Southern Fried (20 page)

suggested.

That seemed like both a good and a bad idea, but mostly the

latter. “It took Robert E. less than a minute to trace that call I

made to Beau, Stella. Now he’s looking for me, too. What if we

call the police and the Pellinghams have already told them to be

looking out for me? These are some powerful people; no telling

who they have in their pocket.” I shook my head, a new thought

forming. “And what if I called the police and forced Robert E.’s

hand with Beau. They could kill him if they thought the police

were on to them. Because that’s no way to win an election you

know: when you’re behind bars. No way for either Robert E. or

the senator. See, Beau would be an even bigger liability, insurance

southeRn FRied
125

or no insurance.”

Zeb nodded, ruefully. “But he was right about that insurance,

Trip. They couldn’t hurt him if he had the birth certificate tucked

away somewhere. If he dies or goes missing, and the birth

certificate shows up, his death or disappearance points right back

to the Pellinghams.” Zeb looked at me and patted my hand. “He

has them over a barrel, Trip. So long as they can’t find you, they’ll

have to eventually let him go and hope you don’t ever come

forward. Plus, we heard Beau tell Robert E. that he doesn’t know

anything about you. Robert E. might just have to believe him and

stop looking for you.”

But my frown remained. “So what do I do? Sell the mansion,

take my half of the money and run? Go to some tropical island

and sip mimosas the rest of my life.”

He shrugged. “I’m game.”

Stella shrugged, too. “Count me in.”

I shook my head. “And then what? They let Beau go, we have

two Pellinghams in office, and I never see my brother again?

Beau never gets the life he was meant to have? He just takes his

half of the money and never gets a chance for a family, either?”

I fought back a sob. “I know that’s not what Granny wanted. She

was up to something keeping us apart for all these years, but that

will of hers was her way of getting us back together again. She

called him Pellingham so we’d end up together. Now I have to

make sure that happens.”

“But you can’t go back to the mansion,” Stella said. “They’ll

come looking for you there. Hell, if they know you’re his brother,

they might think it’s you that now has the birth certificate hidden

away.”

I sniffled and flipped open my cell phone. Then I dialed and

waited. “Pearl?” I said. “It’s me, Trip. No, I’m, I’m fine. I, uh,

I had a call from my office. There’s a big deal that’s about to

fall through and I, I need to fly home to help them fix it. The

client’s asking for me.” She talked and I nodded, that sob of

mine worming its way back up. “No, Pearl. Now. I’m already at

126 Rob Rosen

the airport. I’ll call you when I land. If anyone comes looking for

me, just tell them all that, okay?” She agreed, but I could hear the

worry in her voice. “I love you Pearl. And don’t you worry none;

I’ll be back soon.” I ended the call before she could say another

word.

Zeb patted my back. “You couldn’t tell her the truth, Trip. No

sense putting her in danger, or risking that she’d slip if they came

calling. And they’re gonna come, Trip. They’re gonna. They need

that birth certificate as much as Beau does.”

I looked at him and forced a smile. “I know, but still. In any

case, now I’ll have to find a motel somewhere and then figure out

a way to get him back. And lie low while I’m doing it.”

He didn’t even have to think that one over. “Or stay with me.

In disguise.”

Truth be told, I did like the first part of that. “You sure?

Could be dangerous for you.” Though I quickly thought to add,

“What kind of disguise?”

He laughed and jumped back in the car, shouting, “Wait and

see, boss. Just you wait and see.”

We dropped Stella off back at the mansion, then drove

another ten miles to Zeb’s place. It was a small house out in the

middle of nowhere, the wood painted sunflower yellow, a brick

chimney, green shutters, a small flower garden up front. “What,

no white picket fence?” I asked, stepping up the walkway.

He grabbed me and pulled me in to him. “That a dream of

yours, Trip? House with a white picket fence?” He kissed me,

long and hard and soul-shivering deep.

