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Good as You
Good as You
Good as You
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Good as You

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A resistant bacterial strain is plaguing the city of Detroit and its suburbs, and is quickly spreading to other parts of the country. Dr. Eunice Sabara, a renowned infectious disease specialist, is working around the clock to find a cure, and she’s really close to one when she’s found brutally murdered in her home office.

Before leaving Dr. Sabara’s house, her assailants can’t resist putting a bullet into the hard drive of the computer that contains the bulk of her research, no doubt to emphasize how little they regarded the work she’s been doing. The horrible truth is, however, that the cure for the resistant bacterial strain had been on that hard drive, and was subsequently lost when it was destroyed. And destroyed right along with it is the hope of thousands of people who have already contracted and are currently suffering from the disease.

It’s also unsettling to note that the neighborhood Dr. Sabara had lived in is filled with swastika-wearing, golf-club wielding, gay- and lesbian-bashing thugs who seem to hate just for the fun of it. And there are even a few upstanding citizens in Galena, men and women many consider the pillars of the community, who found Dr. Sabara’s lesbian lifestyle just as distasteful as the neighborhood toughs did. The once quiet, conservative community of Galena has never been so glaringly spotlighted before, and its residents don’t like the attention at all.

In walks Rein Connery, the police detective who’s been assigned to track down Dr. Sabara’s killers and bring them to justice. While getting the job done, Rein befriends a battle weary, yet far from defeated, Joby Rowe and a whole host of her allies, a group of self-described “transgender warriors” (a term coined by Leslie Feinberg’s book of the same name) who aren’t afraid to live their lives as they see fit. Among them is Mattie Duncan, a woman whose gender-identity doesn’t quite match her sex; Raymond Lazaro Ferra, a cross-dressing, heterosexual male; Candy Brown, the former man who’s undergone sexual reassignment and now couldn’t be happier as a woman; and teenager Yvonne Rasmussen, a heterosexual female who believes that people should be allowed the freedom to dress, act, and express themselves in ways that make them happy in this colorful, if not grimly realistic, slice of Americana.

Joby Rowe explains that the word G-A-Y is an acronym for the phrase “Good As You”. Rein Connery is also schooled in the urgency and need to accept people as they are. And once Rein gets to know these warriors, he finds out that they are decent, hard-working people who are struggling to be free and happy just like everyone else.

The theme of the story is summarized by Yvonne when she tells Detective Connery, “[I’m not homosexual,] but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in their right to exist. Do you have to be homeless to have empathy for someone who doesn’t have a home? Do you have to be black to abhor segregation? Do you have to be dying of a disease to want to see a cure for it?”

Let’s all pray that the answer to each of the questions Yvonne poses above is a resounding and unequivocal, NO.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherB. A. Braxton
Release dateAug 27, 2014
ISBN9781311202581
Good as You
Author

B. A. Braxton

B. A. was born in Bridgeton, New Jersey and on a Friday the thirteenth for those who spook easily. She graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1981 with a bachelor’s degree in Natural Science, and with clusters in sociology, writing, and advanced writing courses. In 1987 she graduated from Fairleigh S. Dickinson Jr. College of Dental Medicine with a doctorate in general dentistry.Regardless of the paths that she has taken academically, B. A. has always continued to write. Her first books were written while she was in the seventh grade. Using classmates as characters seemed to put the books in high demand, and even as adults, those friends still ask to read them. By the ninth grade, she’d completed her first novel and although it was pretty bad, she was—and still is—extremely proud of that accomplishment. B. A. writes general fiction, mysteries, and historical fiction. Regardless of what else she has done in her life or how much the practice has been discouraged, writing has always been and always will be the center of her life.B.A. has been married since 1983 and has two children, a son and a daughter, and an aging cat named Salem. She first moved to Michigan in 1988. Her hobbies include hiking, kayaking, exercising on her beloved elliptical trainer, painting with oils, healthy cooking and baking, researching topics for stories, and being proud of her children’s many and varied accomplishments. She loves listening to any kind of music, especially if the lyrics are terrific, and learning as much as she can about people—their mannerisms, the way they speak, what they do, and why they do it. And she also loves watching western television series, especially those from the fifties and sixties. Her favorites are the early Gunsmoke episodes with Chester Goode in them, and that special father-son bond found in The Rifleman. Another favorite is the series The Virginian. The pilot for Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman is one of the most credible depictions of the nineteenth century American west that she has ever seen on celluloid, and several grimly realistic episodes from the first and second seasons are favorites of hers. And lately, Hell on Wheels is more than enough to satisfy her taste for the wild west.

