Femme Noir (4 page)

“And they’ve completely renovated it. I haven’t stayed there, but I’ve heard it’s real nice. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that the Plaza is next, right?”

“Right,” I answered feebly. I couldn’t picture Michelle living here when there was such infernal unsolicited friendliness.

“Where are you from?” The agent handed me the keys.

“Africa. Uganda.” That should throw her, I thought. I was beginning to have a little fun. Hadn’t the agent just seen my driver’s license?

“Really? What part?” the agent asked smoothly.

I laughed. “Los Angeles.”

“Oh.” The agent frowned. “I thought that was in California.”

“Well, thanks.” I walked away.

“The lot is right outside. Have a great stay.”

I waved. My boots were the only sound on the long, empty walk to the exit.

Once outside in the actual Oklahoma summer air, I couldn’t breathe. The air was thick and wet and so hot that I thought my skin might boil. I began sweating instantly and I struggled to pull air into my lungs. I felt like I was underwater. In the rental car, I turned the air conditioner on high. I couldn’t touch the steering wheel; it burned my fingers. I leaned helplessly against the seat until the car was cooler.

Chapter Five

At my hotel, I was relieved there was no chatter. The clerk was formal and rather disapproving, as if he could look into my recent past and see my bite marks and nail scratches.

After I tested the bed, I opened the curtain and looked outside. Pretty town. Very pretty for a thermal aquarium. I showered, ate overpriced, mediocre room service, and called the name that Tonya had given me.

“Darcy, go!” the person answered abruptly.

“You always pick up the phone that way?”

“Who is this?”

“Nora Delaney. Just here from LA. An acquaintance of Tonya Mays gave me your name and I wanted to talk to you about Michelle—”

“Meet me at Jody’s tonight at nine o’clock,” Darcy whispered and hung up.

I checked myself in the mirror, smiled at what I saw, ran a hand over my bald, shaven head, and returned to the front desk.

“Can you tell me how to get to Jody’s?”

“Never heard of it,” the desk clerk answered.

“Well, it’s—”

“No, I don’t know how to get there,” he said sternly.

“Then tell me how to get to this intersection,” I ordered.

Eventually, I found my way and parked. The wet air oppressed me like an iron fist on my chest. Even after dark there was no relief. I had a sweat mustache just opening the car door.

The bar could have been any dive in any town. The outside was nondescript. An awning over a door at the end of a strip mall. I opened the door and walked in. To my right sat an old jukebox and a couple of pool tables. To my left, a small dance floor. The air was as stale as the inside of a coffin and it reminded me of my cigarette jones. Suddenly, I was fiercely glad that I was in Oklahoma, where people still smoked in clubs and bars.

After being carded, I took a seat at the bar. The bartender gave me an approving nod. “What can I get you?”

I looked around. A nice-sized crowd. Everyone was drinking beer. I ordered that too.

A voluptuous woman who made my eyes close and my mouth fill with water walked slowly by. I remembered a quote from some sex book about the ideal female: “If a woman like this is seen from the front, the sight is ravishing, if from behind, fatal.” I whispered,
“Es muy caliente, muy guapa.”
I was in an ass-trance.

She stopped and tossed her hair. It swung around the clean curve of her jaw. She snapped, “
Touche pas. Fairmez la bouche.
This is not for you,” then continued her switching saunter to the dance floor where she danced alone, eyes closed, in a sensual rhythm.

“Yes, it is for me.” I slugged my beer and another appeared instantly. I never took my smoldering stare off her. The woman had long, flowing wavy hair that was deep, dark red. Raven red, I thought involuntarily. I had never seen anyone so white. Not a single freckle. I imagined a century and a half ago, on a plantation in South Carolina, she would’ve been my Young Miss. A flare of anger kindled and I approached her again. We walked toward the bar together and stopped in front of a bar stool.

“You’re just a corn-fed butter-eater, aren’t you?” I was in my adorable flirty stance. The woman’s eyes flew open and she glared at me.

“And you’re just a chitlin’-slurpin’ pickaninny, aren’t you?”

“I’m whatever you need,” I purred over the loud, throbbing music.

