Wearing Black to the White Party Read online

  Vince set the bags down and opened the door on my casita, revealing a sanctuary exquisitely decorated with a mixture of gigantic overstuffed furniture, rough-hewn tables, cool Mexican tile flooring, and exposed ceiling beams large enough to hold up the Chrysler Building. No kitschy South-west faux-adobe crap with rusted metal candlesticks in the shape of coyotes here.

  After deciding that I would just move in here for life, I realized that I was only looking at the living area. The bedroom sat behind a massive oak door that looked like it came from the Spanish Inquisition. The same careful decoration here, including a bed that could easily hold a small Marine garrison. No wonder Michael wanted to stay here.

  I settled in, then went next door to ask Michael what he planned to do. I knocked on the door and entered, only to find Michael in the embrace of a rather hunky-looking man who was, like Vince, naked. I quickly surmised what Michael had in mind for the rest of the day.

  “Oh, God, Michael, I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect you to ... to ... be getting, you know, so soon.”

  “Robert, stop being so Midwestern. This saves me the time of introducing you to Rex. Rex, this is Robert,” Michael said, pointing toward me.

  I shook Rex’s veiny hand. He had the grip of an anaconda and the muscles of one, too. He was built like a proverbial brick shit house and had a gruff, no-nonsense look about him. His chiseled jaw, aquiline nose, flattop haircut that ran down seamlessly to the beard on his face, plus the tattoo on his arm that depicted the Marine bulldog mascot with the letters U.S.M.C. underneath, completed the look of a refined but swarthy gay trucker.

  “Glad to meet you, Rex,” I said, shaking the hand that, just thirty seconds ago, was on a certain part of Michael’s anatomy. I would wash my hand later.

  “Why don’t we all go out to the pool and cool off?” Rex instructed us.

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Michael said, dropping his pants faster than you can say “George Michael.”

  I knew I had no choice. If I didn’t go with the flow, I would look uptight and guilt-ridden-which I was. But there was no sense in making that clear to Rex—he’d figure that out after spending five minutes talking to me. I peeled off my shorts and underwear and followed Michael and Rex toward the pool.

  The pool was magnificent and enormous, with hot tubs on either end of the rectangular pond, and completely private, thanks to the ever-present greenery, which poked out of every inch of available planting space. The water was as warm as bathwater, a fact that I felt worth noting out loud.

  “I have it heated all year long. I do laps every day, and I don’t like the cold,” Rex reported.

  “So, Rex, I can hardly wait for your Red Party,” I said. “Michael has told me so much about it!”

  Michael broke in. “Boy, Robert, your opinion of the Red Party really has changed!”

  “Changed, Michael? What do you mean?” I asked, a flush of embarrassment washing over me.

  “Back in New York, when I was trying to get you to come with me to Palm Springs, you said ‘Why would anyone in their right mind want to attend a nonstop narcissithon infested by drug-crazed, hairless post-adolescents with the depth of a Petri dish?’”

  I eked out a nervous laugh, trying to downplay what I had indeed said. “Oh, for gosh sakes, Michael, the things you say!”

  “And on the plane you told me the Red Party is like a tick, hungrily sucking dollars off a very fat deer.”

  Rex glared at me as I shifted into damage-control mode. “Michael, I said that some people perceive circuit parties as being drug-infested and narcissistic and that I wanted to see for myself before I took anyone’s word for it.” Somehow, as the words were quickly formed in my head and headed out of my mouth, I began to realize that they didn’t sound that much better than what Michael had quoted me as saying. Right then I decided to cut my losses, swallow my foot gracefully, and dive under the surface of the water, where I hoped I’d drown.

  When I came up for air, I felt that the damage had been done, so the best way to handle an awkward situation was to do what I had practiced all my life: denial. I launched into more questions, designed to calm Rex’s feathers by stroking him gently.

  “So, Rex, how is your Red Party coming along? It must be exciting to take on a challenge organizing something that big!” I said, trying to make conversation.

  “I have a lot of balls,” Rex bragged.

  I could plainly see that.

