One Dead Drag Queen (11 page)

“About as well as your tits do.”

I’m not sure hate encompasses how I feel about him. The best example I can think of to describe his personality is this: Myrtle Mae/Bryce Bennet was the kind of person people got caller ID for so they could avoid their calls. He mixed vicious,
cold asperity with cloyingly sweet attempts at intimacy. He was the kind who often greeted friends with “Why haven’t you called me?” The mostly unstated response to this question was “Because you’re a jerk.” For reasons I was unable to fathom, Myrtle Mae got on famously with Tom’s mother and father.

Myrtle Mae clutched the pearls around his throat and exclaimed dramatically, “I’ll have you know I was one of the fortunate ones. I was eating at Fattatuchi’s Deli earlier that evening. I had to have one of their triple-decker chocolate cakes for a party I was throwing, and as long as I was there, I thought I could eat a piece of one of those luscious confections in the display case just to tide me over. Fortunately, I was long gone before the explosion.”

“Have you talked to the police?” I asked.

“Should I? If I do, I want a burly, masculine one, with dark stubble all over his chin, and he should be wearing a dark, dark blue uniform, starched and ironed within an inch of its life.”

“You’ll probably get a plainclothes detective.”

“You’re always so dull.”

“Did you see anything suspicious that night?”

“The Fattatuchis are absolutely the most dear friends of mine. I’ve actually eaten there innumerable times over the years. I haven’t had to pay for a meal since 1982. We exchange Christmas gifts. I’m the godfather of one of their grandchildren.”

Count on Myrtle Mae to claim to be best friends with two of the most popular restaurant owners in Chicago. He often intimated that he knew people who knew people who knew where secrets were kept and bodies were buried. I didn’t believe most of it.

Fattatuchi’s Deli had morphed over the years into one of
the most popular restaurants and bakeries in the city.

Myrtle Mae said, “Mr. and Mrs. Fattatuchi were having some kind of quarrel, but aren’t they always? Half the draw of the place is to watch the Fattatuchi family soap opera play out before our very eyes. They spent most of the time arguing with their son, who is not very tall really, but blade thin. He was wearing a black leather vest, tight black jeans, a black T-shirt, and sunglasses.”

“Indoors at night?” I asked.

“If he was suspicious, he was a cliché. No one runs around looking like a terrorist, do they? Besides, he was a local and worth every stare. I could spend hours just watching him breathe.”

“What you mean is you saw nothing you considered suspicious.”

“Correct.”

I wanted the annoying old queen to leave, but I couldn’t think of a polite way of telling him to do so. Much as I hated the idea, he was Tom’s friend, and I could at least try to be civil. And if I was nice, I would certainly rack up moral-superiority points. If one is going to have fun in life, it’s always good to be ahead on moral-superiority points. It’s not quite as good as having more toys than anyone else when you die, but it’s close. And there is nothing like having the moral high ground when dealing with an annoying old queen. It may not be much, but it’s something.

“Did the Fattatuchis survive the blast?” I asked.

“Mrs. Fattatuchi is fine. Mr. Fattatuchi is in the hospital, but will make a full recovery.” Myrtle Mae placed a manicured fist on his left hip and leaned toward me. “Why aren’t you doing something about this? If Tom was conscious, he’d be out investigating. I have contacts. I could help him.”

“Why? Are you a terrorist bomber?”

“You can’t be involved in activist causes for forty years and not know things.”

I didn’t for a minute believe he had any contacts. I figured he was overemphasizing his importance. A habit of his that he’d turned into a lifestyle.

Myrtle Mae said, “Tom’d know where to start, which places to go, and to whom he should talk. I think—”

Werner spoke for the first time since we’d exchanged greetings. “Bryce, you’re going too far. Stop it.” Myrtle Mae flashed him an annoyed look, but he did not complete his thought.

I wanted to slap the moronic twit silly. He was such a consummate know-it-all. He enjoyed pretending he was on more intimate terms with Tom than I was. Why he and Tom remained friends, I’m not sure. Tom gets kind of vague about their background, and I don’t pry. Sometimes I wonder if maybe Myrtle Mae has pictures of Tom naked in bed with a woman or something equally outré.

However, Mrs. Mason was nearby, and I didn’t want a scene in the hospital. I whispered, “I don’t feel any need to justify myself to you, Myrtle Mae, but I have hired the firm of Borini and Faslo to investigate.” And I hated myself instantly for that brief bit of self-justification.

“You hired Borini and Faslo? You nitwit. That firm and those two in particular are the most homophobic, right-wing, narrow-minded assholes in the city. One of their prime targets is finding closeted gay men and putting pressure on them to stay married to their wives. Rumor is that they are tools of the religious right, that they are in thick with the gay-conversion people, if not actually funding part of the ex-gay movement.”

“They seemed perfectly professional to me.”

“They would. I wish Tom were awake to hear this.”

That did it. I pushed my face three inches from his. “Get out,” I ordered softly. “I don’t want you around here. I don’t care how good a friend you are with Tom or his parents. I will personally escort you out in five seconds if you don’t get your underdressed ass out of here.”

