It was Fantabulous!’ reopening night. Ian arrived at 8:45 PM, not because he wanted to be fashionably late, or because police business tied him up. Emmet Meyers said the magic words, and Ian was officially no longer a person of interest in a half hour, much less their prime suspect. Thanks to Ricky and the taxi driver, he had an airtight alibi. Everyone knew he was the worst boyfriend in existence, which wasn’t a secret to Bee. He heard Kitty’s condemnation of him as a heartless bastard and, on that evidence, a murderer. It knocked the wind out of him; someone so close to Jake thought he killed him. Despite its juvenile title, Glock, Teen P.I. featured two or three crimes of passion that the incompetent cops of Keystone City couldn’t solve without the Whiz kid’s interference.
As Markus nodded him in, Ian felt something he had never felt all day. Not even when he walked into an interrogation room of icy faces at the police station. Even his old friend Bee kept on his poker face. Ian understood. Detective William Beecroft intended to catch Jacob’s real murderer as much as Ian did, but he’d be dismissed from the case at any hint of bias. Were they still pals? Only time would tell. Time, he was late. Almost two hours late. His bladder loosened as he spotted Ricky, hot in his own black-and-silver Fantabulous! shirt, at the bar with Kitty. Not because he feared her. Tonight, less the polished queen but an awkward princess in hot pink who clutched her tiara to keep it straight. No, he wanted to run away before he ruined the life of the man he loved. He owed Ricky for the honest-to-God alibi and taking the reins. Even his archnemesis looked declawed.
“Any trouble tonight?” He shouted over Everybody’s Free (To Feel Good) by Rozalla. It was Fantabulous!’ unofficial theme song. Chosen by Jake in 1991. He insisted it’d be the first song played at the opening, even if he owed Grossman a favor for acquiring the 12-inch vinyl overseas. Devon must’ve wet his pants. Ian couldn’t remember the exact day, try as he might, but Kitty had. She likely insisted it be played when they reopened two hours ago, and when their tardy king arrived. At least she winked at him as he chatted with Markus. Had she noticed he was in uniform as well? Ricky flared his nostrils at him because he showed up on Filipino time. His partner’s words, not his. No, there was something more. The way he shook his head. Did the real estate agent call here by mistake? His Motorola 5080 stayed silent since he parked the 1994 Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited Rover. She better not have after the seven figures he paid for a one-bedroom, one-and-a-half bathroom house. Their just-built sleek and shiny new home on the Venice Canals. Less than a mile from the bar. Ricky would love being close to work. It was the perfect surprise for the best boyfriend on earth. Ian’s stomach fluttered.
“If you call too many guests a problem, Mr. Hornsby.” Markus had a wide grin.
“You’re a superhero.” He saluted him. It was what Jake called him.
“Mr. Luna already called me that tonight.”
“Why can’t you call us Ricky and Ian?”
“I believe in professional boundaries. At least with the owners. It’s nothing personal.”
“Alright, Mr. McQueen.” Ian took a step back. No way Jake would accept one of the chosen family addressing him as Mr. Monk. It wouldn’t be like family. Since Markus could melt his head with one stare, he left the case unsolved. Since another habit of Jake’s was to collect strays from the queer spectrum, he wondered if their bouncer, who wasn’t the L, was the G or the B? Not that it mattered, but Tommy Glock and Mr. Hornsby couldn’t resist a mystery.
“Let us in!” someone yelled behind him. A queen adorned in brilliant sequins and feathers lost her patience. Behind her, a long line of patrons grew annoyed and impatient.
It was a cue to face the music inside. He’d brave the Only One Love protestors from Jake’s memorial over the queens and other queers kept waiting too long. He gave Ricky the thumbs up, only to be utterly disregarded. Didn’t he see how proud he was? He kept his promise to the staff that they’d keep their livelihood. Kept his promise to the community that they’d get back their port in the storm. Monday, they’d watch Serving in Silence: The Margarethe Cammermeyer Story on Channel 4 on their hotel’s 75-inch projection screen TV. Glenn Close’s character was forced to retire. At least, Jake’s bookkeeper, Tori, beat them to the punch. As if it hurt her less. Ian didn’t spot her or Tyler with the group inside. Tyler, who lent him his shirt. He frantically searched the crowd behind him for Grossman. He’d thrown the drink at him, Ian was sure. After failing to put him in his place.
“Tommy Glock!” A high-pitched, raging cry tore through Marky Mark’s Good Vibrations. “You betrayed us.” Without warning, someone smacked him with a pie square in the face. He could hear it splat like the loud drumbeats from the song playing. After he brushed the sickening yellow custard and flaky crust, he didn’t stare into their smirking former director’s face. It was the matronly face of a middle-aged woman he knew right away. The founder of his Oklahoma fan club, who’d attended his mall events since the mid-1980s. “That picture was disgusting.” She spotted Ricky and blamed him in her tongue-lashing. “You ruined everything!” She pointed inside the club. “You’ll all burn in hell.”
“Honey, if this is hell, they have the best music and drinks.” The queen behind Ian dragged the madwoman to Markus, who delivered her to a police officer arriving on her bicycle just in time.
“Anita?” He was at a loss for words as the cop cuffed her. It wasn’t her hateful words but the way she growled. Animalistic. Devoid of humanity. When she once smiled and giggled wildly. Just a good Christian fan. Tommy’s Number One.
The crowd inside and outside cheered and laughed loudly, drowning her last-minute rants that God hated fags. As he shoveled pie residue off his face, his heart ached.
This was the hell to pay, his agent had warned him. From the Glock fans. Big red check. He stopped breathing. From the network? His big, fat royalty checks. He’d taken them for granted so often. It paid for their move here—their new home. A swarm of scents assaulted him from every direction. Rum. Gin. Vodka. Tequila. Whiskey. And beer. It wasn’t his Tommy Glock instincts. He was eternally underaged in reruns. His destructive adult instincts were activated. He watched a tray brimming with his kind of poison while Shampoo’s Trouble screeched.
“Ian, I heard everything she said.” It was his savior with a towel. “I said I was humiliated, I had to relive our New Year’s Eve kiss for the police. But I don’t doubt your love. Just your actions. Mr. Meyers said they couldn’t pin a crime of passion on you. You love me, not Jake. Not for a very long time. But Jake…he was still in love with you.”
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