Dangerous by Default

25. Miss Q

A dollar bill was loosened from Pechaude's hand as he stared upon the gold fringe that was inches from his face. The smell of the performer's lip gloss filled his nostrils as she leaned in for a mock kiss. This intoxicating aroma made him grateful for what he couldn't smell. The acute odor of decay that had weighed on his psyche was now seemingly lifted. Instead of death, he was enthralled in the perfume of life.

It was this scent that had drawn him to Miss Queen's that night, the only transgender nightclub in America. A multilevel establishment, one could travel through different universes with the help of one stairwell. A drag cabaret boisterously greeted the patrons of the first floor. Then one could stumble to the second floor, where a strip club beckoned. But the third and final floor was a place where consenting adults could do as they liked, for a price.

Pechaude recognized that Miss Queen's was just as important to the women who worked there as it was for its patrons. It was one of the few places where transgender women could go and feel part of a community, to find work that let them live their truth, and be loved. It was as much a community center as it was a brothel. Pechaude was fine with both. He was there to celebrate.

The cabaret performer moved further down the bar amidst a sea of dollar bills, taking the intoxicating aroma with her. Pechaude opened his senses to the rest of the room, and couldn't help but smile. The bar stools of the first floor held a diverse range of patrons, at least compared to the stuffy, smokey cigar rooms he frequented in Paris and L.A..

Some were distinguished older men of means like himself, smelling of starched suits and stale loneliness barely masked by cologne. Always invariably joined to a glossy-eyed ingenue. There were young men wearing baseball hats pulled low over their eyes, pungent with the pheromones of both arousal and fear. These men would flinch on que at the cheering that boomed from the booths behind them, where clusters of gender-ambiguous teenagers chattered in a cloud of body odor and sweat. Flirting and cracking jokes, it was at the end of the bar that the true Trans elders reigned. Some of them probably older than Pechaude himself, their perfumes were barely identifiable over an endless train of tequila shots.

Pechaude chuckled to himself. He had never seen these people before in his life, but felt like he understood everyone of them. Whether they knew it or not, they were all part of the same struggle. They lifted each other up, and it was marvelous. He had this itching feeling like he somehow belonged there.

Perking up with excitement, his nostrils greeted the thrill of a new scent as a painted hand slipped around his waist from behind,

"Are you my husband?" the voice asked. Pechaude turned to the woman who was whispering in his ear. He collected her hips into his outstretched hands and pulled her closer. The smell of bubblegum followed.

"Have a drink with me and find out," he whispered back, causing her to shudder.

"You have a nice voice, young man. Where are you from? My dreams, or did you just fall straight from heaven?"

Pechaude winked as he dropped a hundred dollar bill on the bar and ordered them both glasses of champagne. The bartender, a Trans Filipina woman who hid her age under a thick coat of makeup and long punk-rock hair, took the bill and dropped the drinks. It didn't take long for Pechaude to notice that his change wasn't coming back. The bartender winked, daring him to challenge her. Feeling like a true gentleman, he dropped her a generous tip in reply.

"If only this were true, mon cher. I come from the simple streets of Paris." He slid a bubbling glass into her hand, "My queen. We are having a toast. But first, what do they call such an angel?" Pechaude asked the woman.

"My closest friends call me ten inches, honey. But my name is Missy" Her voice was deep and raspy. Pechaude could tell this woman had lived a life full of the vibrant colors of human experience. A quality he recognized in himself.

"Enchante! Salut, ma chère Missy!"

Evervescence from their glasses chilled their throats, eyes meeting once again.

"So why are we celebrating, sugar? Because I found my future hubby?" she squeezed his crotch to check if she was exciting him. She was.

Pechaude slid his own hand to her rear in response, "Why to living one's truth, of course! Something I believe to have learned the meaning of this very evening."

"Oh! So he's a poet." Missy raised her glass, "To living one's truth, something that all people want. No matter who you are. It took me years to get to this place, to live honestly every day. Honesty will save your life. Cuz when you're living a lie, you might as well be dead!"

Her eyes sparkled as Pechaude nodded in agreeance, tossing back the rest of his champagne. She winked playfully, "So how'd you learn this big lesson, baby?"

Pechaude beamed, the boyish face of a young man cracking through the crow's feet on the corners of his eyes and his grizzled beard.

The next drag performer was introduced and the lush violins of a 1950s ballad swelled over the speakers. A crooner.

"Come, ma chère. Let us get more comfortable," Pechaude cooed as he took Missy by the small of her elbow and delicately led her to the back of the bar.

He cleared his throat as they nuzzled deep into a booth. "My truth, though I came from humble beginnings, is that I am a very lucky man. I have spun cotton into gold, and some of this gold happened to make me a great deal of money tonight."

"Please do go on, sugar. I know money, I like money. I work as an investment banker for Merrill Lynch."

Pechaude looked pleased, "Ah! I am happy that you will understand. It is but a simple case of supply and demand, ma chère. Thanks to a disaster of outrageous proportions, pieces of my personal art collection are now some of the rarest in the world!"

"I knew I liked you, baby. You've got fire! Think you can handle a rare girl like me?" she pulled Pechaude's hand down the front of her skirt. His eyes widened, understanding how she got her nickname. To think that he almost didn't come to San Francisco. What was some silly lunch with the stuffy old Academy compared to this.

Missy leaned in and kissed his neck, whispering in his ear. "I want to be your muse. Will you be an artist for me baby?"

"I'm more than an artist, I am a virtuoso," he said confidently. Pechaude's eyes grew wide. The words tasted delicious in his mouth. "Come be my masterpiece. I'm staying at the Phoenix Hotel, it is just down the street."

"A bird that rises from its own ashes, how fitting. I've always wanted to go for a ride on a Phoenix" she said to him while she nibbled on his neck.

"Let's both get lucky tonight," he said to Missy.

Missy led the way from their perch, taking advantage of a gap in the drag performers to walk through the narrow bar to the door. As they squirmed through the clusters of smells, Pechaude thought back to something Mina had told him during the opening, something she had let slip. Maybe he was luckier than he realized. I'm happy to tell you all about Dimensions if you've got $150 million lying around. He wondered, could she be serious? Is that all it took? An idea struck him. I can make that happen.

In that instant, all traces of decay that had been plaguing his sense of smell seemed like a distant memory. In its place, the pleasurable smell of perfume - Missy's - seemed to sink in a bit deeper. You lucky, lucky bastard. He took a deep breath in. Before he made it to the door, Pechaude ran into the last person he expected to see again tonight. Here of all places.