First You Fall: A Kevin Connor Mystery (5 page)

I stripped down to my boxer briefs and washed up. I felt like shit. A quick glance in the mirror showed I looked like it, too.

I got into bed and said a little prayer for Al en.

I was asleep before reaching amen.

Meeting Mrs. Cherry

and the World’s Nicest Sadist

THE NEXT MORNING,
I had a protein shake and my attention-deficit medication and hit the gym.

I was between sets on the leg press machine, lying on my back with my knees drawn up to my face.

Leg presses are supposed to infuse you with testosterone,

but

this

position

always

felt

gynecological to me.

Why did Al en have to be the one to die, and Tony the one to resurface? Why couldn’t it have been the other way around?

OK, that was cold. And I didn’t mean it.

Wel , not real y.

If I real y meant it, that would indicate that I stil gave a shit about whether Tony lived or died, and I didn’t want that to be the case.

No, the only case I wanted to deal with was Al en’s.

I finished up my workout, showered, and headed off to my volunteer job. Time to make the donuts.

“OK, everyone,” I cal ed. “You guys at the front of line are going to open a bag and put a sandwich and a container of soup in it. You pass it down to the next person, who puts in a yogurt and an apple. The last person rol s the bag closed and affixes an address label. Questions? Comments? Concerns?”

I was talking to a group of local high school students, who were volunteering with me at The Stuff of Life, a charity that brings meals to homebound people with AIDS. I run the lunch shift a few times a week. The students were there for the day. We have different organizations that staff our lunch shifts: churches, businesses, schools, and even dating services have al brought in volunteers.

The fifteen students were lined up at tables in The Stuff of Life’s vast, stainless steel kitchen. They seemed like a nice group, a little bit restless, but polite and wel -behaved. Normal y, I would have enjoyed their company, but today I couldn’t help but feel preoccupied.

A skinny girl who stil thought Goth was hip, raised a hennaed hand. “Do these sandwiches have, like, ham in them? Because I can’t touch them if they do.

I, like, don’t eat meat.”

“Actual y,” a pretty blond girl next to her said, “she can’t touch them if they have any
food
in them, because she’s like, anorexic.”

“I am
not
anorexic,” Goth girl replied. “I’m just not like you. I don’t eat everything I see. Or
everyone.”
The other kids issued a col ective “oooh.” I was afraid things would turn into a catfight, when Blondie said “You know the only one I eat is you, honey” and kissed Goth Girl on the lips.

“God,” said another girl, “do you two have to be such total lesbians al the time?”

Goth Girl looked at her watch. “Umm, yes, we do” and gave her girlfriend another kiss.

This time, the crowd gave an “awwwww.”

“OK, everyone,” I said, “assuming no one else wants to start making out, let’s get started.” An obviously fey boy raised his hand and jumped up and down. “Oooh, sir! Sir! I’d like to start making out!” Everyone laughed.

“Nice try, kid, but how about you make some lunches instead?”

“And, ladies,” I said to the happy lesbian couple,

“you’l be happy to know the sandwiches are tuna.” After the lunches were made and the students left to make the deliveries, I went to visit The Stuff of Life’s director of volunteer services, my friend Vicki. Vicki is a sleek power dyke, who wears her jet black hair in a pompadour that makes her resemble a young, prettier Elvis Presley. Her black jeans and black western shirt tucked into a wide black leather belt with an oversized silver buckle only increased the resemblance.

“Hey, boy,” she greeted me. “How’s tricks? And I do mean ‘tricks.’” She winked broadly. Vicki thought the fact that I hustled was the biggest hoot this side of non-vibrating strap-ons.

“That’s so funny.” I frowned. “I’m laughing on the inside.”

“Whatever,” she said. “So, how were the kids today?”

I told her about the two little lesbians.

“That’s so cute,” she said. “I wish I could have been that open in high school. I didn’t have the nerve to hold my girlfriend’s hand til I was a senior in col ege. God forbid someone thought I liked girls or something.”

It was hard to imagine that Vicki had ever been mistaken for a heterosexual, but I decided to hold my tongue.

