Chapter Text
When Jack Healy was fifteen, freshly out on his ass in the Bronx, working three shitty jobs and crashing anywhere he could, he’d shared rooms with a drag queen.
Every night when he was just sliding into his sleeping bag on the booze-soaked sofa, Frank was getting ready to go out by the light of a bare bulb over the sink. Jack would watch through half-closed eyes—caught up in the process, the layers of glitter and paint, the ritual of getting into character. Frank’s drooping lashes being dusted with shimmering powder, the heels that lifted him above mortal heights, the soft gold of his curling wig. Even when he’d left all that far behind, Jack had remembered it as a time of homely magic.
So it surprised him, the look on Holland’s face when he hung up the newly-wired kitchen phone in his freshly-built kitchen, powdered plaster still scattered over the floor, and turned to ask Jack, “I don’t suppose you’d want to work for a drag bar?”
He didn’t look disgusted, or angry; sheepish was the word, Jack decided, taking in Holland’s worried smile, the way he was fidgeting with his torn page of scribbled-down notes from the call. He didn’t mind, but he expected Jack would. Jack raised a what-about-it brow at him. “They paying?”
“Uh, yes, actually, that’s why I’m mentioning it. I don’t suggest charity jobs.” Sheepish was definitely it. Along with sleepy. It was fully ten on a Tuesday morning and Holland was still in a tank top and holey socks, rumpled, blurry-voiced, barely awake. But he had let Jack in at the door without complaint and made them each a good strong coffee, and Jack considered that a solid win. Working at the folding table in Holland’s breakfast nook, the sun streaming through the windows, was so much nicer than meeting clients at all hours in corner booths at dirty dives, hoping you didn’t end up sold out or stabbed. Jack would deal with Holland’s sheepishness any day for this.
“Don’t see the problem, then. What’s the case?”
“Um. Seems like it’s—sabotage?”
“What kind?”
“Depends who you ask. The workers made the owner call us. He thinks it’s a run of bad luck; they’re sure someone’s targeting them. You know the morality moms don’t like those places, and they’re madder now that it’s legal. Wouldn’t be surprised if the workers are right.”
“Aw, hell. Guess I’m glad they called.” He wasn’t used to the feeling of being aboveboard. Having his face in the paper, his number and name right next to Holland’s. Jack Healy to the rescue. “All right, lay it out for me.”
Holland’s shoulders had already relaxed, his feelings soothed. He was awfully susceptible to Jack’s practiced calm. It was easy to rile him, but just as easy to settle him down. One of the many reasons Jack had had more fun in the past year than in all the years he’d worked alone. Holland trusted him now. It was a hell of a feeling.
Holland was saying, “Well, it’s like this,” and he’d plopped his notepad down on the table and started sketching out the bar, stabbing at the paper with his blue Bic for emphasis, and his bed hair was still flopping down into his no-longer-sleepy eyes, now bright and sharp with excitement. Jack rubbed his hand over a smile that was threatening to become very, very fond, and bent over the paper. Ran an eye over Holland’s notes, names and dates and a list of catastrophes.
Every week something new had gone wrong: food spoiled, checks vanished, wires frayed. Surprise inspections turned up code violations in places that should have been fine. And lately, customers had been getting suddenly, violently sick, like something had gotten into the drinks. Nobody had wanted to call the police; the memory of the raids was too near. But something had to change. Someone really did seem to have it in for the place.
Once convinced to meet, the owner, Bob Winter—an anxious little man, with perfectly quiffed hair, yellowed teeth and the clearest diction Jack had ever heard—sat himself down at March’s table and polished off three cans of Schweppes telling them the story.
“Don’t you have anything harder?” he groused, and Holland deadpanned, “That is not a service we provide our clients.” Jack angled him a sideways smile. It had taken a while after they’d set up shop together, but eventually he’d realized Holland had stopped pushing drinks at him. He still liked a gin and tonic, but he’d order Jack a seltzer without being asked. And since Jack had started working out of Holland’s house, the modern avocado-green fridge held a constant supply of ginger ale and Yoohoos. Jack kind of wanted to ask if Holly had mentioned he liked them, and he kind of didn’t, in case they were only meant for the kids.
At any rate, Bob Winter (glumly downing his boozeless Schweppes) had precious little new information. The bar hadn’t had any unknown faces around lately, nobody new lurking in the corners; everyone was a known quantity. But they’d lost half the payroll over the last year as problems snowballed, and the bartender and janitor he really couldn’t afford to lose had banded together; insisted he had to call someone to investigate or they were done. “So here I am,” said Winter, terse. “We didn’t get where we are by calling people in. We’ve always taken care of our own problems. We’re discreet. I’m letting you in, but I can cut you off any time if you start causing issues for my people, right?”
“We’ll be the soul of discretion,” promised Jack blandly, earning a snort from Holland, who busied himself with his notes and tried not to look Jack in the eye. It was a simple joy for Jack, getting Holland to break his “serious professional” act in the middle of things, and he was getting very good at it. Holland thought it was funny when Jack used fancy phrases, but not the way June had; Holland was never laughing at him.