  “Organizing and planning is a cinch,” he continued. “The difficult part is dealing with all the assholes who are trying their damnedest to keep the Red Party from becoming the success that it will be.”

  “You mean people are trying to sabotage your party?”

  “As sure as I’m standing here,” Rex said with complete conviction.

  “Who would want to do a thing like that?” I inquired.

  “Lots of people. Jimmy Garboni for one.”

  “Jimmy Garboni? Don’t tell me. He’s the mob boss who controls the circuit party Hello Kitty concession stands.”

  “Good joke, Robert. You’re as funny as a road accident,” Rex barked.

  Feeling as though I had just been slapped across the face by one of Rex’s meaty hands, I guessed that I had gone too far in my kidding. This guy really didn’t take any guff. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Rex. I know you’re probably under a lot of stress.”

  “You have no idea,” he said, sounding oddly vulnerable and powerless—an odd situation for a man who had the physical build and drill-sergeant demeanor that should be afraid of no one. “I have no doubt that Jimmy Garboni has been pressuring party-planning people not to work with my company. Darlene Waldron is trouble, too. She has an exclusive contract with the White Party, and she stands to lose the most when the Red Party is a success. What I don’t understand is why someone would threaten me when the Red Party is designed to work with the White Party. I planned that guys would go back and forth between the two.”

  “Threaten you!” I exclaimed. “Physically?”

  “Yes, but not exactly. Let me explain. Someone sent me threatening letters. You know, with the letters cut out of a magazine and pasted to form words.”

  “What did they say?” I asked.

  “Bunch of horseshit. They want two and a half million dollars or they say they’ll prevent me from throwing the Red Party.”

  “How do they propose to do that?” I asked.

  “Kill me,” Rex said as if he had just told me that the capital of New York was Albany.

  “Whew!” I said, whistling the word. “Somebody is very serious about this stuff, Rex. Did you tell the police about this?”

  “I don’t want word about this to get around. It could ruin ticket sales. Let’s face it: no one is going to buy tickets to the Red Party if they think there’s a chance it might not happen.”

  Michael didn’t care a fig about Rex’s problem, but I was clearly concerned—especially since I was staying in his house and didn’t want to die in a hail of bullets fired by masked men with thick necks and gold pinkie rings. “So what are you going to do about it?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” was his answer. “I mean, what can I do? Two and a half million would take about everything that Rex Productions has. Listen, I’ve run up against tougher competitors than this. Sometimes you just gotta stare them right in the face and wait for them to blink first.”

  “Well, Rex, suit yourself, but I think that it would be better if the police at least knew about this. You did keep the threatening notes, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “Of course I did. I’m a careful businessman. That’s one of the reasons I’m so successful. I’ll show ’em to you at dinner tonight.”

  “Why else are you so successful?” I inquired, just to be nosey.

  “Brass balls . . . and I can be ruthless when I want something. I can be driven, too. Red Party tickets are almost all sold out because they’ve seen the publicity and they know it’s going to be big. A once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

  �
��I see.” I was beginning to understand Rex’s character quite well, what little there was.

  Clink, clink, clink, clink. Vince’s body jewelry jingled and jangled as he approached the pool with a phone in hand. “Rex, it’s Leo. He’s having some problems with some sound equipment or something.” Vince handed the phone to Rex and walked away. Clink, clink, clink-a-tink. It seemed like a fair assumption that Vince would never be able to sneak up on anyone.

  “Excuse me, guys,” Rex announced. “I have to take this call inside. I’ll be right back.”

  I turned to Michael, who was floating around on a raft, sunbathing as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Did you hear what Rex said about those death threats?” I asked excitedly.

  “Yes, I heard about them. So?” Michael replied, reeking with indifference.

  “So? You don’t care that your friend is being threatened by some lunatic?”

  Michael turned his head toward me but didn’t lift it from the raft—don’t strain the neck muscles, because it might leave lines in the skin. “Rex isn’t a friend, per se.”

  “Then what is he?”

  “A fuck buddy.”

  “I see. Then what does that make me, since we’ve never had sex?” I needed clarification.