“Brute,” he snarled. Then Myrtle Mae harrumphed dramatically, eyed the others down the corridor, made a sweeping 180-degree turn, adjusted his fur, and marched away. At the elevator he waited until the door binged open, then he turned around, sneered at me, and called, “A stupid jock like you will ruin everything.”

Werner took one of Myrtle Mae’s elbows and dragged him into the elevator.

Several people heard the commotion and turned to stare. I vowed we would never see the overbearing creep socially again.

I walked over to McCutcheon and told him about the possible homophobia at Borini and Faslo.

“Did you ask him how he knew?” McCutcheon asked.

“No.”

“That bit of information would be important and an obvious place to begin asking questions.”

“I was too angry to think of anything besides getting him out of here. Did you think they were homophobic?”

“Everyone in the city knows who you and Tom are. They gave no indication that they cared you and he are lovers. I called a contact. He didn’t mention anything about homophobia.”

“Maybe your contact isn’t gay and wouldn’t necessarily be aware of any prejudice. Everybody sees the positive articles about that firm. Who’s to know the real story?”

“I’ll try a couple more calls.” McCutcheon pulled out his portable phone and moved off a few feet.

While he was on the phone, a nurse in her sixties entered. She held out a box full of pink phone message slips to Tom’s mother and me. “These have been accumulating downstairs.” We’d had all the calls to this room stopped at the switchboard.

I riffled through them. Many were from friends of Tom’s wishing him well. A fistful were from reporters. None of them read “you’re next faggot.” One was from Brandon Kearn asking me to call and saying it was urgent.

I used the phone in Tom’s room to call the television station. They paged Kearn. He called back in five minutes.

“Who’s in the room with you?” he asked. “Can they hear you?”

“Just about everybody can hear me.”

Mrs. Mason gave me an odd look.

Kearn said, “I’ve got some information that could be vital to you, but I need to see you without anyone else around.”

“Couldn’t you come here? We could walk down the hall to an empty room.”

“I’ve got some information about the crime as well. I’m calling you from the scene. You’re in more danger than you imagine.”

“There’s no need to be melodramatic. Why not just tell me what you’ve got?”

“My suggestion would be that you tell no one that you are coming to talk to me.”

“Do you really think I could do that with all that’s happened to me?”

“You’ve known me from before all this.”

“We’re not friends.”

“At some point you’re going to have to trust someone.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Look, meet me here, alone, or not at all. I believe it is in
your own best interest to tell no one. I figured you’d be interested in what I have to say, but it’s your choice.”

“Maybe you’re just trying to get me alone and unprotected.”

“Believe me or not. I’ll be here for at least another half an hour. You decide.” Kearn hung up.

12

This was a hell of a choice. Feeling conflicted like that drives me nuts. I sort of wanted to investigate. I certainly wanted the threats to stop. I mostly wanted Tom to get better. My innate caution told me not to go to such a meeting without security. If I did so, I’d have to explain to McCutcheon that I was leaving without protection. Was having this kind of security turning out to be as much albatross as salvation? I hadn’t thought of my defensive measures as a wall that would keep me in as well as a barrier to keep others away. As a necessary evil, sure, but now I wondered, if I wanted to be free of him, how I could accomplish it if I chose to be so? I could just say, I’m an adult, I’ve made a decision, and I’m leaving, but even that had consequences. I could sneak out, but I wasn’t some teenager in an unrealistic television show trying to get a laugh from a preprogrammed sound track. I could always try simple, straightforward honesty. Kearn was the one who thought there was a need for secrecy.

I said to McCutcheon and Mrs. Mason, “That was Brandon
Kearn. He says he has some information to tell me, but he wants to see me alone.”

“Why alone?” McCutcheon asked.

“All he said was that it was important that I come by myself.”

“Can you trust him?” Mrs. Mason asked.

“How could it be a trap if I’ve told everyone I’m going? You both know who called and where I’m headed. How would he have the nerve to try something? He’d be the obvious suspect.”

“You can broadcast to the world it’s a trap,” Mrs. Mason said, “but if you go anyway, it’s still a trap.”

“Why don’t I have one of my people follow at a discreet distance?” McCutcheon said. “For that matter, why can’t he come here and tell you what he claims is important?”

This was awful quick to be dropping the concept of twenty-four-hour-a-day security. Then again, assuming Kearn was trustworthy, could I presume that a killer and possible mass murderer hadn’t had the time to sit in a parking lot waiting for me to wander out alone? Then again, someone had found his way into this hospital room.

Between Tom and me I’m always the more reluctant. The one who says wait, let’s think about it and consider all the options. Neither the police nor Faslo and Borini wanted me around to help investigate or ask questions. Here was something I could do.

“I’ll call in every half hour,” I said.

“Big help,” McCutcheon said. “In half a second you could be dead.”

“At least let one of the security guards follow you,” Mrs. Mason said. “All that’s happened has been too dangerous and too bizarre to take chances. If Kearn poses a danger, you could tell him you came alone. How would he know every
person in the security firm? Obviously he wouldn’t. Have the guard get out of the car a block away from the meeting place. He can follow you.”