Dead In Red (27 page)

Brenda looked up. “If you come back early,
bring some wings, will you?”

Richard paused to give her a kiss good-bye.
She grabbed his hand—hung on for long seconds, didn’t say anything.
He gave her a reassuring smile, kissed her fingers and pulled away,
and we headed for the door.

Richard drove and the ride across town was a
silent one.

“You seem preoccupied,” Richard said.

“I am. You want to wrap this up and I’ve got
a feeling . . .” I had a feeling, all right. Only I
wasn’t sure what it was. Uneasy covered a lot of territory. I was
almost afraid to close my eyes because I knew the vision of those
damn bloody hands could swoop down over me at any time. I was going
to see those hands in reality in the not-too-distant future and
dreaded it. Blood in that volume meant death and I was probably
going to be an unwilling witness to Gene Higgins’s death.

My paranoia shifted into overdrive. “When we
get there, you wouldn’t want to just wait in the car, would
you?”

“Why?” Richard asked.

He had no clue how . . . well,
dead he’d looked lying on the floor with a bullet wound to the
chest. How I never wanted that to happen again. How thinking about
Gene’s probable death was scaring me shitless.

I looked out the passenger side window.
“Just wondered.”

“Why don’t you tell me everything you know
about those bloody hands,” he said.

“I’ve told you everything.”

“I don’t think so. You’ve seen hands. Can
you focus in on what’s around them? What else do you see?”

I wasn’t sure I could conjure the
vision on command. I closed my eyes—concentrated. I felt the car
slow . . . for a red light? I heard the radio as
background noise. Squeezing my eyes shut tighter still didn’t bring
up the vision. No, it would show up when I
didn’t
want it to.

“I can’t get it.”

“Next time it hits, pay more attention to
the periphery. It might give you a clue as to where you need to
be.”

Where I needed to be. He’d accepted the
inevitable, too. Only he was banking on it happening before
Friday.

So was I.

* * *

Big Brother’s
wasn’t as kinetic as the other gay bars we’d visited. A
glittering silver disco ball revolved overhead, but it was a
ballad—Ella Fitzgerald?—playing in the background, while a few
couples, males only, clung to one another on the small dance floor.
The stage up front was unlit, the folds of its heavy curtains
melting into the darkness. Flickering oil lamps glowed on each
bistro table, illuminating the faces of the few patrons. Either we
were too early or the place was dead on a Tuesday night.

I spotted Veronica right away, sitting at
the far side of the horseshoe-shaped bar, a nearly full martini
glass set before her as she swayed dreamily to the music.

“This is where we part company,” I told
Richard.

“Not on your life.”

“Look, I don’t want to argue about
this.”

“Then don’t,” he said, and stalked across
the room, taking the empty stool on Veronica’s right. He signaled
the bartender, gave his order.

I couldn’t let some other joker grab the
seat on her left, so I hurried over to take it.

The bartender handed Richard a bottle of
Labatt Blue and a glass. He paid for it and received his change,
laying down a couple of bills and shoving them forward.

The bartender wandered up before me. “Get
you anything?”

“Bottle of Molson.”

He nodded, handed me my order in record
time. “Three fifty.”

I shoved a five toward him, waved him to
keep the change. Veronica hadn’t opened her eyes, hadn’t noticed
her new neighbors.

Richard leaned forward around her, gave me
an imploring look.

I cleared my throat. “Miss Veronica?”

Veronica turned her head in my direction.
“Yes?”

Her startling blue eyes surprised
me—reminding me of my mother’s, of Richard’s. I offered my hand.
“My name is Jeff Resnick. I’m a friend of Tom Link’s.”

“Sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Her voice was higher than I anticipated.

“No, but I believe you knew his cousin: Walt
Kaplan.”

Her spine stiffened and her gaze traveled
from my offered hand to my face. “I’m afraid I don’t. You must have
me mixed up with someone else.”

I pulled back my hand and withdrew a picture
of her and Walt from my pocket, placed it on the bar, shoved it in
front of her. “Did you know this man?”

Veronica feigned indifference. “I don’t
think so.”

She’d missed that my question was asked in
the past tense.

“This is you in the picture, isn’t it?”

