Beware False Profits (2 page)

“Let’s go over what we know one more time,” I said, “and maybe we’ll have a great idea, which will include hopping in a cab and going somewhere else. Like out to a great restaurant for dinner.”

“Repeating the facts won’t change them.”

I repeated them anyway. “Joe was supposed to be in the city at a meeting of an organization called Funds for Food. He told Maura he came here to attend a similar meeting every month.”

“And now we know there’s no organization in New York called Funds for Food, and that nobody at any of the local food banks has heard of an organization by that name.” Ed glanced at his watch.

Behind us, the perpetual serenade of police sirens and honking horns crescendoed. I spoke louder. “Our repeated calls to Joe’s cell phone have gone unanswered.”

Three guys pushed past us. One was dressed as a cowboy, the second a cop, and the third was unmistakably an Indian chief with a headdress that almost didn’t clear the doorframe. They were three guys short of the Village People. I stifled the impulse to raise my arms and make the letters
YMCA
in salute.

Apparently Ed had no such impulse, because he was still listing facts. “Unfortunately, just as we were about to give up and tell Maura we’d hit a brick wall, you had to try one more time.”

I wrinkled my nose in apology. “Sorry, I get going, and I just forget to stop.”

“Whoever picked it up—”

“A guy with a gravelly voice,” I reminded.

“Said there was nobody named ‘Joe Wagner’ there.”

“But just before Gravel Voice spoke, I heard—”

Ed sang the finale: “Pussycat, pussycat, I love you. Yes, I do.”

“Welcome to the East Village’s own Pussycat Club,” I finished on an exhale.

“See any good reason to hail a cab?” Ed glanced at his watch again.

I opened my mouth to say no, that it looked like we were stuck with paying the cover charge at the East Village’s own Pussycat Club, and trooping inside to see what we could discover. But as I avoided eye contact with my significant other, my gaze fell on the photos displayed in the case just in front of us.

“Ed…”

“You know, we could be in and out of there in minutes, Aggie. But first we have to go
in
.”

“Ed”—I took his arm—“I, well…” I turned him a little. “Look at these photos and tell me what you see.”

I didn’t want to influence him, so I forced myself to watch as three heavily made-up women in sequins and fishnet stockings sauntered into the club.

Ed sounded tired. It had been that kind of a day. “I see what I’d expect to. The Pussycat Club’s a no-holds-barred kind of place. Old-fashioned burlesque on Monday and Tuesday, vaudeville on Wednesday and Sunday, female impersonators on Thursday and Saturday. Something for every—”

He stopped. I let my gaze drift back to the photos. “That’s some coat, isn’t it?” I said.

Ed leaned closer. But I didn’t have to watch to know exactly where his eyes were riveted. He was staring at the gorgeous dame, third from the left, posed in a stunning full-length fur coat, with just enough shapely leg peeking out the opening. How many animals had gone to the happy hunting ground to provide enough pelts for that number? Because the gorgeous dame had to be six foot three in her bare feet and was broad shouldered to boot. She had straight black hair and thick bangs, like the younger Cher, and the toothy, flirty smile was Cher’s as well.

But the face was not. Nope, under the false eyelashes, the layers of foundation, the close, close shave, the face was even more familiar.

“Maybe we’ve been working on this so many hours we’re just seeing him everywhere,” Ed said at last.

“Or maybe we’re looking at the real reason Joe Wagner comes to New York once a month.”

We both stared at the photo a minute longer. Then Ed sighed. “Exactly what are we going to say to Joe if we find him in there dressed like that?”

I took Ed’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “‘I Got You, Babe’?”

Dorothy Gale wore the requisite ruby slippers, although this particular pair looked to be a size twelve. She also wore lace-trimmed ankle socks and a blue gingham dress and accessorized with a brown terrier named Toto who thought I was the Wicked Witch of the West. Toto hadn’t stopped baring his sharp little teeth in my direction since Ed and I accepted the invitation into Dorothy’s dressing room. Growl rumbling, beady eyes narrowed, Toto was plotting how to rid the Land of Oz of another interloper. And not with a bucket of water.

