Chapter 62

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So that’s how we all ended up together, me and Ray and Chad and Jeff, plus all the other queens: Luna Tic, Bobo Van Ness—cigarette and all—Maureen Povich, and Connie Hung. My living room seemed tiny with so many large personalities in it. I’d made margaritas, strong, with nary a hint of mix. Booze, I figured, would grease the wheels. Or, you know, keep them civil.

“What the fuck are we doing here,” groused Bobo, puffing away on my couch. FYI, she was somewhat smiling. FYI, that was civil for her.

I stood. I gulped—down my drink, that is. I lifted my hand to quiet them down. These, however, were drag queens, and a hand without cash in it did very little. “Bitches, please!” I shouted. They blinked indignantly and clutched their imaginary pearls, but quiet down they did. “We’re here for more than just a drink.”

“Chips?” said Connie, who had finally recovered from her pneumonia.

I sighed and returned with a bag of chips. “Better?”

She shrugged. “What, no salsa?”