Topped Chef(81)

At the second bar lining the left side of the room, behind the letters spelling out AQUA on the far wall, Randy Thompson was dressed as his alter ego, Victoria, in elaborate eye makeup and wide red lips. She poured drinks and belted out Cher’s half of the song. I crossed the room and slid onto the bar stool at the end of the bar. As Danielle had taught me, I switched my thinking so I would call Randy “Victoria.” And I reminded myself to think of him as her. Just for now.

Victoria wiped down the bar as the Sonny and Cher song wound down. “We take requests—for the right-sized tips,” she said into her portable microphone as she tucked a five-dollar bill from one of the other patrons into her bustier. She did not look at me or ask if I wanted a drink. But when she came to my end of the bar to page through the songbook I said: “I’d like a Coke, please. And do you know Brenda Lee’s ‘I’m Sorry’?”

She rolled her eyes and poured the soda, then called out a series of numbers and letters to the sound engineer. She slammed my drink in front of me and moved away again.

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” she sang in a powerful voice that could have been Brenda herself. When she finished, I pushed a ten-dollar bill across the bar. She lit a cigarette, blew out a stream of smoke, and stared me down.

“I am sorry,” I said, the words coming out in a rush. Wanting to get everything in before she walked away. “I read the situation completely wrong. I thought you felt trapped here.” I waved my hand to indicate the nightclub, the bar, the sound man, the other drag queen. “And that you’d never find an affordable place to live after you were evicted. And that Rizzoli would block you from winning Topped Chef. And then when Mrs. Rizzoli told me that Sam had a crush on you—”

She cut me off. “You thought I was psychologically damaged. Sick enough to kill a person and try to kill two others because I might not get what I wanted from that ridiculous contest.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I didn’t get the whole drag queen thing—that you’re an entertainer and that you love what you do.”

“I thought I was pretty clear during my interview on that stupid show that I have some bigger aspirations. And there’s some good news on that front, too,” she said and huffed down the length of the bar to take the drink orders of a couple who’d just wandered in from Duval Street. Across the room, Gassy, the other drag queen, began to warble “It’s raining men.”

When Victoria was back within earshot, I said: “I’d love to hear about it. Your news. Really, I would.”

“I get a break in ten minutes,” she said. “Meet me over there.” She pointed across the smoky dance floor to the tables on the other side of the room. I grabbed my Coke from the bar and took a seat. Victoria joined me shortly, sat, and lit another cigarette.

“I know, they’re bad for me, so don’t waste your breath,” she said and blew a stream of smoke out the side of her mouth. “So here’s the deal. When the Topped Chef show blew up this week, the executives at the company did some exit interviews. So I got the chance to pitch an idea to Shapiro’s boss at the TV station. It would be a cooking show called “Sing for Your Supper.”

“Brilliant,” I said. “Did they love it?”

She nodded and broke into her first smile since I’d arrived. “He pitched it to his boss. They want to start filming in a couple of weeks. They’re still not sure whether they want me in drag, so we may film it both ways. During a mini-segment within each half hour, I’ll give advice about parties and decorating and what to serve to a crowd. That will be called ‘Entertaining Shouldn’t Be a Drag.’”

I reached for her hand and squeezed it. “I’m so glad.”

“And there’s more.” Her smile grew wider. “I’m appearing as a guest on Emeril. Watch the show Friday night.”

She squinted and sat back in her chair. “You have quite a road rash there. I read in the paper how you scraped that bum off your scooter and nearly killed yourself to boot.”

“It was the only thing I could think to do. I knew if he got me somewhere alone, I was toast. He’d figured out that he’d told me too much and pretty soon I was going to realize he was the real killer.”

“And not me after all.” She scowled.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “And I’ll say it as often as I need to until you forgive me.”

A sly smile played over Victoria’s face. “So what’s going on with you and the hunky detective?”