whatever it takes. I sense that Halverson is tied to it all somehow and target him as the next focus of my attention.
I get home just in time to see Izzy off on his trip to Chicago. He won’t be back until late Sunday night, which works just fine with my plans since I sense he might not approve of what I am about to do. Dom and I wave as Izzy drives away, and as soon as the car is out of sight, I turn to Dom and link my arm through his.
“Want to do the town tonight?” I ask him.
“Do the town?”
“Well, how about if we do The Cellar?” The Cellar is a small, nicely kept bar owned by two gay men. Located just beyond the town limits, it has a reputation for good music, affordable drinks that aren’t watered down, and a liberal atmosphere that generally attracts like-minded people.
“The Cellar,” Dom says. “Man, it’s been a long time since I’ve been there. Izzy doesn’t much care for the place.”
“I know. It’s not the sort of place he wants to be seen in, given his job. Though ironically, the job is precisely why I want to go there tonight.” I then tell Dom what we know about Mike Halverson and what I want to try to find out. “The Cellar seems like the logical place to start,” I conclude, and Dom agrees. But he still looks pensive and hesitant.
“Don’t worry about Izzy,” I tell him. “I’ll say that I made you come along and that it was strictly business. Besides, you’ll have me along as a chaperone to keep you out of trouble.”
“Keep
“You game or not? I’m going regardless. I just thought you might be able to make things a little easier for me, pave the way, and save me some time, being that you know folks there.”
“I used to, but it’s been several years since the last time I was in the place. Who knows if any of them are still there?”
“Where else would they be?”
He considers that, shrugs, and says, “You have a point.”
The bars in Wisconsin are kind of like the cheese—there are lots of them and most of them smell funny. Many towns have more bars than gas stations, and even in the tiniest villages, where the life expectancy of the average retail business is about six months due to a lack of customers, disposable income, or both, half a dozen bars will coexist in relative harmony and financial comfort.
In every town there is always one place designated as the official football bar. It’s typically decorated in classic Packer colors—green and gold—and whenever the Packers play, every square inch of the place will be occupied by rabid fans, some of whom don’t think twice about wearing a giant foam cheddar cheese wedge on their heads.
In Sorenson, the official Packer bar is The End Zone, the closest thing to a men’s club the town has ever had. It’s a hotbed of out-of-control testosterone located on Main Street between a deli and a pet store. Consequently, it is pretty much guaranteed that talk at the bar will include an assortment of pussy jokes, a remark or two about doing it doggy-style, and the ever-ubiquitous salami comments. Most of the women who dare to venture inside The End Zone generally come back out rather quickly looking pale, appalled, and frightened.
Given the crowd that typically holds down the bar stools in The End Zone, it is hardly surprising that the gay clientele—at least those who are out of the closet—went elsewhere and established a bar of their own. That this bar is located outside of town doesn’t hurt any. Homophobia is alive and well in Sorenson, and while tolerance reigns most of the time, it is often maintained only because most of the gays keep a low profile.
While I don’t want to be presumptuous, I am pretty certain Mike Halverson was gay. It isn’t just the fact that he had AIDS, which, as Izzy has been so careful to remind me, he could have gotten several other ways. There is something about the way he carried himself and the way he spoke that makes me certain. It’s a gut instinct, nothing more, but it is a strong enough instinct for me to act on. If Mike Halverson was indeed gay, chances are he would have found his way to The Cellar. Maybe someone there will recognize him and be able to clue me in as to his friends, lifestyle, or anything else that might be of help.
Dom and I arrive at The Cellar a little after eight and the place is already hopping. It’s Disco Night, one of the many theme nights the bar periodically holds. There is one of those hideous, spinning light balls in the ceiling, lots of Bee Gees music, and a dozen or so John Travolta look-alikes on the dance floor, not all of whom are guys. In fact, I suddenly realize just how effeminate Travolta is when I see that most of the women imitators look more like the real thing than the men do.
On the flip side, most of the Travolta knockoffs have dancing partners who are decked out in flared skirts, tight blouses, bright red lipstick, and lots of mascara…and not all of them are women. Half the fun of going to The Cellar is trying to figure out the gender of the patrons, a task made even more challenging because the hip atmosphere of the place attracts a fair number of heterosexual patrons as well.
We find a table where two women are paying their tab and hover nearby, swooping down on their seats the second they are vacated. Once we are settled, Dom signals to one of the bartenders, a guy named George who is an old friend.
Dom introduces me, and after shaking George’s hand, I get right down to business by showing him a picture of Mike Halverson. It’s a blowup of the shot from his driver’s license, which unlike most such photos, is actually a good picture, though it bears only a vague resemblance to the man I saw earlier today. Although the license was renewed last September—a little over a year ago—the Mike Halverson pictured on it is far healthier-looking and more robust than the man I met.
“Have you seen this guy in here before?” I ask George.
George barely glances at the picture before nodding. “Oh, yeah. Plenty of times. Not recently, though. Not for about…oh…two, maybe three months. Name is Mike something, I think.”
“Mike Halverson,” I offer.
“Sounds right,” George muses. “Heard he picked himself up a sugar daddy and that’s why he doesn’t come around here anymore.”
“Well, he won’t be in again,” I say. “Somebody killed him.”
George looks appropriately shocked. “Killed him? How?”
“Shot him. In the head. Very messy.”
George swallows hard a couple of times and winces. “Any idea who did it?”
“Not yet. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you might be able to give me a lead on the guy—who he saw, who he knew, if he had any enemies, that sort of thing.”
George seems to consider this for a few minutes. “I don’t think it was anyone from here he hooked up with. But there were some folks he talked to pretty regularly. Maybe one of them knows something.” He points to a tall, attractive blond woman with a knockout figure who is out on the dance floor. “Chris used to talk to Mike a lot. You might start with him.”
The pronoun makes me whip my head back around toward the dance floor so fast I feel like Linda Blair in
As far as my eyes can tell, Chris is all woman, and a hellacious-looking one at that, so much so that I sink down a little lower in my chair. There’s nothing quite as humbling as realizing that a man in drag makes a better- looking woman than you do.
George walks up to the dance floor and whispers in Chris’s ear, pointing toward our table. Chris nods, gives his dance partner a quick buss on the cheek, and sashays his way toward us.
“Hi there,” he says, and I notice that though his voice is deep, it is not distinctly masculine. He settles into an empty chair, crosses his shapely legs, leans back, and lights a cigarette. He gives Dom a thorough once-over that should be intimidating, maybe even insulting. Yet instead it seems strongly sensual, enough so that Dom begins to squirm. Smiling at Dom’s obvious discomfort, Chris then turns that sensuous gaze toward me, giving me the same deep perusal.
“Love that lipstick you’re wearing,” he says, his gaze settling on my lips. “Sort of a cross between mocha and
