byAs I stood in the crowded bar at Lazy d**k’s, a gay bar in Wilton Manors near my house, a drag queen named Kitty L’Terr took the stage dressed like a thrift-shop reject from Cats in a leopard-print leotard, long red claws, and a lion’s mane made of brown ribbons around her neck. She was the visiting artist that week. That is, if you could all what she was doing art.
CatsIt had been a long week at the Miami office of the FBI, where I was a special agent assigned to the Violent Crimes Task Force, and I was happy to chill out at the Sunday evening show, though once Kitty began her medley of feline-inspired songs, I wished I’d brought earplugs with me.
As Kitty yowled, “Take me ou-woo-t tonight,” from the musical Rent, a skinny kid in the front row began dancing faster and faster, twirling