  “You’re a friend. The only one I have. Everyone else either hates me or is jealous of me. True friends are hard to come by.”

  “Michael, are you getting all mushy on me? Stop it before I start puddling up!” I said, dabbing my eyes with the edge of a towel.

  “I’m serious, Robert. I really do think of you as a friend. I would never think of you in the context of sex.”

  “Thanks, Michael. I think.”

  Michael continued. “Rex is just a fuck buddy. He’s a hot guy, and we enjoy each other’s company.”

  “So what place does Vince play in all of this?”

  “He takes care of the place and does stuff for Rex. As far as the rest goes, I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “Okay, back to the death threat part. Aren’t you concerned?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not, Michael?”

  “Why should I be? Let Rex take care of his own business. I’ve got myself to think about.”

  “Ah, that’s the old Michael that I know well. For a minute, you were sounding human there, and it scared me.”

  “Don’t you have something to do, Robert? Weren’t you going to call Monette and meet up with her?”

  “I left a message for her, but she’s out hiking.”

  “So she’s at some lesbian White Party?”

  “She’s at the Dinah Shore Classic.”

  “The equivalent, from what I hear.”

  “I think Monette would agree with you. It’s become the same thing.”

  “Don’t push it, Robert. Lesbians are not going to put on skin-tight spandex shorts and get up in go-go cages and dance with glow sticks stuck into their orifices.”

  “I guess they’ll just have to face the fact that they’ll never match gay men in terms of the cultural legacy they leave to the world.”

  “You know what I mean, Robert. Lesbians can’t party like gay men do. They’re more nurturing.”

  “I tend to disagree, Michael. Monette can drink you under the table and outdance you any day. She did win that lesbian charity dance marathon, you know.”

  “Robert, let me remind you that winning a dance marathon to eradicate vaginal itch doesn’t hold a candle to my two-day dance frenzy at the Pink Party in Miami. It’s still the talk of the town.”

  “I think that what they’re talking about isn’t your dancing. It has something to do with that part where you collapsed and had to be taken to the hospital—that and the fact that you were screaming about a thirty-foot bird that you said pecked off the head of Sandra Bernhard, who, by the way, wasn’t even at the party.”

  “I blame those Chinese herbs that this guy gave me.”

  “Michael, when was the last time you saw Chinese herbs that came in pill form?”

  Michael was getting that exasperated look that rose to his face when confronted with a reality he couldn’t deny. “Could we change the subject?”

  “Fine, change it.”

  Michael was about to change it when Rex returned, tossing the phone into the pool.

  “Goddamn it!” Rex bellowed. “Fuckin’ ass-wipe Leo. The dumb shit can’t get his hands on a fuckin’ amplifier that a trained monkey could order! Do I have to do everything for this party?”

  Michael, seeing that his fuck buddy would be in no mood for love—at least while he was in a hostile mood—tried to calm Rex’s anger.

  “Rex, why don’t we go inside and have a cocktail and get you to relax?” Michael offered, rubbing Rex’s ample pecs with his hand.

  Rex complied and led Michael away, excusing the two of them and instructing me to enjoy the pool as much as I wanted or to call Vince and have him make me a cocktail.

  Sitting around a pool for a whole week before White Party begins, drinking cocktails, and just soaking up the sun.

  I decided I was going to enjoy this.

  2

  If a Tree Falls in the Forest . . .

  I eventually left Michael and Rex at the pool and decided to head back to my casita to take a nap. I was deep in a dream in which Russell Crowe and I were Scottish peat farmers. We had just gone into our barn to get some wood for our fire when we discovered first lady Laura Bush spanking a five-year-old boy who had the head of actress Renée Zellweger and was eating liverwurst sandwiches as he got spanked.

  I was saved by the bell. The phone that sat on my nightstand began ringing, so I picked it up and listened.

  “I’m coming to you live from the Dinah Shore Classic, also known as lesbian central!”

  “Monette?” I spoke into the phone.

