Las Biuty Queens Page 3

  Carlos was a gray-haired man around fifty. He was tall and thin. I knew without being told that he was Boricua. He held out his hand and I gave him mine.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Iván.”

  He didn’t say anything. He just reached out his hand and gave me the once-over.

  I always felt so safe and comfortable in Vladimir’s company that I sat right down on Carlos’s bed, planning to chat him up and charm him with a little attitude.

  I noticed Carlos turning all sorts of colors. The colors of rage. Without knowing what was going on, I looked at Vladimir, who’d gone white as a sheet and had his eyes wide open like plates. Silently, he grabbed my arm and pushed me toward my bed.

  “Lie down and don’t move. Don’t say anything. Don’t even breathe. Let me figure out how to fix this.”

  I realized it was serious and I was afraid. Carlos was yelling.

  “I’m gonna teach that guy some respect. That pato’s finished.”

  A cold sweat dripped down my back. I didn’t understand what was happening. I heard Vladimir’s voice and could tell from his tone that he was trying to calm Carlos down. Other prisoners got out of bed to see what was going on. The boss had lost his mind. Someone had pissed him off. And that someone was me. But I still didn’t know what my mistake had been. I heard Carlos start to lower his voice a bit. Vladimir didn’t stop talking to him. Didn’t stop calming him down. I buried my head in my pillow. I could sense that Vladimir was talking to me. He sat down at my side.

  “Never lie down or even sit on a bed that isn’t yours. The only thing we have here is our beds. It’s our only property. Not even the guards bother us when we’re in bed, so don’t you go trying it again. Now get up and go apologize to him.”

  I got up out of bed, and with the utmost seriousness, I approached the leader. He sat back and waited for me to deliver my apology.

  “I am so sorry, sir. I’ve never been in jail before and I’m not familiar with the codes of conduct. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

  When I saw he wasn’t saying anything, I started to tremble.

  “All right. Just don’t let it happen again.”

  I thanked him and went back to my bed. Vladimir shot me a gesture of approval. I tried to thank him by mouthing the words. That night, I fell asleep right away. I knew he’d saved me from something dangerous.

  As soon as I woke up the next day, I looked for Vladimir. I found him hunched over in his bed. I asked him what was wrong.

  “Stomachache and nausea. This methadone is just as bad as heroin, if not worse. I think I’m going to the infirmary.”

  “Want some company?

  “You’re joking, right? Don’t you know where you are? No one keeps anyone else company here.” He took a deep breath and stood up. “I’ll see you tomorrow. They’ll probably keep me overnight, until it passes.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  I lay back down in bed. I didn’t go out to the yard. I preferred to wait inside until lunch. I entertained myself by staring up at the ceiling.

  That’s when I heard a voice say, “Juan Cruz also known as Luis Rivera.”

  I didn’t react, so the guard repeated my name.

  “That’s me.”

  Without even looking at me, the guard continued.

  “Take your things. You’re leaving today. They paid your bail.”

  I didn’t know what to do. I was frozen.

  “What are you waiting for? Clock’s ticking. Get your stuff or I’m leaving you here another day.”

  I ran to the guard’s station. I didn’t have anything to take with me. I asked him if we could stop by the infirmary so I could say goodbye to my friend. He looked at me disapprovingly and didn’t answer.

  The whole process of leaving took about as long as entering. I put on normal clothes, whatever I could find that was my size in the box they gave me. There weren’t any shoes, so I left wearing the slip-ons. On the bus, they gave me a subway card. It took me a few hours to get to La Maru’s house.

  I slept for almost two days straight. I knew I couldn’t get caught again, at least not before my hearing with the judge in February. I tried to make money miming in subway stations. I’d set up at Columbus Circle, Times Square, and sometimes Bedford Avenue. I’d stand there for hours. I never saw any person in particular. What I saw was a collective human blob. One day, I thought I recognized a figure when I heard a coin fall into my hat. I opened my eyes wide, but all I saw was a mass of people rushing by. Two boys were sitting on a bench on the platform, sharing a bag of cookies. I went back to my routine. I returned to my miming until I was sure I caught a whiff of tea. I listened to the boys laugh, far off, like an echo. I paused and once more, in silence, gave thanks for my Chilean friend Vladimir.

