Episode 1: Dawn Gets Her Chance at Stardom

  "Why not just wear the clothes?" the blonde with the big hair asked, sincere puzzlement written all over her features. "I mean, why do you have to go the whole nine yards, with makeup, shaved legs and a wig?"

  One of her hapless guests, a burly specimen with a five o'clock shadow, struggled to answer, but was cut off by the host: "Sorry, dear, we have to take a break. `Transvestism: Sick or Sublime?' will continue with my closing thoughts, next on Suzannah!" 

  I was disgusted -- simply disgusted. Here were my sisters, being exploited by some media bimbo, just to feed bored housewives' sick, voyeuristic libidos. They ought to get lives, like me -- I had to tape the show to watch it, for Christ's sake.

  The blonde with the big hair returned, and the camera panned across the audience, revealing the usual contingent of slumming drag queens on the first row and a surprising number of men scattered throughout. Didn't those bozos have jobs to go to?

  "We have time for one more question," the blonde announced. One of the men in the audience lumbered to his feet, and the host shoved a microphone into his leering face.

  "Uh, yeah," he said. "I got a question for the one on the end . . . yeah, you wit' the red hair -- Krystal? Where do you, like, keep it?"

  The audience snickered collectively, and the host rolled her eyes and simpered "Hey, c'mon now -- this is a family show . . ." She moved down on to the stage and sat on the end of the row of crossdressers, patting the girl next to her on the knee with a motherly smile; the camera tightened in on her features. Sincerity was written all over her face and "Suzannah's Soliloquy" appeared on the bottom of the screen.

  "What is this thing we call femininity?" she began. "Is it nothing more than a gesture, a bit of paint, or nylon stockings? Can you define the essence of womanliness by earrings and a smile? These men before you live that proposition, that femininity can be realized by all  of us in life, regardless of biological sex. They are often persecuted, ridiculed and even physically harmed by the less sensitive among us." Yeah, like by brainless talk-show hosts  , I thought.

  "Yet, who do they hurt, these males in miniskirts, guys in gowns, chaps in Chanel? In our multicultural melánge, isn't there room for men who wear dresses? In the words of Rodney King," she paused and turned to look soulfully into camera two "Can't we all just get along?"

  Returning to camera one, she managed to shake off the sadness and smile toothily. "Tomorrow, a show you won't want to miss. `Doggie Makeovers' . . . Next, on Suzannah!"

  I jabbed savagely at the off button on the remote. That bimbo doesn't have the brains or compassion of my cat,  I thought, and I padded self-righteously off to bed.

  Frenchy came through the front door of my outer office at nine thirty the next morning -- a half-hour late, as usual. After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she entered the interior room where I sat going through the morning mail, hoping for cash, but finding only bills.

  "Didja see Suzannah! yesterday?" she asked.

  "Some of us work during the day."

  "Oh, c'mon, I know you tape it, just like me. Wasn't that redhead on the end a scream? Looked like he could play fullback for the Seahawks. And that wig. Jesus. I'll bet he bought it at a Tammy-Faye Bakker liquidation sale."

  I stared impassively at my assistant, trying to frame an appropriate response. She was dressed casually, in jeans and a T-shirt that read "Dildos Don't Talk Back". Short, curly hair framed a strong face, with a straight, patrician nose and full mouth. She was intelligent, attractive and willful, a combination I find irresistable. Unfortunately, she didn't particularly like men, even those who sometimes looked like women. Although I accepted her homosexuality (how could I not, given the circumstances?), I sometimes regretted the fact that we'd never be more than close friends.

  At the moment, though, I was irritated by her cavalier remarks about one of my sisters. "I feel that it's . . . inappropriate for you to belittle that poor girl, when all she's trying to do is express her feminine side."

  "Oh, come on, lighten up. You fake women take yourselves way too seriously." She stopped, waiting for me to take the bait -- "fake women" was one of her favorite insults. When I didn't respond, she continued: "How come you're not your usual, hyper-babe self today?"

