The Sugarman Bootlegs (Hommages à Alfred)

By Robert Rodi

When two friends discover old video footage of an unknown saloon singer, they try to pass it off as bootlegs of a long-lost cabaret legend. But their prank backfires when the viral sensation takes on a vivid - and lethal - life of its own...and as its fame increases, so does the body count. Scaldingly funny, brutally unsentimental, nerve-shreddingly suspenseful - and featuring a mid-story switcheroo on par with Hitchcock's "Psycho" - THE SUGARMAN BOOTLEGS reads like the bastard child of "All About Eve" and "Frankenstein." It's a highly addictive cross-cultural mash-up as only Robert Rodi (FAG HAG, BABY) could do it. ~ Hommages à Alfred is a series of novels inspired by the films of Alfred Hitchcock, incorporating mystery, menace, murder, and mordant wit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Rodi
• Release date: May 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310693892

Book preview

PROLOGUE

THE WORDS OR the music?…The singer or the song?…What, after the last note faded into silence, took primacy? Somewhere along the way, he must have got it wrong. He must have chosen badly…been misled or…

He coughed, and was surprised to see blood fleck his forearm—foamy crimson against chalky flesh. Blood was important, that much he knew. Blood was life. And his was escaping him. But why? What had he done…?

He’d got it wrong, that’s all. Got…something wrong. He had to discover what it was—had to make sense of it…and quickly, too. There was buzzing in his head, like the roar of horseflies, large and angry; it scorched, like electricity…soon it would blot out the tunes, overwhelm the words, flatten sharps and sharpen flats, muddy time signatures and blur chord progressions, shutting out everything but its own insistent din. He had to sort it all out quickly, or lose the chance forever.

The words, or the music?…The singer…or…

PART ONE

1

PAUL COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d seen Uncle Allen; had it been eleven years…twelve? Shocking to think so. During his adolescence, he’d actually been ashamed of him—embarrassed by his big handlebar mustache and low-slung 501s, his rhinestone earring and slightly tarnished gold tooth, the way he, at forty, had openly ogled Paul’s teenage friends as though appraising items on a dessert cart. Later, Paul had learned to appreciate his mother’s unrepentantly gay brother. After all, Paul hoped to become a leading cultural critic when he grew up, and Uncle Allen not only encouraged him where his parents scoffed, but was himself a virtual databank of arcane cultural references. If, working on a term paper, Paul found himself stuck for the name of a particular film by Fassbinder, or the précis of an opera by Korngold, he could always call Uncle Allen—who was able to furnish not only such rarefied information, but the curriculum vita of any celebrity contestant on Hollywood Squares. His mind was razor sharp, encyclopedic, and shaggily indiscriminate.

With the rise of Internet search engines, Uncle Allen became less valuable a resource; and anyway, Paul’s career as a critic had stalled at the outset, derailed by the distressing necessity of having to earn money for food and shelter. As he sank reluctantly into his routine as freelance writer for a handful of midsize corporations, the old intimacy with Uncle Allen began to wane, though Paul was too preoccupied to be aware of it. So it came now as a shock to hear his former mentor had died.

There were two additional surprises. The first was the manner of his death: struck by a Dodge Dart that jumped the curb at Hudson near Houston; apparently he wasn’t killed immediately, and was able to tell the medics—heroically, through what must have been deranging pain—that to survive HIV long enough to bite it in a freak accident was something of an achievement. If that didn’t elicit tears, the second surprise did the trick…

A house? Joanna asked over dinner. "Your uncle left you a house?"

Yup, Paul replied, his throat swelling with emotion. That’s why we’re celebrating. He’d ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot brut rosé, price be damned; now he raised his glass and said, To good old Uncle Allen.

Joanna raised her glass as well and touched it to his; it sang a happy note. After downing a mouthful of effervescence she made an appreciative yummy noise, then got right down to business: So where is this place? Dare I hope Manhattan?

Alas, he said, holding back a small burp. But almost as good. He allowed for a dramatic pause, then said, Fire Island.

"It’s a summer house? She shrugged. Oh, well. Real estate’s real estate. Don’t tell me it’s in The Pines."

"Where else? Uncle Allen was old-school gay. He was summering out there before I was born. Wait’ll you see the place. I haven’t been there since I was fourteen, but as I recall it’s like a museum of Seventies leather kitsch."

Hmm…I see some eBay earnings in your future.

You’re thinking small, honey, he said, patting her hand. You said it yourself: real estate’s real estate. And I intend to cash out.

You’re selling it?

You bet. I don’t have much interest in spending my summers among the bronzed and fabulous. Unless you do.

"God, no! You’ve seen what gay men are like around me. Imagine a whole island of them, trailing me worshipfully and hanging on my every word."

That doesn’t sound so bad.