  Ortiz Funeral Home

  I SLEEP TOO MUCH, FOR A CHANGE. I take the downtown A express to get to 14th Street as quickly as possible. As soon as I exit the station, I feel a hot gust of air, a drastic change from the strong air-conditioning of the subway car. It’s the middle of summer and I’m walking fast. All of a sudden, I see it in front of me: Ortiz Funeral Home. I collect myself before climbing the stairs. In one gulp, I finish my bottle of water. I concentrate on acting appropriately for the occasion. And the occasion is a wake. I open the door to the funeral home and am overcome by an ice-cold gust of air and the scent of f lowers. I feel grateful. On a list propped up on a lectern, I search for the name of the deceased. Finally, I see it. José Buchillon also known as Amalia, la cubana, room four.

  When I feel ready to go in and pay my respects, I hear someone call my name.

  “Monalisa!”

  It’s La Manuel, her face bathed in tears. I go over to embrace her.

  “Ay, bendito, Amalia’s in a better place.”

  “I know that,” she replies. “That’s not why I’m crying,”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “These locas have the nerve to say I stole the bag of coke.”

  “What?”

  “The bag of cocaine they put in Amalia’s hands so she could take it with her to the great beyond,” she says, drying her tears. “You know how fond she was of that sweet little powder. But can you believe they’re saying I stole it? Ungrateful maricas. How many times have I bought them drugs when they were broke? I’ve done it for more than a few of the ones who are now pointing their fingers at me.”

  And she starts to cry again.

  “Ay, loca, please. It’s not a big deal.”

  As soon as I say this, La Manuel stops crying. She shoots me a look, blows her nose, and interjects, “You have to understand that losing Amalia hasn’t been easy on me. Wait here, I’m going to the bathroom.”

  And just like that, she disappears.

  While I wait, I examine a poster-size photograph on the wall next to a door. It’s Amalia’s portrait. Under her face is a caption that reads R.I.P. The image shows Amalia, her face that mulata shade of cinnamon, wearing long false lashes and a wedding-style hat in a hue like café con leche. A wide-brimmed hat. Very wide. Elegant, I think. I remember seeing her do a show at Sally’s. She was singing that La Lupe song “Puro Teatro.” Tall and mulata, my friend Amalia from Cuba always stood out. La Manuel always said she was loaded. That she wore a new outfit every night and, most importantly, new shoes. And you’d better believe it was no small feat to find a size-twelve shoe for that Caribbean foot.

  La Manuel’s return rouses me from those memories.

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  I look at her and see her eyes bulging.

  “Mm-hmm!” I exclaim as she blows her nose.

  “Mm-hmm, it’s time. Let’s go say a proper hello to Amalia,” she says, with a look of suspicion that matches my own.

  As La Manuel opens the door to the room where the wake is being held, I remember a phrase I heard once in a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. We addicts are masters in fooling people. As soon as I walk in, I see Diva de Panamá sitting beside the casket. Close friend of the dece
ased, she plays the role of a family member receiving condolences. I look at her with curiosity. Of course she’s wearing the hat I just saw in the portrait by the entrance. La Manuel guesses what I’m thinking and whispers into my ear:

  “It’s not just the hat, she kept the business, too. Some people are even saying she kept the drugs,” she adds before leaving me on my own.

  I go up to Diva to offer my condolences.

  “Monalisa, hi. Thanks for coming,” she says, her voice full of sadness.

  “Ay, of course, niña. She’s in a better place,” I say, not looking at the casket. I’ve never liked to look the dead in the face. I give Diva a hug.

  “These locas have no respect for anything or anyone,” she says slowly, rubbing her nose.

  “Yes, I know. They took her bag of coke out of the casket.”

  “Oh, you already heard?”

  “La Manuel told me. And she’s really hurt that they’ve accused her of stealing it.”

  “No,” says Diva, arranging herself in her seat. “She’s only one of the suspects. No one’s accused her directly.”

  As I walk away, I notice that her nose is running. I say hi to some people I know, which accounts for almost everyone in the room. I’m overhearing phrases like “I still can’t believe it,” “She’s in a better place,” and “Wasn’t she wonderful,” when the doors open and someone cries out.