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    Good as You - B. A. Braxton

    Hearing the telephone ring nearly sent Rein Connery tumbling out of bed. After better than fourteen years on the police force, and seven of those in the homicide division, he should’ve been used to early-morning wake-up calls. But he jumped anyway, prompting his wife, Paula, to take her arm away from around his waist and then roll over onto her own side of the bed.

    Bleary-eyed, Rein made out 3:17 on the illuminated alarm clock as he fumbled for the lamp. Lightning flashed, helping him find the switch. Somehow he managed to yank the receiver from the cradle without knocking everything onto the floor. Connery, he said, rubbing his forehead.

    Rein, it’s Maynard.

    Who else? What’s up?

    We’ve got trouble in Galena. Twelve fifty-five Holmstead Place. It sure smells like a hate crime to me. A clap of thunder roared close by, startling Rein all over again. The chill in the air raised gooseflesh on his bare chest and arms.

    Who’s the victim?

    I believe it’s a Dr. Eunice Sabara, Maynard said. She lives alone, so I’m guessing that’s her on the floor.

    Rein slipped his legs out from under the covers and sat up. She’s unrecognizable? he asked, smoothing his brown hair back from his face.

    Oh, yeah. Believe me, she was killed above and beyond the call of duty.

    Specifically? Rein asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Outside, the wind picked up, hurling droplets of rain against the vinyl siding and glass panes like BB shots.

    She’s been beaten with a blunt object, and there’s a bullet in her head. From the chest up, I’d say she most resembles ground beef.

    I get the idea. Ask around. See if she has an ex-husband or a boyfriend.

    That’s doubtful. Besides, I can’t imagine something like this being done by somebody who loved her.

    Rein reached behind his back and caressed one of his wife’s uncovered thighs. The salacious sensation of skin against skin was delightful. You’d be surprised, he said as Paula cuddled closer to him. The powder blue, silk chemise she was wearing gleamed in the meager lamplight wherever he touched it, and another lightning flash enhanced the shimmering brown tones in her hair.

    And Rein, one other thing: if this is Eunice, I knew her. She was one of my sister’s friends.

    My condolences, Maynard.

    Thanks. How soon can you get here?

    Twelve-fifty-five Holmstead? That’s a twenty-minute drive. Who’s the medical examiner?

    Audrey Krzysiak. I called her myself.

    Good, Rein said. Look, I’m going to grab a shower, and I’ll be there in forty.

    Right.

    Rein hung up the telephone and then looked at Paula. She was staring up at him, her head resting against a lavender pillow. Her long hair encircled her face as if it had been placed there on purpose. A woman was murdered in Galena, he told her. They believe it’s a Dr. Eunice Sabara.

    Paula raised herself up on an elbow. Dear God, she said. Her dark eyes, enhanced by a slight, Polynesian slant, grew large with disbelief.

    You knew her?

    Yes, I attended several of her lectures. Dr. Sabara is a leading bacteriologist, arguably one of the best in her field.

    Do you know if she had any enemies?

    No, I don’t, Paula said. She just seemed like a very sweet person.

    Well, there’s at least one person who would disagree with you. She was beaten beyond recognition. Rein stood up and pulled off his pajama bottoms. Don’t keep dinner waiting for me. I don’t know when I’ll be home.

    Call me.

    I will. Thunder grumbled as the rain fell harder and faster.

    Rein, Paula said, getting out of bed and standing in front of him. Be careful.

    He smiled, never getting enough of her concern for him. I will, he said, putting his hands on either side of her breasts and then coaxing the chemise she was wearing to open wider at the top. He loved doing that.

    Pulling her close, he stroked her hair with his fingers. As usual, it was downy soft and smelled like the breath of heaven. You’ve got to stop worrying so much, he whispered, resting his chin on top of her head. I’ll be fine.

    I can’t help it, she said, taking her palm and brushing it gently against his arm. Her hand felt comforting and warm.

    I’ll call you. I promise.

