cried, recoiling into a corner of the chesterfield as if mortally wounded.
"What I meant was, you had a lot more action than I did."
Mollified, he sat up again and sipped his drink.
"How well did you know Ronnie back in '65?" I asked suddenly. "Were you ever at his place?"
He looked at me speculatively, as if trying to decide what trap I was laying for him. "He wasn't really my type," he said at last. "I remember meeting him with you now and then. And I remember when he started performing I saw him a few times. After you two split up, I heard he got into an abusive relationship, as we say these days. Then ... didn't he have a thing with Phil Starkman? And then I think I heard something about joining a commune or something."
"You're joking. When was this?"
"I kid you not. But I really don't remember when, Michael. You should talk to Glori Daze and that other queen who was around then. She performed with Ronnie as a sort of queen tag team event for a while when Ronnie came back. What was her name...? Binaca, that's it. Binaca Labamba or something."
"Bianca Bombe."
"Right." He finished his drink and stood up. "I'd love to stick around and chew the fat about the old days, but I have an appointment with my plastic surgeon." He blew me a kiss and was gone.
I suspected he was really off to the gym to battle Father Time. For some reason he never wanted to admit he did any strenuous exercise. An image thing, I suppose. So far he was doing pretty well. I suppose being in shape is useful when you're defending major crime bosses. As I watched him drive away in his white Jag, I noticed the vanity plates. QCQ. Queen's Council Queer? Good old Lew. A TV news truck from a local station rumbled up and parked in front of my house, half on the sidewalk. I closed the drapes and turned off the phones. Again.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Ten
Monica Heising was not hard to find. She left a trail everywhere she went, and she seemed to have been a lot of places, from the Right to Privacy committee to Planned Parenthood to a home for teenage mothers. I started with the local NDP Party office and found out she had left them after a flare-up about some policy or other regarding Native women. Then I tried the alumni office of the University of Toronto and got better results, an address in North Toronto. The phone number was unlisted so I got into my car and drove up there one afternoon later that week.
Monica's neighborhood was filled with similar two-story houses with a small porch out front and garage at the end of a shared driveway. Fenced backyards could be glimpsed from the street and kid's bikes and brightly colored plastic toys lay about on the lawns. Monica's house had a fire engine red door. A friendly golden lab-ish dog wagged his tail as I walked up the steps. I hoped Monica would be as approachable. A sign on the door said the bell was out of order, so I knocked. Loudly.
"Okay, okay, I hear you!" The door was flung open and there she was. She had gained a lot of weight but the eyes were the same; the hair, though gray, still cascaded down her back as it had back in the '60s, and her face was surprisingly youthful. "Oh my gawd," she said. "What a blast from the past!"
"You recognize me?" I was amazed.
"Fuck, yes! After all the commotion in the papers about Ronnie, of course I do! Besides, you're the only teacher I ever
had who was fired over something as exciting as an affair with my best friend. Come on in!"
I followed her and the dog into a house humming with activity. The dining room table had been extended to its full length and all around it sat chattering women, stuffing envelopes, peeling stamps, and sticking them into place, an efficient and noisy assembly line. They were all ages, though mostly younger than Monica, all dressed casually in shorts and T-shirts. Sun streamed in the dining room window, which was filled with plants in varying stages of ill health.
"Ladies, this is my old high school history
"What I meant was, you had a lot more action than I did."
Mollified, he sat up again and sipped his drink.
"How well did you know Ronnie back in '65?" I asked suddenly. "Were you ever at his place?"
He looked at me speculatively, as if trying to decide what trap I was laying for him. "He wasn't really my type," he said at last. "I remember meeting him with you now and then. And I remember when he started performing I saw him a few times. After you two split up, I heard he got into an abusive relationship, as we say these days. Then ... didn't he have a thing with Phil Starkman? And then I think I heard something about joining a commune or something."
"You're joking. When was this?"
"I kid you not. But I really don't remember when, Michael. You should talk to Glori Daze and that other queen who was around then. She performed with Ronnie as a sort of queen tag team event for a while when Ronnie came back. What was her name...? Binaca, that's it. Binaca Labamba or something."
"Bianca Bombe."
"Right." He finished his drink and stood up. "I'd love to stick around and chew the fat about the old days, but I have an appointment with my plastic surgeon." He blew me a kiss and was gone.
I suspected he was really off to the gym to battle Father Time. For some reason he never wanted to admit he did any strenuous exercise. An image thing, I suppose. So far he was doing pretty well. I suppose being in shape is useful when you're defending major crime bosses. As I watched him drive away in his white Jag, I noticed the vanity plates. QCQ. Queen's Council Queer? Good old Lew. A TV news truck from a local station rumbled up and parked in front of my house, half on the sidewalk. I closed the drapes and turned off the phones. Again.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Ten
Monica Heising was not hard to find. She left a trail everywhere she went, and she seemed to have been a lot of places, from the Right to Privacy committee to Planned Parenthood to a home for teenage mothers. I started with the local NDP Party office and found out she had left them after a flare-up about some policy or other regarding Native women. Then I tried the alumni office of the University of Toronto and got better results, an address in North Toronto. The phone number was unlisted so I got into my car and drove up there one afternoon later that week.
Monica's neighborhood was filled with similar two-story houses with a small porch out front and garage at the end of a shared driveway. Fenced backyards could be glimpsed from the street and kid's bikes and brightly colored plastic toys lay about on the lawns. Monica's house had a fire engine red door. A friendly golden lab-ish dog wagged his tail as I walked up the steps. I hoped Monica would be as approachable. A sign on the door said the bell was out of order, so I knocked. Loudly.
"Okay, okay, I hear you!" The door was flung open and there she was. She had gained a lot of weight but the eyes were the same; the hair, though gray, still cascaded down her back as it had back in the '60s, and her face was surprisingly youthful. "Oh my gawd," she said. "What a blast from the past!"
"You recognize me?" I was amazed.
"Fuck, yes! After all the commotion in the papers about Ronnie, of course I do! Besides, you're the only teacher I ever
had who was fired over something as exciting as an affair with my best friend. Come on in!"
I followed her and the dog into a house humming with activity. The dining room table had been extended to its full length and all around it sat chattering women, stuffing envelopes, peeling stamps, and sticking them into place, an efficient and noisy assembly line. They were all ages, though mostly younger than Monica, all dressed casually in shorts and T-shirts. Sun streamed in the dining room window, which was filled with plants in varying stages of ill health.
"Ladies, this is my old high school history
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