“I don’t need any fast-talking jock underestimating me. I’d make sheet meat out of you.”

My hands twitched nervously. Needing a cigarette or a succulent breast, I raised a hand to lay a gentle palm on her shoulder.

“You touch me, I’ll slap you flat,” the woman said, smooth and serene. Then she turned her head and said, “Gin and tonic,” to the bartender, who hastened to get her a refill and place it in on the bar in front of her stool.

“I might enjoy a slap,” I said with a grin. But I lowered my hand, deciding not to touch her…yet. “I may not be the best looking, but I’m the only one talking to you.”

“Oh, please,” she said in a withering tone. “I’m not alone.” With that, she stalked off, disappearing into the bathroom.

I bounced on the balls of my feet, still grinning. I called out “Hey!” to the bartender, who leaned close, wiping a glass. “You know someone named Darcy?”

The bartender nodded and did a cursory scan of the patrons. “Ain’t here yet.”

“Okay, thanks.” I started on my third beer and ambled to the pool tables. Three women had just finished a game of cutthroat and they let me in to play partners for eight ball. I paid for the game and we slapped each other on the back and exchanged names. I picked a stick, the best of the sadly curved and badly bowed pool cues that were in a stand on the wall.

Just as I leaned over the table to make my first shot, the woman emerged from the bathroom, freshened in some way that I could not detect. I flubbed my shot badly and my partner groaned. The woman took her seat at the bar behind me and watched, sipping her fresh drink. I tried to concentrate and stay focused, wishing I hadn’t joined this game. I missed my second and third shots. I aggressively ignored Raven Red, who was obviously alone. No one else dared approach her either. Suddenly, I felt my back prickle from the nearness of her as she stood behind me on tiptoe and whispered, “Play the shadows.”

I whirled around to say, “Femmes don’t know shit about pool,” but she was gone. I got a scent of perfume and damp air as the door closed. I shook my head and with a smile, regained my composure and made every shot.

“Play the shadows, my big black dick,” I muttered.

By the time I finished playing at nine o’clock, the bar was standing room only. I fought my way back to the bartender and yelled, “Darcy here yet?” Only in a gay community could you count on this intimacy of strangers. The barkeep nodded and pointed vaguely to the other end of the bar before getting caught up in more drink orders.

Chapter Six

Great,” I said without enthusiasm, slicing my way sideways through the crowd. I was the tallest woman there so I could see easily. I was relieved that there were some sistahs here. I nodded courteously to each. Like kings and queens, each met my gaze regally and inclined her head just right in return. I reached the corner of the bar and noticed a group of four, three women and one man. I evaluated the group and made instant judgments just on posture and appearance. Darcy had to be the one in the middle, and she was a self-important stocky butch wannabe with the sort of swagger only a huge ego and massive insecurity could cause. The other two women were both blond, one built like a bear and the other one like a stick. Hoping to be proven wrong about Darcy after introductions, I approached. Holding my beer above my head out of harm’s way, I stuck my hand out. “Darcy Tate? I’m Nora.”

Darcy looked me up and down and finally shook my hand. “We’re drinking slippery nipples,” she announced, grinning at the blond stick, who giggled. “’Cause they’re better in pairs.”

“So true,” I murmured, wondering just how fast and far to run.

“This is my lover, Ava-Suzanne Morgan-Frazier,” Darcy said. She pronounced the second name “Sue-zAHn.” My mouth twisted. I supposed Ava-Suzanne played the pee-AH-no and put dah-zies in a vahse. I did not offer my hand because Ava scowled at me with such disdain. I wanted to snap this skinny white twig in half. She was plain enough and bony enough to be a supermodel.

“This is Jhoaeneyie Crosswaithe, quite the capable egg,” Darcy continued, introducing the bear.

Jhoaeneyie and I shook hands, and I was surprised to find my hand engulfed in a firm grip. “How you doin’?” Jhoaeneyie boomed in a strong twang within a foghorn voice. “My name is pronounced Joanie, but if you ever write me a letter, it is spelled,” Jhoaeneyie touched her cheek and winked, “quite unconventionally. You see, I am a nonconformist. Definitely not a traditional type.” People sitting close were startled by Jhoaeneyie’s voice and stared for a moment. She continued. “No offense, but I’ll never remember your name.”

