Kate Allen

371 Pages·2008·1.18 MB·English

by  Kate Allen

Kate Allen - Alison Kaine
Mystery 1 - Tell Me What
You Like
Kate Allen
New Victoria Publishers (1993)
Alison Kaine, lesbian cop, enters the world of leather-
dykes after a woman is brutally murdered at a Denver
bar. In this fast-paced, yet slyly humorous novel, Allen
confronts the sensitive issues of S/M, queer-bashers and
women-identified sex workers.
Review
A book in which you don't have to pick out just the good
parts - because the rest of it is a must read, too. --Marie
Tharp, Bad Attitude
What drives this book is Kate Allen's excellent writing.
She creates powerful, passionate women... --Mary E.
Bradish, The Washington Blade
Bradish, The Washington Blade
Allen's well-written murder mystery sports a heart-
pounding ending. --Marie Kuda, Booklist
About the Author
Kate Allen writes about the complexities and
contradictions of lesbian life with a unique and wonderful
style. The perfect writer for readers who are hungry for
something new, for something humorous and erotic.
Tell Me What You Like
Kate Allen
One
The foyer of the bar was plastered with fliers explaining how
dykes could take square dance lessons (poster hand drawn and
photocopied), see a Motherlode concert at the old Ogden
theater, or come watch an all female strip review right here at
Denver's Blue Ryder in two weeks. (This poster was die
slickest.) Officer Alison Kaine paused as she entered the double
doors, still amazed that such shows happened. An event like that
would have been picketed when she was nineteen, and she
would have been right on the front lines protesting it as degrading
to women. She didn't know if it was a sign of more diversity and
tolerance or if they were all just going straight down the tubes.
There had even been drag queens lip-synching I Am Woman
(talk about a blast from the past!) on the main stage of Gay Pride
this year, and women who would have rioted twelve years ago
just lay on the grass with their artificially inseminated babies and
clapped.
Alison had lost herself in musing for a moment too long, so
Officer Robert Ellis, her partner of two years, was giving her just
the smallest of nudges in the back. Just a friendly little 'We have
things to do' nudge, not a 'let's get the hell in and out' nudge,
which is what she suspected that he really felt during these
routine walk-throughs of the bar. Not because he ever said
anything, but because even she felt uncomfortable, for god's
sake, and she belonged, at least in the generic sense.
sake, and she belonged, at least in the generic sense.
It would only take ten minutes to make sure that none of the
cowboys from the Mile High Rodeo next door had spilled over
looking for trouble or, worse to most of the dykes' thinking, to
propose a sexual adventure. Both things had happened several
times in the three months since the Rodeo had opened, which
was why this swing-through had been added to begin with. The
sergeant in charge of the shift had not come right out and said,
"Let's assign Alison because she's queer," (it was always a bit
unclear who at the station knew and who didn't,) but she
suspected something like that had gone on and Robert had just
been stuck on because he was her partner.
In response to Robert's nudge she finally swung into her Barbara
Stanwyck walk. She could handle most of the Blue Ryder's
weekday theme nights. She could handle Old Dykes' night.
(There was another, more official name, but that was what
everyone called it, including women who attended and yet
complained bitterly about anyone else using the term.) She could
handle and even crack an occasional smile at Country/Western
night. It was only Leather Night that made her freeze at the door,
and she hadn't found anyone—not her best friend, Michelle, and
certainly not Robert—to talk about why yet.
Well, Rob might feel out of place, but at least he didn't have any
of his own hissing at him under their breath as he walked by.
Why did so many dykes feel compelled to make comments
about woman cops? Was it because they assumed she was
straight, or had somehow sold our, or was it just that general
fuck-the-cops-till-I-need-them attitude held so dear by middle
fuck-the-cops-till-I-need-them attitude held so dear by middle
America?
She sucked in a huge breath to fortify herself. It was a bad
move. The air was heavy with smoke and the cough she couldn't
choke back sent her gum flying onto the floor. Hastily she
wrapped it in her shopping list, trying to look as if it had been
planned. Smooth move there, Alison. No wonder you can't find
a date. Robert was already halfway through his tour of the bar
and dance floor area, and she was still having an obsession scene
in the doorway.
She Barbara-Stanwycked her way back towards the bathrooms,
keeping her face blank as if she were not hearing the comments
following in her wake. The girls in leather were the worst of all
her lesbian sisters about using sexuality as a weapon. She
scanned the crowd as if they were any old bar crew and not one
that tugged at her with conflicting emotions; she never got
propositioned anymore anywhere but here, and here it didn't
count because it was meant only to embarrass her.
"Love a girl in uniform, babe," mock-whispered a tall blonde,
seated not more than a foot from her path, and Alison almost
stopped to tell her to get a new line. Three out of four women
who tossed comments her way beat that old uniform theme to
death. It didn't make her feel angry or turned on; it made her feel
lonely, and like a scarecrow, a figure stuck up on a pole whose
total essence was a suit of clothes.
She cut her eyes to the side without moving her head, wondering
how smart it would be to break out of her role as bland and
impartial guardian of the law, fantasizing about a brisk exchange
impartial guardian of the law, fantasizing about a brisk exchange
that would make her look good, but what she really found herself
doing, was looking at the blonde's outfit. Specifically looking for
any sign that said what the woman did, or what she liked, or if
maybe the comment wasn't just an ugly little bit of cop-baiting,