  “Boy, you thought you were in for a golf tournament, but it’s already turned into a battle of the heavyweights. Which dyke will wear the crown? Gina got into a virtual smack-down with her lover, Mary, on the third fairway because Mary looked at another woman. Tricia, who is still sporting dyke hairdo number three, also known as the mudflap, the squirrel cut, or sometimes called the Rod Stewart, has no self-esteem and lives in a perpetual state of cowering in the shadow of her girlfriend, Martha, who looks like she could wrestle Kodiak bears and win. And on the approach to the tenth hole are two power lesbians sporting the latest footwear from Kate Spade, thereby confusing Tricia and Martha, who have never worn anything more than petroleum-based utility shoes that are flat, sensible, and butt-ugly. There’s more going on in the spectators’ area than on the greens. Are gay men this insecure?” Monette wondered.

  “Of course they are. It’s just that the men cover it up with a dash of attitude and a dollop of trendy clothing.”

  “So how are things where you’re staying?”

  “You should see this place, Monette. It looks like some mammoth hideaway Cary Grant used to escape to with Randolph Scott in the nineteen-thirties.”

  “There’s no proving that there was anything between them, Robert.”

  “Yeah, sure. And I suppose that the two well-paid bachelors lived together to save on the rent. And wore matching sweaters and had cocktails together?”

  “It’s just wishful thinking on your part.”

  “What sane gay man wouldn’t have wanted Cary Grant as a lover? Anyway . . . it’s just too wonderful for words. The pool, which looks bigger than the reservoir in Central Park, is heated to bathwater temperature, they leave the air-conditioning on and the doors open all the time, and there’s a full bar in my casita.”

  “So that’s your idea of luxury, Robert? Wastefulness and alcohol?”

  “You know how those things appeal to me since I feel guilty every time I waste something.”

  “I’ll bet you turned the air on in your casita and left the door open, then went back and shut it, right?”

  “You know me too well, Monette.”

  “So you�
�re in paradise, huh?”

  “Well, there is one fly in the herpes ointment.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Someone’s trying to kill Rex, our host.”

  “And I take it that this is not normal for Rex?”

  “Well, to be truthful, Monette, Rex is the kind of prick who should be killed, but wanting to do it and doing it are two different things.”

  “So why is he a target? Did he steal some queen’s parking space at the grocery store?”

  “No. He’s throwing the Red Party, and I think some people associated with the White Party don’t like the idea. He’s gotten threatening letters asking him to stop or something. No, they want a lot of money before they’ll stop the attempts on his life.”

  “Interesting. Any suspects?”

  “Yeah, some gay mafia guy and some woman who has the circuit-party-items market sewn up. There are probably more.”

  “Are you worried?” Monette asked.

  “Not too much. Rex doesn’t seem to care—not that he lets on. He seems more pissed off about it.”

  “Well, keep an eye out for Rex. I wouldn’t stay too close to him for the next few days—just in case.”

  “Michael’s face is beaming in anticipation of sex with Rex tonight, so I don’t think we’re going anywhere; and I don’t have a car, so I’m staying close. Maybe a night swim, then early to bed. Can we get together for brunch tomorrow? Why don’t you come over and pick me up since you’ve got a car?”

  “Sounds grand,” she replied. “How’s eleven sound?”

  “Just fine,” I replied. “And while you’re at it, could you pick up a Kevlar jacket for me on your way over?” I pleaded.

  I swam some more, showered, and got dressed for dinner. I assumed that clothes were called for, but you never knew since no one here seemed to bother. I just hoped that Vince would put on a little something—anything—for dinner. The thought of his body jewelry jangling against the table and dragging through my mashed potatoes as he reached across the table, offering a serving to Rex, would surely put a damper on my appetite. As I knocked gingerly on the door to the main house and entered, I found the dining room table aglow with dozens of candles and a floral arrangement that was unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was suspended in midair over the table from tiny monofilament fishing lines and contained a piece of bark with flowers cascading down toward the table in a splendid show of Japanese design and minimalism that took my breath away. There was a noise in the kitchen, and Vince emerged, drying a dish with a towel. He had nothing on at all.