“None taken. I’ll never remember yours or how to spell it,” I replied.

Jhoaeneyie was seized by laughter that bellowed out of her throat. “Touché, touché, touché,” she replied, pronouncing it “toosh.”

“And this is Jack Irving.” Darcy indicated the man who was busy doing shots of Black Jack. He smiled merrily at her, his brown eyes warm, and shook my hand.

“Here, come sit here, I’ll give you my seat.” Jack slid to a recently vacated stool and patted the one he emptied.

“Thanks, Jack.” This was unusual. Gay men rarely hung with dykes. The rule is gay men with straight women, period. Fraternization between the two homosexual cultures was the rare exception. I sat and observed the bar in comfort. There were lots of jocks here, some attractive femmes, and all ages and colors and class ranges.

A bunch of good-looking butches too, but they made me uneasy. It was as if butchness was not okay here, so women naturally butch worked hard to soften it. Some wore makeup! Some wore earrings or other feminine jewelry. Some wore women’s clothing. Some had ludicrously long hair. Some carried purses. “Oklahoma butches,” I said to my beer as I drained it. Another appeared immediately.

Jack, obviously drunk and liking it, leaned his shoulder in to mine and said slushily, “Love your head.”

I grinned at him and ran my hand over my smooth scalp. “Thank you.”

“Don’t get much of that here,” Jack continued, “Too conswer, uh, consper, conservative. But me, I love it.”

Jhoaeneyie, eavesdropping, said, “I used to have real long hair. Down to here.” She indicated her rear. “But I had to cut it off. I simply had to.” She ran her hand through her blond pompadour. “I just adore it now.”

“You two are practically twins,” Jack muttered to his drink.

“Yeah, no offense, but that’s real different.
Real
different.” Jhoaeneyie studied my gleaming head that I had freshly waxed after my shower.

“Yeah, what’s with all the bad hair?” I picked out poodle perms, old feather dos begging to be retired, mullets, fried, frizzy bleach heads, women who had ponytails on their crowns and the rest of their heads shaved, and incredibly, women proudly sporting a tail or a single long thin braid down their backs with otherwise short hair. I wanted to come through here with electric shears.

Jack guffawed. “Tell me about it, honey. This,” Jack indicated the bar, “is my worst nightmare.” He shivered and threw back another shot. “Buy you another too, sweetie?” Jack peered into my beer bottle.

“Sure, but how about some real beer? What the hell is this piss?” I swigged the dregs of my drink.

“Oh.” Jack giggled. “Welcome to Oklahoma. Weird blue law. Bars can only serve beer with 3.2 percent alcohol. Ain’t that some shit?”

Jack and I toasted Oklahoma’s senseless restrictions. Darcy, who had been talking to her girlfriend, now turned to me.

“So, what do you do?” Darcy was aggressive, like a little pug.

“I’m a college basketball coach for—”

“That’s nice. I make tapestries. I weave my own cloth. You should come see it. I’m an artist, really. ’Course my day job is at the Ford Glass plant, but I just have that to support my BMW.”

Astonished, I nodded.

“Ava-Suzanne, my lover, is a musician. She’s also an incredible artist.”

I looked at Ava-Suzanne, who smiled a prim, tight smile with hard eyes.

“What do you play?” I asked politely, not caring at all.

“I’m a flutist,” Ava-Suzanne said icily.

I was busting to say, “You’re not pretty enough to be so hateful,” but I didn’t. “Oh, really.” I sipped my beer, staring at the bar. This was a dead end and a boring one. Maybe I could forget this Jessica Fletcher detective work and pick someone up and make that hotel room useful.

“I’m a therapist,” Jhoaeneyie boomed. “But I play guitar on the weekend. You know, to unwind. My job just shatters me. Isn’t it ironic?”

Jack and I stared at her.

“My IQ is one forty-five, but I’m as forgetful and clumsy as a two-year-old. You know what I mean? Isn’t that ironic?”