She smiled. “Sure. Although it couldn’t have
been one of my better days.”

“So you knew him?”

“I have my picture taken with lots of the
customers.” She picked up her drink, took a small sip.

I studied her long fingers; the nails looked
phony—removable, but there was strength in the hand that held the
stemmed glass. Long sleeves covered her arms. No way to see if the
hair on her forearms was thick and black. “Let me refresh your
memory. His name was Walt Kaplan. He was found dead two weeks ago
behind the Old Red Mill in Williamsville.”

“The poor man. Heart attack?”

“Stabbed. Forty-six times.”

Veronica simpered. “Oh dear.”

“So you didn’t know him?”

“Not that I remember.”

“That’s funny. I have quite a collection of
pictures of the two of you together.”

She pouted. “I find that hard to
believe.”

“Believe it.”

“Just what are you getting at, mister?”

“I’ve been wondering who might find these
photographs of particular interest.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Perhaps the police. Especially since Mr.
Kaplan’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“So you say.” Veronica picked up her
sequined clutch purse and slid off her barstool. “Excuse me, but
I’m meeting someone.” She took a step away from the bar, then
turned back, snagged her drink and, hips swaying, sashayed off in
her black high heels.

Richard eyed me. “That didn’t do much except
tip her off that you’re interested in her. Is this where we start
watching our backs twenty-four/seven?”

“I asked you to back off.”

“Yeah, like that’s an option.” He downed a
mouthful of beer.

“I wish she’d left her drink. Who knows what
I might’ve gotten from touching that glass.”

“Excuse me,” said a low, soft voice from
behind us. “But I couldn’t help but overhear parts of your
conversation with Miss Veronica.”

I looked behind me to see what appeared to
be quite a beautiful black woman in a form-fitting, chartreuse
sequined gown with a plunging neckline, blonde wig and sparkling
silver heels. “And you are?” I asked.

She offered her hand. “Margarita Ville.” Her
voice held just the hint of a Southern lilt.

I took her fingers in mine and gave a gentle
squeeze. She simpered coyly, batting her false eyelashes. Under her
serene veneer lurked a panther ready to spring. “Won’t you join
us?” I asked.

“Why, thank you.” She settled herself on the
stool next to Richard, smiled sweetly at him, smoothing down her
hair, her gaze lingering on the remnants of his black eye, raising
her eyebrow in approval before turning back to me.

I signaled the bartender, and gestured
toward Margarita. “The usual?” he asked.

She nodded. A minute later, he presented her
with what had to be her signature drink, a margarita. She took a
dainty sip, setting the glass back down on the cocktail napkin.
“Now I know this will sound utterly catty of me,” she told me,
confidentially, “but Miss Veronica Lakes’ life is totally based on
a lie—including most of what she just told you.”

“Oh?” I asked.

“Well, it can be said that all the ‘girls’
here have based their lives on a lie. We are, after all, not women.
But Lord don’t we look and act more like ladies than half the gals
you’ve ever met?”

“Uh . . . yes.” I didn’t know what
else to say. “What can you tell me about Veronica?”

Margarita tossed her synthetic mane. “A
person of good repute does not accept monies from gentlemen she
beds.”

“She turn regular tricks?”

Margarita shook her head. “Veronica doesn’t
go in for that. Like me, she’s an artiste, not a prostitute. That
said, she does hook her gentleman friends for the long haul. She
has a goal.”

“Which is?” Richard asked.

Margarita dabbed a finger on her tongue and
pressed it against the salt on the rim of her glass—then licked it.
“Miss Veronica needs several hundred thousand dollars to pay for
gender reassignment surgery. I believe she plans to go to one of
those former eastern block countries.”

“Why doesn’t she have the surgery here?”
Richard asked.

“One must pass a number of psychological
examinations. The requirements aren’t quite so strict
elsewhere.”

“She wouldn’t pass?” Richard asked.

“I am definitely not an expert on the
subject—but apparently I am not the only one who believes that Miss
Veronica has more than just one screw loose.”

“Doesn’t sound like you approve of
sex-change operations,” I said.

“Look, dear, beneath all the sham, you’re
still who you were born. I may look like an enticing, beautiful
woman—” She paused, gave me a pointed, expectant look.

