A Kind of Justice by Renee James

catch a set or two at Jazzfest. As much of it as Robbie can tolerate, anyway.
    Betsy is actually excited about the idea. She loved living in the city and she misses it. We’ve been doing everything at her suburban castle and it’s getting boring. Time to get back to civilization.
    When I get home tonight I will start readying my extra bedrooms. Before I became the holder of a business debt bigger than Fort Knox, I managed to buy a roomy two-flat in Lakeview, not far from Boystown. I live in the first-floor unit and rent the other apartment to a tenant. The neighborhood is nice and the brownstone is to die for—solid brick, roomy, high ceilings, big rooms. It was rehabbed a year before I bought it, so it’s beautiful. I have the ground-floor apartment, three bedrooms, a bath and a half, a space-efficient kitchen that is separated from a large living area by a breakfast bar. I use one of the extra bedrooms to do hair for friends. It has a twin bed that I have set up like a couch, plus a stylist chair, special lighting, large mirrors, and a portable beautician station bristling with my beauty tools and supplies.
    The other extra bedroom is a guest room and office. It has a desk and my computer station, and a double bed and bedroom furniture.
    As Betsy talks to Robbie about the tigers across the moat from us, I am thinking that I’ll put Betsy in my bedroom, Robbie in the guestroom, and I’ll take the salon room. If Robbie has trouble sleeping in a new place, she can snuggle with her mom.
    I share these thoughts with Betsy as we walk to the car an hour later. Robbie is sound asleep in the stroller. Betsy smiles and puts her hand on mine. I let go of the stroller with that hand, and we walk a few steps holding hands, exchanging appreciative small squeezes. I realize how much this time with Betsy and Robbie means to me. The wild dashes to the suburbs and back to work should be exhausting, but instead I feel a sort of exhilaration. Like I’m someone who is important to someone. It’s different than having friends you love and a lot different than being successful in business. It’s better. And it’s addictive. I try not to think how wonderful it would be if Betsy and Robbie stayed. I try not to fantasize how perfect it would be for Betsy and I to raise Robbie to adulthood together, sisters bonded in love and a common goal.
    It can’t happen, but I can’t help dreaming about it.
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    T UESDAY , A UGUST 26
    Wilkins watches from a café table as his photographer friend joins the melee in front of L’Elégance across the street. The big tranny queer is doing a hairstyling demonstration on the sidewalk in front of the salon. Her tight black dress bulges with cleavage on top and leaves most of her legs exposed. Her hair sways and bounces as she works and falls like a curtain around her face when she bends.
    She still disgusts him, but she draws a crowd. Her and the two women working with her. They’re all in sexy outfits, selling the sizzle.
    The photographer takes a position in front of the chair. He speaks to Logan. Wilkins can’t hear him, but he knows the man is askingpermission to shoot some photos. His cover story is that he’s a freelance photographer and hopes to sell the photos to one of the Chicago dailies.
    The tranny queer smiles and nods her head yes, her hair bouncing and flouncing, making Wilkins sick. The photographer works the scene for twenty minutes, shooting different angles, working in close-up portrait shots of Logan using a zoom lens.
    Later today, the photographer will begin Photoshopping the photos to give Logan facial hair and a male haircut and put that head atop a male body. The photographer will try to sell the originals to a newspaper, along with a short item about the plucky beauty salon using sidewalk demos to kick-start business. And Wilkins will have some photos of a male suspect to show anyone in