She wrote an address on the back of the note. “He's a musician, and he mostly works nights, so he should be home now, but maybe it would be best if I call first.”
* * * * *
SALVATORE SWEET lived in a high-?rise condo overlooking the river. The building was sandblasted cement and black glass. The landscaping was minimal but well maintained. The lobby was newly painted and carpeted in tones of mauve and gray. Hardly a nonconformist's paradise. And not low-?rent, either.
I took the elevator to the ninth floor and rang Sweet's doorbell. A moment later the door opened and I found myself face-?to-?face with either a very ugly woman or a very gay guy.
“You must be Stephanie.”
I nodded my head.
“I'm Sally Sweet. Aunt Lorraine called and said you had a problem.”
He was dressed in tight black leather pants held together at the sides with leather lacing that left a strip of pale white flesh from ankle to waist, and a black leather vest that molded around coneshaped, eat-?your-?heart-?out-?Madonna breasts. He was close to seven feet tall in his black platform pumps. He had a large hook nose, red roses tattooed on his biceps and—thank you, Lord—he didn't have a tongue stud. He was wearing a blond Farrah Fawcett wig, fake eyelashes and glossy maroon lipstick. His nails had been painted to match his lips.
“Maybe this isn't a good time . . .” I said.
“As good as any.”
I had no idea what to say or where to look. The truth is, he was fascinating. Sort of like staring at a car crash.
He looked down at himself. “You're probably wondering about the outfit.”
“It's very nice.”
“Yeah, I had the vest made special. I'm lead guitar for the Lovelies. And let me tell you, it's fucking impossible to keep a good manicure through the weekend as a lead guitarist. If I'd known how things would turn out for me, I'd have taken up the fucking drums.”
“Looks like you're doing okay.”
“Success is my middle name. Two years ago I was straight as an arrow, playing for Howling Dogs. You ever hear of Howling Dogs?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Nobody fucking heard of Howling Dogs. I was fucking living in a fucking packing crate in the alley behind Romanos Pizza. I've been punk, funk, grunge and R&B. I've been with the Funky Butts, the Pitts, Beggar Boys, and Howling Dogs. I was with Howling Dogs the longest. It was a fucking depressing experience. I couldn't stand fucking singing all those fucking songs about fucking hearts fucking breaking and fucking goldfish fucking going to heaven. And then I had to fucking look like some western dude. I mean, how can you have any self-?respect when you have to go on stage in a cowboy hat?”
I was pretty good at cussing, but I didn't think I could keep up with Sally. On my best day, I couldn't squeeze all those “f” words into a sentence. “Boy, you can really curse,” I said.
“You can't be a fucking musician without fucking cursing.”
I knew that was true, because sometimes I watched rockumentaries on MTV. My eyes strayed to his hair. “But now you're wearing a Farrah Fawcett wig. Isn't that kind of
like a cowboy hat?”
“Yeah, only this is a fucking statement. This is fucking politically correct. See, this is the ultimate sensitive man. This is taking my female shit out of the closet. And like I'm saying, here it is, you know?”
“Un huh.”
“And besides, I'm making a shitload of money. I caught the wave on this one. This is the year of the drag queen. We're like a freaking fucking invasion.” He took the note from my hand and studied it. “Not only am I booked solid for every weekend for two years . . . I get money stuffed in my goddamn pants. I got money I don't know what to do with.”
“So I guess you feel lucky to be gay.”
“Well, just between you and me, I'm not actually gay.”
“You're a cross-?dresser.”
“Yeah. Something like that. I mean, I wouldn't mind being sort of gay. Like, I guess I could dance with a guy, but I'm not doing any of that butt stuff.”
I nodded. I felt like that about men, too.