“Oh, he’s just too sweet, isn’t he?” Dorothy cooed, rubbing noses with her pet.

Ed was trying to look comfortable. He was finally warm, which was a good thing. The dressing room was maybe seven by eight, minus two feet of metal clothing racks and another three of table jutting out along the longest wall. The stained white Formica surface was flanked by mirrors and overflowing with what looked like Macy’s entire range of cosmetics. Dorothy, Toto, Ed, and I were sharing body heat, and Ed was beginning to sweat. Although the reason was up for grabs.

“Tell the dog I have no intention of siccing my flying monkeys on the pair of you,” I told Dorothy.

“Oh, little Totes is
so
not violent.” Dorothy rubbed her nose with Toto’s, then straightened. She held the little dog out to Ed. “Here. He’ll love you.”

Ed had no choice but to accept. Had Dorothy been standing she would have loomed over us. Ed is tall, but Dorothy had inches on him, about six foot four, with shoulders that suggested when she wasn’t skipping along the Yellow Brick Road, she was working construction. One whack of her punching bag hand, and Ed—no slouch in the physical department—might end up flying through the dressing room door to sprawl on the stage twenty yards away, where a trio of drag queens in skintight sequined dresses were lip-syncing the old Pointer Sisters hit “I Want a Man with a Slow Hand.”

Ed might have a slow hand, but I don’t think he’s willing to demonstrate for this audience.

Toto licked Ed’s beardless chin. The dog’s beady little eyes were now a liquid, adoring brown. I kept my distance, which meant I edged ten inches away from my husband and his new canine groupie.

“I’ve got to finish getting ready,” Dorothy said in her gravelly voice. “You can stay if you like.”

Having never in my unusual life watched a man change himself into a woman, I was fascinated. Ed, for all the predictable reasons, seemed less so. But he was also a guy who spent his life fighting stereotypes. He stood his ground and didn’t even pull his collar away from his neck when sweat began to trickle in that direction.

“Thanks for letting us be here,” Ed said, as if he meant it.

“No problem. I’ve been worried about Josephine. I’m totally thrilled somebody else is worried, too.”

I shifted my weight, lurching an inch toward Ed. Toto growled menacingly.

Shifting back, I beamed at Dorothy as if I wasn’t about to be shredded by pointy little teeth. The stage manager had been less than thrilled to let us backstage, but Dorothy had overheard our questions, interceded, and led us through narrow winding corridors to her dressing room. Unfortunately, it all happened too fast to suit me. I missed an on-stage rendition of Madonna’s “Material Girl” performed by a guy whose ice-cream cone breasts made the real things, well, immaterial. And when would I ever have a chance to see anything like this in Emerald Springs?

“We’re glad we found you. Were you the one who answered Joe’s cell phone earlier?” Ed asked.

“I feel like such a fool.” Dorothy smiled ruefully. She had a wonderful voice, rich, deep, and simpering. I was really hoping we could stay long enough to hear her warble “Over the Rainbow.”

“So it
was
you?” I asked.

She shook her pigtailed head sorrowfully. The pigtails were luxuriant, as long as my arm, and sticking out of hair that was teased into cottony poufs. Had I tried this with my youngest daughter Teddy, she would have asked her father to remember me in his prayers.

“I forgot the phone was here,” Dorothy said. “Isn’t that silly? I guess I dropped it back on the table Thursday night.”

“I’m confused. Why did you have it? It belongs to…Josephine, doesn’t it?”

“Oh sure, it’s Josephine’s. He was just
so
upset that night. He came off the stage and made a call to somebody, then I guess he came back in here and changed. By the time I finished my act he was gone. Like the wind—and without his phone.”

Dorothy swept a bejeweled hand in a graceful arc. “I saw the phone and picked it up. I tried to return it, you know, but no such luck. So I put it back where he dropped it, in case he came back. And this dressing table is just
such
a mess. I guess I forgot about it. I guess none of the other girls saw it, either.”

