I sat at the bar with Ari after he’d finished his shift at around 2:00am, enjoying a drink or two as well as gossiping over ‘office politics’. Nicky had vanished, having gone searching for Brain who had defied his usual stance and was apparently shaking his ‘booty’ out on the dance floor.

I suspected it was a mixture of incredulousness and fear of Brian ruining his otherwise spotless reputation that spurred Nicky to go into ‘protective boyfriend mode’, and perhaps a little bit of jealousy. I cannot imagine Nicky would care for having his title as Party Boy Extraordinaire challenged by his own boyfriend, who was almost twice his age.

Listening to Ari talk about the latest pieces of gossip doing the rounds of The Scene, it became clear that amongst staff and patrons alike, Michael’s hospitalisation – and its cause – was common knowledge. It was also a topic that had resulted in much speculation and embellishment; there were stories that Michael had OD’d on crystal meth, while other believed he’d attempted suicide merely to get the attention of Leo Clarke, the ex he still desperately carried a torch for. I scoffed out loud at that ludicrous suggestion.

“Seriously, don’t people have better things to talk about?” I asked Ari.

He shrugged. “Y’know what it’s like on The Strip… I mean, this is biggest thing to happen since that guy ripped off Jackie Daniels’ wig and threw it in the gutter,” Ari cried. “Anyway, by next week it’ll be someone else…” he said, and I nodded, smiling.

“True,” I said with a sigh, and yet found myself wondering how Michael would feel about his situation being compared to the de-wigging of a drunken drag queen? I came to the conclusion he would’ve laughed out loud.

Ari was one of the most decent people I’d met on The Scene. Despite being extremely good looking, he was incredibly down to earth and utterly without pretension. While he worked three nights at The Depot, he also worked days as a model, picking up a range of jobs for magazine ads., advertising inserts and flyers, as well as sometimes appearing on TV commercials. He’d also scored a couple of spots as an extra on a couple of locally produced soap operas.

Ari was a smart guy and anyone who wrote him off as just another pretty face without much else going on would’ve been in for a surprise. Despite his age – he was only in his early 20’s – Ari had big plans for his future. He was presently focusing on saving enough money to purchase his first bar and/or restaurant, and had recently purchased his first home – a two bedroom apartment in East St.Kilda, about four blocks from where I lived.

“Why do you think he did it?” Ari asked me.

I shook my head. “I dunno’, Ari… I’ve got no idea…” I answered honestly. “Guess Michael was just feeling desperate… overwhelmed.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I get that,” he replied.

I happened to look at the end of the bar and spied Alexander with a group of guys from Brian’s party. I smiled; he seemed to be enjoying himself, although that air of awkwardness remained around him. Still, it was pleasing to see him mingling with new people.

“Puck? Hey!” cried a shrill voice from my left. I turned on the bar stool and found myself looking into a face I recognized, but the extremely skinny, limp wristed youth’s name eluded me completely. So I did the only sensible thing: I smiled at him pleasantly.

“Hey.”

Skinny Boy, wearing over sized denim jeans which rode low on his hips, exposing the cK branding on his jocks, embraced me warmly and placed a kiss on one cheek. “How are you, gorgeous?” Skinny Boy asked.

“I’m doing ok, thanks,” I replied. “Ya’ self?”

“Oh excellent!” he said happily, and I noticed that his eyes were particularly large and round, revealing the telltale signs of either speed of E. “Oh-mi-gawd,” he cried, covering his mouth with one hand, indicating surprise. “Puck, when I heard about Michael, I was like just so shocked and upset!” He gasped, one hand clutching at his chest, as if seeking an invisible strand of pearls. “I mean, I was like in tears and shit! No kidding!” he said with undeniable sincerity. “He’s such a nice guy. Seems so shitty this has happened to him…”

I nodded quietly while trying to remember whom Skinny Boy was, searching desperately for a name: ’Jason, Jeff, Travis, Tyson, Timmy, Kyle, Kelly, Kane, Mason, Malcolm, Maurice, Trent, Brent, Cory, Jory, Rory…” But nothing was ringing any bells muchless belting out the tune ’La Cucharacha’.

