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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466881662 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 09/16/2014 |
| Series: | Alex Reynolds Mysteries , #3 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 224 |
| File size: | 267 KB |
About the Author
Fred Hunter is a full time writer and author of two series - the Ransom/Charters series, an unlikely mix of cosy and police procedural forms, and the Alex Reynolds series, a barely over-the-top gay mystery series that is calls to mind the screwball comedies of the 30's.
Fred Hunter is a full-time writer and author of two series--the Ransom/Charters series, an unlikely mix of cozy and police procedural mystery, and the Alex Reynolds series, a barely over-the-top gay mystery series that calls to mind the screwball comedies of the 1930's.
Read an Excerpt
Capital Queers
By Fred Hunter
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 1999 Fred HunterAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-8166-2
CHAPTER 1
I don't like dogs. Actually, it's not that I don't like them, I'm just not what dog lovers insist on calling a "dog person." This is their way of saying that I'm somehow sadly shortchanged in the gene pool and am missing one of the essential joys of life — like having a perky bundle of fur sticking its cold nose in my crotch at four in the morning.
My husband, Peter Livesay, is a dog person and my mother, being British, has a relationship that borders on telepathic with all canines. It was for this reason that custody of a five-year-old West Highland Terrier named Muffin fell to us when our friends Mason LaPere and Ryan Morton went to Washington, D.C. to attend a festive gay-pride parade. Mother spent the week teaching Muffin some much needed manners (since he came from an overindulgent home), and I spent the week removing the hems of my pants from his teeth.
I was less than sorrowful when Mason and Ryan returned, and I was looking forward to the dinner they were throwing for us by way of thank you. Actually, I was looking forward even more to delivering the nappy-haired little mongrel back into their hands. Mother begged off the dinner, claiming that she'd be glad to have a little time to herself, away from the three of us (she was already lumping the dog in with Peter and me). Personally, I suspect she'd become attached to the thing, and though she knew there was never any possibility of our keeping him, she was a little too sad about it to want to face handing him over.
"Will you hurry up?" I said impatiently to Peter as he brushed his wavy hair for what seemed like the fifth time. Peter's not really vain, but he pays an awful lot of attention to his hair.
"Just can't wait to give over little Muffin, can you?" he said, his reflection smiling at me in the bathroom mirror. "Do you really hate him that much?"
"I don't hate the dog — it's his name. What were they thinking of? They branded him for life. Like people who name their sons Lance, and then expect them to be straight."
Peter laughed as he laid down his brush and took one more look at himself in the mirror. I marvelled once again at the contrast between us: Peter's olive skin as opposed to my fairness, his very dark brown hair next to my blondness, and his natural calm next to my perennial fidgeting. It's his serenity that amazes me the most, especially because, ever since we became part-timers for the CIA, I've certainly given him enough to fidget about.
"What are you so nervous for?" he said. I noticed for the first time that his expression had turned to concern.
"Nothing," I said, leaving the bathroom. Peter followed, switching off the light behind us.
"Is it because of Mason?"
I stopped in my tracks. I guess that's what comes from being an old married couple. Peter sometimes demonstrates that he knows me so well it makes me comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time.
"In a way, but not like you think," I replied.
"I wasn't thinking anything bad. I just thought it was because of his HIV."
When he came right out and said it, it sounded bad.
"But it's not what you think," I repeated anxiously.
"Honey, I know you're not afraid of people with HIV. You've certainly been around them enough. What makes Mason different?"
"I don't know. I think it's because I've known him so long — I don't understand what's going on with him, and it makes me nervous."
"How do you mean?"
I sucked in my lips for a second or two, trying to think of how to put it. "Have you noticed that he never really says anything about it? I mean, about his condition."
Peter shrugged. "He probably discusses it with Ryan."
"Yeah, but I've known him for years. When I'm around him now I feel like there's a rhino in the room and we're all pretending it's not there. I don't know, I feel like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Do you understand that?"
Peter's green eyes surveyed my face lovingly for a moment before he said, "Yes, I do. But you know he has to deal with his illness in his own way and in his own time."
"Yeah, I know. So do I. And someday I might have to say something to him about it." Peter's forehead creased just slightly. I smiled at him and added, "But not tonight."
"Good boy," he said, giving the upper part of my back a quick rub with his palm. Then, trying to lessen my anxiety, he added, "You know, I think what's really worrying you is the prospect of seeing Mason's collection again."
I heaved an exaggerated sigh, rolled my eyes, and said, "Oh, please, God, spare us! And don't you say anything that'll get him started on the subject, either."
Peter smiled and began to whistle "Oh, You Beautiful Doll" as we descended the stairs. I was just about to smack the side of his head when I spotted Mother by the door, beaming down at the dog who gazed back up at her with sparkling eyes, his tail wagging so violently I expected his ass to lift off the ground. Mother has that effect on most men. Around the dog's neck was a tacky rhinestone necklace that Mason had bought for him because he said it made the dog look like Zsa Zsa Gabor. The weird part was that it did.