  “Leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone!”

  It’s Lorena the Chilena. Also known as Hugo Loren. We all get out of her way. She walks straight up to the casket. She stands in front of the deceased and, from the small purse hanging around her neck, removes a bag of coke. She opens it ceremoniously and does a bump.

  “To you!” she says, sneezing.

  She leans into the body and starts whispering into her ear. I hear someone ask if it’s the same bag that went missing.

  “Was it La Lorena who took it?”

  “No, no,” someone responds. “That was a green plastic bag and the one Lorena has is clear.”

  It must’ve been a special bag, I think. Coke wrapped up in green, the same green of money. Drugs and money always go hand in hand. Suddenly, a scream rouses us from our lethargy.

  “I told you to leave me alone,” the Chilena yells again. And just as quickly as she arrived, she turns to the door, gesturing to La Manuel to follow her.

  “We’ll be back. We’re going to the bathroom,” they say, closing the door behind them.

  “That’s right!” a loca scoffs. “To powder their noses, I bet.”

  We all laugh in unison.

  “It was Junior’s fault,” exclaims Diva from her funeral director’s seat, her voice cutting through the laughter. “That bugarrón was the last straw in killing her.”

  Silvia told me on the phone a few days ago that when Amalia was in her final days, right as she neared death’s door, she somehow managed to get her boyfriend, Junior, who was in prison, to come and see her one last time. They put an electronic tag around his ankle so he couldn’t escape. When he was wearing that device, they could find him wherever he went. Two police officers dropped him off, saying they’d be back to get him the next day. What happened when the two of them were alone together is irrelevant. The circumstances justified everything.

  The next day, when the police showed up looking for him, no one answered the door. They had no choice but to knock it down. They found Amalia in bed, totally out of it, and Junior screaming, grabbing onto the bed so they couldn’t take him away. He wanted to stay right there next to Amalia. At least she went out with a bang, I thought.

  While everyone whispers, Diva de Panamá sits back down with her wide-brimmed, tea-and-milk-colored hat, in the style of a Caribbean Alexis Carrington. That’s when Cristal arrives, a Central American loca who says she’s either Boricua or Cuban depending on the situation, or depending on the nationality of the person supplying her party favors. She arrives carrying a tray of little plastic cups filled with clear liquid.

  “Serve yourselves. I’d like to propose a toast. To Amalia, may she rest in peace. Everyone take a tequila shot.” Her solemn tone lifts, and playfully, she adds, “I guess a bump would also do the trick.”

  Almost half the attendees take out a bag of coke and offer some to the person next to them. Diva calls me over.

  “Hey, Monalisa, come over here and do a bump.”

  “Amalia was your friend …” I tell her.

  “No. She was my sister.”

  We all rub our noses, gather around the casket, and take a shot. Cheers to Amalia, the Cubana!

  The bump of coke leaves me feeling anxious. I want to go out for some fresh air and to drink a glass of very cold water. Slowly and without making any noise, I edge toward the exit. No one asks me where I’m going. Before I leave, I turn around. I still haven’t looked the body in the face. When I do, Amalia roars with laughter. I must be hallucinating. I leave quickly, almost running. When I get outside, I sit down on the steps of the funeral home. Someone calls out my name from across the street. It’s Silvia. She runs over.

  “What’s wrong, loca?”

  “That bump.”

  “Ay, that’s why I didn’t want to come. It messes you up in the head.” Perking up, she adds, “Let’s go to the pier. We’ll smoke a joint on the way to help bring you down.”

  We walk west. Toward the Hudson River. We smoke. Soon we arrive at the piers. We sit on one of the benches near the water and watch as groups of adolescent locas arrive, all of them voguing happily, posing and strutting like models. A cool breeze tips my head back. It’s getting dark. I wonder who has Amalia the Cubana’s last bag of coke. I’m beginning to imagine that place they call the great beyond when someone gives my shoulder a shove. It’s Silvia.

  “Come on, loca, wake up! And let’s vogue.”