“So, how are things, real y?” she asked. “You look down.”

I told her about Al en.

Vicki was sympathetic. “Oh, Kevin, I’m so sorry for you. I knew Al en, too. He was on our board of directors. He was a great guy, a big contributor, too.

He worked a lot with Roger Folds, our development director.”

Freddy had suggested I talk to people Al en knew.

Roger seemed like a good place to start. I asked Vicki where he sat.

“At his home, as far as I know. He’s been out for week.

“It’s weird,” she continued. “Roger’s on a kind of sabbatical or something. He broke up with his partner a few months ago—walked in on the guy sucking off the UPS man or something. Anyway, he got real y depressed, and said he needed some time off to ‘find himself,’or some shit like that.”

“You don’t sound too sympathetic,” I said.

“Roger’s a big old drama queen. It’s cute at first, but when you’re responsible for raising mil ions of dol ars for an organization that feeds sick people, you should real y pul your shit together.

“You know, now that I’m thinking of it,” Vicki continued, “I think he and Al en had some kind of fal ing out. I seem to remember him saying something nasty about Al en, but I don’t remember what.

“But he’s been talking al kinds of crazy shit lately.” I asked Vicki how I could get in touch with Roger.

She gave me his home number.

I left The Stuff of Life at around five. I had a working date at six, so I decided to go see Mrs. Cherry before heading home to shower and change. On the way, I cal ed Roger Folds, but he didn’t pick up. I left a message.

Mrs.

Cherry

lives

in

Hel ’s

Kitchen,

a

neighborhood in Manhattan which is always halfway between ghetto and gentrification. For awhile, they cal ed it “Clinton,” but it didn’t stick.

In

today’s

heat,

Hel ’s

Kitchen

seemed

appropriate.

Mrs. Cherry buzzed me into the building and I took five flights of stairs to the top floor, where she had bought and combined three apartments into one.

She opened the door and I was greeted by the combined smel s of Chanel Number 5 and stale marijuana.

“My darling, darling boy,” she enthused. “Look at you. Look at you! Turn around.” She squeezed my ass. “Yes! Look at you! No wonder you’re one of my top boys.” She took my T-shirt and pul ed it up to my chest. “Look at that flat bel y, those rosy nipples.

Absolutely delicious, perfect.” She pinched the skin around my waist. “You see this, though? I shouldn’t be able to squeeze even this much. I want you to have the body fat percentage of a fifteen-year-old bulimic virgin, darling. Can you do that for Mama?” Mrs. Cherry might have been appraising me like the prize horse in her stable, but she did it so blatantly and affectionately that I wasn’t offended.

At 5 foot nothing and about 200 pounds, Mrs.

Cherry was no great beauty. Her heavy makeup, large beehive wig, and outrageous jewelry made it impossible to ascertain her true features. God knows what she looked like when not in drag.

Wearing a large flowered caftan with a string of gardenias woven into her hair, she resembled a large, mobile botanic garden.

Mrs. Cherry guided me into her vast living room and sat me in a dark purple velvet couch piped with gold brocade, under a gold chandelier, and next to a marble fountain. Mrs. Cherry’s place is huge and as ornately decorated as a New Orleans brothel. She once told me she took the set design of Brooke Shield’s
Pretty Baby
as her inspiration.

“Darling,” she said, in her usual breathy whisper “I heard about Al en. Such a terrible, terrible loss. Such a nice man. And such a good customer! Tel me
everything
you know.”

It was ninety-seven degrees outside, but you could have kept veal fresh in Mrs. Cherry’s apartment. I could barely hear her over the five air conditioners she had running.

I told her what I knew about Al en’s death and about running into Tony.

“A mystery,” Mrs. Cherry enthused. “I love a mystery.” Mrs. Cherry plucked a smal fan from her artificial bosom and waved arctic air into her face.