She gave him a sly, sidelong look. I prefer the more hands-on variety of male appreciation these days.

Right, then. Up goes the For Sale sign.

She hugged herself with expectation. What do you think you’ll get for it?

I can’t imagine. I’m going out there this weekend to talk to a realtor. And to start packing up Uncle Allen’s things. Hey, want to come along?

Again, no, she said, plucking her napkin from her lap and placing it on the table. I don’t do ‘packing up,’ and you know it.

You wouldn’t have to. I’d just enjoy the company. Come on.

Well…if there’s a pool I’d consider it.

There is! There’s a pool. Though even as a kid I remember thinking it’s a small one.

Well, it’s not like I’ll be doing the backstroke or anything. All right, you’re on. She got to her feet. Off to powder my nose. If the waitress comes about dessert, make her stay till I get back.

She turned, the silk of her dress swishing against the back of her chair; she was a large woman, and Manhattan a congested island, so she was always rubbing against something or someone…but luxuriously, like a cat. In fact, her largeness was what Paul liked best about her. He’d never met a woman so comfortable in her own skin, and given the amount of skin in question, such bravado was irresistible. When he embraced her, he could just get his hands to meet behind her back, which made encircling her feel like a kind of victory. And what he encircled was no soft and sloppy mound of flesh; she was packed tightly, like a drum. When he ran his hands down her ample hips, the effect was dizzying, like skiing; and when she purred in pleasure at his touch, his head nearly lifted off his shoulders and floated away.

A few minutes later she returned and lowered herself grandly into her chair. I just had a thought, she said as she scooted her chair up to the table. Remember Clifton? He’s always trying to wangle a free weekend at the Pines, and I’ll bet if I offered him room and board in exchange for some physical labor, he’d jump at the chance.

Paul grimaced. Well…I don’t know.

Oh, come on, it’ll be like old times!

He toyed with the stem of his champagne flute. I was sort of looking forward to having the house alone together. Just the two of us.

That’s so sweet, she said, squeezing his arm, but I’m only thinking of you. You say there’s work to be done and it sounds like more than you can handle.

Well, she was right about that. But…Clifton. He’d had one hell of a time seducing Joanna away from her seemingly inseparable gay best friend. How many times had he asked her out in the early days, only to end up with Clifton tagging along, an oblivious, tireless third wheel? And his eventual victory was of recent enough vintage that he didn’t care to risk undoing it now. He loved that Joanna had so many facets to her character, but fag hag was the one he liked least. Still, he had nothing against Clifton personally, and it’s true he might need a hand with the heavy lifting.

He sighed. All right, fine, invite him. He immediately regretted it, realizing that his bequest from Uncle Allen, and the effects of the champagne, had rendered him temporarily soft-hearted. To mitigate the error, he scowled and added, "Just make sure he knows he’s expected to work."

2

JOANNA HADN’T UNDERSTATED her effect on gay men; she had no sooner boarded the Fire Island ferry than she was, by some strange homosexual alchemy, invested as its queen. Mere moments after she, Paul, and Clifton had found seats together, she was beckoned away by some lanky Latino she’d known professionally, and introduced loudly and lengthily to all his friends—a round-robin of quips and laughter which lasted most of the voyage from the dock at Sayville to that at the Pines.

This left Paul alone with Clifton, an awkward situation because they’d only just had a chance to say hello before boarding. Paul had been apprehensive about meeting Clifton again; afraid he might be bitter and vindictive, given to snarky asides over the way Paul had come between him and Joanna. In fact, face-to-face with him once more, Paul was reminded of Clifton’s boyish charm. His hair was a mop of wayward curls and he wore a hoop in one ear (this was new), giving him a look both gamin and faintly piratical; and his loud print shirt was open at the collar, allowing for an eruption of chest hair like foam from beer bottle. He stood out among the fierce, scalped, depilated pneumatic tubes in designer t-shirts who seemed to make up the rest of the queue, and who resembled the bulk of Paul’s own gay acquaintances. He never had any idea how to talk to such men. But Clifton lacked the hooded quality they possessed; his open, grinning face invited conversation.

So, how’s the private chef gig going? Paul asked. When last they’d met, Clifton had just quit his job at a restaurant to go solo.

Clifton shrugged. Not so great. Basically, I’m a private chef the way most of my friends are actors. Meaning, I don’t have any clients. I might as well say I’m a king, I just don’t have a country at the moment.

Paul chuckled. Well, you can always go back to La Panache if it doesn’t work out.

Clifton looked at him amusedly. "That was three jobs ago!"

Really? Wow. Sorry.

He waved a hand in dismissal. There’s no reason you should be up on my résumé, or anything. But yeah, since then I’ve been sous chef at The Glass Onion, and then at Trattoria Belasco.