    Paula pulled away from him and then gave him a playful little pout, the kind he adored seeing. You’d better, she said, and then let him kiss her and hold her tight. I’ll make breakfast.

    Honey, there’s no way I can eat at three in the morning.

    Not even a strong tea, heavy on the caffeine?

    Looking quite pleased by the prospect of that, he said, Now you’ve sold me. He gave her hand a squeeze before letting it go.

    Try not to wake the baby, she said, waiting for him to leave the bedroom ahead of her. The waves of her long, tousled hair picked up flickers of white light from the thunderstorm, emphasizing its silky sheen. Evan is such a light sleeper.

    He nodded, scratching his back just above his briefs as he headed for the bathroom. I’m tiptoeing, he said, giving her a wink from over his shoulder.

    **********

    As Rein drove through the upper middle class suburb of Galena, he noticed several people standing around in a steady drizzle and trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening. Pulling his sedan up behind Audrey Krzysiak’s tan Ford, Rein sat there for a minute or two and observed the goings-on around him with uncommon interest; it wasn’t so much the look of the neighborhood as it was the feel of it.

    A group of boys had collected near the Sabara house. The five teenagers looked conspicuous with their shaved heads, black leather jackets, blue jeans, and steel-toed army boots. When Rein stepped out of his car, one of the boys folded his muscular arms in front of his chest and then deliberately stared Rein down. Four-inch swastikas were tattooed on his right forearm and shoulder.

    Dr. Sabara’s ranch house had a beautiful lawn and a wide, cement sidewalk leading up to it from the curb. A cement driveway also led to an attached, two-car garage. Decorative quoins and keystones beautified the exterior, and the arched window arrangements gave the place a look of elegance. Even the transom above the door was an elaborately crafted fixture; whoever had conceived the designs had obviously cared deeply for this home.

    Everything about the redbrick abode seemed to be born from the American dream. So when Rein ducked under the black and yellow police ribbon and ascended the porch, it came as a surprise to see that beautifully fashioned, steel and mahogany door blemished by the word DYKE spray-painted across it.

    CHAPTER TWO: Call Me Joby

    Rein turned around to look at the teenager with the swastikas again, amazed to find him looking smug and periodically hurling a slew of obscenities at the peace officers in general. A uniformed officer was standing on the Sabara porch, so Rein went to him and said, Joe Morgan. How’s it going?

    Joe shrugged and said, Things would be better if I were at home in bed, but what are you going to do? Sometimes I wish I were that lucky portion of the population who only gets to read about murder in the newspaper.

    I hear that, Rein said, taking the time to look over his shoulder at the people milling about across the street. What’s with all the gawkers? Is this a sideshow or something?

    Joe laughed. It seems like one, he said, although these people would probably stop begging to sneak a peek if they got a gander at the condition the body’s in. He shook his head. It’s not for the weak and unsuspecting, believe me.

    Rein nodded. Is that why you’re standing out here?

    After adjusting his tie and looking a little offended by the question, Joe said, I just wanted some fresh air, Rein. It stinks in there, you know?

    It always does. Look, do me a favor, all right? Go and get the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of those five boys over there. As Rein pointed them out, Joe followed his finger and nodded.

    Are they finding too much pleasure in what’s going on here?

    Seems like it. They either know something, or they’re as dumb as hell.

    How about both? Joe said, casting a smile Rein’s way.

    Yeah, Rein agreed, nodding his head.

    I’m on it, Joe said, and then trotted down the steps and went over to the boys before they had the chance to disperse. Rainwater, which had collected in puddles along the roadway, splashed under his feet as he walked, drenching his pressed blue trousers and black leather shoes.

    Rein shook some of the precipitation off of his trench coat and then stepped inside the house, hanging his coat on a rack by the door. Then he followed the long entryway into the great room, which was at the center of the house. Contrary to what Joe had said about the place stinking, Rein was surprised to find that a hint of chamomile tea tinged with cinnamon spice was the first scent that met his nose; it was a homey fragrance reminding him of brisk, spring nights before winter completely passes. It was the kind of smell one usually found in grandmothers’ kitchens. But even with the joy, he knew that not far off the pungent smell of death was lurking right around the corner.

