Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [102]
“Thanks,” her companion said with a grin when the stony-faced bartender placed another round in front of him. Ignoring the young man’s attempt to ingratiate himself, he collected the money and tip without making eye contact.
“By the way, my name’s Matthew,” the young man said, holding out his hand. “You can call me Matt—everyone does.”
“Hi, Matt,” Elena said, shaking his hand, which was warm and dry and unexpectedly grainy. She guessed maybe he did manual labor of some kind, based on the coarseness of his skin—she could see calluses on the palms of both hands. He looked at her expectantly, head cocked to one side, and she suddenly realized she had forgotten to come up with an alias.
“I’m … Lenny,” she said, thinking fast.
“Lenny,” he answered. “Like in Of Mice and Men?” “Or I was Lenny, before,” she continued. “Now I’m—Lottie.”
“Hey, I like that!” he chuckled. “Lottie Lenny, like Lotte Lenya. I love her—not as much as my ex-boyfriend, though. He has all her records.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “She is good, isn’t she?” But she was trying to figure out why a man with rough calluses on his hands would be familiar with John Steinbeck and Lotte Lenya.
“Drink up,” he said, sliding the second bottle toward her.
She gulped down the rest of her beer, tossed the bottle into the container behind the bar, and lifted the sweating bottle of Brooklyn Brown in a toast.
“Here’s to meeting new friends.”
“I’ll drink to that,” he said, taking a swig and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, Lottie, what do you like to do for fun?”
“Oh, that depends on who I’m doing it with,” she answered, batting her false eyelashes at him. The trick was to overdo it enough so that she didn’t look like a woman, but like a man trying to pass as a woman. The key was overstatement—but not too much so that it veered into camp.
“Are you—a full-service playmate?” he asked, with a glance at her crotch.
She understood what he meant. He was expecting her to have a penis, as an actual transvestite would. She had chosen the miniskirt to avoid the issue—it effectively covered her crotch area. This was the moment of truth, where she had to convince him of the lie.
“What do you suppose?” she said, pressing her well-muscled thigh against his.
“Hmm, let’s see,” he replied, reaching out a hand to grab her crotch.
She turned away, and deftly grasping him by the wrist, she placed it on her chest. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” she said. “Meanwhile, try this.”
“Hey, these are good,” he answered, squeezing her breast. “Where did you get them done?”
“That’s a secret,” she responded. Guiding his hand to her face, she placed two fingers inside her mouth and sucked on them.
He closed his eyes and moaned, letting his head loll back. “Mmm, baby, you’re a red-hot mama.”
“You haven’t seen anything,” she answered, but at that moment her left ear exploded with pain, and everything went dark.
When she came to she was lying on the floor of the bar, looking up at Matt. He was struggling with a tall, thin woman—no, a tranny—with long, dark hair (a wig?), a tight black jumpsuit, and wicked stiletto heels. A few of the other patrons at the bar were looking at them, but the dancing on the dance floor continued as if nothing had happened.
“Hey, baby, what are you doing?” Matt was saying, holding tightly onto her wrists as the transvestite tried to claw his face with her long crimson nails.
“You—pig—how—could—you?” she responded, out of breath from the effort of struggling.
“Hey, we was just flirting,” Matt said, still grasping her arms tightly.
“You call that just flirting?” the tranny hissed. Wrenching one hand free, she swiped at his face, nails clawing the air. But he ducked and pulled away from her, releasing his hold on her other arm.
“Whoa! You’re too intense for me, baby,” he said. Holding his hands up in surrender, he backed away from her. It was only then he seemed to notice Elena lying where she was on the floor. “Hey, sorry about that,” he said, reaching down to help her up.
The tranny in the stilettos roared and lunged toward him.