A Kind of Justice (6 page)

Her eyes are twinkling. I wonder if she knows something she's not saying. Her husband and Phil are cop friends. In fact, I first met
Phil at one of their parties. My heart cartwheels around in my chest. Wouldn't that be something?

*    *    *

S
UNDAY
, J
ULY
20

Cecelia stares at me like a raptor eyeing a rodent. I have asked her for an attorney referral, criminal court type.

“Is this about Wilkins?”

I nod my head yes. Her encounters with him go back as far as mine, though somehow he chose to hate me a lot more than he hates her. He tried to bully her during the Strand investigation, too, but she dismissed him like yesterday's garbage and got away with it because she's rich and connected and she's had a lifetime of practice putting pompous fools in their rightful places. All she got from him was a face full of bad breath and disapproval. He saved the rest for me.

“He still thinks you killed Strand?” She shakes her head in wonder, though I have no idea why. Wilkins suspected me from the get-go, and for that matter, Cecelia herself has generously shared her suspicions about me being the murderer several times. She sits back in her chair and thinks for a moment.

“Let's face it,” she says finally, “You make a good suspect.” I start to react. She holds up a hand, gesturing to let her finish. “Well, you knew Mandy. You were friends. You're a big, strong girl. You're very pretty and you have nice tits, but you are also big and strong, especially back then. And you did those kung fu classes all the time. It could have been you.”

I sit mutely. What do you say when your best friend says she thinks you murdered someone?

“Don't get mad at me, Bobbi. I'm just saying. You know? It's not so surprising a cop would think like that.”

“What about you?” I say. “You knew Mandy. You were the one who kept accusing Strand of killing her. You're big and strong. You're pretty and you have huge tits, but you're big and strong, too. You don't take self-defense classes, but that's because you don't need to. See what I mean?”

“Are you asking me if I killed John Strand?” she asks.

“No, are you asking me?” I respond.

“Heavens no!” Cecelia's hands fly to her mouth in horror. “I don't want to know that you didn't do it because I love the fantasy that you did. And I don't want to know that you did do it because the police might question me about it someday.”

“You'd rat me out?”

“Of course not. But I'd rather not rat you out by telling the truth than by lying. Though I'm willing to do either.”

She's trying to break the tension. I smile at her humor, but I keep staring at her face, looking for some kind of telltale. Cecelia is more than just a bold, outspoken woman. She was a very successful corporate politician for many years, so she knows how to run a bluff, keep her thoughts and opinions hidden, distract those getting too close to the truth. Talking about me as the murderer could be a ploy to keep us from talking about her as the murderer.

I stare too long in silence. Cecelia stares back, a questioning look on her face. “What?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say, dropping my eyes. “Sorry. I got lost in thought. Can you help me get an attorney?”

Cecelia nods, her face in a prune-like grimace as if to chastise me for even asking.

The waiter arrives with our salads. We exchange one more toast to each other's health, then begin our meal. We're in a tony café in the Lincoln Square neighborhood of Chicago, well north and west of the more famous Lincoln Park area. Lincoln Square still has remnants of its old ethnic roots, just like Boystown, where I was reborn. The
buildings are low and many are old. The residences are two flats and brownstones, most rehabbed to immaculate condition. The stores and restaurants on the square are diverse, independent, lively.

Not many trans people live in this neighborhood, but one of the city's great independent bookstores, The Book Cellar, is located here and it draws people from all over the north side to the area, including LGBT readers. So we are not an oddity, two large transgender women having lunch in a nice café. We are noted, then ignored by our fellow diners. Just like everyone else.

Cecelia gives me the name of an attorney and promises to email contact information to me later, along with another name or two. Then she changes the subject to TransRising.

Cecelia and some other LGBT leaders launched Chicago TransRising three years ago to tend to the needs of the scores of dispossessed young transgender people living on the streets. They had been scourged from their families and their neighborhoods for being trans, and a lot of them turn to prostitution or drug dealing or petty crime to stay alive. They gravitated to the north side location of Chicago's LGBT Center because it's a safe neighborhood and they could come in from the cold there, during the day at least. But the Center couldn't handle all their problems. Chicago TransRising was organized to do more. The organization put together corporate donations and public and private grants to purchase a building that houses sixteen residents upstairs and classrooms and meeting places downstairs. Cecelia and her friends are working on funding for more space for residents, while TransRising administrators are working on preparing residents and walk-ins for winning jobs and leading successful lives.

“We have a go on Trans U,” she says. It's TransRising's pet project, a set curriculum of practical lessons and support kids usually get in a family environment, everything from everyday survival skills like
how to apply for a job, to traditional education initiatives, like getting enrolled in school and help with homework.

Cecelia got me to pledge money to the enterprise months ago, before I became a capitalist debt queen. I really don't need to be writing a check for $500 right now.

“I know you're worried about money,” she continues. “So if you want to hold off on the contribution, you won't hear an objection from me.”

“No,” I say. “A deal is a deal. Besides, five hundred dollars won't move my debt needle a tenth of a percent.” I don't know if that's true, but it feels true.

Cecelia raises a regal eyebrow and hands me a document. “The educating part is just as important as the money. Will you do a seminar on hair and makeup, Bobbi? These kids know how to look like hookers and Goths and all the teen stuff, but we need to prepare them for applying for jobs and fitting in at school.”

I nod in mute acquiescence. Even if I could say no to the kids, I couldn't to Cecelia.

“One last thing,” she says. I brace myself. Cecelia's last thing is always like getting hit by a train.

“TransRising has a committee working on plans for a fund-raiser. I'd like you to be on it.”

I groan and make a face. Committees were bad enough in the business world, but they're even worse in volunteer organizations because so many people in the room are there for ego gratification.