    Off to one side of the large room, Maynard Slye had a pad and pencil in his hands and was writing down every word a young woman had to say. The woman was sitting beside him on a settee, and she must’ve been making him nervous because whenever he was nervous, his incompetence burned as bright as a neon sign flickering in a very dark place. Curiously, a baseball bat was propped against the sofa next to her right leg.

    The girl looked skeptical about whatever Maynard was trying to tell her. Dirty blonde bangs dangled around her dark blue eyes, while the hair over her ears and toward the back of her head was cropped short, sort of like a bob cut, only shorter in the front and much shorter in the back. Her square chin, thicker than average lips, and slightly protruding nose gave her face a stately, if not regal, quality. One look at her told Rein that she was a pretty girl with lots of attitude, which hopefully wasn’t all bad.

    Maynard looked relieved when he saw Rein coming over. Rein, he said, standing up and meeting him halfway. Thank God you’re here.

    Who’s the girl?

    Her name is Joby Rowe. You’ve probably seen her on T.V. She makes it onto the local news stations all the time.

    I don’t watch much television, but the name is familiar.

    Joby’s a bit of a crusader, Maynard said, for the gay and lesbian groups in the area. Anyway, she’s the one who called in the Sabara murder.

    Was she friends with the deceased?

    Yeah, and boy, is she pissed.

    Over the doctor’s death? Rein asked, but Maynard never got the chance to answer.

    Are you the officer in charge? Joby said, getting up from her seat and coming over to them as if she expected an answer to all of her questions now. Her heavy footsteps accentuated the exaggerated limp she had; her right leg seemed decidedly shorter than the other. As she came closer, the smell of cinnamon intensified. A three-inch scar was slashed across her left cheek, resembling a Nike swoosh.

    Yes, I’m in charge of this case, Miss Rowe, Rein said. My name is Detective Connery.

    Call me Joby, she said, not Miss Rowe.

    All right, Joby. Rein gave her a good look; it was odd to see someone not afraid to show bitterness and anger toward law officers and while standing in the middle of a crime scene, no less. Rein made up his mind early on that Joby wasn’t guilty of anything, except maybe of wearing too big of a chip on her shoulder.

    It’s so nice of you to show up before sunrise, Joby told Rein.

    I was called about forty minutes ago, he said, and then felt foolish for having to explain himself to someone who still looked and acted like a teenager.

    What takes you people so long? The deaths of faggots and queers aren’t worth pulling yourself out of bed over?

    Rein looked at Maynard. What’s going on here, Slye?

    Joby’s a little upset because she feels that the police’s response time to her 911 call was slightly delayed, he explained.

    Joby gave Maynard an annoyed once-over. ’Slightly delayed,’ my ass! I called the police at eleven-fifteen. I didn’t see nary a one of you until half past one!

    I’m sorry you had to wait so long, Joby, Rein said. I’ll look into it.

    Yeah, right. Where have I heard that before?

    I assure you, everything will be done to….

    …do as little as possible, Joby concluded for him, if anything is done at all.

    Rein met her gaze with a surprised pause. How can you say that? he asked her. You don’t even know me.

    "I know people like you," she said.

    Like me? How so?

    She didn’t answer; she just cut her blue eyes away from his as if she hadn’t expected him to speak up for himself.

    Rein smiled a little. You’re perpetuating the same kinds of prejudices you’re trying to dispel, Joby. Just think about it.

    Although she showed signs of remorse for what she’d said to him, she merely shrugged and limped back to the settee, sitting down in a huff.

    Rein looked at Maynard and said, Check out her story. I want to know when she called 911, and when the first officer did show up.

    Sure, the big man said, and then walked out of the room.

    Soon after, Officer Morgan handed over the list of names and information for each of the teenagers who’d been standing across the street, and Rein acknowledged him with a nod of his head. Thanks, Joe, he said, giving the list a good look.

    No problem. Now if there isn’t anything else you need, I’m gonna do something I haven’t done in about twenty-four hours: go to bed.

    Yeah, go on home, Joe. We can take it from here.

    Joe raised his hand and then paused before colliding with another officer as he turned to leave the room. The younger officer stepped around Joe and said, Can we move the body now? Detective Slye has already examined the scene.

    Don’t touch anything, Rein said, and the young man nodded his head. And tell Audrey to stay put until I get the chance to talk to her.