Winter didn’t seem to notice or care. He wanted the problem dealt with, quickly and cleanly, and he wanted not to lose any more people. Jack saw the shadow in his eyes that said he couldn’t afford to get sentimental over all this, so he didn’t offer any sympathy. He stuck out his hand and took the man’s blunt, rough, nicotine-stained grasp, promised they’d do what they could. Watched Holland walk him to the door.
“So what d’you think?” he asked, when Holland came back, and Holland shook his head and pinched his nose and poured himself another coffee.
“I think this one is going to fuckin’ blow. How are we going to flush out a weasel in a little club like that? Couple of strangers asking nosy questions, poking around where we don’t belong? We’ll tip him off before we’ve caught half a clue.” He groaned a little and downed his cup; wrinkled his nose, put it down. “But. You know. There’s always the back channels. D’you suppose we could—”
“Go in drag,” agreed Jack, at the same time as Holland said, “—bribe the bartender,” and then blinked at him in shock.
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Cleaner if we do it ourselves, right?”
“Um. You think—you would—?”
“I don’t have the look for it.” He’d have thought that was obvious. He had a face that was begging for a fight, and they needed a come-hither. Big blue eyes and a nice mouth. “You’d be perfect.”
“What.”
“You look more like a girl, March.”
“Say that again!” Holland’s voice soared straight toward a pitch only a dog could love. Jack stared at him, nonplussed. It wasn’t like he’d never dressed in drag before.
“It’s not like you’ve never dressed in drag before,” Jack pointed out. “You looked great in that Mary Poppins get-up.”
“Where the hell did you see that?”
“Holly was showing me her photo album just the other night, while we were waiting for you. Halloween 1969.”
Holland deflated at once. The photo album had been one of the few survivors of the fire, hidden inside a metal filing cabinet, and Holly had held it in both hands with reverent care; cast sidelong glances at Jack to make sure he was appreciating it properly. He had appreciated it very much. He so rarely got to see anything of the Marches’ life before. It smelled faintly of smoke, and there were water spots on the cover, but the photos inside were intact, bright and full of life. In the Halloween Polaroid a younger, softer Holland had stood proudly with his wife tucked under his arm, both mid-giggle, and happy all over in a way that kind of hurt to look at. Em had been dressed as Burt, with a soot-smudged face and a funny hat. And Holland had looked awfully good in Mary Poppins’ lipstick and dress, even if it had only been a joke for a party.
“I remember,” said Holland, quiet now. “That was a good night.” His eyes were starting to glisten a little. It hit Jack in the chest. Holland had been a tearful drunk, that first case, but Jack had only seen him cry sober once before. It happened the day the new house was near enough done for Holly to run wild through it, calling dibs on her room, demanding pride of place for the record player in the living room. Jack had sat by on more than one night while she and Holland gave full stage performances to “Sugar, Sugar” and “Natural Woman,” Holland matching her every move. Now they would dance in their own home.
Jack stood next to Holland pretending not to notice his eyes full of tears, until Holland choked on a laugh and pressed his hands to his reddening face. Jack had bumped his shoulder gently into March’s and said, “You’re okay,” the only words he could find. Not much for what it was, but it had made Holland smile behind his hands, and Jack guessed that was good enough.
So now he kept his mouth shut and breathed slow and let Holland have his moment, and after a minute of staring at things Jack couldn’t see, Holland knuckled the damp out of his eyes and gave Jack a warm little half-smile that felt really good, all things considered, and said, “Well, what the hell, let’s get me a dress.”
“Could you wear one of Emma’s?”
“Uh-uh, all ruined in the fire. She was more of a Levis girl, anyway.”
“Well.” Jack cast his mind back through his years of running around the city, all the spots a six-something man might find a gown and pair of heels without starting trouble. “I might know a place.”
***
The theater still stood at the corner of Temple and Grand, just across from the park. Holland had snapped on the tape player when they got in the car and spent the ride looking out the window, bopping a hand on his thigh to the Mamas and the Papas. Jack sort of wondered where his head was. Holland had been quieter since the move. A little far away. But he popped up cheerfully enough when they pulled up and followed Jack without complaint to the beat-up door at the side where he used to go. Jack guessed—he hoped, despite so many years—Carmela might still be around.
The kid who answered the door said, “Oh, sure,” when Jack asked for her, “gimme a sec,” and disappeared into the cool interior of the stagehouse, and Jack sighed in relief. Too many things kept changing all the time. You lived long enough and everyone you knew shuffled around, skipped town, moved south, moved up in the world, and you (just keeping on with things, not looking to change)—you got a bit left behind.
“Old flame?” said Holland casually.
“Oh, no. Old friend. Owes me a favor.”
“Mmm.”
“Owes me several, really. Ran a job for her in ’67 and it got complicated.”
“Ah.”
“Worth it, though. She’s a good egg, deserved a break.”
“Uh-huh. And for that, she’ll get me a gown?”
“And a wig, and some shoes if we’re lucky.” He cast a dubious glance at Holland’s long, sleek alligator leather derbies. His partner did not have small feet. “Fit you up with a brassiere, too.”
