the Court of Death (4 page)

"Well, you old devil," Lew's voice boomed over the phone, instantly recognizable even though I hadn't heard from him in months. "I see you and Ronnie are back together again. On the front page, at least."

"Lew, I know you think this is terribly amusing, but it's hardly in the best of taste. Please. It's too early in the morning. I don't want to think about it."

"Well, dear, everyone else is having a whale of time with it." He chuckled evilly, a sound that brought back some not unpleasant images from the past. It seemed I was doomed to walk down memory lane a lot lately, whether I liked it or not.

Lew and I had been an "item" in Montreal, years ago. I had found him attractive when I was with Ronnie, but at that point, I was into monogamy. Being with Ronnie was earthshattering enough without piling an affair on top of that. Years later, when we met again in Montreal, where I was taking some courses, drowning myself in Greek and Roman history, with an occasional foray into the Middle Ages, we flung ourselves into it, hot and heavy. Lew claimed to be studying French, but he spent very little time in the pursuit of knowledge. His friends called him Loosey Goosey Gander behind his back, but his real name was Llewellyn ab Hugh. When I got the offer of a job in a small-town university, Lew remembered he had a law degree and came back to Toronto to become rich and famous as a criminal lawyer. I sometimes wondered if he might like to revive more than old memories.

"So who's the guy in the trunk?" he asked now, and I could almost hear him smacking his lips in anticipation of my reply.