    Yes, sir, the officer said, leaving with more spring in his step than he did when he first came in.

    Rein walked over to where Joby Rowe was sitting and sat beside her; the smell of cinnamon hovering around her was almost thick enough to taste. He picked up the baseball bat and examined it. It was an old-fashioned, wooden model without a trace of blood or hair on it. Solid and smooth, just holding it brought back memories of the ballparks he’d frequented during his youth. Yours? he asked her of the bat.

    Yes, it’s mine.

    You brought it with you tonight?

    I hope you didn’t expect me to walk through that door without being able to defend myself, if need be.

    Defend yourself from what? You had no idea that Dr. Sabara was dead, did you?

    I had a good idea that something was wrong. And I was right, wasn’t I? She couldn’t be any deader than she is right now.

    Do you have a key to this house? Rein asked.

    No, and I didn’t need one. The patio door was open. I walked around the house until I found a way in.

    How is it that you decided to come over when you did, Joby? How did you know that something was wrong with Dr. Sabara?

    I spent half the night trying to call her. I knew she was home because she told me earlier that she would be.

    She could’ve gone out. Something could’ve come up at the last minute.

    True, but not likely, Joby said. Eunice was a homebody. She looked for excuses to stay home and work, especially now.

    Why now?

    She was an infectious disease specialist who was onto something big. And besides that, she lived alone these days. So there wasn’t any reason for her to go out, short of having an emergency of some sort. Joby paused. Mending a broken heart is no small task.

    What was Dr. Sabara working on?

    Resistant bacterial strains. The illness that’s flooding the city was of particular interest to her, as you can understand. Some elderly people have already died from it.

    Yes, I know, Rein said. So Dr. Sabara was a lesbian, I’m guessing.

    Now that’s a great piece of detective work, Joby said, nodding her head sarcastically. Did you figure that out from reading the message on her front door?

    Did whoever broke in last night put that word there?

    No, Joby said, rubbing her arms and for the first time looking quite vulnerable, the word ‘dyke’ had been painted there at least a day before she was murdered. Eunice usually keeps paint remover and a can of brown stain around to get rid of graffiti like that. I guess she ran out.

    So you’re saying that writing on her door was a habit for somebody.

    It was the fourth time it’s happened this month alone, Joby said. Last time they wrote ‘Hang all faggots,’ and before that, ‘God condemns freaks.’

    Were you and Eunice lovers?

    Joby snickered, but Rein could tell that she was hurt by the question. For the first time Rein noticed the sound of rain coming down hard outside. Looking up, he saw that a window had been broken, and that glass was on the floor and on the sill in front of it. The wind was blowing the white lace curtains so much, they looked like a couple of flags flying in a windstorm. The hardwood floor on that side of the great room was wet.

    Just because a woman prefers to be with a woman doesn’t mean that she sleeps with every woman she knows, Joby said, and then shook her head. No, Eunice and I were just friends. Giving Rein a scowl, she added, Do you sleep with every woman you know, Detective?

    Nope, he said. Where do you live, Joby?

    I don’t live around here, that’s for sure. My place is about twenty miles east. I admit that it isn’t much of a house, but I’m only able to afford it because I share the expenses with two other people.

    You don’t live with your parents?

    They threw me out of the house when I was thirteen, she said, the first time I worked up the nerve to tell them that I liked girls. And I’ve been on my own ever since.

    What do you do for a living?

    I’m a cashier in a department store. Sometimes I flip burgers at Leon’s. I also publish a newsletter twice a week. I stay active in many gay and lesbian organizations as well, but I don’t get paid for any of that. My hope is to go on to college and study journalism someday.

    What’s your address?

    I live on Cushing Avenue, she said. My place is a little brown bungalow, number seven-seventeen. You can’t miss it because the word ‘dyke’ is spray-painted across my door just like it is on Eunice’s.

    He nodded. Did you run out of paint remover, too?

    Joby laughed heartily. So confidently, in fact, that it even made Rein smile. The word ‘dyke’ was spray-painted on my door over a year ago, Detective, she said. "I’m never taking it off. Her smile faded and she looked as is she meant what she was about to say. I’m proud of what I am."

    Good for you, Rein said, and his response seemed to please her.

    No, Detective, she said, her amused

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