“He was always so good to me,” Skinny Boy remarked, and I found myself feeling disturbed by his use of the past tense. But before I could correct him, Skinny Boy went on: “When I first started at RL, Michael really looked after me and was just the sweetest thing ever, I swear!” He slapped the top of the bar for added emphasis.

I frowned at him, and without thinking, said: “RL?”

He laughed at me and playfully slapped me on the shoulder. “Rainbow Line, ya’ silly-billy!”

’Rainbow Line… of course!’ I had a moment of clarity; Skinny Boy’s name was Tony and he, like Michael, was a volunteer at Rainbow Line, a helpline and counseling service operated for the GLBTI community statewide.

Michael usually did two nights a week as a volunteer counselor, manning the phone lines. Operators underwent an intensive training course in telephone counseling skills to prepare them for a range of situations from the obligatory ‘coming out’ to the ‘my grrlfriend/boyfriend’s a cheating son of a bitch’ calls, as well as the ‘how do you know if you’re a fag/dyke?’ calls, and the occasional ‘I’m a freak and going to kill myself’ calls.

It seemed hard to imagine that this whip-thin scene queen could potentially be the person you spoke to for guidance in the darkest moment of one’s life. I suppressed a shudder.

“Rainbow Line… of course, sorry Tony,” I said apologetically.

“Oh that’s ok, sweetie,” he said and issued a shrill cackle. Ari and I exchanged mutual looks of: ’Were we ever that young and camp?’ I turned back to Tony.

“Guess it’s going to be awhile before Michael comes back, huh?” Tony asked, and I nodded. He digested that thought for a moment, then shrugged it off. “Probably just as well… may be by the time Michael’s better and out of hospital the whole creepy business will be over and forgotten…”

I gave Tony a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Tony asked. “Hmm, well, guess he wouldn’t… we’re not supposed to talk about calls, y’know,” he said in whisper, looking around to make sure no one could overheard him.

The boy had ignited my interest. But I knew I’d have to work him carefully. I smiled at Tony. “Of course not,” I said sagely. “It’s the whole ethical thing…”

“That’s right,” Tony said, nodding, seeming pleased I understood. “It’s all, like, in strictest confidence,” he said earnestly.

“It’s a huge responsibility you guys have,” I acknowledged. “Would you like a drink, Tony?” I threw in nonchalantly.

“Oh sweetie! That’d be fab!” he cried. If there was one thing you could count on with skinny, young gay boys, it was that they were invariably broke and always up for a free drink, line of speed and/or a pill. I caught the attention of one of Tamson, a stunning looking girl with short dark hair and a bright, smiley face. Tamson worked behind the bar and who was one of my favourite co-workers. I placed an order with her after establishing Tony’s beverage of choice.

“A Bricardi and Watermelon Breezer,” Tony indicated, in such a manner as though he were placing an order for the finest bottle of Moet & Chandon. Inwardly I cringed, likening his choice the 21st Century’s version of a $3.00 bottle of spumante. But I got him the drink and handed it over happily, then urged him to take a seat on the barstool beside me.

“So this ‘creepy’ stuff that was going on at RL…?” I asked him. “Did Michael seem all that hassled by it?”

Tony took a swig of the bottle of deep pink fluid, then nodded at me as he swallowed. “Hell yeah,” he cried. “Who can blame him? It freaked us all out … I mean… they warn us about shit like this in training, but you don’t think it’s ever going to happen,” Tony remarked. “Fuck, I just thought it would be a cool way to meet guys, y’know…?” He pulled a face of disappointment. “Hasn’t work out that way though. All the guys that call have way major issues…” His voice trailed off and he took another long draft of the bottle.

So much for his ultraistic motivations, I mused to myself. But I just nodded my apparent understanding.

“I’m like seriously thinking of giving the whole telephone counseling thing the flick, y’know?” Tony informed us.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “I’m sure that would leave a considerable vacuum,” I offered.

“Aw, aren’t you just too sweet!” he beamed at me. “That’s like something Michael would say,” he noted.

“So how did Michael deal with this situation? Was he thinking of giving it up, too?” I asked.

Tony shook his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he replied. “But he was way wigged about it. I mean, if someone freaked out on you and then followed you home one night, I reckon you’d be plenty wigged – right?” Tony said with certainty.

