Free One Dead Drag Queen by Mark Richard Zubro Page B

notions about me. I’m comfortable with who I am. The truth is, I graduated summa cum laude from college. Yeah, my major was PE, but I minored in both philosophy and math. I liked the logic of them. I would be damned if I would defend myself to this or any other shallow creep by mentioning these facts. Tom knows how I feel about Myrtle Mae. I won’t let Tom tell about my college record either. On the other hand, I have also discovered that a college degree is no defense against stupidity.
    This morning Myrtle Mae’s impressive bulk was enshrouded in pink chiffon, which barely hid his jiggling flab. I could picture him eating himself to death, a dead drag queen on a heap of candy wrappers, and felt immediate guilt for this thought.
    In deference to the slight cooling from yesterday, Myrtle Mae wore a fur wrap. He often proclaimed he did this deliberately to annoy the pro-pet, antifur crowd.
    He said, “I saw on the news that Tom was injured. I watched every bit of coverage from the moment it came on until early this morning.” He glanced through the doorway at Tom’s sleeping figure. “Will he survive?”
    “They think so,” I said.
    After I gave him an update, he commented, “Well, darling, they’re using all that medical jargon, are you sure you can keep up?”
    “About as well as your tits do.”
    I’m not sure hate encompasses how I feel about him. The best example I can think of to describe his personality is this: Myrtle Mae/Bryce Bennet was the kind of person people got caller ID for so they could avoid their calls. He mixed vicious,cold asperity with cloyingly sweet attempts at intimacy. He was the kind who often greeted friends with “Why haven’t you called me?” The mostly unstated response to this question was “Because you’re a jerk.” For reasons I was unable to fathom, Myrtle Mae got on famously with Tom’s mother and father.
    Myrtle Mae clutched the pearls around his throat and exclaimed dramatically, “I’ll have you know I was one of the fortunate ones. I was eating at Fattatuchi’s Deli earlier that evening. I had to have one of their triple-decker chocolate cakes for a party I was throwing, and as long as I was there, I thought I could eat a piece of one of those luscious confections in the display case just to tide me over. Fortunately, I was long gone before the explosion.”
    “Have you talked to the police?” I asked.
    “Should I? If I do, I want a burly, masculine one, with dark stubble all over his chin, and he should be wearing a dark, dark blue uniform, starched and ironed within an inch of its life.”
    “You’ll probably get a plainclothes detective.”
    “You’re always so dull.”
    “Did you see anything suspicious that night?”
    “The Fattatuchis are absolutely the most dear friends of mine. I’ve actually eaten there innumerable times over the years. I haven’t had to pay for a meal since 1982. We exchange Christmas gifts. I’m the godfather of one of their grandchildren.”
    Count on Myrtle Mae to claim to be best friends with two of the most popular restaurant owners in Chicago. He often intimated that he knew people who knew people who knew where secrets were kept and bodies were buried. I didn’t believe most of it.
    Fattatuchi’s Deli had morphed over the years into one ofthe most popular restaurants and bakeries in the city.
    Myrtle Mae said, “Mr. and Mrs. Fattatuchi were having some kind of quarrel, but aren’t they always? Half the draw of the place is to watch the Fattatuchi family soap opera play out before our very eyes. They spent most of the time arguing with their son, who is not very tall really, but blade thin. He was wearing a black leather vest, tight black jeans, a black T-shirt, and sunglasses.”
    “Indoors at night?” I asked.
    “If he was suspicious, he was a cliché. No one runs around looking like a terrorist, do they? Besides, he was a local and worth every stare. I could spend hours just watching him breathe.”
    “What