Divas Las Vegas (28 page)

"Well, at least Randy didn't read that note. I guess that's
a good thing. Now if we're done with the surprises, I'm
ready to get out of these clothes and into a dry martini,"
Justin suggested, and I wholeheartedly agreed. I'd tell Zahir
about the note sometime over dinner.

And if you thought the predinner show you just witnessed
was a mess, wait until you see the main course.

We met the boys back at the nightclub promptly at eight.
For Justin, promptly is a miracle akin to getting blood from
a turnip. (Well, for Justin, let's make that tequila from a gin bottle.) Actually, I think he was a tad aroused at the
prospect of going out with a straight man, albeit in drag,
undercover, and, potentially, with a straight man who was
also a murderer/kidnapper/thief.

The funny thing was, Bart was late. Very late. And Justin
was fuming. Talk about putting the pump on the other foot.
Inwardly, I was laughing at the circumstances. Time and
time again, I've waited for Justin outside restaurants, bars,
clubs, and theaters. Now it was his turn to wait. I hoped
he learned a valuable life lesson from the experience, but I
seriously doubted it.

Of course, Bart being late, I was able to give Zahir his
brother's note without having to explain it. Though he was
upset about the content, he was noticeably relieved to know
that he would be seeing Ahmed the next day. And I was
happy to see him happy. Though I couldn't get too happy,
considering the tight skirt I had on. I guess women are lucky
that all their privates are kept on the inside and not on the
outside, like us guys. (Though I try not to dwell on that
subject for too long.)

When Bart finally did arrive, Tabitha was there to greet
him and was all smiles. If he was going to get any information out of him, he'd have to put on quite an act-and since
Justin had been pulling the wool over men's eyes for years,
that should be a snap. Fortunately, Bart obviously found
Tabitha attractive, and he showed it. "Wow, Marilyn, you
really do have sexy friends," he said to me, gawking at
Tabitha's shapely legs. All those years of walking up and
down steep San Francisco hills finally paid off, apparently.

"Thank you, Bart," Tabitha giggled, batting her big,
fake eyelashes at him.

Zahir, clearly nervous, hurried us out of the hotel and
into a taxi. And then we were off on our lovely drag double
date. (Which, even in San Francisco, I doubt is a regular
occurrence.)

"Where to?" asked our cabby. No, it wasn't Earl, but the
stench was the same.

"The Lobster Tail," Bart answered, and I, for one, was
okay with the suggestion. As a man, I never got to order
lobster-too expensive; but as a lady, I was sure to get
treated. Drag does have its advantages, I suppose.

"No, no Lobster Tail," protested Zahir, and my dreams
of melting butter started to evaporate.

"Why not?" Bart asked, then said to the driver, without
waiting for an answer, "Ignore him and head for the Lobster
Tail."

"No, no Lobster Tail," Zahir reiterated. Only, this time,
he was staring hard at Bart and shaking his head. For some
reason, Bart backed down and changed his choice of restaurants to Soup and Salad. Now I was mad. I may have been
dressed like a lady, but I had a man-sized appetite, and soup
and salad wasn't going to cut it.

"The Lobster Tail has shitty food, anyway," Bart added,
with little enthusiasm. Then he sat back in the seat and
pouted.

"Yes, bad food. And I cannot eat shellfish. Very allergic,"
Zahir said to me, apologetically. I nodded that I was okay
with it, but my stomach was protesting the sudden turn of
events.

Thankfully, Soup and Salad also had potatoes and pasta,
plus a nice dessert bar, so my stomach was made a little bit
happier. Too bad the rest of me was miserable, stuffed in a
booth between Zahir and Bart. The two bickered endlessly
over my meal. (No, not about my meal, literally over it.) As
two people who claimed not to like each other, they sure
were proving it, but it was weird that they seemed to have a
certain rapport with each other. Sort of a standing relationship. I chalked it up to the fact that they worked together
every day.

Besides, we had way more to worry about. When he wasn't arguing with Zahir, Bart was shamelessly flirting
with Tabitha. I noticed, on more than one occasion, that
he had his fingers clamped around my friend's knee. Naturally, Tabitha let him keep it there, though I wasn't quite
sure if it was in keeping with The Plan, or if he was just
being his usual slutty self. Zahir also looked worried
about it, which may have been the reason for his edginess
over dinner.