Neither of these names rang a bell with Paul, but he said, Oh, yeah, right.

You probably just remember La Panache ‘cause that’s how I met Joanna.

Oh? said Paul, as the ferry finally slipped its moorings with a series of epic groans.

You don’t know that story? I can’t believe you don’t know that story!

Paul shrugged an apology. In fact, he’d probably heard it—he’d probably heard it several times—but it wasn’t the kind of thing that wildly interested him. Still, he was a captive audience, so he allowed Clifton to continue.

"I was the pastry chef there, and when Joanna came in someone recognized her and was like, ‘That’s the head critic at Eat Manhattan,’ and everybody got all frantic, scurrying around trying to get their shit together. During the service I snuck out and said to her, ‘You realize your cover’s blown,’ and she said, ‘You realize your coeurs a la crème are leaden.’ We both laughed and I made her a fresh batch. She still torpedoed us in the review, but we managed to become friends."

It’s true she’s not bribable, said Paul. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Clifton laughed, and so did Paul; and Clifton’s knee grazed against Paul’s.

Oh, sorry, he said.

It’s okay, Paul replied, though he drew his legs together.

Awkwardness settled over them again. Clifton eventually broke the spell by reaching down, zipping open his bag, and pulling out a cap. Don’t want to get burned before I even get there, he said, and as he donned it Paul saw that it was emblazoned with the logo DOLLYWOOD, Pine Forge TN.

Oh, you’ve been there? he asked.

Hm? Clifton said, adjusting the brim to bar the sun from his face.

Paul jerked his thumb at the cap.

Clifton took a moment to realize what he meant, then laughed. Oh, no. Hocked this off an old boyfriend. His parting gift to me, though he never knew it.

Ah. So you’re not a fan, then?

Hell, yeah! Stole the hat, didn’t I?

"Because I personally think she’s criminally underrated. She comes across as a caricature so that’s how some people respond to her, but she’s actually a songwriter and performer of considerable gifts. Her last few albums, after she went back to her bluegrass roots?…Beautiful stuff. Though I personally prefer Halos & Horns, which she produced herself, to Little Sparrow, which was the work of her old mentor Steve Buckingham. I honestly think she’s outgrown him."

Clifton looked at him for a moment, then said, "Uh…yeah. I loved her in 9 to 5."

Paul winced. He was doing it again—coming on too strong, too soon, with his ridiculously arcane opinions. Sorry, he said. I know I can be a little intense.

No, no, Clifton assured him, I just forgot how you are.

What do you mean, ‘how I am’?

His neck flushed scarlet. Oh, I didn’t mean—it’s not, like, a criticism or anything. It’s just…you know. You were always such a culture maven. It’s a little intimidating. I was always afraid you’d twig to how little I really know about anything.

Don’t be an ass. Different worlds. I mean, I don’t know a scallion from a shallot.

A shallot is a green onion, said Clifton with swift confidence. "No, wait, a scallion is a green onion! Aaargh! See there? That’s how much you intimidate me!"

Paul laughed. Well, you’ve just had your revenge. You’ve now confused me completely and forever on shallots versus scallions.

Never mind, I tell you what: I’ll do the cooking this weekend, you work the stereo.

Deal. Paul thought of reaching out to shake his hand, then changed his mind.

Joanna rejoined them a moment later, the breeze toying with her hair. "Are you quite sure you’ve finished making the rounds?" Paul said as she squeezed in next to him.

Oh, I’m sure. I think I’ll spend the rest of the weekend by the pool, hiding from the homos. She winked at Clifton. Present company excepted.

"There’s a pool?" asked Clifton.

Probably empty, Paul said, extending his arm to encompass Joanna’s shoulders.

She shoved him away. What do you mean, ‘empty’? You didn’t tell me that!

He felt his face redden; he was busted. It only just occurred to me this morning, he said guiltily. It’s the beginning of the season. Uncle Allen died four weeks ago. So there’s no way he had time to get out here and open it up.

Joanna stared at him, appalled.

Clifton said, "Well…we could fill it, couldn’t we?"

Yeah…but it probably needs to be scrubbed out and everything first. And then chlorinated—all of that.

I could do it!

You know how?

"How difficult can it be? Pool boys do it. And I’ve got my laptop. I’ll do some Googling…"

All right, hold on, said Paul, holding up his free arm. The point of the weekend is packing up the house so I can sell it. That’s why you’re here, remember?

Clifton’s enthusiasm was undimmed. I could do the pool as well. I have a lot of energy, don’t I, Joanna?

She looked into Paul’s eyes. It would help the house sell if the pool’s in working order. I’m just saying.

Paul sighed and admitted defeat.

