Клео Коул - Decaffeinated Corpse

When we’d arrived at her penthouse apartment earlier in the day, Matt and I found Madame assembling her costume. We explained our situation, and our desire to crash the party, and Madame declared she had the perfect costumes for both of us.

“Matteo shall wear the costume with which he dazzled the ladies back in his early twenties. You remember that year?” she asked Matt. “Both you and Ric went to the Dutch International party dressed as Zorro. You made the ladies swoon, and confused them, too. They never knew who they were kissing!”

“I can’t believe you still have that outfit,” Matt replied.

“You forget how much of an impression the pair of you made. The company’s trade magazine, the Dutch International Journal, even published your pictures and a lengthy caption.”

Matt winced. “My fifteen minutes of fame.”

Madame produced the costume, sealed in Mylar like the bulk of her vintage fashion and accessories. After some adjusting for size and hasty pressing, Zorro walked the wild frontier once again.

Thankfully, my costume proved to be much simpler. Madame raided her closet for vintage fashion from the Swinging Sixties, and once again I was to play that iconic First Lady, Jackie O, as I had when we were investigating a stock scheme a year ago. This time I was playing her in a simple yet stunning Cristóbal Balenciaga black dress in silk gazar (according to Madame).

“Cristóbal is not nearly as well remembered as Christian Dior, but I so adored his look,” Madame said. “He never achieved true immortality because Balenciaga was a perfectionist who closed down his house of design in 1968 rather than see it compromised in a fashion era he did not respect.”

I’d slipped into the impeccably cut black dress that ended at the knee, and stood before the full-length mirror. The dress featured the popular “sixties silhouette,” but the seven-eighths sleeve that widened into a bell gave the garment an ephemeral, fairy-like air.

“That type of sleeve also flatters women of a certain age,” Madame observed. “Balenciaga was a sycophant to the imperfect body. His clothing always looked elegant, even on women whose bodies did not fit the popular standards of beauty—not that it matters to you, Clare. You are as beautiful as you were in your twenties. Isn’t that right, Matteo?”

Matt, who was struggling with his sash, nodded. “In my opinion, she’s more beautiful.”

Oh, lord. I thought. Madame really does want to be the Queen of Hearts.

Now, while the Queen strolled toward the Village sidewalk, Matt opened the door for me. I draped a vintage Balenciaga lace veil over my straight black wig, then slipped on the oversized Jackie O sunglasses. Wobbling on four inch heels, I stepped onto Eleventh Street.

The time was only seven forty, but the sun had set over an hour before and the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade was in full swing. The mile-long parade was the largest event of its kind in the world. Costumes weren’t the only attraction. Dancers, artists, musicians, and even circus performers strutted their stuff beside floats, live bands, and street theater troupes.

Though we were only about a block away from Sixth Avenue, I couldn’t see the parade beyond the crowd on the sidewalk, but I could hear the blaring music—everything from swing to rock and roll to traditional Tibetan chants. And I could make out the tops of large animal puppets bobbing up and down over the heads of the massive, costumed crowd.

The puppets didn’t surprise me. It was a puppeteer who’d started the whole thing back in 1973—Ralph Lee had staged a wandering neighborhood puppet show to entertain the children of his friends and neighbors in the Village. A few hundred people attended that first event. Within eight years the simple street show had expanded into a parade and pageant that attracted over 100,000 participants. These days we were seeing as many as two million attendees, which didn’t even include total spectators since almost one hundred million people watched the parade on television worldwide.

While Madame boldly pushed through the mob, I followed, and we made our way down the block to the edge of Sixth Avenue. We’d already waded through zombies, ghosts, ghouls, superheroes, politicians, and bugs (spiders, flies, and a pair of New York cockroaches), as well as inanimate objects (chairs, couches, tables, iPods, a pizza box, and a can of Campbell’s soup—no doubt a homage to Andy Warhol).

Matt joined us at the curb. The Dutch International party was at a chic new eatery on Mulry Square. We were on Eleventh, and the square wasn’t far—but to get there we had to cross the crazily crowded Sixth Avenue parade route.

“I guess we’ll wait for a break in the march,” Matt said uncertainly.

I was about to reply when I heard an electronic voice. It was robotic, like a computer’s... and I whirled around in time to see an elderly Asian man with a box full of round plastic disks decorated with creepy creature faces.

“Robot voice, five dollar,” he said, speaking into the plastic disk.

The man’s voice came out the other end of the electronic device sounding like a combination of Darth Vader and Stephen Hawking.

I tapped his arm. “How does that work?” I asked.

“Robot voice, five dollar,” he replied, obviously not understanding.

I gestured to the object, and the man finally nodded. He showed me a button, pressed it. Then he put the disk to his lips and spoke into it. This time no sound emerged. He held out the disk, pressed the button again.

“Robot voice, five dollar... Robot voice, five dollar...” came out of the tiny speaker.

“So it records, too...” I murmured. Just like the prerecorded message Ric said he’d heard the night he was mugged....

The man pressed a second button and the machine amplified and distorted the recording. Impressed, I fumbled for my wallet. I intended to show this device to Mike Quinn, and play it for Ric, just to see his reaction.

“I’ll take two,” I said, handing the man a ten. He gave me two disks, one blue and one red. I slipped them into my purse and faced Madame, who was huffing impatiently.

“We’ll never get across if we wait,” she declared, stepping off the curb.

Matt’s head was turned—a beach-bunny float carrying a dozen young women wearing nothing but the skimpiest bikinis imaginable had caught his eye—and I tugged his arm.

“Will you control your mother!” I cried.

“Too late,” Matt said. Madame was already blocking the parade. Her son shrugged and followed her into the street.

Boldly, Madame strode into the path of the marching mob. I rushed to catch up, and block anyone who might knock the frail woman to the ground. But a long chorus line of garishly clad transvestites stopped dead in their tracks to allow Madame to pass.

“After you, Your Grace,” Carmen Miranda called, adjusting a headpiece made of waxed fruit.

“Jackie O, that dress is so divine,” Tina Turner called in a voice much deeper than any recording of the Acid Queen I’d ever heard.

Jayne Mansfield whipped a white feather boa around her closely shaved throat. “Well, I never,” he/she snorted.

“You don’t really love Jack!” a gold lamé-clad Marilyn Monroe called in a silky voice. “Set the President free so I can have him!”

A man in Yankee pinstripes waved a plastic bat at Marilyn. “I told you to stay away from those Irish boys. They’ll be the death of you,” the Joe DiMaggio look-alike complained.

We passed Elizabeth Taylor, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, and Divine. (A drag queen imitating a drag queen. Too surreal.) Finally we arrived at the opposite side of Sixth Avenue. The crowd on the sidewalk parted for Madame, and we were on our way to Mulry Square.