Dawn Benedict, TV Detective








Garbage In, Garbage Out

Episode 1: Wherefore Art Thou, Barry?

by Rachael Robbins

© Transgender Forum & Rachael Robbins


Wherefore Art Thou, Barry?

   "I hate that show," I told Doug as he fluffed the wig, swiveling me around in the chair. "Jennifer Aniston gives me the creeps -- she's so damn chirpy. And what  does she see in that guy with the monkey, anyway?"

   "Well I  think he's got a nice, tight ass. And he's so sensitive."   He sighed. "Not like the creeps I seem to end up with . . . "

   "He's an actor,  Doug." I flipped my faux hair to one side, wet my lips and looked coyly at my reflection in the mirror. "The thing that really gets me about that show is all they do is sit around and drink coffee and support each other. They're more supportive than a bunch of TVs at a group meeting, for Christ's sake."

   "Well, I like the show," He stood back and critically examined his handiwork. "That wig looks fabulous on you, girl. The style's all the rage."

   I wasn't convinced -- Doug had been known to flatter me to make a sale before. Still, I'd done business with "Trés Chic Hair and Wigs" for years, ever since the birth of my feminine alter ego. Nothing makes a girl feel more special than new hair -- unless it's a new pair of pumps, of course. "I don't know . . . I'm not sure I want to resemble every little suburban prom queen trying to look like a TV star. You got anything a bit longer?"

   He pulled the wig off with a flourish, revealing my short, buzz-cut hair. "But of course, darling . . . I know just the thing. Be right back."

   While he was in the back getting the wig, I heard the tinkle of the door opening behind me, and in the mirror I saw an elderly couple standing uncomfortably in the doorway. The woman had an curly, oversized wig propped on her head.

   For some reason, they were staring at me open-mouthed, and it took me a moment to figure out why -- they probably hadn't seen too many crew-cut women in their day. So, I swiveled around, earrings tinkling, and gave the old boy a good look at my bare thighs, which were not particularly covered by a black miniskirt.

   "Doug'll be out in a jiffy," I said, making no attempt to disguise my deep voice. The old man's look of shock quickly changed to a scowl, and he took his wife by the arm and hustled her back out the door. I glanced over and saw Doug standing in the door to the stockroom, a long, auburn wig in his hand.

   "Thanks a lot, Dawn," he said. "You're great for customers, you know . . ."

   I looked hurt. "Just trying to be helpful. Besides, you know you don't need the business." And it was true -- he didn't. Doug was the black-sheep son of an Everett shipping magnate, and when his mother died, she'd gone against the old man's wishes and left the lion's share of her inheritance to him. He ran this shop for pocket change, and because it amused him to be the pet homosexual of wealthy Bellevue matrons, who just loved to drop his name at parties: "I get my hair done at Doug Brill's place . . . he's gay, you know, but it doesn't matter to me. Listen -- if he can make a drag queen look good, imagine what he can do for a real  woman . . ." I'd known Doug since he first paid a visit to my support group, the Ballard Belles. He was an artist with a makeup brush, and some of the girls in the Belles needed all the help could get. Not that I was one of them, of course.

   He carefully placed the wig on my head, and turned me back around to face the mirror while he fussed with it, arranging the curls to frame my face just so. While I was preening and posing, the phone rang, and I watched in the mirror as he picked it up.

   "Trés Chic . . . yes, this is he . . ." his face went white and his hand tightened on the receiver. "What? Oh, God . . . why?" I turned to face him. "Okay . . . all right . . . whatever you say . . . yes, I'll be here." The hand holding the receiver slowly lowered until it hung at his side, and he stood like a stiff cutout, staring at nothing.

   "Doug? What's the matter?"

   "They've taken my lover . . ." He groped behind him for a chair, and flopped down.

   "Barry? Taken him where?"  I asked stupidly.

   "He's been kidnapped, for God's sake . . . they want two hundred and fifty-thousand dollars. They're going to call back at 4:00 with instructions . . ."

   "Can you come up with the money?"

   "Oh, that's no problem . . . I've got a lot more than that in various banks. It's just . . . it's just that I think Barry may be the one. I love him, Dawn, and they said they'd kill him . . . I'm so scared . . ."