"Be sure to tell them that he's been a very, very good boy while he's been our guest, and that we're glad to have him back any time," she said, handing the leash to Peter.
At the end of our sidewalk, the dog gave a jerk to the leash that momentarily stopped us. He was turned around and looking back at the door to our house, where mother stood waving.
"Ta, Muffin. You be a good boy!"
Peter tugged at the leash and I rolled my eyes again.
* * *
"Muffin!" cried Mason as he opened the door. He cooed at the thing like an insipid parent talking to a newborn baby. "Muffy, sweetie! You're back! Did you miss me? Of course you did!"
The dog licked Mason's face as Mason planted several little kisses on his head. I didn't think I was going to be able to eat dinner.
"Thank you so, so much for taking care of our little Muffy," he said as he led us into the living room.
Mason and Ryan lived in the sprawling first-floor apartment of an enormous two-flat that they owned. They rented the upstairs to a lipstick lesbian and her partner, a flannel dyke, both of whom I'd met a couple of times at parties.
Their apartment was a study in how to decorate for opposites. The decor was Southwestern, with pictures of deserts, adobe abodes, and Native-American pottery on the walls. The hardwood floor was covered by a huge woven rug with a design that Mason always referred to as "Navajo-lite." The whole place looked just slightly too butch for Mason, and just a little too pastel for Ryan. For the two of them together it was perfect.
"Is that our guests?" called a deep voice from the kitchen.
"Yes, sweetie," Mason replied.
"I'll be out there in a minute. I'm up to my armpits in noodles."
Mason smiled and with exaggerated weariness said, "He's sooo de classe. I'm surprised I can get him to eat with utensils."
While Mason continued his sloppy reunion with the dog, I used the opportunity to examine our friend. Mason was one of the few people with whom I'd remained in contact from high school. He had been losing his dishwater-blond hair for years, but the loss had been accelerated recently by his frequent bouts of chemotherapy. Though he'd always been reedy, he was beginning to look gaunt. Fortunately, on him the increased thinness, coupled with his wispy voice and general dreaminess, went together in a way that looked natural.
"I'd better put you down now, little baby," said Mason, lovingly setting the dog on the floor. Muffin was immediately off to the kitchen, yapping all the way.
"Whoa, Nelly!" cried Ryan from the kitchen.
"Have a seat," said Mason, motioning us to the earth-toned couch. He sat in one of the two matching chairs across from us. Grouped like this in the midst of all the Southwestern accoutrements, I half expected him to start a campfire on the coffee table. "Can I get you anything to drink?"
We both declined for the time being, saying we'd have something with dinner.
"Was Muffy any trouble?" Mason's glowing face seemed to imply he already knew that his baby couldn't possibly have caused us a moment's distress.
"Not for —" I started to say "not for Mother and Peter," but Peter stopped me with an unexpected kick to my shin.
"Ow!"
"Sorry, honey, my foot slipped."
I turned back to Mason and said, "No, of course not. He was no trouble at all. Mother said he can come back any time."
"She's a dear."
"Everybody thinks that," I said. "It's the accent."
"It's too bad she couldn't make it tonight."
"She was heartbroken at the thought of losing Muffin," said Peter with a sly glance in my direction.
"Really?" said Mason, whose gaze drifted over my head, lost for a moment in dog lover's reverie. "I missed him. But I knew that you guys would take good care of him."
"Well, Mother gets most of the credit."
"Thank you for watering the plants and taking in the mail. It was so sweet of you. We would've had the girls do it," he glanced at the ceiling, "but Ronnie's always working and Linda's ... well, Linda. Done up like a drag queen and just as unreliable."
We laughed. Mason could get away with saying something like that in any company because he'd done his share of drag.
"Oh! I forgot to bring your keys back," I said, giving my forehead a gentle slap.
"Hold onto them," Mason said with a tired smile, "Who knows? We might become world travelers."
"So, how've you been feeling?" I asked. Peter shot me a glance.
"Oh ... great. And we had a wonderful time while we were away!" Mason replied with a flap of his hand, apparently meant to dismiss the subject of his health. "I can't wait to tell you all about the pride parade. It was a hoot! Although, between you, me, and the lamp post, it's gotten way too political. I long for the tacky glamor of yesteryear." He sighed.
At that point, Ryan Morton walked into the room. He was a stark contrast to Mason. Ryan is very straight-looking with short black hair, thick eyebrows and thick lips, and muscles that have been finely tuned at a health club. When he came into the room he was sporting his omnipresent White Sox cap, always worn backward, faded black shorts, and an equally faded green T-shirt that bore the words "Hang on there, Gecko" with a picture of the offending lizard. He looked like the kind of guy who'd be bashing Mason rather than making love to him. But whenever you caught Ryan looking at Mason, there were stars in his eyes. The adoration between them was always evident, but even more so now that Mason's health was in danger.
