Free Drag Queen in the Court of Death by Caro Soles

as soon as I had some info. * * * *
    Ryan was stretched out in a deck chair sound asleep when I got back. His body was streaked with grime and sweat, and a gash on his leg looked new. The flagstones were laid all the way to the back gate.
    Julie yodeled from the front door. She must have been watching for me, she got downstairs so fast.
"Julie, you're the only one I ever knew who actually says yoo-hoo ."
"Big wow," said Julie. "Hey, hey, listen up. I've got some good news and some bad news."
"Shoot."
"Good news is—I found the guy. I found him!"
"Great! What's the bad news?"
"He's alive."
"I'm sure he wouldn't think that was bad."
"Good for him. Bad for us. Now we don't know who the corpse is."
"Right."
"I've got his home address, business address, phone number, fax number, you name it. Here." She thrust the paper at me. "He lives in London, Ontario. Sells cars."
"Why does that not surprise me? Thanks, Julie."
"So who's the next suspect? Anyone else I can run down for you?"
"I'll see what I can dig up," I said, thinking of all those scrapbooks and photo albums I had only skimmed.
When I had opened that box, memories escaped like smoke, carrying sharp pinpricks of guilt and longing and betrayal. But smoke thins, I told myself, dissipates in the air and is soon gone. Those memories have been preserved too long. It was time to let the light in before they mummified like the body in Ronnie's trunk. There must be something in all that information that would be useful. Why else would Ronnie have insisted I take it away?
[Back to Table of Contents]
My Journal
    (excerpts)
October 4, 1964
....When I started having Evil Money dreams, I finally drew
    up a budget like Dad made me do when I got into grade 9 and he raised my allowance. I hate to admit it, but it works! It's still depressing. And I'm so fucking sick of Kraft Dinner!
    On the bright side, Dunn-Barton is going to help me with French. Monica says his first name is Michael. She heard him and his wife talking in the parking lot the other day. How can he have a wife? If he's not a fucking homo, neither am I! I swear I can feel him looking at me. He wants me. I know it! He blushes sometimes when I look at him, like I've caught him masturbating or something. I wish. God he's sexy!
    Which is more than I can say for this new guy who arrived today. He's all apple-cheeked and round-eyed behind his glasses. He wears a suit and tie like a junior exec or something and he has bad asthma. Five minutes after sitting down in math class he started wheezing and gasping and had to leave. When I went outside to see how he was, he was smoking a joint out in the alley behind the garages. Some scam! At first I felt like a fool for feeling sorry for him, but he said grass helps asthma. Oh yeah! And at least he shared. As we smoked, he told me his family isn't rich. Both his parents are working so he can come here. He's had to miss so much school because of his breathing problems, so he's trying to catch up fast because his parents want him to go to college. Funny how we all try so hard to please our parents. But what do we want to do? How often does any parent ask?
    Sometimes I think about what I miss most about the old place I used to call home. I guess, maybe, I miss Deb. I was surprised how good it was talking to her the other day when I called. And walking home with Harry, going the long way so we can score cigarettes and sodas from his uncle's variety store, then opening my front door to the smells of Mom's honey cake, curling around me like a big hug. I wonder if D-B likes honey cake? If he even knows what it is? I wonder how big he is under those expensive trousers. Yeah, sure. Like I'll ever get the chance to find out.
    November 14, 1964...
...Everything is copasetic! I'm in love! I'm mad about M.A.D. And it's taken two months, one week, and two days
    for me to know—I mean KNOW—he's mad for me too! Yesterday was Tuesday, and Dunn-Barton gave me a lift home with my science project. He's