“What? Why?” Holland squeaked, as the door swung open and Carmela (rounder, grayer, still bright and brassy) said joyously, “Jackson Healy, you bastard! Get in here. What are you doing up here? And—” She looked Holland up and down, his dickish aviators and uncertain smile, the shined-up derbies and the wedding ring that hung around his neck. Smiled wider. “Who’s your friend?”
“Partner,” said Jack, proud. “Holland March. March, meet Carmela Ibáñez. She’s got the key to the treasure.”
It took no time to explain their errand. Holland, blinking and fidgeting, seemed barely reassured by Carmela’s delight at the idea of dressing him. He was taking all this with surprising shyness, Jack thought, for the guy who’d just dived into the pool with the mermaids. But once Carmela had them in the depths of backstage storage and was flinging open the doors to gown after gown, Holland seemed to be catching the spirit; he grinned bashfully at her praise of his blue eyes in the bluest of the slinkier gowns, and ventured an opinion on a wig (cascading auburn curls, to Jack’s surprise; he’d thought Holland would want something in the honey shade of his own hair).
“Now a bustier,” Carmela sang, “and maybe a corset?”
“Look at him,” said Jack. “What would a corset do?”
“And what do I need with a bra?” muttered Holland, when Carmela had gone to get the undergarments. “I haven’t got anything to put in there.”
“Well, she’ll get you some falsies,” said Jack, surprised, “you’ll need something to fill out the dress. Makes it fit pretty.”
Holland shook his head. The single bulb over the dressing room glowed in his hair and softened his face. He looked young, like he had in the photo of him and Em. He looked a little lost, in a way that made Jack want to touch his shoulder and tell him again that he was okay, it was all okay.
“How do you know about all this? Were you on stage?” said Holland, and Jack shrugged.
“Had a roommate who did drag,” said Jack. Holland straightened. Stared. Jack could see what he was thinking. But he wouldn’t say, “It wasn’t like that,” because that would sound like Jack minded. He didn’t mind. He wouldn’t want Holland to think he would mind. And anyway the longer he stayed quiet, the redder Holland got, and Jack wanted to keep watching that. Indulge in the rare joy of Holland startled into shutting up.
Then Carmela came back, and Jack got the equal joy of watching her perform the final fitting. When the dress and the wig and the shoes were all done and the shape was just right Carmela said, “Honey, you’re sensational,” with as much fondness as if she’d known him from boyhood. Holland laughed at that, surprised and sweet. Traded her back every item and put himself back together piece by piece until he looked like everyday Holland March again. Sank down onto a seat and sighed, while she went once more to grab a few sparkly things “to finish the effect.” His hand went to the ring on its chain that lay over his heart.
“D’you think I should, you know, take this off? Does it spoil the look?”
“No,” said Jack. “No, keep it on. It’ll suit. Em liked you just fine as Mary.”
Holland nodded, and his finger traced the ring around and around until Carmela came back with trays full of jewels for his neck and his ears and his hands.
Goodbyes said, promises made to keep the costume safe and to not be a stranger, they made their way back out of the shadowlands of backstage into the bustle and glare of the city. Holland climbed into the Toronado beside Jack and flipped the radio on over the quiet. Jack let him be. All the way back he kept thinking of the way Holland had smiled shyly at himself in the mirror. Holland had had a lot of smiles when they’d met, smiles for everything and everyone, brazen, ironic, sleazy, all of them really, really damn sad. Somewhere along the line that had changed. These days, when Holland smiled, he looked like he meant it more often than not. It made Jack glad.
When they pulled into the driveway, Holland blinked and seemed to come back to himself; swung himself up and out of the car and said, “Go ahead in, Healy, I gotta take a walk.” Jack gave a long look after his retreating back. When they’d first met, Holland had smoked everywhere, all the time, like he couldn’t stand the taste of fresh air. But when he’d noticed it worried Jack, he’d slowed down some; begun taking walks on days bad enough to panic-smoke a whole pack, so Jack wouldn’t have to watch. Jack felt a bit bad about that. Jack hadn’t wanted him to hide from him. He just wanted Holland to let himself breathe.
It had happened fast, the change from rolling his eyes over Holland to needing an eye on him. Wanting him safe. Somewhere between the time Holland had run with him into the dark, ready to fight death barehanded for Holly—between that, and the look on Holland’s face when he’d held her again, and the way he’d still followed Jack into more danger, just to bring Amelia back too—the way he’d spent the rest of the search scared shitless and out-of-his-depth and still refusing to give up—well.
Jack wanted the world to go on having Holland in it, his stupid magnificent stubbornness, his bright refusal to let things die. Jack wanted his life to have more of that too. So Jack had stayed near. Had waited, whenever Holland went walking away. Had found he worked better with Holland, actually, and Holland with him; Jack backing up Holland’s bluffs, Holland smooth-talking people suspicious of Jack’s quiet. They were good together. They did some things worth doing. Jack felt better now than he had in a very long time.
Jack didn’t mind waiting when Holland needed a walk. Jack would be here when he got back.