Who's That Girl Read online

  Who's That Girl?

  Soho noir #2

  T.S. Hunter

  Contents

  .

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Before You Go

  About the Author

  Praise For TAINTED LOVE

  Published by RED DOG PRESS 2019

  Copyright © Red Dog Associates 2019

  T.S. Hunter has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  This work was edited by Eleanor Abraham

  ISBN 978-1-9164262-9-0

  www.reddogpress.co.uk

  .

  For all those who marched, shouted, suffered, and loved so that we could be just a little more free, now.

  1

  SOHO, LONDON. JUNE 1985.

  It was a light, bright summer’s evening, but this seedy, low-ceilinged back room of the Red Lion felt as dark and exciting as he’d hoped. Almost nine o’clock, and the cabaret was just about to kick off.

  Joe Stone settled into the high-backed chair as his friend and new flatmate, Russell Dixon, sauntered back from the bar with their drinks—two pints among the bright sea of cocktails that covered the other tables.

  Russell was in his mid-forties, a former police detective, and one of the nicest, most honest men Joe had ever met. He and Joe had become close earlier in the year, when Joe’s oldest friend—Russell’s flatmate—Chris Sexton, had been murdered. Police apathy and a series of strange discoveries had led Joe and Russell to join forces and solve the case.

  The whole affair had cemented their friendship and motivated Joe to move to the city and start a new life for himself among people more like him—the kind of people who were now crammed into this dark room, out the back of their favourite Soho pub, for an evening of pure camp.

  This was what he loved about Soho: the strange, wonderful mix of people—artists and celebrities rubbing shoulders with gangsters and retired prostitutes. Everyone with a story to tell, everyone a friend, if only for the night. The smoke-filled basement bars, the all-night coffee shops, the revue bars and sex shops, all crowded together on these boisterous, vibrant streets—this was home.

  There was a growing hum of excitement as people took their seats. A friendly crowd. Everyone there had come intent on making this the best ever fundraiser for the Campbell Centre—a charity close to both Joe and Russell’s hearts—which took care of victims of HIV and AIDS.

  Both of them quietly acknowledged that they were driven to help the charity by the memory of their mutual friend Chris. The Campbell Centre had been a passion of his, though his involvement had eventually turned out to be one of the reasons he was killed. But that was a different story.

  After helping to solve his murder, Joe had decided to stay in Soho. He moved into Chris’s old room in Russell’s flat, and took a job as a runner in a small television production company.

  He’d once held lofty aspirations for his psychology degree, but he’d quickly found that his job in the strange world of television production used every aspect of his training and more.

  Besides, it was far more interesting than his previous, very junior role with social services, and it left him plenty of time to volunteer at the Campbell Centre whenever he could, helping to care for, but mostly entertain the patients there.

  Funding for the centre was all privately raised, and though Chris had left some money behind by way of a small legacy from his fashion label, they always needed more. So, Joe and Russell had joined forces with some of Chris’s other friends to put together this fundraiser in his honour.

  Hopefully the first of many, The Frock Show was a celebration of the growing drag scene in Soho, and a safe stage for new acts to try out their routines alongside the seasoned veterans who’d been the mainstay of the scene since the seventies.

  One of their other friends, Paul, was due to perform later in the evening as his alter ego, Patty Cakes. Still relatively new on the scene, Patty’s was a sensual, breathy act, which Russell described as a poor man’s Marilyn Monroe. Brutal as criticism went, but actually not that far off the mark.

  Joe smiled his thanks as Russell delivered the drinks. He was so pleased Russell was there tonight given that he would usually shy away from big nights out on the scene. But Joe had been determined to get him out more.

  A former detective with the Metropolitan Police, Russell had been run out of the job when some of his colleagues had discovered his sexuality and used it to entrap and arrest him, forcing a suspension and prompting a relatively well-paid, though not entirely welcome, early retirement.

  Russell had gone into a bit of a depression afterwards, but helping to solve Chris’s murder had reinvigorated him, giving him a new enthusiasm for life again. Just because he’d left the force, didn’t mean he had to stop investigating.

  Both Joe and Russell had changed irrevocably since Chris had died. He’d been such a fabulous, gregarious, wild young man, whose bright star had been snuffed out far too early. He had been widely loved by most, deeply resented by some, but definitely missed by all.

  They had even taken to challenging each other to Be More Chris. Which was how Joe had persuaded Russell to come out tonight. Gone were the days of either of them hiding their sexuality or shying away from speaking out. Both had come to realise the value of being Out and Proud, despite the dangers that represented.

  “When’s it all kicking off then?” Russell asked, sitting down next to Joe and shaking the drips from his hands.

  “Any minute now. But Patty’s on second. At about quarter to ten.”

  Russell smiled and took a big swig of his beer.

  “Plenty of time to get another couple of these down us then,” he laughed.