"Anybody hungry?" said Ryan, "Spaghetti's on!"
* * *
Mason spent the dinner describing in excruciatingly funny detail the pride parade they'd attended in Washington. He related a story of one particular senator whose placement in the parade was temporarily interrupted when he spent a little too long shaking hands with the mincing masses of potential voters along the parade route. When he turned back, expecting to find his limousine, he instead found a float full of drag queens done up to look like Lisa Marie. Mason did a near-perfect (according to Ryan) imitation of the famed senator's plasticized smile melting in horror and confusion as he then lurched quickly up the street like a drunken sailor in pursuit of his limo.
"It was the only truly amusing part of our program," Mason concluded.
"It's a shame that it's all become so political," said Ryan, unknowingly echoing what Mason had said earlier. He paused for a sip of wine then added, "but then again, it's a shame that it had to."
There was a sudden silence. Although Ryan is usually incredibly sensitive to Mason's feelings, I don't think he realized all the ramifications of this simple statement. The parades had started to change as the community had become politically galvanized in response to the AIDS epidemic. The mention of this was like throwing a tarp over the proceedings. Mason was staring at his wineglass with a glazed smile on his face, choosing to ignore the silence. Ryan looked absolutely stricken. After a moment he cleared his throat.
"We did a lot of sightseeing while we were there."
"And some shopping," Mason chimed in, happy that the momentary glitch had passed.
I glanced at Peter, who smiled back at me, knowing that for Mason, shopping most likely meant there was an addition to his collection.
"Did you go to all the monuments?" Peter asked. It was difficult to hide my gratitude at his pursuing the first option.
"Yeah," said Ryan eagerly, "It was great!"
"We saw all the monuments, the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, everything! I felt just like Judy Holliday in Born Yesterday!" Mason was quiet for a minute, lost in a memory. The smile faded from his thin face and was replaced by an expression far more reverent than anything I'd ever seen there before. "You know, it makes you feel so small." He stopped as if these few words would explain everything.
"What do you mean?" Ryan prompted lovingly.
"Being there — seeing all the historical stuff: the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution and everything. It makes you feel like the country was founded by something bigger than any of us ... and bigger than what we've become. ... I mean, than what the government's become."
Ryan continued to gaze at his lover, his forehead creasing with concern.
"I'm sorry, Masey," I said, adopting my familiar name for him, "I still don't get it."
He turned his sunken eyes toward me and I noticed for the first time that the blue in them seemed a little faded. But he brightened at last, the pensiveness replaced by a smile as he said, "But the best part about our nation's capital is that I managed to find the perfect addition to my collection!"
Oh Lord, here it comes, I thought.
Mason pushed back his chair and said, "Alex, you'll absolutely love her. She's another one of my Traviata girls!"
I got up to follow him as Ryan said, "I'll clear, honey," to which Peter added, "I'll help." I would have been proud of my husband's undying courtesy if I hadn't been so sure that he was doing it to avoid the same fate as mine.
I tossed a helpless look over my shoulder toward my helpmate as I followed Mason down the creaking hardwood floor to their guest room, where his collection was housed. Mason threw the door open with a tired flourish and switched on the floor lamp. It instantly threw into rather ghostly illumination the several shelves full of dolls that lined his walls. I have to admit that his collection, which includes over three dozen various and obviously expensive dolls, is very impressive. But I'd seen them before, and the way Mason doted on them set my teeth on edge.
"As you know," he said, adopting his fey museum-director persona, "the Barbie portion of our program is one of my pride and joys."
Mason pointed to one after the other. "The Wedding Day Barbie, Dream Date Barbie, Star Dream Barbie, Black Barbie — from the all–dolls–are–created–equal period of doll making — my holiday Barbie in red. ... Doesn't she look just like a blood-soaked snowflake? And of course, my favorite: spuj Barbie." He plucked from the shelf a doll with the same vacuous, perky expression as the others, but she was dressed like a valley girl trapped in a kitchen-sink drama. Mason straightened her dress and set her back in her stand.
"Of course, you know all the others," he said, waving his hands at the dozens of dolls as he continued toward the opposite end of the shelves. "Trulamae, Dolly Madison, all the girls!" I was relieved that it appeared he wouldn't be doting over the whole collection this evening, because once you get him started, it's hard to stop him. Like most collectors he's developed an eye for the real thing. Among others, he has a Deanna Durbin doll, a Scarlet O'Hara (one of his prize possessions), as well as a Snow White that's over fifty years old, and has skin that was painted a curiously dark color.
"But of course, these are my faves! My Traviata girls!"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Capital Queers by Fred Hunter. Copyright © 1999 Fred Hunter. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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