I had to resist the idea of grabbing Tony by the shoulders, slapping him silly and then shaking him until every unnecessary, sibilant syllable and erroneous utterance was purged form his scrawny body, until all that was left of him bore some resemblance to an articulate and frank orator. But I urged myself to be patient. Oh, and not so judgmental.

“Tony, sweetheart…? I’m not sure I’m following you…?” I said.

He looked momentarily conflicted, caught between his duty to the Rainbow Line and his desire to dish the dirt. But he found a happy medium.

“I really can’t go into the whole thing, y’know…? But last week Michael got this call, right? It was at the end of his shift. Anyway, the call went for ages and ages… then the caller freaked out and started threatening Michael and stuff…” Tony explained, his eyes wide. “Later I heard it turns out that Michael spoke to Lydia because he reckons the caller followed him home that night! The caller must have gone to RL’s offices and waited for Michael to leave and followed him back to his place. And you know what?”

“What?” I asked Tony.

“The caller left a message on the RL machine the next morning, saying stuff like ‘I know where you live’ blah, blah, blah…” Tony said. “Lydia called Michael in and there was a big meeting about it and stuff. I don’t know much more than that, only what I heard from some of the others and what I saw written up in the Incident Sheets when I went in the next night…”

Michael hadn’t mentioned any of this to me or - so far as I knew – Desi or Tish. But I supposed he had more pressing matters on his mind at the time, like planning his suicide. I found myself thinking; a disturbed caller follows Michael back to his apartment after threatening him; the muddied footprints on the balcony and bedroom floor - was it all connected?

“Who’s this Lydia person?” I asked Tony.

“Lydia Ludvich,” he answered. “She like runs the whole show at the RL office,” he said, and I mentally noted her name, deciding it might be worthwhile making a call of my own to the Rainbow Line to see if I could get some guidance.

I wasn’t left on my own, however, as Nicky rejoined me, after having first placed a very drunken Brain in a cab and sending him home about an hour and thirty minutes earlier. And as for my little friend, Tony-the-Skinny-Boy, he had subsequently moved onto greener pastures, in the form of two middle-aged men with fat wallets who had him propped up at the bottom bar where they appeared to be engaged in a race to see who could down the most Cock Sucking Cowboys.

I’d just finished telling Nicky what I’d learned from Tony about the mysterious and unpleasant phone call Michael had taken while at Rainbow Line.

Nicky’s expression had become uncharacteristically grim. “You’re so full on about this,” he said to me, his tone indicating a degree of disapproval. “You’re out to prove that Michael has, like, some ‘Arch-Villain’ out there who’s done this to him…”

I looked at Nicky levelly. “Better that theory than the alternative,” I responded.

“Oh? And what’s that? That Michael did this to himself? Well there’s a shocker for you! Wow! Why didn’t I think of that?” he exclaimed with considerable drama, slapping his own cheek in a mock display of surprise. “It’s just so fucking over the top, it just might be true!” The unmistakable scent of sarcasm oozed from every pore on his body.

“Wake up, Puck!” he snapped. “Wake up and smell the goddamn amyl!” He slapped me on the forehead with the palm of his open hand.

“Ouch!” I cried with an irritated expression on my face. We eyed one another in silence for a moment, and then I said: “My fear is something much worse than the whole ’Arch-Villain’ scenario,” I told him.

Nicky let out a long, exasperated sigh, and then cocked a well-plucked eyebrow in my direction as his hands rested on his trim hips. “And that would be…?”

“And that would be not a drunken, violent ex, or some emotionally damaged loon who followed him home from the RL office.” I paused for a moment, hardly able to articulate my darkest thoughts. “What scares me most is that it might be one of us; someone Michael loved – someone Michael trusted – who’s done this to him.”

Nicky just shook his head dismissively. I was about to argue further when I spied Goldie Knox making a beeline in our direction, approaching Nicky from behind.

The glamorous looking drag queen, who looked as though she’d just stepped off the set of Dynasty in her figure hugging full length red gown, drenched in red sequins, caught my eye and winked mischievously at me, then glared hard at the back of Nicky's head.