  I shrugged. "Sometimes, I just feel like a man . . . sort of like you, I guess."

  "Now, that was a low blow. Just because I don't look like some Barbie doll . . ." Her retort was interrupted by the shrill sound of the phone, which she picked up with a dark glare in my direction. As she listened, a sardonic grin slowly appeared, and she covered the receiver with one hand.

  "Somebody from the Johnnie Baker show for you," she said, and handed me the receiver.

  My stomach did a slow roll. Johnnie Baker was the host of "Johnnie's Jive", a local talk show on Channel Eight. It was well-known that several syndicators were looking at the show, and that it was only a matter of time before it went national. Consequently, in the past few months, the shows had gotten more sensationalistic and exploitative, treating topics ranging from local UFO crazies to druids who worshipped at the Stonehenge replica on the Columbia River. I guess it was only a matter of time before they got around to crossdressers.

  "Mr. Benedict?" came the pleasant female voice on the other end. "I'm Cassie Martin, the producer of `Johnnie's Jive'. Do you have a few minutes?"

  "Sure," I replied, trying to sound as noncommittal as possible.

  "We'd like to do a show on transgenderism, and your name was given to us by a . . . Cathy Richards. We're wondering if you would like to come on our show."

  I made a mental note to strangle the sometimes overenthusiastic president of my support group the next time I saw her. While I'm assuredly not in the closet, and have little to lose from public exposure, I didn't feel that an appearance on a talk show befitted my image.

  "Uh, Ms. Martin, I'm not particularly fond of the manner in which we're portrayed on talk shows . . ."

  "Oh, I agree totally.  They get some guys who look like truck-drivers in skirts and put `em up there with a couple of drag queens, and then ridicule them. But that's not what we're about on `Johnnie's Jive'. We want to present a balanced, caring view of crossdressers. We're going to have a gender therapist -- Martine Rosenquist, do you know her? -- and guests from the entire spectrum of the gender community. We want to show crossdressers and transsexuals as productive, successful members of Seattle society."

  "Well, I don't know . . ."

  "Of course, as a professional, we wouldn't expect you to work for free. I can offer you an honorarium of five hundred dollars."

  I thought hard. Business had been slow lately, and I hated to turn down a fee that was five times my normal hourly rate. Besides, Martin sounded sincere -- maybe this wouldn't be the usual freak show.

  "I'll do it," I said.

  "Great! The show tapes August 18th. I'll have a production assistant contact you with the details." After I hung up the phone, I looked over to where Frenchy was slouched in the visitor's chair, one leg slung over its arm and a smirk on her face.

  "What?" I demanded.

  "How much're they paying?" she enquired sweetly.

  "Five hundred bucks. But that's not the point. They want to do a balanced show, to present the community in a sympathetic way . . . and the exposure might bring in some new clients."

  "Sure, Dawn, whatever you say."

  I parked the Opel in one of those all-day parking lots a block over from the Channel Eight studios on Mercer Street. It was one of those glorious summer days in Seattle that made you forget the miserable winters. A ferry boomed its deep greeting out on Eliot Bay as it churned into the terminal, while seagulls wheeled and dipped in a brilliant, azure sky. An onshore breeze carried the tangy scent of salt water, managing to overpower the exhaust fumes of the everpresent traffic. I crossed the street at the light, and flashed a smile at a good-looking man in a business suit who opened the studio door for me. Truly, it was grand being a girl.

  At the front desk, a dyspeptic guard examined his list, checked off my name, and pointed vaguely to the left. "Studio B, down the hall, first door to your right."

  I examined the scene in the studio with interest. To my left was the stage, with six armchairs arranged in a row, a tangle of lights and cables overhead, and stage crew swarming all around. It struck me as odd how small the platform was -- it looked a lot bigger on TV. In front of me was the raised audience area, containing some seventy-five seats; again, the magic of television made the audience seem much larger.