3

CLIFTON SPENT NEARLY every moment of the next day working on the pool. Of course he did. Paul knew he would, and knew he had an ally in Joanna, so there was very little Paul could do about it. As he labored in the house, clearing away Uncle Allen’s things, he could hear them out on the deck—Joanna sunning in a canvas chair, chattering away, Clifton deep in the pool with a bucket and brush, scrubbing the surface with boric acid and laughing at everything she said. Occasionally a pair of shirtless hunks would appear at the fence and bandy words with them; the hooting and cawing would waft up to Paul inside the house. Like old times, indeed.

Fortunately, he ended up not needing much help after all. He’d forgotten how small the place was—just a kitchenette, dining room, living room, and two minuscule bedrooms—and the decades-out-of-fashion furniture was flimsy and lightweight; summer-house furniture. He was able to break it up easily with Uncle Allen’s electric chainsaw and hoist it out to the trash bins with no trouble, leaving just the dining room set, the sofa, and two beds to serve them the duration of the weekend.

Uncle Allen’s stash of vinyl record albums disappeared several minutes after Paul lugged them outside the gate, which made him wonder if maybe he’d underestimated their value. Well, too late now. He packed all the leftover clothes into a pair of suitcases; he’d drop them off at Goodwill on his way back to Manhattan. The leather gear was more problematic; there was a lot of it, and it all seemed in very good condition, if a little frightening to someone of Paul’s vanilla sensibilities. Was there a market for used leather? He’d ask Clifton and Joanna for advice when they finally came up from the pool.

The other goods in the house were of a kind that could be divvied up between Paul and his friends. He had a mind to keep the turntable for himself; he hadn’t owned one since high school, and it had become a requisite hipster accessory in recent years. The kitchenware—there wasn’t much of it, but it was all copper, impressively—could go to Joanna or even to Clifton, if he sufficiently redeemed himself (and as warm as it was in this small box of a house, Paul was beginning to look forward to having the pool to fall into when his labors were ended). The artworks, books, and electronic appliances also brought to mind various members of his circle who might appreciate them.

Finally, in the back of the hall closet, he found a stash of Beta tapes, all unmarked. He almost didn’t recognize them—VHS had won the format war back in his childhood—and his first impulse was to throw them out; what good could they be to anyone in the digital age? But then he balked. Possibly they contained something personal; maybe even some of Uncle Allen’s own filmmaking attempts. He’d often hinted that he dabbled, but was coy about discussing the results. It seemed worth investigating.

The only problem was, how to view them…a problem solved by a little further spelunking, and the discovery of a good condition Sony Betamax.

Well, here’s our after-dinner entertainment, Paul told himself, and he lugged the machine from the floor of the closet.

By late afternoon, Clifton had finished prepping the pool and had begun filling it with a garden hose. At this rate, it would take several hours before it was usable; but then they’d have it the next day to play in it. Clifton and Joanna came back up to the house, their faces and shoulders glowing pink from exposure to the sun; they took turns showering while Paul mixed mojitoes, then had cocktails on the deck overlooking the pool. The gurgling of the hose and the susurration of the breeze through the brush provided the only ambient sound, and they lapsed into a kind of exhausted, dopey bliss.

So nice not to have traffic noise, said Joanna, whose Tribeca apartment sat over an endlessly busy intersection. I can’t think of the last time I spent a day without hearing an engine growl.

There was my chainsaw, Paul reminded her as he hoisted the pitcher to refill her empty glass.

She scoffed. My Cuisinart makes more noise than that sad old thing.

Clifton was sprawled across the wicker chair, his drink dangling perilously from two fingers. I can’t believe I’m too tired to go out, he said. A whole beach filled with available guys in box-cuts, and I’m sitting here with the two of you.

"You’re cooking for the two of us, said Paul. I trust you remember that part of the deal."

He slapped his forehead. Damn! When Paul and Joanna looked at him, aghast, he smiled and said, Kidding, I’ve got it covered. I slipped out this afternoon and picked up the makings for a chicken tagine. I’ll get right on it.

Yet he didn’t move a muscle, and finally Joanna had to say, "Clifton, if you do not get up this second and see to it that I am fed, your first experience of the pool you’ve worked so hard to fill will be my drowning you in it."

He sighed and made a great show of rising from his chair. I’m going, I’m going.

When he was back in the house, rustling noisily about the kitchen, Paul set down his drink, reached over, and took Joanna’s free hand. Hey, he said. Glad you came?

It’ll do, she said teasingly. A moment later: "Sure you want to sell?"

I’m sure. If we’re going to have a summer place, it’s not going to be here.

She gave him a wry look. What’s this ‘we’ talk, mister? You’re making it sound like your intentions aren’t strictly dishonorable.

Right now they are, he said with a little rasp in his voice, and he grabbed her arm to pull her over to him.

She yelped in pain, and when he removed his hand he