This wasn't helped in any way when Bart suddenly made
the announcement, "Yo, Zahir, I always thought you were
a fruit loop. Nice to see you with a pretty woman for a
change."

I could feel Zahir's leg bouncing up and down as he
fought to gain control of his rage, but he knew that lashing
out wouldn't have done us any good. Especially for Ahmed's
sake. So he waited a few seconds before answering, and then
calmly said, "I guess Zahir has seen, as you say, the light,
Bart." He reached out to hold my hand to push the point
home. Bart smiled and did the same with my poor friend
Tabitha. And I smiled, knowing that we had just passed a
vital part of The Plan with flying colors. If Bart couldn't see
through my disguise, Tabitha had a good shot at finding out
what was going on.

Thank goodness Zahir had some self-control. Well, he
did until midway through our meal, anyway. That's when
the evening ended rather abruptly.

"So, Zahir," Bart began, "where's your brother, Ahmed,
been lately?" Wouldn't we all like to know that one? I
thought.

"Why you ask about my brother?" Zahir practically
shouted, but quickly regained his composure.

"Oh, no reason, just curious, is all," he answered, not
looking up from his plate.

I was hoping for a more straightforward reply, as this was
the whole reason we were there: to find out Bart's connec tion with Ahmed, and to my vase, and to all the other shit
going on.

"I no like a man who doesn't know how to mind his
own business," Zahir said, staring over at Bart. Bart looked
up from his plate and over at a seething Zahir. I no longer
wished to be in the middle of these two men, but had little
choice but to sit there and listen.

"Fine, you don't like me and I don't like you either," Bart
said, pushing his plate away and standing up. He grabbed
Tabitha's hand and yanked her up, too.

"Fine," Zahir said.

"Fine," Bart echoed, and pushed Tabitha out of the
booth. "We're leaving, then."

Justin instantly looked panicked, and my stomach once
again sank to the floor. (It was beginning to feel at home
down there.) Zahir didn't seem to like that idea too much
either.

"No. No, wait," he tried, with a trace of alarm in his
voice.

"Yes. Yes, please wait," I echoed. "Why ruin a lovely
evening over such a minor disagreement?"

But Bart didn't agree with my oh-so-ridiculous plea. Our
evening had been anything but lovely. He took one last look
at our beseeching faces, shot us a scowl, and then dragged
Tabitha's ass out of the restaurant. She turned her head
to give us a please help me look, but it was too late. We
couldn't think of anything more to say, and Bart was too
fast in hurrying them out of there. Before we knew it, Zahir
and I were sitting alone with our non-lobster dinners.

"Dessert?" I asked, trying to lighten the mood. But Zahir
was obviously not to be lightened. He sat there, head in hand,
and fretted. It was nice that he was so worried about my
friend, but I had the distinct advantage of knowing that he/
she could take care of itself. I tried to explain that to Zahir,
but he remained agitated. Which was too bad because, for some reason, ever since our experience in the bushes, whenever I put on a dress I became instantly horny. Granted, the
same held true when I put on a pair of jeans, shorts, slacks,
etc., but now I was especially horny. And seeing the butter
on the table, and knowing how good a lube it made, wasn't
helping my furiously overstimulated imagination.

Unfortunately, I risked making a sexual overture to
Zahir just then. As soon as I placed my hand on his leg, he
cried, "How can you think of such a thing when your friend
is with ...is with.. .that man?"

Sure, when you look at it that way, maybe I did come off
a bit, um, selfish, but had the Ferragamo been on the other
nylon-clad foot, my so-called friend would already have
been beneath the table doing Lord knows what. And when I
tried to explain just that fact, I came off looking even worse:
desperate. And nobody likes a desperately horny drag queen.
But at least I wasn't drunk. That would've been worse yet.
Still, it was no reason for him to storm out the way he did,
leaving me alone-with the bill!

And guess what? My fabulously stunning purse contained
everything but money. And I doubted they'd accept a rhinestone-covered bracelet in lieu of cash. I also doubted that
offering sexual favors would work either, as I had a drag
face not even my own mother could've loved. So, once again,
Glenda was called to the rescue. And since I had to wait for
her to get there, wasn't it fortuitous that I was at an all-youcan-eat salad/soup/pasta/potato/drink/dessert restaurant?

By the time she arrived, I was nearly popping out of my
dress, and in all the wrong places.