  Just then, a breeze ruffled my skirt, and I heard the door through which I'd just come open and close. A heavy arm settled around my shoulders, and I looked up into the face of Johnnie Baker.

  "Hello, honey," he said. "A little early for the show, aren't you? Tell you what. I can get you a real good seat, right up front. Why don't we go back down to the office and talk about it?"

  Flustered, I was preparing a scathing response when a slender woman strode up, arms full of folders. She transferred the papers to her left hand and held the right one out.

  "You must be Dawn Benedict, our crossdressing detective" she said with a sly grin. "I'm Cassie Martin. And I see you've already met Johnnie . . ."

  I turned back to Baker and, batting my eyes, said in my deepest voice "Very glad to meet you, Johnnie."

  His arm sprang from my shoulders as if it were scalded, and a look of horror crossed his face.

  "Glad to have you on the show, Dawn," he mumbled, and fled back through the door without another word.

  "Asshole," Martin said, and rolled her eyes. Long, auburn hair curled around her shoulders, providing a pretty setting for her generous mouth and small, straight nose. Her eyes, wide-set and intelligent, met mine directly, not a usual occurrence in those who knew my true sex.

  "Is he always that . . . friendly?" I asked.

  She laughed. "You mean horny. Yes, that's our Johnnie. But, on camera, he just exudes concern, and that's what sells detergent. I have to admit, though, that I can understand why he was fooled -- are you sure that you're a guy?"

  "Last time I checked," I said, blushing at the compliment. "Is there a place where I could freshen up before the show?"

  "Sure -- let me show you the . . . what do you use, the ladies room?"

  "Dressed like like this? What other room would I use?"

  "C'mon, then, and I'll show you," she replied, seemingly undisturbed by the thought of a man in that ultimate of female sanctuaries. She led the way down the aisle, past the stage, and out a side door. As we walked, we passed stage hands and production assistants, intent on the complex business of putting together a weekly television show. Perhaps they were jaded, used to the likes of singing ducks and wandering transvestites, or maybe they had no idea that I was one of the guests, but none of them gave us more than a cursory glance.

  "There's the bathroom, and that door up ahead is the Green Room," she said, pointing at a door at the end of the hall. "You can relax in there until it's time -- there's coffee and donuts."

  I thanked her and entered the empty restroom, making my way directly to one of the enclosed stalls. I'd just gotten settled down when I heard the outer door open, and the clicking of high heels.

  "That son-of-a-bitch has screwed me for the last time," a female voice said. I could tell that they were standing in front of the sinks, which faced the row of stalls where I sat. "I can't take it anymore."

  "What're you gonna do?" a second voice asked.

  "Go to Feldmann, what else can I do?"

  "Don't be stupid . . . it'd just cost you your job. He's not going to get rid of a cash cow like Johnnie. As long as the show's raking in money, he can do pretty much whatever he wants to the hired help." There was an undeniably bitter note to the voice.

  "Well, somebody's gotta do something. He's . . ." began the first woman, but she was silenced by a shush from her companion. Shit, I thought, just when it was getting good. Must've seen me in the mirror.  A moment later, I heard the outer door open, and the two women were gone. I finished my business in the stall, adjusted my padding, and went over to the mirror to check my makeup. One of the requirements of my job is a healthy sense of curiosity. OK, I'm a natural-born snoop. And the snippet of conversation I'd overhead intrigued me professionally -- evidently, not all was rosy in talk-show heaven.

  After blowing myself a kiss in the mirror, I left the bathroom and walked the short distance to the Green Room, my stomach rumbling at the thought of donuts. I pushed open the door, and stopped in the portal to observe my fellow travellers along the talk-show highway.