“Why me, Cecelia?” I whine. “I donate money, I donate time, I do people's hair, I contribute to every cause under the sun. Isn't that enough?”

“Because you actually know something about marketing and strategic thinking, Bobbi. We have a committee full of young people who have entry-level jobs and think they know everything.”

“I would rather bob for apples in a toilet than spend an hour with those snots.”

Her face shrivels into a grimace. “They're just young. They need to be around some experienced people.”

“Do you see the way they look at us?” I counter. “They start hormones in their teens. They never look like men. They look at us and see what straight people see—men with tits. I don't need any more angst in my life.”

Cecelia is unmoved. “You're such a wimp! Stop whining. We need you on that committee. The only leadership right now is that girl Lisa.”

I groan.

“Yeah,” says Cecelia. “The prom queen. She's an assistant something at a downtown ad agency and thinks she's the second coming of Leo Burnett.”

“I'd end up killing someone.”

Cecelia smiles her smug, know-it-all smile. “You know you're going to do it, Bobbi. And you know it always turns out for the best when I make you do something you don't want to.

“I know,” I reply. “But it's the only chance I get to whine.”

T
UESDAY
, A
UGUST
5

N
EWS MEDIA PEOPLE
are calling it The Great Recession. I'm a believer. After the big financial crisis, business got soft but it wasn't like we were falling off a cliff. When I bought the salon, economists were still expecting a recovery in the near future.

Now, it's like we're falling off a cliff. Few economists talk about a recovery anytime soon, and people on the street are bracing for things to get even worse and stay that way for a long time. Beauty salons are supposed to be recession-proof businesses, but if that was ever true, it isn't anymore. The enormity of this economic disaster is touching everyone and everything. Millions of people are losing their jobs. Millions of houses are being repossessed. People who just a year or two ago were living the American dream are suddenly destitute. Buses and commuter trains are half empty, traffic is moving freely on the expressways, even in rush hour. You see working-age men and women at the grocery store in the daytime.

We're feeling it, too. Our bookings have plummeted. I'm explaining this to the entire staff. It's eight o'clock on Tuesday night, the end of a horrid day. They are much quieter than a roomful of hairdressers and assistants ever should be. There are many worried faces staring at me, from senior stylists who have families to feed, to our newest hire, who expects to be fired. She looks like someone just shot her dog.

I feel the same way. I made my payments on the salon in July by not paying myself. I paid my home mortgage and living expenses with savings. But my savings are very limited. I put almost everything I have into the purchases of my brownstone and this business.

“We're in trouble,” I tell the staff. “I know you're worried about your own incomes, but the salon is having serious financial issues, too.”

Like many salons, L'Elégance stylists get a commission on their work, not a flat salary. When times are good and popular stylists want to work hard, they can make very good money. When things slow down, incomes drop. Now, we're getting hammered.

I explain that our problems stem from two sources. Simple attrition is taking place because some of our customers are in households where one of the wage earners is out of work. They either quit going to the salon altogether or go to a cheaper one. Just as painful for us, many of our regular customers are still coming in, but at longer intervals. Our hairdressers are not dumb. Some of them are brilliant. And they are all very artistic. But simple marketing concepts like this are not part of their experience. What everyone knows is that corporations are responding to the downturn with massive layoffs, which is why many of our people are worried sick about getting fired.

“We have difficult choices to face,” I continue. “We can downsize the business and try to move into a smaller space with fewer stylists and assistants and operate at a lower level of volume . . .” The frowns deepen in the room, especially on younger faces. The juniors and entry people who are the most likely to be let go.

“Or we can work as a team and work like dogs to bring in more new people.” Faces brighten, even among senior stylists.

“How many of you would be willing to spend part of your days off and maybe one night a week promoting the salon?”

Curiosity fills the faces in front of me. Hands raise tentatively, held low.

“What would we be doing?” someone finally asks.

“Handing out promos in front of office buildings, at the El station, in front of apartment buildings. Doing styling demonstrations on the sidewalk while the weather's nice and hopefully in some office building lobbies when it gets cold . . . I'm working on that.”

There is great interest in the styling demos. I explain that we'd get hair models from a Craigslist ad for a modest cost. The demo would require a team—a stylist, an assistant, and someone to distribute promos and chat up anyone who stopped. We'd do them right in front of the salon at first, then maybe in other places. Our promotion pieces would offer discounts to first-time customers and the discounts would come out of the pockets of both the stylist and the salon.

I tell them I'd like to try in-store demos on new cuts and colors every month or two. We'd set up some seating and some standing areas, have light hors d'oeuvres, wine, and coffee. One of the stylists would do a cut while another would do a color demo and a third person would do the talking and take questions.

A buzz grows in the room as people begin considering these ideas. I announce a break as pizzas are delivered. The buzz grows as people get food and beverage and scatter around the shop. They are a good bunch of people. Even the couple of stylists who might be prima donnas in a different salon are relatively contemplative here because of the culture. I know the staff will go along with the plan. They love it here as much as I do and we still have a chance to make good incomes if we're willing to go the extra mile.

When we reconvene, Barbara raises her hand. She is a beautiful fiftyish woman who was born in Australia and ended up marrying a Yank who brought her to Chicago. They have two teenage kids and she likes to be at home as much as possible. Promo time would be difficult for her.

“I think those are great ideas, Bobbi. Let's get going!” she says.

She is one of the most respected stylists in the salon, a brilliant cutter who combines the precision of a watchmaker with the art of a Rembrandt. Her embrace of the idea wipes out any lingering doubts among the staff. There is a murmur of assent across the room. I call for a show of hands. It is unanimous. People are laughing and smiling at each other. Nervous anticipation. Something completely new, but something that might be fun.