"My, my, my, ain't you the pretty one," she said, looking
down at me as I finished off my second helping of soft-serve
chocolate and vanilla swirl ice cream.

"Pretty and poor," I responded, my mouth full and ice
cream dripping down my chin.

"Well, then, you're in luck," she said, pulling out a wad of bills that could've choked Linda Lovelace.

"I thought Justin gave you sixty bucks," I said, moving
the remainder of my ice cream to the top of my doublechocolate brownie with walnuts.

"Oh, yes, he did. And then I did something I've always
wanted to do," she said, sitting down at my table and helping
me with my remaining dessert. "I took the sixty, cashed it
in for three twenty dollar chips, and then bet it all on red.
Same color as these fabulous shoes I bought."

"But look at the stack of dough you have. How many
times did you bet red?" I asked.

"Seven times. My lucky number. And when I stopped
betting, the very next number was black. You should have
seen the crowd I had amassed by the time I cashed in," she
said, finishing my brownie and getting up to fetch some
more. Since she was now paying, who could argue?

"So, let me get this, for lack of a better word, straight,"
I said, once she had returned with two more servings of
everything. "I've been in Vegas for about a week now and
am approximately two dollars ahead, which by Vegas standards is good, and you've been here for less than two full
days and have been gambling for-"

"Roughly fifteen minutes," she interrupted.

"Fifteen minutes. And you have all that?" She nodded an
affirmative. "I officially hate you now," I added, starting in
on a new piece of lemon chiffon cake.

"Fine," she said, chowing down on her pecan pie. "I'll
just leave you here with your bill and your cake."

"Fine, I don't hate you that much," I replied, switching
plates with her. I like my desserts (and my men) more
meaty.

"Thought so," she said, adding a bowl of chocolate
pudding with whipped cream on top.

"Trade you this bowl of ice cream for two hundred
dollars," I said, sliding the bowl near her.

"I'm already paying the bill, dipshit, so legally that ice
cream belongs to me," she replied, grabbing the bowl. "But
that purse is another matter altogether."

"Fuck that," I said. "And pass me that banana pudding."

Some things you just can't put a price on. (But don't
quote me on that.)

We got back to Glenda's room and waited for Justin to
return. And we waited. And we waited. And no Justin. We
were too worried to even bother to go out and gamble and
get drunk, so we played Keno from the bed and drank from
the minibar. When six in the morning rolled around, and we
still hadn't seen hide or trimmed hair of him, I was tempted
to call the police and notify them of a missing drag queen.
Luckily, I didn't have to. He walked right in the door just
as I was lifting the receiver. (Well, actually I was lifting my
mimosa, but I was gonna lift the receiver just after that.)

"Where the fuck have you been?" I shouted as he closed
the door behind him.

"And why didn't you call?" Glenda shouted as he
approached the bed.

He didn't answer right away. First he walked over, sat
down on the bed, reached for Glenda's purse, and pulled
out a bottle of pills. Then he popped a pretty blue one in
his mouth and waited a minute with his eyes closed before
he answered. (Not coincidentally, our friends always come
prepared when they're spending a lengthy amount of time
with us.)

"Okay, I'm sorry. I knew you guys were worrying about
me, but there was nothing I could do. Honest," he said,
getting out of his Tabitha outfit and into a comfy Aladdin
bathrobe. Then he rejoined us on the bed and poured himself
a mimosa.

"Well, okay. At least you're here and all in one piece.
That's the important thing," I said, mostly meaning it. Glenda nodded her agreement and tacked on, "Now, where
the fuck have you been?"

"Yes, pray tell," I said, refilling my glass in preparation.

He paused, sighed, and began his harrowing tale. "Well,
naturally, I was terrified when Bart practically flung me out
of that restaurant and into a nearby taxi, which took us
to his disgusting butchmobile back at the hotel. The thing
practically dripped testosterone," he began, and Glenda
bobbed her head, remembering her own experience with
Bart's car.

He continued, "Right away I knew I had to lull him
into a false sense of security. So when he started in with
`Fucking Zahir, always telling me what to do. He thinks
he's such a fucking big shot. Fucking fag ain't got nothing
on old Barty,' I readily agreed. `I know what you mean,' I
told him. `I, for one, was all up for the Lobster Tail. Who is
he to dictate where we eat? And that last bit about Ahmed.
You were just being concerned for your friend, right? Who
does that guy think he is, anyway?' "