“I thought about it,” I admitted, coming up for air. “But does

anyone even have those anymore?”

He laughed and took my hand, walking me to a shed in the

back. He opened the door, great stacks of wood piled to the side.

“Picket slats, boss,” he said. “Next on my list.”

And that soul-shiver went all magnum eruption. “Seems like

you got yourself a little slice of heaven out here, Zeb.”

He grinned. “Sure do, Trip. Third cloud to the left.”

But then the clouds turned black. “What if they come looking

for me here, though? Stella seemed to put two and two together

about us pretty quickly. What if other people have seen us

together these last couple of days? Or Roy, the snitch?”

He shrugged. “But they won’t find you here. Least not this

version of you.”

I gulped, not liking the sound of that. “I’m getting an upgrade?

Model 2.0?”

He grinned, impishly, and I knew I was in trouble now. “You

could say that, yes. If it makes it any easier.” Cryptic and nerve-

wracking. Not a good pairing. At least for the likes of me.

He led me inside. The place was decorated all
Martha Stewart

128 Rob Rosen

Living
, right on down to the throw pillows and homemade

potpourri. Paintings of horses appeared in between the

lace-curtained windows. “Did you inherit this from your

grandmother?” I asked, innocently enough.

He kicked me in the ass. “I decorated it myself, fuckwad.”

I blanched. Really? Himself? No help from an eighty year old

woman? “I mean, it’s, uh, lovely.”

He smiled and shrugged. “Well, with a little help from
Martha

Stewart Living.
”

See! Told you so!

“But getting back to Model 2.0. Are we going to shave my

goatee? Dye my hair blond? Get me some colored contact

lenses?”

His face reddened. “Not exactly.” Then he walked me to

the bedroom. It was a small room, a double bed, lavender walls,

those same lace curtains, wrought iron end tables, and even more

potpourri. In truth, the place smelled like a florist shop had

exploded in there, and then someone who had eaten a bouquet

of lilies threw up. Twice. But far be it from me to say so. Again.

Anyway, that’s not what we were there to see. “Um, since we

really don’t know each other all that well, Trip,” he began, “this

next bit might come as a, well, as a surprise.”

My shoulders tightened. “A pleasant surprise?”

He paused and stared at me, face just a bit scrunched up.

“Okay. We’ll go with that.”

He was staring at his closet while he was talking, so to that

I quickly strolled over. Like a Band-Aid over a healing wound, I

ripped it open and prepared myself for the stinging pain. Or a

dead person to fall down on top of me. Like his grandmother,

who really must’ve helped with the decorating, I kept telling

myself. Because, seriously, it was more like
Martha Stewart Dying

than
Living
.

But what was in there was no dead woman. Unfortunately,

because that would’ve made things a bit easier.

southeRn FRied
129

“Huh,” I said. “I don’t get it. Were you married to, a, uh, to

a woman before? I mean, that’s okay. Some people take to the

whole gay thing later in life.”

Again he kicked me in the ass. “Do I suck dick like a man who

took to the whole gay thing later in life?”

In fact, he sucked dick like it was the first thing he sucked on

after his pacifier. Which is to say, expertly. And for years. Then the

lightbulb went off above my head. Well, inside the closet, anyway,

illuminating one long row of dresses and skirts and blouses, wigs

on the top shelf, shoes on the bottom, boas dangling to the side.

“Oh, please, not boas, too,” I groaned, hands instinctively

rummaging through it all. To be fair, at least his taste in clothes

was better than his taste in furniture. Or paint. Or curtains. And

definitely than in potpourri.

“Drag, like fried chicken, Trip, is a staple in the South,” he

explained, looking nervously at me. “I’m just keeping up with

the Joneses.”

“Which Jones, Shirley or Star?” I chided, earning yet a third

kick in the pants.

“I do it for charity, Trip. There’s a bar in Charleston. Sunday

nights, all the tips go to gay homeless youth.”