  A hunched figure in a dirty pink jumper hovered protectively around the donut table in one corner of the room. I recognized her as Susie, a homeless victim of mainstreaming I'd often seen wandering aimlessly around the Pioneer Square area of the city. In the opposite corner, Kim Rogers sat in an overstuffed armchair regarding Susie with a curious mixture of sympathy and disgust. Kim and I'd known each other for years, since my days as a volunteer at the Ingersoll Center. She was an elegant, post-operative transsexual who worked as a tax attorney for a Bellevue insurance company.

  Two more guests sat on a ratty blue sofa to my left, and they couldn't have been more different from each other. The first was a pretty blond crossdresser wearing what I like to think of as "suburban drag" -- a calf-length wrap skirt, peasant blouse and tan flats. Her slender legs were bare and well-tanned, and a fluffy blond wig and hoop earrings completed the impression of a pampered, yuppie housewife. Her couch-mate was another denizen of the Seattle streets, a hustler known as Ramona, who was presently engaged in a desultory, gum-popping flirtation with the young blonde. Ramona made little effort to hide her biological sex, wearing fishnet stockings, stiletto boots and hot pants with an obvious bulge. In all likelihood, the blonde would have no trouble resisting her advances

.  The fifth occupant of the green room, a broad-shouldered version of Diana Ross, sat on the opposite coutch, and regarded her companions with great good humor. Tiffany Diamond was a regular at the Paradise Club on First Avenue, and when she saw me in the doorway, she boomed "Dawn, darling!  So you been invited to this little gig, too -- now it'll be a real party. Come on over here and sit next to Miss Tiffany."

  She patted the cushion, and I sat gingerly next to her, placing my purse at my feet. "Hi, Tiffany. How're things down at the Paradise?"

  "Oh, they just hoppin'.  We got us a new girl who does a positively sinful Liza Minelli, which is good, `cause our old Liza -- you remember Mist Eros, don't you honey? -- well, she run off with Bobby Clayton. Claim she gonna get the operation and settle down and change her name to Paula, for Christ sake. Who ever heard of a drag queen named Paula?"

  I allowed as how that was a strange name for one, all right, and then she was off again.

  "Anyway, let me introduce you to the girls." She stood up, towering over me, and cupped her hands theatrically. "Girls . . . yoo hoo . . . girls! This here's Dawn Benedict, the baddest, wickedest, most nelly P.I. around!"

  I let her introduce me, even though I knew all but the elegant blonde. Ramona eyed me warily -- I doubt that she remembered me from the vice squad, though -- and Susie gave me a vague look, mumbled something incomprehensible, and greedily attacked another donut. Kim stood and gave me a warm hug. Finally, the blonde uncoiled gracefully from the couch and extended a languid hand.

  "Hi, I'm Ashley," she said, staring at me with her enormous blue eyes. "Are you really a detective?"

  "I really am," I replied. I got the feeling that she would not be adverse to a little hanky-panky, and if I were into men (which, of course, I'm definitely not), I might have been inclined to take her up on it.

  "Ashley, she from Brothel," Tiffany cut in.

  "That's Bothell," Ashley corrected, naming a small bedroom community north of Lake Washington.

  "Whatever."

  I let Tiffany drag me back to our side of the room, whereupon she turned to me, poking me in the process with her oversized boobs, and said in a stage whisper "Miss Tiffany overheard somethin' trés juicy today, darling. She was outside the office of a certain talk-show host, and heard yelling. Some dude's voice."

  "What was he saying?"

  "Well, he was very pissed off, you know? An' I heard something about stocks and bondage, then killin'. Then this big ol' man comes stompin' out of the office. You think they into B&D, Dawn?"

  "More likely stocks and bonds, like in finances, dear," I said drily.

  Just then, a production assistant came in to usher us to the set, and I gave no further thought to squabbling between Johnnie Baker and his employees. In light of subsequent events, however, our eavesdropping episodes were to assume a somewhat greater importance, and lead me down a twisted path of obsession, madness and revenge.

Next: Johnnie's All Choked Up.