"Do tell. The one with the penchant for black silk shirts and skinny white ties?"
"And two-tone loafers. That's the one."
"Are you going to the police with this gem of deduction?"
"They don't need me to help do their work."
"Maybe you won't need to. I see by the paper this morning they plan to rehydrate the mummy-guy's hands and take his fingerprints. Isn't that delicious?"
I shivered at the thought. "Can they do that?"
"Apparently. It'll take a while, though. By the way, did you know Ronnie had a gun?"
"He didn't."
"Well, dear, he was an American. And he must have had one, because the mummy-guy was shot. Gotta run. Bye-o."
"What?"
But Lew had hung up.
I went to the porch and dug out the paper I had flung there that morning, refusing to read the front-page story. Now I did, and sure enough, they were going to juice up the corpse and take fingerprints. There wasn't much detail, but they did say there was what seemed to be a bullet hole in the skull.
I sank back into the creaking comfort of the old wicker chair, grudgingly donated by my sister from our family cottage. Who was Ronnie Lipinsky? I wondered. Had I ever known him at all? I threw the paper down on the floor and forced myself back into proofreading. At least all the violence I wrote about was centuries old.
Later that day, there was a knock at the door. I had been ignoring the phone and the door bell for a while, aware of the paparazzi hovering around my front lawn, but it was only Julie, holding a bag of bagels from the Harbord Bakery, a nervous grin and her rent check. Her kinky red hair stood out from her head like a messy halo. She always wore long, full, filmy skirts and Doc Martens. This time she topped off the ensemble with a tasteful, shiny black spaghetti-strapped item that I would imagine more at home in a Frederick's of Hollywood catalogue.
"Hey, hey, I brought the rent," she said, poking it at me with little stabbing gestures. "And some bagels, in case you're not busy and we can have coffee or something." She trailed off lamely. "And I promise I won't talk about the skeleton if you don't want," she added in a rush, "even though you're getting quite a fan club gathering out front."
I had to laugh, she was so anxious. I'd never seen her like this before. She always appeared quite self-possessed in a way I envied in someone of her age. Now her youth was showing and it was almost reassuring.
"I'm about ready for a break," I said magnanimously. "Come on through to the sun porch. There's coffee just ready in the kitchen and cream cheese and some apple jelly from Mrs. Whats'ername next door."
"Mrs. Goldstein? She been cooking again?"
"Bless her. I love it when she cooks. I'm taking a small jar for Logan, in case he feels the urge for something sweet."
"How's he doing?" she asked, holding the tray while I piled on the mugs and sliced bagels, cream cheese, plates, jelly.
I shrugged. "Up and down. But there
is
progress. The latest graft seems to be taking and he has whole stretches of time now when he's alert and interested in things."
I led the way back to the porch and cleared off the round table, piling the manuscript papers back into my briefcase. I was glad she had come with her peace offering. I tended to let things like this go myself, and slight rifts could widen imperceptibly until a great gulf yawned that I felt powerless to do anything about.
I talked about Logan some more as we both sank down into the wicker chairs and sipped our coffee, nibbled at the bagels.
"Scrumptious," I said, waving a piece at her.
She grinned. "Yeah. I love 'em fresh like this."
Finally I took pity on her. "Okay, I have a news flash," I said.
She leaned forward eagerly, her long hair spilling over one shoulder.
"But this is off the record. Agreed? Everything we talk about is off the record."
"Agreed." She nodded, sending her hair bouncing. "Anyway, I'm freelance, remember. The only piece I could sell on it would be maybe an interview of memories or something. You know, one of those 'He was such a sweet guy. Who'da thunk it?' kind of things, and I can't see you giving me one of those."
"Damned straight!" We both laughed.
I told about her about my Al Delvecchio theory as she nodded, one Doc Martened foot bobbing up and down. I tried not to look at it. "I met Al in the beer store one day, and he helped me carry a few cases I'd bought for a party Ronnie was having. I invited Al along, and he fell for Ronnie hard. Though I didn't realize it at the time, I guess it was mutual. About a month later, Ronnie told me to get lost. He said Al was more fun and more freethinking than me, which meant he was into drugs. They used to fight viciously. Once Ronnie got hurt so badly I had to take him to the hospital, but he still wanted Al. I left the city in the midst of their riotous relationship, rushing off to England to bury myself in atmosphere, study and close observation of British males."
"Bet that was boring."
"Shows what you know." I laughed, because it was expected.
"So you think they got into a fight and Ronnie killed him?"
"It's a theory. I was completely out of touch with Ronnie by the fall of 1965. That was the point after all."
"But are you sure this Al character is actually dead?"
That stopped me cold. I had become so attached to my theory that I hadn't questioned this basic precept. "Well, if he isn't that certainly blows my theory all to hell."
"Yeah. I'd say so. How about if I do some research to find out? I know how to do all that stuff, you know. I'm paid to do research, remember? And what I don't know I can find out about. I know this PI in Florida—"
"Different laws, Julie."
"Pretty much the same methods, though. Same databases. Everyone needs a death certificate, right? How do you spell that name again?"
She had pulled out a notebook from a suspiciously handy pocket and was looking at me expectantly.
"If no one knows he's dead, there'd hardly be a death certificate," I pointed out.
"After seven years someone may have wanted him declared dead, right? A wife or something? Maybe she wants to get on with her life, so she can marry someone else."
"Sounds pretty thin to me." I shrugged. "Why not? But this is off the record, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah! I said that already. I swear!"
"Okay. Al was Alonzo. That much I'm sure of. But the last name.... Now that I think about it more carefully, I'm not sure it's Delvecchio. It's more a sounds-like sort of thing."
"Michael!"
"I can find out, but it will take a while. I'll let you know, okay?"
"Like, soon, eh? I really want to find out before the police. Just for my own satisfaction," she added hastily.
I had to admit that I was intrigued myself. When she had gone, I thought about Al some more. I knew there would be no record of him in my old address books, but I did have that carton of Ronnie's labeled
memorabilia
, in his large looping writing. It was still shoved behind the wing chair in my living room. I pulled it out, took a deep breath, and opened the box.
Inside was a series of photo albums titled
Luna by Star Lite
, each with a number. The top one was
number 14
. There were big glossy photos of drag shows and fund-raisers like Fashion Cares, parties in bars and Pride Day floats, all labeled with handwritten comments and captions. Glori Daze, aka Duane Kelley, was featured in many of the drag shots. Glori was the first drag queen I had ever known. I still remember taking Ronnie to see his show at the Manatee in the early days when he was performing with Craig Russell, watching Ronnie's delight in the glitter and joie de vivre, the outrageous over-the-top wit and chatty bitchiness. The whole dangerous glamour of an underground subculture pulled at him. It was like a second coming out for Ronnie, and Glori had been a great help getting him started along the road to his somewhat-dubious fame. Soon after Ronnie's formal entry into the drag world, Glori got his big break and began the first of many tours across the US with a drag show, pulling down big bucks for a lot of years, or so I'd heard. He had even made a few movies, which was why everyone was so pleased that he would be the star of this year's Wilde Nights.
I flipped though the pages, seeing images of a man I hadn't known: Ronnie Lipinsky, slight and elegant in a tux, presiding at dinner parties, pouring wine, proposing a toast. Ronnie as Luna La Dame, curvaceous in a striking red dress and long blond hair, lighting the huge candles in front of his Wall of Death, lounging on the couch with another guy in drag I didn't recognize, dancing at a Trillium Monarchist Society Ball in a net formal with a train. As I turned the pages, I saw familiar faces everywhere, grown older, tighter, eyes more cautious and wary. Some had gone the other way and thrown over all caution. I saw men I had known slowly dying as the pictures flipped by. And finally I came to the bottom of the box.
Under all the glitter and glitz was a scuffed, old school scribbler, with the crest of Shatterly Hall on the front and Ronnie's name and the words
Private Journal
written in his ornate looping script. I went into the kitchen to get some coffee and added a shot of Baileys.
I took my mug outside to the small square of garden in the back. I sipped it as I watered the few flowers in pots along the edge of the patio, wondering why I was going out of my way to rake up details from a past that had been the most painful period of my life. When I came back to Toronto last fall, I knew I would meet Ronnie again, but a lot of years had gone by and time heals all wounds, they say. Long ago I had gotten over him. But do we ever really get over our first love? I felt slightly guilty about Laura when I admitted that Ronnie had, indeed, been my first genuine passion. But when he and I met again after all those years, everything was warm and easy between us. I knew he was ill, and quite naturally joined his support group, visiting him, picking up prescriptions, giving him lifts to doctors' appointments and lunch dates, drives in the country, to the ballet and the theater. I thought I had truly grown up at last, but when I was pulled so suddenly and completely back into our shared past, I had misgivings. My whole view of that past had been shattered with the discovery of that body in his trunk. Had I lost my head over a murderer? This question nagged at me, the need to know that I was not wrong in my estimation of his character, so strong I was shaken. How could I have been so misled? The fact that countless people have fallen for someone who turned out to be capable of murder made no difference. I had lost my heart to an open, loving boy who had sought refuge here to escape the violence of the Vietnam War. How could someone like this have turned to murder? Or had he been driven to it by forces I knew nothing about? I had left town. I had fled. Had I abandoned him? In some twisted, strange way was I responsible? And is this, perhaps, why he had named me as executor?
I turned off the water and wound up the hose. I had found no pictures of Al in the later photo albums. I would have to open Ronnie's notebook diary if I wanted more information.
[Back to Table of Contents]