I continued fanning through it all, guessing by his vast

wardrobe that he’d been doing Sundays for many years. With

some Saturdays thrown in for good measure. “What’s your

drag name, if you don’t mind me asking?” I inquired, over my

shoulder.

He joined me, standing to my side now, also fanning through

it all. “Portia de Chevy,” he replied. “A little bit classy and a lit bit

backwater.”

“Nice,” I told him, then froze, mid-fan. “Wait. Model 2.0?” I

turned to look at him. “No fucking way.”

“Way,” came his reply. “As in the only way. Especially if you’re

going to be hanging around these parts. Because too many people

will recognize you now.” Then he threw the salt in the wound.

130 Rob Rosen

And, damn, I wished I’d left that Band-Aid on. “Especially if you

want to free Beau and set all this shit right.”

I sighed, my shoulders slumping. He’d won. “Can I at least

have the red wig?”

He shook his head from side to side. “That’s Portia’s. She’s a

spicy one, she is.”

I reached up and took down a blonde one, long, wavy, very

German old time movie star. “Hey, I’ve got a classy/backwater

name myself.” He looked at me, expectantly. I turned and smiled.

“Portia, meet Marlene. Marlene D. Trick. Emphasis on the trick.”

He nudged me. “Naturally.” Then he winked and smirked.

“It’s for the best, Marlene.” Sadly, he was right. Sadly for me, that

is. Because I had a feeling I wasn’t going to make a very pretty

woman. Though, of course, I was soon enough about to find

out. “Pick out something pretty,” he added. “I’ll be right back.”

He ran out of the bedroom. I decided on something slutty.

Low-cut, black, with silver epaulets and safety pins running down

the side. He shot back in, and I jumped. Mainly because he was

holding up a massive pair of chain cutters. “Okay, okay, I’ll pick

something else,” I whimpered.

He chuckled. “No, these are for Beau. The outfit is fine, but

not for where we’re going.”

I gulped. “Back to Robert E.’s? So soon?”

“No time like the present. Especially since we know where

Beau is. I mean, if we wait any longer, they might move him. Or

do something worse.”

My gulp repeated. He was right, of course. And with the

chain cutters, we had a shot at rescuing him. “But in drag?”

He grinned. “No silly.”

I breathed a sigh of release. “Oh, thank goodness.”

His grin widened. “I meant, not for me. For you, definitely.”

He grabbed the slutty outfit out of my hand and replaced it with

something more demure. “Because Robert E. knows what you

look like. And if he knows about you, then so do his goons. I

southeRn FRied
131

doubt they know who I am, so maybe they won’t harm a cute

little stable boy and his older, more homely sister.”

And this time it was his turn to get a kick in the pants. “The

homely part remains to be seen.”

He tossed the outfit on the bed and ordered, “Then let’s see.”

Unsurely, I put it all on, skirt, blouse, stockings – two pairs,

to cover all the leg hair – then jacket, wig, and sensible short-

heeled shoes. It was comfortable enough, if not completely alien,

to be wearing it all. Zeb applied the make-up, which took longer

than expected. I had a feeling, after the third try, and mounds

of base, that homely was going to be an understatement. Still,

twenty minutes after we started, he stood up, wiped the sweat off

his brow, and said, “Have a look.”

Slowly, I stood up and turned around, inching toward the

mirror, until I was standing before it, Model 2.0 complete. “My

own dearly-departed grandmother wouldn’t have recognized

me,” I moaned.

“Well,” he said, hand over mouth to stifle a laugh, “that’s, uh,

that’s a relief, right? Then neither will Robert E. or anyone else.

Glass half-full, Marlene. Glass half-full.”

I turned and sighed. “Better make it glass-way-full, of vodka,

because suddenly I need a drink.”

Again he ran from the room and again he returned with

his hand held high. Only this time it was with a decanter with

a strange looking orange liquid sloshing about. “Homemade,”

he proclaimed, his other hand proffering a glass. “Your granny’s