Goldie paused mid-saunter, sizing Nicky up critically with her lips pursed. Her serrated ruby-red smirk resumed and she pushed her way to take a place at our sides.

“Puck! Dah-ling!” she cried. “How the fuck are you?” Goldie asked in a voice that sounded like a beat up lawn mower engine trying to kick in.

I met her greeting with a smile. “I’m doing just fine, thanks Goldie,” I replied. We exchanged ‘air kisses’, and I was particularly careful not to get too close for fear of committing the Second Worst Sin known in dragdom – smearing the make-up. The First Worst Sin was pulling off a drag queen’s wig and was considered by most to be grounds for justifiable homicide.

Unhappily silenced by her arrival, Nicky stepped back as the spotlight now turned to shine on Goldie, his expression sullen and glaring at Goldie with well worn disdain; their mutual loathing of one another was common knowledge, but it’s origins were now lost in the murky past of Clubland Legend; even I no longer recalled the source of their animosity.

Goldie turned hesitantly to acknowledge Nicky. “Oh. It’s you,” Goldie noted in a clipped manner, her jaw clenched. She flicked a stray strand of hair from her prolific blonde wig and her expression was such that one may have been forgiven for thinking that she’d just passed some otherwise firmly lodged wind.

Nicky’s face made a mockery of a delighted smile. “Hello Goldie. Haven’t seen you out for a while. How was rehab? Looks like it did you some good – you’ve lost a little weight and your skin has cleared up so much! Oh, no, wait,” Nicky cried, leaning in and peering at her face. “Nope, that’s just an extra layer of spack-filler covering it up… my mistake.”

Goldie’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Aw shucks, thanks for noticing, you sweet thing.” Goldie’s tone rang with insincere and overly dramatic delight. “And I have to say – those jeans you’ve sprayed on that well traveled arse of yours simply have to be the best Versace knock offs I’ve seen this side of Bali.”

I took a taste of my drink, mainly to hide my grin, knowing full well how dangerous it was to call into question the pedigree of any item in Nicky’s extensive wardrobe. In Nicky’s world view, it was worse than blowing up a bus full of nuns, orphans, blind people and baby seals – with none other than Kylie Minogue as the bus driver.

“These are so not el cheapo knock offs,” Nicky protested indignantly. “As if! Pff!”

“Oh,” Goldie reacted with apparent astonishment and distress. “Oh honey, I am so sorry,” she exclaimed. “But darling, I couldn’t help but notice the ‘Versace’ emblem…?” - and here Goldie made a point of signaling the inverted commas with her talon tipped fingers – “jutting out on that bulbous butt of yours. And well – while it is close, its definitely not a 100% accurate copy,” she told him. “Here,” Goldie went on, and held out for his inspection her hot pink clutch purse. It bore the instantly recognisable symbol of the House of Versace.

Nicky leaned forward cautiously, as though half-expecting Goldie to bite him, and his eyes studied the purse carefully.

“See the detail?” Goldie asked him. “This is genuine Versace, darling,” she assured him. “The emblem on your jeans is good, no doubt about it. But far from perfect,” she concluded, her voice sparkling with glee.

Nicky’s face went from red to white and with hot, angry eyes he turned to me, sputtering to get the words out. “Puck! Check out my arse,” he demanded. “And tell me what you think," he said as he span round and thrust his small, rounded buttocks in my general direction as if offering hor’ derves.

Beside me, Goldie stifled a giggle and then cocked an eyebrow. “Now there’s an offer you don’t get every day… not that you’d want it. Oh?! Did I say that….? Oh my…” she muttered under her breath, escaping Nicky’s notice.

I focused on my mate’s butt with considerable discomfort, then tried to fix my gaze on the metallic emblem he was wiggling in front of my eyes. But I found myself shrugging helplessly.

“I’m sorry, matey, but in this light I just couldn’t tell – “ But Nicky cut me off. He straightened up and turned to face me, an irritated scowl on his dial.

“God, what’s the use of you?” he snapped. “I should’ve known better – what the fuck would you know anyway…?” he cried. Scarcely pausing for breath, he continued with his tirade: “Brian swore he got me these when he was in Italy!” To my surprise, Nicky seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“That fucking cheap, lying son of a bitch,” he bellowed. “He probably picked them up in Hong Kong on the stopover on his way back…” He brought out his mobile phone from his front jean pocket and flipped it open while turning round and heading towards the stairs that led down to the main entrance of the venue.