“I guess nobody heard it ringing. Because people have been calling Joe.” I didn’t say the “wife” word. I wasn’t sure how that would go over here.

“The phone was set to vibrate. I only heard it because it rattled the bottles in front of it this afternoon. I was here practicing my new number.”

Dorothy flipped open a case and took out a false eyelash as thick as an Ohio woolly caterpillar. She dotted glue along the edge, then waved it in the air. “They go on better this way, you know. What girl needs glue in her eye? Right, sweetie?”

I didn’t know. My own average eyelashes have to suffice, although now I felt a sting of jealousy, compounded by the flawless red nails on the hand that was holding the lashes. When was the last time I had enough time for a manicure?

Clearly Ed was as confused as I was. He tried for clarity. “So you answered today…”

She carefully attached the eyelashes to her lid, then repeated the ritual for the second lid before she answered. “I did. Then I got up to close the door so I could hear whoever it was, and by the time I got back to the table, the phone went dead. The battery, of course. Gone with the wind.” She smiled shyly. “I guess you can tell I’m Scarlett O’Hara in the final revue of the evening. You should see me in a hoopskirt.”

“I’d like to,” I said. “What color is your dress?”

“Aggie…” Ed frowned at me, and sensing his annoyance, Toto made a lunge in my direction. I shrugged as Ed jerked him away.

“We don’t want to take up a lot of your time,” I said. “Here’s the thing. Joe seems to have disappeared. His wife”—I paused, because now that secret was out—“He has a wife.”

“He wouldn’t be the only one. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” Dorothy winked. At Ed. The new lush eyelashes created a much needed breeze, although the sweat seemed to trickle faster.

I went on. “The thing is, nobody at home knew about, uh, this part of his life.”

Dorothy rolled her eyes. “See my last statement.”

“Okay. Well, can you maybe tell us how long he’s been performing here?”

Dorothy pursed her lips and stared at them in the mirror. Either she was thinking hard or about to touch up her lipstick, which, I might add, was already perfect. I was hungry for lip liner tips, but with Toto and Ed menacing me, I knew better than to ask. In extreme circumstances I was afraid Ed was capable of setting the dog loose.

“I’ve only been here about six months,” Dorothy said. “I came up from New Orleans. Before Katrina I was a star on Bourbon Street, and afterwards, well, it just wasn’t fun anymore. Josephine was already here. See, Pussycat has this contest once a month. We take men in the audience who want to transform and make them stars for the night. The audience votes for their favorite and she gets a prize. A facial, makeup tips, you know.”

I didn’t, but I was learning fast.

“And Joe…?” I asked.

“I’m pretty sure that’s how Josephine was born. He was such a hit, he got a regular gig as his prize, I guess. You never heard him sing?”

“In our church choir. Baritone. He gets all the solos.”

“Oh, such a voice. Lots of us lip-sync. But not Josephine. His tone is so gorgeous. When he sings ‘Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves,’ I get all choked up.” She put her fingertips to her cheeks and swallowed hard. “That poor girl in the song, left alone and pregnant by a cad. Men!”

Now Ed did pull his collar away from his neck. Me, I’d always felt the same way when I heard the song. I couldn’t help myself. I sang a little. “I was born in the wagon—”

“Of a traveling show…” Dorothy joined in. Then she shook her head. “Oh stop, I’ll cry and mess up my eyeliner.”

For Ed’s sake, I did. “So Joe performs regularly?”

“I don’t want to get him in trouble. The girls and I stick up for each other. He’s one of us.”

“Nobody’s trying to hurt Joe,” Ed promised.

Ed has a wonderful voice, too. Deep, resonant. He’s mesmerizing from the pulpit—and that’s coming from the woman who washes his dirty socks. The voice and the inherent sincerity seemed to soothe Dorothy and make her decision easier.

