Richie gave unsmiling Detective Inspector Fischer a wink. “Not me, gov. I’m just one of the girls!”
“Alright, sweet cheeks,” Detective Inspector Fischer said, “let’s move along, move along.”
The other members of the drag club laughed and clapped as Richie approached their group. Richie gave a cat walk twirl and pose, then took a bow.
Fischer shook his head. He hated calls like these. All anyone will say in their statements is that they were just out for a night of fun, nobody was behaving any differently than any other night, nobody got into a fight, nobody saw anything, etc. etc. etc. But here was a dead guy bleeding all over the floor, his gut sliced open from sternum to groin. A very personal killing. But no one knows anything.
“OK, guys…guys…OY!” Fischer yelled. The group stopped joshing and paid attention. “So, who’s the guy on the floor.”
“Stella B. Della,” a voice said from somewhere in the group.
“His real name,” Fischer barked.
“Don’t know, pet,” another said. “Only seen ‘im a few times before.”
“Do better, guys,” Fischer admonished. The group murmured and whispered to each other but said nothing to Fischer. “C’mon! Someone probably needs to know he’s dead, right? Mum, Dad, boyfriend, someone! Who is he?!”
“I met him. I mean I talked to him. The other night.”
“Who said that?” Fischer asked
“Me.” Richie stepped out from the group. Fischer’s angry gaze unnerved him. He bobbed an awkward curtsy.
“Did he tell you his real name? His regular name?”
“Francis.” Richie replied. “But I didn’t get a last name.”
“Well, it’s a start. Thanks. And, what’s your name?”
“Richie Rich, the Personification of Perfection!” Richie started to twirl but thought better of it.
“Don’t fuck with me, kid,” Fischer snarled. “Lemme see your I.D.”
Richie reached down the front of his lamé tube top and with a mock flourish, produced a small pink, glittered pouch. He unzipped it and took out his I.D. and handed it to Fischer.
“Richard Akhil Richardson.”
“Richie Rich, The Perfect” Richie said. “I am, actually, Richie Rich, The Perfect, copper-man.”
“Akhil?” Fischer asked.
“It’s Hindi for perfect, or complete. A ruler or a king,” Richie replied. His friends oo’d, ahh’d and applauded. Richie turned and took a deep Prima Donna curtain call curtsy, then turned back to Fischer.
“My mother is Hindi. Indian,” Richie explained. “She knew I would be her only child, so, to her, I am perfect. Nevertheless, my father, being every bit the wanker that he is, wanted me to have an English Christian name. They couldn’t agree what that name ought to be, so they settled on Richard.”
Fischer shook his head again. God, how he hated calls like these.
This week’s prompts are: If it’s too perfect; move along; one of the girls