“Wel , I don’t love this mystery,” I answered. “I hope they find out who kil ed Al en.”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about
that
mystery, darling. I meant the mystery of your ex-lover’s sexuality. Does he want to suck your dick, or not? Of course, he’d be insane if he didn’t. Even I want to suck your dick, and everyone knows I’m a big fat dyke.”

I couldn’t always tel when Mrs. Cherry was kidding. I’m pretty sure she didn’t know, either. But that was part of her charm.

“But you’re right; Al en’s death is curious, too.

Hmmm … you know what we need, darling?” she asked. I shook my head. “Cocktails!”

Mrs. Cherry disappeared behind a beaded curtain and returned moments later with two perfect martinis.

“I’d offer you something stronger,” she said, handing me my glass, “but I know what a boy scout you are. Besides, you have a date tonight, remember?”

I assured her I did, and we talked some more.

When I was ready to leave, she gave me a peck on the cheek. “Now, go make yourself beautiful, darling,” she said. “And make Momma some money.”

I got home at seven and had a protein shake. I checked my answering machine. Cal er ID showed I had another message from my mother. That was two in two days.

To say that my mother is high maintenance would be like saying that Lindsay Lohan enjoys an occasional drink. Or, used to enjoy. Let’s give Lindsay a break, OK?

My mother’s messages often ran for several minutes, during which she’d either lecture me on how I should be living my life, or detail the minutiae of how she was living hers.

I couldn’t deal with her just now, but I promised myself I’d listen to her messages tomorrow.

The next cal came from a law office. “This is Susan Oliver cal ing from Messner, Baker, and Stern. This message is for Kevin Connor. Mr.

Connor, please cal me to discuss an urgent personal matter. Thank you so much.” She left her number.

I didn’t think I owed anyone enough money that they would have gone legal on my ass, so I figured it was safe to cal her back. I got her machine and left her a message with my cel phone number.

My e-mail was mostly spam, except for a message from Freddy. “I can describe that boy from last night in three words: Dee Lish Ous. Have you solved Al en’s murder yet? Cal me!”

I took a shower, shaved my face, chest, and bal s, and put on a pair of tan khakis and a light blue Izod polo shirt. My client tonight was a regular, and he liked me to look preppy.

In the cab to his apartment, I thought about something Mrs. Cherry had said about Al en. “He was such a good customer.” Freddy had asked me if I knew anyone else who knew Al en, and I had forgotten about Randy Bostinick, the hustler I recommended to him.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t known Randy as wel back then as I did now. If I had, I wouldn’t have made the recommendation. Because as hot as Randy is, he’s also a little bit nuts. I’ve heard a few stories of Randy going off on guys in clubs when he thought they were being rude to him.

I also knew more than one of his old boyfriends who was seen trying to hide a black eye or swol en cheek. They learned the hard way that steroids and crystal meth may make a boy beautiful, but they don’t do much to improve his anger management skil s.

I had my own story, too.

Once, when Randy and I were at a bar together, a guy approached me. The guy was cute, but he had an intense stare that made me a little uncomfortable.

He leaned over to say something, but I couldn’t hear him over the crowd. I asked him to repeat himself, but it sounded like he was mumbling.

I didn’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I shook my head, but the guy just tried again.

“Hey,” Randy bel owed from behind me, “can’t you see my friend’s not interested? Buzz off.” But the guy just leaned closer and tried to talk right into my ear. Randy, thinking the guy was moving in for a kiss, had enough.

He put down his beer—some horrible American brew that only he would have the nerve to drink in a trendy gay bar—grabbed the guy by the shoulders, and threw him against the wal . Al eyes in the bar turned our way.

“Hey, punk,” Randy shouted. “What the fuck is your problem! I told you, he’s not interested. What are you, fucking deaf or something?”

Wel , imagine our embarrassment when it turned out that he was. That’s why his speech wasn’t very clear, and that’s why he was staring. He was trying to read my lips. That’s also why he didn’t hear Randy tel ing him to back off.

Once the misunderstanding was made clear, Randy went from sixty to zero as fast as he had previously accelerated. He was especial y gratified to learn that the guy was trying to ask me if Randy and I were together, because he was interested in Randy.