  Jennifer’s Carnations

  BY THE END of that winter night in 1997, the sidewalks outside the Senton Hotel on 27th Street between Broadway and 5th Avenue awoke covered in red carnations.

  Lots of locas picked up tricks there. When we got to the hotel that night, after offering our services over at the Edelweiss, the pickup bar where we met contacts, we were surprised by the unusual sight of the f lowers, particularly at that early hour. Eva’s the one who told us. The night before, they’d found Jennifer strangled to death in one of the hotel rooms. The f lowers were there for her. Most of us who went to the Edelweiss didn’t know her, because she frequented another bar called Sally’s, which back then was on 43rd, across from the old New York Times building.

  Jennifer was a trans woman from Honduras and she was castrated. Some thought that’s why she was murdered. Maybe she’d gone off with some john who thought he was with a woman, and when the time came to do the deed and he discovered he’d been fooled by a queen, he was so full of rage that he strangled her. To make matters worse, most of the guys we went off with were under the inf luence of some kind of narcotic. Anything could happen.

  They also said she drank a lot, and that every time she got tipsy, she became totally unbearable and started insulting other locas and johns alike. The night of the murder, no one saw her leave the bar with a guy. They say that she was pretty drunk and that she left alone. It could have been someone who picked her up in a car or who was walking around nearby.

  La Bon Bon and La Fernando saw her that night. They say she was dazzling, radiant, more beautiful than ever before. She told them it was the new hormones she was taking, a German patch that was all the rage among trans women back then. She needed to look as beautiful as possible, because she was going to Chicago to the Miss Continental pageant, and the crown would be hers. They told me that my Colombian friend La Fernando cried hysterically when she saw Jennifer in the coffin.

  They say she looked like a doll inside the casket. They dressed her in a fancy blouse so no one could see the strangle marks. They cremated her the day after the wake and sent her ashes to Honduras. Apparently no one had the heart to tell her family how she’d died.
All they asked was if she’d left them any money. They say Diva de Panamá took care of all the funeral expenses.

  Back then, there was a party every Sunday night in a nightclub in the middle of Times Square. Everyone called it Café con Leche. The whole gay Latinx community, especially trans women, showed up. It was our night. That’s where I was the first time I saw Jennifer’s photograph, just a few weeks after her death. All of a sudden, they turned off the music and projected her face onto a massive screen. She was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that only a castrated trans woman in her twenties could be. As soon as they put up her photo, accompanied by the letters R.I.P., everyone stopped dancing and, chanting her name in unison, broke out into a round of applause. Without a doubt, she was now on one of the colorful clouds that awaited us in the great beyond.

  We locas kept picking up johns in bars. Looking for tricks out on the streets. Climbing in and out of cars. No one told us to be careful or to remember what had happened to Jennifer, as though it had been something normal, almost quotidian. As Angie Xtravaganza, the mother of Xtravaganza House, said, those murders were part of what it meant to be a transsexual woman in New York. I’d add that it was part of the life of a sex worker right before the turn of the millennium and the fall of the Twin Towers. It didn’t matter to anyone what happened to people like us. Jennifer didn’t have a family to stand up for her. No one was keeping an eye on the detectives to see how the investigation was going, asking if they’d found any suspects. La Fernando said it well: the police weren’t likely to investigate the death of yet another murdered loca. Even less so if she was a prostitute. Those were just the risks you ran. Only if another two or three strangled women just like Jennifer appeared would they begin to investigate, in case some psychopath was running loose.

  Sometime after that, I’d say about a year, Carolina the Ecuatoriana told me she’d heard that Jennifer hadn’t been killed by a john after all. That someone had wanted her dead. Apparently she’d gotten involved with the bugarrón of some mobster loca, or I should say, a loca with ties to the mafia because she was the manager of a hustlers’ bar on 47th. Everyone knows the mafia controlled those bars back then. Jennifer, who was gorgeous and apparently started to think she was queen of the world as soon as she had four drinks in her, couldn’t have cared less if the guy in question was another loca’s husband. Even if it was a loca you had to watch out for. But all that was just a conversation between some drunk queens Carolina overheard. When I brought this up with her not long ago, she told me never to mention it again. She didn’t like to talk about the dead. She said they should be left in peace.