“Nicky…? Where are you going…?” I called out after him.

“I’m going to phone him,” Nicky replied.

“Who…? Brian? But it’s 3.45am!” I pointed out to him. “And he’s probably passed out!”

“I don’t give a fuck! I have to know now! Can’t believe that bastard would do this to me – to me!” He screeched in horror, and then continued on his way, storming down the stairs and disappearing from view.

I stood there with an overwhelming sense of pity flooding out of me towards poor Brain, who was about to receive a very rude and obnoxious awakening. Goldie, meanwhile, was bouncing back and forward on her high heels and cackling with malicious mirth, clapping her hands together and breaking out into squeals of delight.

I looked at her critically. “Your purse is a fake, isn’t it?”

“Yup,” she replied. “Got it at a stall at Camberwell Market for six bucks months ago,” she explained with relish.

“He’s going to go volcanic when he realises,” I informed her, but Goldie shrugged.

“Like I care about that shallow, mindless little fuckin’ dimbo,” Goldie declared. “The important thing is it got rid of him. By the time he’s done chewing Brian’s a-hole red raw and figured it all out, it’ll be too late – for now, dear Puck, I have you all to myself,” Goldie proclaimed and fluttered her eyelashes in a playful display. She then threaded her arm through mine. “This calls for a celebration,” she said enthusiastically. “Let’s get pissed!”

But when you put a man in a frock, add a generous sprinkling of gaudy diamontes, a wig and some industrial strength Nair, plus a good helping of Natural Glo, even a relatively plain, diminutive and mousy queen (like Darryl) could be transformed into a fabulous diva with the attitude of a cheesy soap opera femme fatale, combined with a mouth like a sewer, much like his alter-ego, the gregarious Goldie Knox.

“You’re probably sick of talking about all this shit about Michael, yeah…?” Goldie said gruffly. But before I could answer, she went on. “So let’s talk about me instead.” She grinned at me and again batted her fake eyelashes. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, aren’t I?” she cried. “I just did things to some straight guy in the toilets that would make your gonads explode…Oh?! Did I say that? Oh my…!”

I pulled a face. “Spare me the details, Goldie – and that’s not a request; it’s legislation handed down by the Federal Government,” I informed her.

She flicked her long blonde tresses at me as a sign of annoyance, then turned and sipped her drink; Jack Daniels with Coke served in a highball. “But seriously,” Goldie said, after swallowing. “How is he doing? Keep hearing all sortsa’ shit…”

I did my best to give Goldie an overview of Michael’s condition. At the conclusion of which, she nodded thoughtfully and said: “Stupid bastard.”

“Yeah… it’s a pretty crappy situation,” I agreed.

“Yeah. He’s a good guy. Gotta’ wonder why crap happens to the decent ones…” she said with a sigh, and looking over the bar, down towards the dance floor, I saw her eyes narrow and she focused on someone else. “And yet the scumbags of the world live on and on…”

I turned to see whom it was she was glaring at. It was Sevastian, along with Jason Naylor and the rest of the crew. They were lined up at the bar in a fairly messy state, but appeared to be collecting their phones and fags from off of the bar top, indicating they were on their way out. It was close to closing time anyway, I realised. Having seen enough, I looked away.

“Michael’s no angel,” I said. “But he is a decent guy… do anything for a mate. Hell, he’d do anything for a stranger… not an enemy in the world,” I said thoughtfully.

Goldie span round on her stool and looked at me. “Don’t know if I’d go that far,” she commented, and I looked at her for an explanation. “I mean the ‘no enemies’ business, dahl-lin’, don’t go get all defensive, Christ.” She groaned. “Everyone on The Scene has enemies, Puck. That’s just the way it is. Whether you know it or not is another matter… Most of us don’t find out ‘til we go to bed at night and find a whole shitload of knives in our back that we gotta’ pull out first… Oh?! Did I say that? Oh my…!”