  Even though he'd helped to organise it, Russell never enjoyed being in this kind of crowd. He said it was all too extrovert. Maybe it was, but Joe thought it was good for him to get out every now and then. He was never going to meet anyone sitting around in their flat.

  Besides, Joe liked the company. He was still not that keen on going home alone, even though they’d long since caught Chris’s killer. Soho may be one of the more gay-friendly places in London, but it was far from safe.

  “Here we go,” Russell said, as a tall, elegant man stepped on to the stage and tapped the microphone. His tuxedo, frilled shirt, bowtie, top hat and cane were all bright white, glowing under the lights and contrasting his dark skin perfectly. Pure theatre. That was Danny Devraux.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” Danny called, sounding like a circus ringmaster. “Welcome to The Frock Show!”

  A light applause rippled across the room, a couple of whoops. The crowd wasn’t warmed up yet, just how Danny liked them.

  “Oh, come on now,” he cajoled. “I’ve seen happier punters at a wake. Cheer up! I said: Welcome to The Frock Show!”

  A cheer this time, still a little muted, but much better. Danny was a natural crowd-pleaser.

  He stepped down off the front of the stage, slipping easily between the chairs and tables, greeting customers by name, a touch here, a kiss there, the consummate host and showman.

  All the while, the microphone remained in his hand as he delivered the most intimate of public introductions for members of the audience he either recognised or liked the look of. Those
he didn’t know were treated to a joke or an invitation to introduce themselves.

  Danny Devraux—Dan Carter to his friends—was the campest straight man Joe had ever met. Now in his late sixties, he was a jobbing actor with a passion for musicals and fond memories of a youth filled with sex, drugs, jazz and cabaret.

  Joe had met him on the set of a television programme where Dan had been playing a tired, old ham of an actor. “Not much acting required, really, darling,” Dan had joked in the lunch queue. They’d hit it off immediately. Mainly because Dan did not take himself seriously at all, and was full of great tales which he told with contagious animation. Joe was in awe of anyone with that kind of confidence.

  Dan and Joe had kept in touch after the shoot had ended, occasionally going to the theatre together, since Dan always seemed to have a ready supply of tickets to all the good shows.

  Joe had even ventured up north to Camden a few times to see Danny Devraux in action as compere for the weekly revue shows and open mic nights in the Black Cap.

  It hadn’t taken much persuading to get Dan to wheel his Danny Devraux persona out to act as host for this evening’s event. And Danny had even managed to pull in some of his Camden contacts—drag acts who’d been drawing in fans for years—to headline the show.

  Danny Devraux knew people, and he had a way of getting them to do what he asked.

  “Oh,” he purred. “Who do we have here?”

  He leaned in dramatically, lifting Joe’s chin gently with the end of his cane.

  “The inimitable Joe Stone,” Danny announced. “Your host and organiser, ladies and gentlemen. This kid is going places, let me tell you.”

  Joe smiled and waved at the applause, embarrassed to be the one singled out. Though if he’d got the same look from Russell that Danny’d just got, he’d have gone for the easy target too. Russell did not do audience participation.

  Another ripple of applause and a hearty wolf-whistle made Joe’s smile a little wider. He’d worked hard to get this show together tonight, and he was looking forward to it. The whistle had come from Luc, Joe’s boyfriend, who kissed him as he sat down.

  “Am I late?”

  “Just in time,” Joe said, squeezing his hand, and then punching his arm as Luc stole a swig of his drink.

  From the stage, a tinkling from the piano caught Danny’s attention.

  “Aha, Maestro,” he cooed. “’Tis time, ’tis time!”

  Trotting back onto the stage, lithe and athletic despite his advancing years, he struck a pose, leaning on his cane, top hat at a jaunty angle. The piano player began in earnest, and Danny launched into his well-rehearsed rendition of “Wilkommen”.

  By the time the song had ended and the first act had been introduced, the crowd were already whooping and cheering. Danny had done his job, and Joe could finally relax, knowing that tonight was going to go well.

  Looking around the crowd, Joe recognised many of the faces. Who would have thought, when he’d arrived in London for the weekend four months ago, that this would be his life now?

  It was such a far cry from the small village he and his late friend Chris had grown up in. Still, he wouldn’t change it for the world. They may all be oddballs, weirdoes and freaks to the world outside, but they were his oddballs, weirdoes and freaks. He was one of them now.

  “I’m just going to wish Patty luck,” he told Luc and Russell, standing up and edging his way down the side of the room towards the makeshift backstage area.

  He actually wanted to thank Danny again for hosting tonight, but he would also slip back and give Patty some encouragement before it was her turn to hit the stage.

  There were already a few people leaning against the wall, now that all the tables were full, and Joe had to sidestep a drag queen he didn’t recognise to get past.

  She was tall, especially in those killer stilettos, with a straight, shoulder length wig in dark brown, with a sharp, unattractive fringe, badly cut in. Her whole outfit was strangely drab and old-fashioned, apart from the killer heels. High, sparkling blue stilettos. It was clear where the money for that outfit had been spent.

