Drag Queen in the Court of Death Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Caro Soles
still quite warm."
"Here would be fine." I moved over to the glass-topped table, set with hand-loomed mats I recognized as made by her sister. From this vantage point, I could see the small swimming pool that had seemed such a marvel when we first met. No one else I knew then had a pool. The turquoise water dimpled in the breeze. I turned, thinking I'd go in to help Laura carry out whatever was needed, but then thought better of it. She wouldn't want me there. I could see that this was a bit of an ordeal for her, entertaining me while headlines about my murderous old lover sizzled across the papers and TV screens all over town. Why it hadn't occurred to me earlier was one more instance of how out of touch we were.
The rest of the evening ran like a drawing room comedy of manners, without the comedy. We talked about theater and music, the plans for the new opera house, the guest prima ballerina dancing with the National Ballet. We discussed how her old family friend Rolly Paterson had had to sell his boat to pay his yacht club fees. Even Laura thought this was amusing, though she admitted she felt a little guilty about her laughter. But no matter what we talked about, there was Ronnie, looming over us like a bad-mannered ghost. Not content with tearing Laura's life apart once, he was obviously determined to do it again.
As I left that evening, I wondered suddenly if Ronnie had done this for a reason. Had he named me executor for the sole purpose of throwing my life into turmoil once again? Was it like him to harbor a grudge for years? This man—so apparently careless and free, living only in the moment—was a successful accountant, shrewd enough to be a silent partner in the firm he had joined many years ago. I was only now finding out about this other life, this secret respectability that lay concealed underneath the laughing extravagant gestures of the drag queen. He was quite capable of planning this as an embarrassment to me and Laura.
"Not this time, buddy!" I muttered through clenched teeth as I drove down the steep hill from Laura's house. "You're not going to have the last laugh!"
After all this time, our last days together were muddled in my mind. But I was clear about one thing— he had left me ! And that still rankled.
It was just after ten thirty as I drove into the gay ghetto. I felt the urge to immerse myself in the here and now, to wash away the clinging cobwebs of my past, to feel alive. The street jostled with men in short shorts and bright tank tops, walking in pairs, talking in groups, stopping to greet friends as the crowd flowed around them. I swung into a sudden Uturn and parked illegally close to the corner of Alexander. There were a few motorcycles outside the Black Eagle. Two men in leather lounged near the front door, silent, watching. I recognized one as the dentist I had been to a few times for that troublesome root canal. I nodded and passed on.
There were balloons tied to the brass railing outside Woody's. Three drag queens swept up the steps in front of me in impossible heels, calf muscles bulging. The place was huge, but the exposed brick of the walls, the polished brass and division of space into rooms, gave the place an air of welcoming coziness. So did the hum of masculine voices, the laughter and cheerful music. I knew there were many who hugged the walls, watching, appraising, longing for contact. Older men like myself often feel out of place in a society that idolizes youth.
I elbowed my way to the bar and ordered a Rickers Red. The bartender looked vaguely familiar, but he was more likely just a type I had seen hundreds of times before in places like this. I took my beer through to the back and watched a game of pool, this ritualized sex dance that lately made me feel rather like an old roué . Nevertheless, the bend and stretch of denim against a tight ass was aesthetically pleasing.
There were three of them around the pool table, one in his early thirties, one older, the third, a
"Here would be fine." I moved over to the glass-topped table, set with hand-loomed mats I recognized as made by her sister. From this vantage point, I could see the small swimming pool that had seemed such a marvel when we first met. No one else I knew then had a pool. The turquoise water dimpled in the breeze. I turned, thinking I'd go in to help Laura carry out whatever was needed, but then thought better of it. She wouldn't want me there. I could see that this was a bit of an ordeal for her, entertaining me while headlines about my murderous old lover sizzled across the papers and TV screens all over town. Why it hadn't occurred to me earlier was one more instance of how out of touch we were.
The rest of the evening ran like a drawing room comedy of manners, without the comedy. We talked about theater and music, the plans for the new opera house, the guest prima ballerina dancing with the National Ballet. We discussed how her old family friend Rolly Paterson had had to sell his boat to pay his yacht club fees. Even Laura thought this was amusing, though she admitted she felt a little guilty about her laughter. But no matter what we talked about, there was Ronnie, looming over us like a bad-mannered ghost. Not content with tearing Laura's life apart once, he was obviously determined to do it again.
As I left that evening, I wondered suddenly if Ronnie had done this for a reason. Had he named me executor for the sole purpose of throwing my life into turmoil once again? Was it like him to harbor a grudge for years? This man—so apparently careless and free, living only in the moment—was a successful accountant, shrewd enough to be a silent partner in the firm he had joined many years ago. I was only now finding out about this other life, this secret respectability that lay concealed underneath the laughing extravagant gestures of the drag queen. He was quite capable of planning this as an embarrassment to me and Laura.
"Not this time, buddy!" I muttered through clenched teeth as I drove down the steep hill from Laura's house. "You're not going to have the last laugh!"
After all this time, our last days together were muddled in my mind. But I was clear about one thing— he had left me ! And that still rankled.
It was just after ten thirty as I drove into the gay ghetto. I felt the urge to immerse myself in the here and now, to wash away the clinging cobwebs of my past, to feel alive. The street jostled with men in short shorts and bright tank tops, walking in pairs, talking in groups, stopping to greet friends as the crowd flowed around them. I swung into a sudden Uturn and parked illegally close to the corner of Alexander. There were a few motorcycles outside the Black Eagle. Two men in leather lounged near the front door, silent, watching. I recognized one as the dentist I had been to a few times for that troublesome root canal. I nodded and passed on.
There were balloons tied to the brass railing outside Woody's. Three drag queens swept up the steps in front of me in impossible heels, calf muscles bulging. The place was huge, but the exposed brick of the walls, the polished brass and division of space into rooms, gave the place an air of welcoming coziness. So did the hum of masculine voices, the laughter and cheerful music. I knew there were many who hugged the walls, watching, appraising, longing for contact. Older men like myself often feel out of place in a society that idolizes youth.
I elbowed my way to the bar and ordered a Rickers Red. The bartender looked vaguely familiar, but he was more likely just a type I had seen hundreds of times before in places like this. I took my beer through to the back and watched a game of pool, this ritualized sex dance that lately made me feel rather like an old roué . Nevertheless, the bend and stretch of denim against a tight ass was aesthetically pleasing.
There were three of them around the pool table, one in his early thirties, one older, the third, a