“You’re joking,” he balked, upon entering the salon.
“Not without tips,” said Dara. She grinned. “God that felt good to say.” Yes, it had indeed been too long since we heard it. “In any case, the tubes are too small, the brushes too delicate, and if we all don’t work as a team, Creature’s gonna look like one hot mess. Or Tammy Faye Bakker.
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“Point taken,” she answered.
Ricky held up his hand in submission. “Never mind. I’ll help.”
Straight men: so easily pussy-whipped. Even when the pussy is created by one good tuck. Which is also why drag queens don’t fall down, by the way. Because tucking plus falling equals massive, massive pain. And yes, even in death, dick and ball crushing hurts, though maybe that was only in my head. Both of them.
Anyway, took longer to do the makeup than the dress, but eventually I looked as close to the real deal as I could get. But the pièce de résistance was the wig. Now that had to be perfect. If the eyes are the windows to the soul—and the jury was still out whether I even had one of those left—then the wig is the curtains. Luckily, the salon had the perfect window treatments.
Dara helped me crown my head. “Big and platinum and teased to hell,” she said.
“But do I look like her?” I asked.
She nodded, grinning all the while. “Blondella’s own mother wouldn’t be able to tell you two apart.”
I’d met said mother before. The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree in that regard: both of them were overly ripe and withered around the edges. Still, I’d take it. After all, that was what we were going for. Plus, we had distance on our side. And distance is a girl’s best friend. Though a few drinks often helps. And some dim lighting. Or, in Blondella’s case, all three.
The marina was fenced in. Apart from the ferry landing, you needed a key to get through a gate to be able to get to your slip, to your boat. All we had to do was find the key. Luckily, that part wasn’t as difficult as it sounded.
“Whoever has a key to the gate,” I shouted, “come to the gate, now!”
There weren’t that many zombies milling about behind the gate. Most of them were trapped on their boats, but there were a few grizzled-looking workers walking from dock to dock, one or two ramming against the fence over and over again, like a bird who encounters a window and keeps trying to fly on through. Also, the docks had raised trims, so for centuries they could never simply walk into the water and out of their living hells.
“There!” said Ricky, pointing far up the plank and down the length of the fence.
Lo and behold, a man was now lumbering our way, dressed in a blue jumpsuit and a cap, keys swinging from his side, the sound of them the only one besides the water lapping against the boats and the wind whipping the sails.
“That’s our man,” said Dara.
“Or one hell of a fashion victim,” added I.
In any case, a few minutes later, he was standing on the opposite side of the gate, groaning as he stared into the oblivion. I, in turn, stared at the keys. I then reached through the gate and unlatched the metal wad from his belt loop. They jingled and jangled in my hand as I yanked them back through, gleaming in the early morning sunlight.
“Thanks,” I said to the dock worker zombie. “Now go back whence you came.” And, yes, talking to zombies required a little bit of theatrics and a smidge of talking down to. Same for children. And squirrels. And, um, Republicans.
One key led to two, two to four. The fifth one grabbed hold of the lock and turned, the gate in desperate need of some oil but giving way just the same. The zombie had already backed away, and so we entered, quickly making our way to the first rickety, rusty vessel after we locked the gate behind us. Then Ricky and Dara helped me down into the boat, while Dara hid as best she could and Ricky stood off to the side. After all, they hadn’t a clue who he was.
And so the stage was set.
And a drag queen just adores a stage, even a floating one. Heck, this one even had a bar, so, naturally, I felt right at home.
Not ten minutes or so later, we saw the Liberty Island ferry approaching from out in the middle of the bay, chug, chug, chugging its way toward us. The horn blew to alert its arrival. I assumed that was for my benefit.
“Show time,” I proclaimed, butterflies (or perhaps bats would be more apt) taking wing inside my belly.
I watched the ferry pull in to dock, the plank slide in to place and, lastly, the queens, one by one, emerge into the sunlight. They chatted cattily as they moved briskly toward the long-forgotten marina, their voices echoing all around me.
That us, until, also one by one, said voices died away.
I watched them as they in turn stared, gaped and gawked at me. This is what we’d been planning on, to see their reactions, to see what they would do next.
Ginger whimpered first and immediately prostrated herself, Aflo quick to follow. Or, well, quickish. I mean, with her rotundity, quick wasn’t exactly her forté. VaVa and Topaz looked to the other two and then at each other. It was brief, perhaps the barest of split seconds, but some sort of message went from one set of eyes to the other before these two also prostrated themselves, their tight dresses barely allowing for such a maneuver.
I turned to Ricky. He turned to me. We’d both seen it. They were surprised to see me, but not in the same way the other two girls were.