“Oh, you are,” I agreed.

“But the fact is, that under the makeup,
wigs and beautiful clothes—” She smoothed her hands over her
hourglass figure. “I’m still just a gay man in drag. And most days,
that’s pretty damn all right—despite what my father may have told
me to the contrary.”

Richard gripped his beer bottle, taking a
healthy swallow before leaning back in his seat.

“And Miss Veronica?” I prompted.

“Amputating her penis and adding silicone
breasts won’t make her any more a woman than you are. I mean—let’s
face it, chromosomes don’t lie, no matter what the outside package
looks like.”

I couldn’t contradict her there.

“So Veronica wants a sugar daddy to pay for
her surgery?”

She sipped her drink. “Daddies,” Margarita
emphasized. “She takes them for all they’re worth. Eventually they
get tired of her. I mean—she’s not the brightest bulb on the
Christmas tree.”

I withdrew the photo of Walt and Veronica
from my pocket. “Ever see this guy?”

Margarita scrutinized the photo. “That would
be Mr. Walt. Ever such a nice man. Kept a select few of us
entertained with tall tales of money and excess. It’s a pity he was
always attracted to trash.”

“He had other ‘friends’ besides Veronica?”
Richard asked.

Margarita nodded, tucking a blonde lock
behind her multipierced ear. “Those friendships were rather
transitory. But Miss Veronica—well, she has very sharp claws and an
attraction to fat wallets. Once she hooks a Sugar Daddy, she
squeezes the life out of him.”

Squeezes, or stabs?

“Did you know Walt Kaplan was stabbed to
death?” I asked.

Margarita blinked several times, her gaze
riveted on mine. “I do believe I read that in the paper.”

“Do you think Veronica was capable of—?” I
let the sentence hang.

“I wouldn’t want to accuse anybody of
anything,” Margarita said, watching herself in the mirror on the
backbar, batting at the curls around her face. “But it’s common
knowledge that Miss Veronica is quite handy with a knife. She
always carries one. One never knows how violent a gentleman caller
may become. Some of the girls feel they need to be prepared with
hardware. I do not happen to be one with that mindset.”

“Let me guess. You’re well acquainted with
the martial arts?” The way she spoke was positively contagious.

Margarita smiled. “Just something I picked
up along the way.” She sipped her drink, her gaze straying once
again to the mirror in front of her.

“Veronica thought Walt had a lot of
money?”

“Mr. Walt was very generous to those he
liked. He was part of the Kaplan Jewelry empire, you know. I always
admired that diamond ring he wore on his right hand. A gift from
his father, if I’m not mistaken.” Margarita raised a heavily
penciled eyebrow. “I wonder if it went missing. Miss Veronica seems
to have come into some money of late.”

Since Gene had the ring, it was more likely
Veronica had sold Walt’s car.

“If someone wanted to contact Miss Veronica
at her home, where would they find her?” I asked.

“One would merely have to look in the phone
book. The name would be M. Bessler.” She spelled it for me, then
gave a little shudder. “The M stands for Myron.”

“Any idea how Myron makes a living?”

“By day he stands behind a counter and hands
out keys for rent-a-cars—not much brain power required. By night
Veronica has delusions of being a diva.” She rolled her eyes.
Richard’s mustache twitched over a smile.

Margarita gathered her purse and carefully
eased off her barstool. I stood as well. “It’s been very nice
speaking with you, gentlemen. I do hope you’ll come back tomorrow
to see my show.” She offered me her hand.

I figured what the hell, and brushed my lips
against her fingers. “Thank you.”

Margarita took one more appraising glance at
herself in the mirror and turned. “Until we meet again.” She gave
us a little wave and wandered off into the darkness.

“My weren’t we gallant?” Richard
commented.

I climbed back onto my stool. “There’s
something about the way she talks. It rubs off.” My gaze flickered
across the mirror behind the backbar, looking for Veronica. That I
didn’t see her didn’t mean she hadn’t been watching during our
conversation with Margarita. She could’ve changed clothes, and
personas, and I probably wouldn’t recognize her—him.

Richard drained the last of his beer. “You
get anything else out of her?”