P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery Read Free Page B

entirely. And Dorothy peeks behind the curtain and sees... well!
    One must take care not to misinterpret such things. The Life can be an uncharted voyage, a bottomless bog waiting to trap the unsuspecting twink who presumes that a modicum of looks and a certain flair on the dance floor are a substitute for style, or that mere panache might be a match for true wit. The Wise Queen in the A-House had been trying to convey just such to her largely undiscerning novitiate.
    Meaning is attached to everything, she'd implied. One must learn to read into. A label queen is not simply one who knows the price of your outfit at a glance, but sees its social standing as well. True, it takes talent to see "Burberrys of London" rather than "Designer Knock-Off' sewn onto a tag inside a man's long-sleeved linen shirt, but that's only the beginning. A vrai label queen can read meaning into that shirt as well.
    Has it been donned casually so as to suggest the vie d'esprit of the well-to-do, or is it being worn avec hauteur to disguise the fact that its owner has gone bankrupt purchasing this exclusive novelty item to wear to uptown cocktail parties? Or!— Listen carefully, the Wise Queen advises, for herein lies the danger—As it being worn by a young Gangsta Rapper whose world holds its own private associations of meaning and power? The beholder must beware of confusing them! Those stunning mahogany chest muscles bulging beneath that creamy Touch-Me-There Burberrys cotton may seem to have been made just for you, but much is at stake if you risk running your hands over them uninvited. And only a real queen knows such things with unfailing instinct.
    That evening had been the beginning of Bradford's initiation into P'Town's gay life. And now, more than a decade later, a bag slung over his shoulder, he strode down Commercial Street with something like a hometown boy's pride. Weaving in and out among the colorful crowds, he noted the passing landmarks: Cabot's Salt Water Taffy Store, Whaler's Wharf, and the Seamen's Bank. He paused outside Spiritus Pizza where the handsomest of men gathered in the evenings all summer long, talking and laughing late into the night. There was no place quite so fine as P'Town.
    It was here, Brad knew, that America had the first inkling of what it was to become when a gang of unruly pilgrims dropped anchor offshore to make the peninsula's tip their home for a month. They stayed just long enough to write the Mayflower Compact, declare their divine right to annex the New World and finally realize they were straight, and therefore didn't belong in the Gayest Place on Earth, before moving inland to nearby Plymouth and its momentous rock.
    As he walked, Brad pictured the drunken queen making her regal pronouncements that long-ago night in the A-House. It was status she'd been trying to explain. At the height of summer, Provincetown's famed homes-away-from-home were all about prestige, in the same way fraternities jockeyed to reach the top social rung on campus and drag queens schemed to have the grandest hairdo at the ball. It wasn't enough to have a gilded birdcage enwrapped in one's wig. No! One must have the bird as well! And so, in Provincetown, gay men vied with one another vigorously and openly to stay at one or another of the better houses.
    And yet! Brad knew that the real prestige came when you left the heavy traffic of the downtown strip and slipped over into P'Town's residential district. While the tourist zone beckoned endlessly with its circus of delights, the far end of town withdrew from all the bustle and clamor. Here, the crowds thinned and silence took hold of the Cape once more. It wasn't quaint or inviting. It stood aloof, like the Pilgrim Monument or Garbo, wanting only to be left alone.
    Here was where the status game got mean and tough. Here a good house could cost as much as three or four thousand a week. And it was here, less than half a mile from where the first pilgrims had landed, that Bradford