   I had reservations about Barry being "the one" -- the only time I met him, I thought he looked like all the other shallow young men that Doug had hooked up with. Still, I slipped out of my chair and went over to him and took him in my arms, and he broke down, shedding tears onto my brand new Donna Karan blouse.

  

   By four-thirty, Doug was pacing the store like a caged animal, and I was sitting on the long couch by the window reading a Cosmo, which breathlessly informed me that frosted lipstick was back in vogue -- presumably to go along with retro `60s fashion. All those waif-like models in the magazine looked like anorexic versions of Nancy Sinatra to me. Although I'd quit smoking two years previously, I wanted a cigarette badly. Doug was smoking, and the air was filled with a blue haze. He stopped in front of me, eyes jittery, hands shaking.

   "What's taking them? They said they'd call at four . . ."

   "They're playing psychological games with you, Doug -- they want to make you wait, get you so keyed up you'll do anything they say."

   "Well, it's working," he said, and resumed his pacing.

   At a quarter to six, the phone rang, and I stationed myself at the phone in the back room. At my signal, we picked up the receivers.

   "Listen up, faggot -- I'm gonna say this only once." The voice was sibilant and whispery, chilling in its sexless menace. "Today's Tuesday. At five AM Thursday morning bring $250,000 in unmarked bills to the Shop-Rite in Kirkland. Put the money in a duffle bag, and put the bag in the dumpster in back of the store." The voice paused, and I could hear breathing on the other end. "You know what will happen if you're not alone . . . your little friend dies. No cops, no friends, no cute tricks. Understand?"

   "Y-yes," replied Doug. "But -- how do I know Barry's alive?"

   "You don't," said the voice, and the line went dead.

   I came out of the back room, went over to Doug and laid my hand on his arm. "Can you get the money in time?"

   "A quarter of a million? That's no problem . . . I'll have it by tomorrow afternoon." He paused. His lips were quivering and tears welled in his eyes. "But Dawn -- what if he's dead? I don't know what I'll do if . . ." I gathered him in my arms, and he lay his head on my falsies, sobbing uncontrollably. With all the hugging and comforting I'd done that day, damned if I didn't feel a kind of womanly protectiveness creeping over me.

   I'd have to work on that . . .

  

   Wednesday morning dawned gray and rainy, which was not much of a shock given that it was November in Western Washington. Frenchy had gone to Puerta Vallarta with a lover, and sent me a postcard with improbably muscular, bikini-clad men on the front and snide comments about my sexual orientation on the back. I missed her terribly.

   I'd been up late pondering the kidnapping -- there was something wrong about the whole thing, and it had taken me until one in the morning to come up with what it was. On the surface, it was pretty standard. Abduct the loved one of a rich guy, threaten the abductee's life, and promise the loved-one's safe return if a large sum of money is paid. Come alone, no police, etc., etc.

   The only problem was, to most people Doug Brill was just a very good, very gay hairdresser; very few people knew that Doug was wealthy, and they were all close friends like myself. That narrowed the field quite a bit, so I called him and was given a list of half a dozen names. I was able to narrow it down by eliminating the two I knew well. Although friendship with me in no way precluded a life of crime, I only had a day to do any sleuthing and had to start somewhere.

   Four was still too many to investigate thoroughly, but I could at least use my contacts around town to do a superficial check. First, I called my old friend in homicide, Bernie Peterson.

   "Peterson here."

   "Bernie, it's Dawn."

   "Hiya, Donnie. How's it hangin'?"

   "Actually, it's not hanging at all -- it'd show too much of an unsightly bulge. At the moment, its bound up tightly with surgical tape."

   "Christ, Don . . . thanks for the information. Whaddya need?"

   "I'd like you to run a list of names through the computer. Local will do for a start -- the Feds take too long anyway."

   "Jeez . . . I dunno. It's kind of crazy around here. I could probably get you something by Monday . . ."

   I put on my most alluring, feminine voice. "Bernie, honey, I really need that information by tonight . . ."

   "Now cut that out!" he paused, then I heard a deep sigh. "All right, I might  be able to get something to you late this afternoon. But don't hold your breath."

   "Thank you, sweetie." I made loud smooching noises into the receiver. "I'll be waiting breathlessly for your call."

   Next Month -- Conclusion: Something Smells Here


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