Free Hollywood Assassin by M. Z. Kelly Page A

left Bernie at home and gone to Club SUK to watch The Divas. Now there was Roger trying to make butthole-brown bloodshot eyes look sexy.
    “So what’s your name?” Roger asked.
    Clever. Why me? There were other single women in the club. I was enjoying The Divas. They were a big hit with the crowd. A flash of inspiration. Natalie would be proud.
    “Bob Fredericks,” I said, motioning to the stage. I tried to make my voice sound like Barry White. “Got a cold. Can’t perform tonight.”
    A testosterone-neuron vapor lock left Roger speechless. His mouth fell open long enough to catch a fly. Maybe he was a frog and…no way.
    Roger finally vibrated his vocal cords, “Damn, you’re a fine looking woman.” His eyes lingered on my white open collar blouse. You’d think I was dressed like Natalie.
    Roger fished a baggie of white powder from his pocket and placed it on the table. At least it wasn’t a condom. He picked up the baggie and dangled it in front of me.
    “I don’t think you’re a guy, but I do think you’re in need of a good time.”
    I rechanneled Barry White, “Believe me. I’m all makeup and hair. Get lost.”
    Roger put the baggie away and smiled. The teeth were worse than my initial impression, a bad Jack-O-Lantern carving—typical tweaker dentition.
    “I’ll get us a room. We can party all night.”
    Now I had two problems. I was getting aggravated and my throat was hurting from doing the Walrus of Love growl.
    “Sorry,” I barked. “I don’t believe in cross-species dating. Do the world a favor, take your dumb ass back to Big Ugly, Mars where you were born.” Ouch! I sipped water. I mean, I took a gulp. Man-talk ain’t easy.
    “Fuck you,” Roger snapped. His face turned Martian red.
    Guess I’d hit a nerve. Maybe a more cerebral approach was in order.
    “Since I’m a man,” I woofed, “that wouldn’t be possible, at least not in the conventional sense.” I smiled in a manly way. “Then again, maybe you’re gay.”
    “I’m not a queer and you’re not a guy.” Roger was a persistent, if bigoted, asshole. He went on, “Let’s get a room. You can show me your package, if you’ve got one. If you’re a guy we can make a call, get some chicks. Party.”
    I started to flip out my badge, ending the charade. I hesitated. Maybe Roger did deserve a package.
    “Okay, meet me in the parking lot in ten,” I said.
    A snaggletooth grin followed. “Don’t be late or I’ll come looking for you.”
    I dialed my phone while The Divas ended the performance by showcasing their ample derrieres and singing “Bootylicious.” There were big cheers—a standing ovation.
    “Thanks, John, I appreciate it,” I said, ending my conversation as Robin and Clark stopped by my table.
    Wigs came off. Martinis were ordered all around. Even in their evening attire and theatrical makeup, Robin and his boyfriend made a handsome couple. Clark’s blue eyes and brown skin were striking against his white sequined evening gown. He’d also bronzed his skin. Why didn’t I bronze? Then remembered, I’m broke.
    “No Bernie tonight?” Robin asked.
    “Home dreaming about chasing border collies.”
    “Bet it’s a doggie-style dream,” Clark said.
    I smiled, then turned back to Robin. “I talked to Mom yesterday. I’m having lunch with her and Sis day after tomorrow.”
    “Lord help you.”
    “I just love a good family drama,” Clark offered.
    There was a commotion near the stage. A muscular young man with a shaved head, except for a long black ponytail, made an entrance. A heavyset guy wearing a robe then walked in, Mr. Ponytail acting as his body guard.
    “Bon Bon,” Clark said. He rushed over to the celeb who looked like he’d just walked out of the shower and thrown on a robe. He was probably too big for regular clothes.
    Other patrons moved his way, creating a mini-stampede to meet Wolf Donovan’s son. As far as I knew, Bon Bon was famous for appearing on a reality TV show. His