but something that contained some real passion....
Sucker! Worse, the woman saw her looking before Alison even
realized what she was doing, and was delighted to have caught
her. "Hey, baby," the blond said in that throaty whisper that she
managed to project like a shout through the bar noise, "you're a
lucky girl. I'll go either way." She clasped her hands together
over her head like a prizefighter, showing that both wrists
sported several studded leather bracelets.
Alison's face burned with a blush that spread down on her chest.
She could hear laughter behind her as she moved stiffly away.
She was going to start wearing sunglasses in the bar, dammit; she
was going to get neutered; she was going to go straight; she was
just going to fucking shoot herself so that she didn't have to go
through this crap once a week.
She stiff-armed the door of the women's bathroom, hoping that
the dopers had all gotten the word and she wasn't going to have
to bust someone for toking in the can. That would be the icing on
the cake—to have to write up a ticket for something that was not
only barely worth her time in court, but that she didn't think
should be against the law. If there were any smokers she was
just going to shoot them down and then turn the gun on herself.
The door, which she knew from a hundred walk-throughs should
The door, which she knew from a hundred walk-throughs should
just swing wide, was sticking, so she hit it again grumpily. It gave
suddenly and she went flying through, barely saving herself from
landing on her hands and knees.
She didn't understand, at first, what she had fallen into. Sure,
she'd read Coming to Power and all the back issues of On Our
Backs and Bad Attitude, but they hadn't prepared her for two
women doing a quick scene in the bathroom of the Blue Ryder.
She was really slow tonight—it wasn't the outfit of the top
woman (very butch, all in black, slicked back hair, leather vest
and studs up the ass) or her attitude (a fuck-you-and-everything-
you-represent look) or even her position (one hand wrapped in
the medium length hair of a woman in a purple sweater and the
other down the front of her jeans) that finally clued her in. It was
the look that crossed the face of the woman in the purple
sweater when her eyes fluttered open—that 'dammit-I-was-
going-to-come-and-now-I-can't' look that Alison had become
familiar with on the face of her last lover, Lydia. That was what
made her realize that the two had been standing against the door
going for it and she had knocked them down to the ground and
was about as welcome as your mother walking in on you in high
school.
"So do you like to watch, or what?" hissed Leather Vest in a
nasty voice.
That was all it took. Alison went straight from a feeling that could
be described as apologetic to full force rage. Fuck these women
and their shitty attitude and their judging! She wasn't the one who
couldn't wait till she got home, and she was damned if she was
couldn't wait till she got home, and she was damned if she was
going to be made to feel in the wrong. Normally, consensual sex
in public was handled, by all but the most zealous officers, by
asking the participants (who were usually a straight couple with a
few too many, getting carried away in a parking lot) to pull
themselves together and then giving them a little lecture. It was
like the one-joint bust; unless one of the parties was really
determined to be an asshole it wasn't worth wasting anybody's
time.
But this woman obviously was going the asshole route. "So what
are you going to do," she sneered, "arrest us?"
The woman in the purple sweater, who after that one little flicker
had kept her eyes firmly shut, made a distressed sound.
"Oh, my," another voice said.
Great, thought Alison, just what we need—more dykes in the
bathroom. Nobody in the world was more willing to butt in than
dykes. They had opinions and convictions on everything. (A
woman in the food line at Michigan last year had, with no
encouragement at all from Alison, gone on for ten minutes about
renaming dildos.) If she was really pissed enough to make an
arrest she'd better do it quick before the whole thing turned into
another Stone-wail.
But when she turned to give the woman coming out of the stalls a
quick look (no sense getting shot in the back by a crazy) she felt
her anger dissipating as quickly as it had come, to be replaced
by a kind of rush-of-pleasure, thank-you-goddess-for-not-
letting-me-miss-this-one feeling.
The woman was a sight to behold. She didn't have that
The woman was a sight to behold. She didn't have that
unfortunate air of having raided her big brother's closet that
trailed so many leather girls. Everything she wore was new.
Everything she wore was hers. Her black leather jacket and
matching mid-calf skirt had come from an expensive women's
shop. Separately they could have made it at any office party—
possibly even with the spike heeled boots, black suede with a
tiny touch of gold on the toe and strap—but not with the mass of
gold chains she wore around her neck, beneath a red silk blouse
that was unbuttoned just one notch too far for the office. Not
with the black beaded gloves she carried in one hand. She had
enough accessories to blow herself right out of the mainstream
and into a walking fantasy.
"Oh, my," she said again, looking at the three of them. "This is
kinky." She maneuvered herself delicately around them as if they
were a dog mess. She had one hand on the handle of the door
before she paused to lean down and pat Purple Sweater on the
shoulder. "If I were you," she said in a cone of motherly advice,
"I wouldn't pay full price on this one." Straightening from the pat
she looked Alison full in the face for the first time and added,
"Nice props, though."
That did it for Leather Vest. She jerked both hands back. Anger
rose off her like steam as she glared at the door.
Alison was quick to jump in. "How about if we zip our pants up
and discuss this?"
"Butt out!" Leather Vest was not so pissed at the woman in red
that she was willing to give up being a last-worder. Robert's