September—1964
Miz Lard-Ass wants us to keep a journal for English. Sure. Like we'd write anything we really thought about for her to read, to drag her owl eyes over and gloat that now she really knows us. Oh yeah. So then I thought of Uncle Earl, who always kept two sets of books on account of the IRS was always on his tail, or so he said. So that's what I'll do—keep a double set of journals. I'll write a few pages of pap for L-A and then I'll write what I really think. Here in the Scrapbook of My Life, where no one but me will ever see. And I'll put in pictures, too, with the camera Mom gave me last year.
This place isn't much like what I thought it would be. I knew I wouldn't be going to a public school like back home, because I'm not a citizen, but this place? At least they don't make us wear ugly uniforms and people aren't stuck-up or anything. After all, most of them have messed up big-time along the way.
The kids call this school The Shaft, or Shits Hall, depending on who's talking. The real name is Shatterly Hall, which sounds grand but it's really a dump—just this humongous old house that needs a whole lot of repairs that no one seems interested in making. Part of the ceiling in the second-floor hall is falling down. You have to eat your lunch in the classroom, because there's no student cafeteria or anything. No one can sit in the back of Mr. Dunn-Barton's class because the pipes leak, but I don't care. I like to sit in the front row anyway, get up close and personal, and watch his cute ass when he turns to write on the blackboard. And I love the way he talks, sort of English. Real classy. But you have to wonder what do they do with all the fees we're paying here. They're higher than some of the regular private schools even. Jeez! I never thought I'd say this, but thank God for old Uncle Bunny!
I don't really mind this place, but it's a lot different than school back home in the States. First of all, there's an extra grade tacked on to high school, like we need more of this shit. It's a make-work project for teachers, is what I think. I have to take French and there are these things called "matriculation exams" everyone in Ontario has to do and the staff gets all bent out of shape about it. What Shits Hall is, really, is a cram school. Most of the kids have been kicked out of other private schools and they've all got their own personal timetables so they can pick up credits in different grades all at the same time. This one girl, Monica Heising, says she's been kicked out of five different places, so this is her last chance. Like she should get a prize or something. I like her a lot.
Everything's so new, and that's good, but it's bad too, because there's no place to go to relax, you know, and not have to be thinking, yeah, this is different so I've gotta keep learning stuff. It's a strain. I'd love to tell Harry about it, to phone him up and just talk and tell him what's new ... and then I get real down, 'cause I can't do that anymore. Shit.
But I've got a great place to live—a groovy room up under the roof in an old house not far from the subway. Someone painted the slanted ceiling in swirling colors of lime green and mauve and bright neon pink, like they were on acid at the time or something. I love it. There's a double bed, which is kind of useless so far, but I'm working on it, and a big desk that just fits in an alcove in front of the window. I made a bookcase out of some boards and bricks I found while checking out the back lanes where people leave garbage. I found a chair, too, that's not too bad.
There's a college girl in the other room on this floor, and we share a bathroom, which is fine as long as her or her longhaired greasy boyfriend aren't in there barfing out their guts, which they do a lot. College seems to be real hard on the stomach. There's another American downstairs, a draft dodger like me, but a real one—like he waited to actually get called up before he skipped out. His name's Tucker Freemont. He's a pot-smoking, guitar-playing hippie who never wears shoes, but he's somebody to talk to now and then. And he's got a TV set, so I can watch
The Avengers
. Too bad there's only a few shows left. Tucker likes
Gunsmoke
. Odious—a bunch of skinny-assed cowpokes don't do it for me, man. Anyway, he's moving to Rochdale College soon with all the other hippie druggies, so I'll probably never see him again. Just as well. I don't want to get sidetracked from The Plan by too much free acid, before I get out of Shits Hall.
Sex, on the other hand.... I could do with some of that.
[Back to Table of Contents]