While it seemed a cynical point of view, I had to agree that Goldie had a point. At the moment, Sevastian, followed by his companions, passed near us as they made their way towards the main staircase that led down to the doorway. Sevastian shot a look over his shoulder at me and sneered, and I saw his lips move but couldn’t make out the words. However, I was fairly certain it had been: “Rest in peace, Michael.”

I couldn’t be sure, of course, and so looked to Goldie and asked her: “Did you see that?” She nodded, looking down into her glass and jabbing at the ice cubes with her straw. “Son of a bitch!” I spat furiously.

“Hardly surprising though,” she said. “After last week….”

“What do you mean?” I inquired, resisting the urge to go after Sevastian and giving him a kick in the balls. But we were interrupted by Nicky’s return. He stormed up to the bar and stood in front of Goldie with his hands on his hips.

“You are a fucking slag,” he informed her from between gritted teeth.

“Yeah, and…? Your point?” Goldie responded, sounding bored. Nicky turned his head away, holding it up high, refusing to acknowledge Goldie and the broad and wicked grin on the drag queen’s lips.

“Puck, I’m going home now. If you want a lift, you can get a cab with me and I’ll drop you home… unless you’re feeling sorry for the pathetic old queen in the frock here, and feel the need to keep her company…? So it looks like at least one person on Commercial Road can stand her…?”

“Fuck you whore…” Goldie hissed.

Not to be out done, Nicky retaliated: “I hear you don’t get invited to all the best parties – my, aren’t you special?”

I cut in and thanked Nicky for his offer but told him I was going to stay a little longer. He didn’t look happy about that, and as a result gave me a light, humorless peck on the cheek before sauntering back down the stairs and leaving.

“God, what’s up her arse?” Goldie cried. “That one needs a bloody good bitch slappin’ – with a meat mallet,” Goldie added thoughtfully.

Not interested in being drawn into their personal little war, I returned to Goldie’s comments about the incident hat had transpired between Michael and Sevastian the previous week.

“You musta' heard!” Goldie exclaimed, but I shook my head and at the same time began to wonder how it was so much could happen around me, on The Scene, that I did not know about. “Upstairs bar last Friday…. Sevastian and Michael had a huge blew,” Goldie said. “I caught the end of it. But from what I heard later, Michael was sitting there, having a fag on his break or something… Anyway, Sevastian comes up to him and starts abusing the shit out of him. Got no idea what it was about, but it looked intense, from the bit I saw.

“Security got involved… Peter hauled Sevastian away and looked like he was gonna’ toss the little fucker out. Which would’ve done wonders for the ambience of this joint, in my opinion, not to mention the resale value of this crap hole” Goldie paused to sigh dramatically and dragged on her cigarette.

“But Michael sticks his nose in and is like all diplomatic and stuff and tells Peter to drop it. So Sevastian backs off and it all seems good… Mind you,” Goldie took another mouthful of her drink. “Michael did look kinda’ freaked-out afterwards.” Her mind changed track, as she then asked: “Do you reckon he’s really a count?”

“Who? Sevastian?” I asked, and Goldie nodded.

Since his arrival in Melbourne, Sevastian had been telling anyone who would listen that he was a bona fide count of German aristocracy, and how during the Second World War, the Nazis had stolen his family’s immense fortunes. Although he claimed that since the Berlin Wall had been taken down, his family was seeking to regain their lost titles, including - so rumor had it - a castle.

“I’ve seen his credit card, when he’s bought drinks here,” I told Goldie. “It does have ‘Count’ on it, along with his name: Count Sevastian Ludwig Joseph Von Dahl”, I quoted from memory. “But I’m not sure that means much,” I said frankly. “Kinda’ figure you can get anything printed on your ATM card if you really want to.”

Goldie nodded in agreement as she drank more of her beverage. I brought the conversation back round to the original topic: “This argument between Michael and Sevastian….? You didn’t hear what it was about?” I asked her, but Goldie shook her head.

“Nah… only caught one bit… something Sevastian said to Michael right before Peter pulled him away: ‘I know where you live, ya’ fucker’.”

’I know where you live….’ It was too much to be a coincidence, surely? I knew I had to find out more details about the call Michael took at Rainbow Line the previous week. Speaking to Lydia Ludvich would be my priority, followed by another visit to Leo Clarke’s place of employment.

<< - >>

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