  Joe was getting used to all sorts of strange quirks when it came to the Soho drag scene, but the spinster-aunt-in-kinky-boots look was a new one on him, and he wasn’t sure it worked.

  Joe smiled, squeezing past. She didn’t smile back. In fact, she barely moved out of his way. Probably part of her drag persona—spinster aunts were notoriously grumpy, after all.

  Joe shrugged and moved on. She’d paid to get in, so he couldn’t really ask much more from her. He pushed through the swing doors and into the relative quiet of the backstage area.

  It was hardly big enough to swing a cat backstage, which wasn’t surprising, given that the stage itself was just a section of the pub’s old function room, separated from the so-called backstage area by some wonky theatrical flats.

  Beyond, a narrow corridor led to a fire exit at the back of the pub. A small storeroom off that corridor had been commandeered as a dressing room and, other than that, there was nothing back here apart from a manky staff toilet, which bar owner, Ron, had promised to clean before tonight. Needless to say, he hadn’t.

  Joe found Danny Devraux standing in the wings, a tall glass of Cinzano in his hand. A favourite tipple, which added to his camp demeanour. The fact that he could happily sink six or more to start the night was neither here nor there.

  “That was a great start, Danny,” Joe said, shaking his hand. “Thanks again for doing this.”

  “Tough crowd,” Danny smiled. “I thought I’d never get them warmed up.”

  “No fear of that with you,” Joe said.

  Danny peered back out through the wings, watching the performance.

  “She’s good,” he said. “I should try and get her up to the Cap.”

  Danny’s regular night ran in a pub called The Black Cap in Camden, and part of the draw getting him down here tonight was that he may find some fresh faces to take back for his cabaret nights.

  “You wait ’til you see the next one,” Joe said. “Speaking of which, I’d better go find her, she’ll need a little boost.”

  He noticed that Danny didn’t respond. In fact, he was staring, wide-eyed, somewhere beyond the stage, his drink titled at a dangerous angle, a frown creasing his brow.

  “Dan?” Joe asked. “You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Danny snapped back into character almost immediately, taking a big gulp of his drink, shuddering at the strength of it as he swallowed. Breathing out slowly, he turned back to Joe.

  “Are you still here?” he asked, the twinkle returning to his eye. “I thought you had a queen to attend to.”

  He clapped Joe on the shoulder and took another long swig of his drink. His hand shook a little, and Joe tried to recall if it usually did.

  Danny was right though—there wasn’t much time before Patty was due on stage and, right now, Joe’s loyalty lay with his friend.

  “See you for drinks after the show, Danny,” he said, heading off.

  Danny raised his glass, but something had slipped from his usual charming demeanour. Joe hoped it wasn’t because he felt this was all too low rent for him. Still, Joe couldn’t worry about it now. The show must go on.

  He followed the sound of giggling laughter down the corridor to the former storeroom, its newly applied glittering cardboard star marking it out as the dressing room. Knocking gently, he opened the door without waiting, a tinny blast of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” greeting him. Nothing could be less appropriate for the occupants of this room.

  “You decent, girls?”

  “Oh, hardly, love.”

  “You wouldn’t like us if we were.”

  This time last year Joe wouldn’t have dreamed of walking into a room like this, and yet now he felt completely at home.

  Inside, he found a handful of men in various states of undress: mid-tuck or full sequin, in skull caps waiting to be adorned with glamorous wigs, or peering i
nto mirrors with tongs and combs already delicately teasing curls over foreheads. The smell of perfume and hairspray was almost overwhelming.

  “Come in then,” one of them called. “You’re letting all the heat out.”

  Joe closed the door behind him, noticing that Patty instantly relaxed on seeing him. He could never refer to Patty as Paul when he was in drag. He became she straight away, and remained that way until the outfit—and the persona—came off.

  They’d had a frosty start to their relationship—tinged with jealousy on Paul’s part of Joe’s long-standing relationship with Chris, and with suspicion on Joe’s part because he’d seen Patty arguing with Chris on the night he’d died.

  That had quickly become water under the bridge, and Joe thought they had quite a good friendship now. Which was how he knew that nerves almost always got the best of Patty before a performance. Paul made a beautiful showgirl, but Patty wasn’t a natural performer.

  “What’s it like out there?” Patty asked.

  “Lively,” Joe said. “But very friendly. They’ve even given Belle an encore.”

  Belle—Maybelle Leen, to give her her full name—was notoriously polarising as an act. Crass, bawdy and acerbic, but with the voice of an angel. She was the cabaret version of the canary in the mineshaft—if the crowd liked her, the rest of the line up would have no problems.

  “Oh, thank God. They’re not going to kill me, then? How do I look?”

  “Sensational, as always.”

  Joe brushed a fleck of dried mascara from her cheek and smiled reassuringly.

  “You’re too kind. I’m shitting myself.”