She started dusting sparkly powder over her cheekbones. “He came in on Thursday, like he was scheduled to do. He’s just here that one day a month, although he could be here more if he wanted. He’s
such
a favorite. Anyway, he opened his set the way he always does, with ‘If I Could Turn Back Time.’ He brought the house down.”

She put down her brush and stood. “Let me show you what he wore.”

We didn’t exactly have to follow her anywhere, so Ed didn’t protest. Dorothy took four steps and started rummaging through the rack. She paused, swept some more clothes aside, then she pulled out a dress I would have given a year of chocolate chip cookies to own. It was silver lamé, with a plunging neckline, rhinestones and pearls, and a hemline slit to eternity.

“And that’s not all,” Dorothy said, shoving the dress at me.

I grabbed it. I couldn’t help it. I held it to my nose and sniffed. I’m not sure what I expected. A whiff of testosterone? Old Spice aftershave? Chanel? But it smelled a little like sweat, a lot like a cheap Halloween costume. I was disappointed.

“Here.” Dorothy whirled, holding the fur coat I’d seen in the photo out front. She cuddled it against her, clasping the bottom of the sleeves with her fingertips.

The coat was gorgeous. I’d never seen anything quite like it. It was made from strips of fur of all colors and types. Silver, gold, ebony, spots…

“Leopard? That’s against the law.” I threw back my shoulders and narrowed my eyes. “For that matter, every bit of it should be against the law. That’s not the Joe I know. He’d never wear that coat.”

“Oh sweetie, relax. Take a deep, cleansing breath.” Dorothy demonstrated, and I was vaulted back to Lamaze class, training for the first labor pain.

“It’s not real fur,” she said after the long exhale. “It’s fake, every bit of it. He had it made out of scraps Larry—he’s our manager—found in the garment district. But you better believe every girl here wants it. Every girl!” She held it out for me to feel. “See?”

I did. The coat felt lush and silky, but it was clearly not real.

“The coat is a problem,” Dorothy said. “Josephine is
such
a star. A lot of the regulars don’t like him. But they’re just jealous old biddies. He gets a lot of perks for a part-timer, you know. He shares this room with me when he’s here. He makes a suggestion, Larry says, ‘Fine, do it.’ He’s the favorite, that’s for sure. But hey, he’s here one day a month. I always say, ‘Get over it,’ you know? Marilyn, she’s the worst. She actually clapped her hands when Josephine left early on Thursday. And when she performed later? She was better than usual, although ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’ still sounds like rhinestones to me.”

Ed’s eyes were glazing over. Maybe it was the hot little room or the fragrance of a vat’s worth of cosmetics. Maybe it was his hypnotic stroking of Toto’s fur. Or maybe, heck, it was a guy having trouble with another guy’s lifestyle. A liberal guy.

“Can you tell us more about Thursday?” Ed didn’t add
quickly
, although I knew it was on the tip of his tongue.

Dorothy seated herself on the bench again, squinted at her face in the mirror, then began to stroke a soft brown powder under her cheekbones. “Well, he came backstage after he finished the opener, and he looked radiant. I mean Cher never looked that good, if you know what I mean. His hair, well he has the most incredible taste in—”

I interrupted. “Did something happen after that first number? Does he normally do more?”

Although Toto snarled, Dorothy didn’t hold my rudeness against me. “His set is usually about five numbers.” She counted silently on her fingers. “Six. He always does a quick change after the first one. Hangs up the coat until the finale, wraps a gold shawl around his shoulders for the second number. He seemed just fine. He got ready and went out. He sounded great. He sang…” She thought a moment. “‘Bang, Bang’.”

I’m a big Cher fan. I knew the words to this one, too. But I was fairly sure Ed might pass out just to avoid hearing it. “And then?”

“Well, I was standing in the wings when he walked off-stage. They were cheering out front. He’d given it his all, although it’s not his best song by a long shot. But when I saw his face, I knew something was wrong. He was as white as a geisha. Just so pale you couldn’t be sure he was still breathing. I asked him what was wrong, and he said he was sick. Then he ran to the loo and locked himself inside.”