The Dream Ender

by Dorien Grey

  “You, too,” they said in unison, and we hung up.

  *

  That Jake and Jared had numbers for all six of the guys who came to the meeting saved me quite a bit of hassle with the phone book, and I started calling them first thing Thursday morning after my coffee/newspaper/crossword ritual. Not knowing what days Reed might have off, I tried his number first and got a machine. I then moved on to Manners, Fells, Morse, and Spinoza. I didn’t expect them to be home, and they weren’t. Fells and Spinoza also had answering machines, on which I left messages, including both my office and home numbers. With both Morse and Manners, I let their phones ring at least eight times before I hung up. I’d try them from home that evening.

  I’d been toying with the idea of getting a separate phone at home for business calls but had hesitated about incurring the extra expense. Now, though, with Joshua getting to the age where we frequently had to race him to the phone when it rang, I figured it might be time to reconsider.

  Don Gleason was the one I most wanted to talk to, so I saved him for last. Jared had said he was a metal sculptor with a studio in his home, so chances were good I’d be able to catch him. Sure enough, after hearing three rings, I heard a deep-voiced “Hello?”

  “Don Gleason?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I introduced myself and told him the purpose of my call.

  “I heard Jake had been arrested,” he said. “He should get a medal. If you’re collecting for his defense fund, I’ll be glad to contribute.”

  “No,” I corrected, “I’m calling because I’d like to talk to you about the meeting you attended at Jake’s house shortly before Hysong was killed.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Well, that’s the joy of being a detective,” I said. “I was hired to prove they arrested the wrong guy and find out who really did it. I’ve been checking on guys who might have had a special reason to want to see Hysong dead. Jake and Jared are friends of mine, and when I heard about the meeting, I realized everyone there qualified. Do you suppose we might meet in person for a talk? I know you’re busy, but it really might help me figure out who to zero in on.”

  “Like me, for example?”

  “That’s my point—I don’t have any idea. Right now, everybody’s a potential suspect, but it will help if I can start eliminating some of them.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Sure. You want to come over now?”

  “I can do that,” I said. “You’d better give me your address, though.”

  He did, we said our good-byes, and I headed out the door to meet him.

  *

  The address was in one of the older and more rundown commercial areas of town, dotted with warehouses and closed factories. Gleason’s building had, apparently, in its heyday, around 1920, been a combination garage and gas station, set just far enough back off of the street to allow a car to pull in front of the pumps without blocking the large garage door. It was of concrete block and two stories high—I assumed Gleason lived on the second floor.

  I found a parking place easily enough and walked back. Closed Venetian blinds, mottled with dust and age, covered the large window and there was no indication that anyone was in the place. I went up to the front door and peered in. I could see a car and a motorcycle parked just inside the garage doors. The building was quite deep, and a single hanging fluorescent light fixture in the back provided the only interior illumination. That and the small, searingly bright blue flame of an acetylene torch sending out occasional sprays of sparks.

  The entire place was filled with hard-to-discern shapes, some of them reaching to the ceiling. I assumed they were Gleason’s sculptures.

  I knocked loudly on the door, not sure if he would be able to hear me or not. He did, for the torch went out, and a moment later I saw someone walking toward me. He opened the door, his welder’s visor pushed back atop his head.

  “That was quick,” he said, standing back to let me enter. Then he grinned. “Or it could be that I just lost track of time again. I do that a lot.”

  He removed his helmet and set it on an old desk under the front window, then undid his protective apron, slid it over his head and laid it on the back of the desk chair. As he did so, I realized he looked familiar, though I couldn’t place where I might have seen him—in the bars, probably.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” he said, pointing to a plain wooden stairway along the side wall closest to the desk.

  I followed him up, and he opened a door off the landing at the top to lead me into his living quarters. Unlike the downstairs, which was murky and cluttered, bright light from the curtainless windows illuminated a neat and surprisingly comfortable apartment. With no surrounding residences, I guess he figured curtains and blinds weren’t necessary to protect his privacy.

  “Have a seat,” he said, and I did, choosing a high-backed padded armchair. He sat in a wooden rocker opposite me and leaned back, staring at me. After a moment, he broke into a grin.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I felt a flush of embarrassment. So, I did know him. I frantically searched my mind and drew a blank. I shook my head slowly.

  “I do recognize you,” I said, “but I’ll be damned if I can remember where from.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “My hair’s shorter now, and I’ve been working out.”

  And then the light came on.

  “Of course!” I said. “We met one night at the Easy Pickin’s. But that place has been closed for a couple of years now. You’ve got a great memory, and I apologize for not having made the connection immediately.”

  We’d picked each other up just before closing one night—long before I met Jonathan—and had gone to my place.

  “You’re not an easy guy to forget,” he said, still smiling, rocking the chair slowly.

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that one. I also remembered why we hadn’t had a rematch. He was pretty good sex, but then he wanted to get into an area I’ve never been comfortable with. I went along with it, but when I realized how much he was into it, I knew it was going to have to be a one-night stand.

  “Well, again, I apologize,” I said. “You’re looking great.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I was always sort of hoping we’d run into one another again.”

  Dodge ball time, I thought. “Yeah, it has been a long time. I’ve got a partner now; we’ve been together a couple years already. It sure goes by fast!”

  Obviously, he got the message. “I’m glad for you,” he said. “Monogamous?”

  “Yep,” I said then decided to segue right to the subject that had brought me to him in the first place. “We figure, in today’s climate, it’s the safest way to go.” I paused only for a second before saying, “I was very sorry to hear about your brother, by the way.”

  He stopped rocking, and it was as though an invisible cloud had swept across his face, though I could clearly see its reflection in his eyes.

  He sighed then said, “Thanks.”

  “You think Hysong gave it to him?”

  “I know damned well he did,” he said bitterly.

  “Can I ask how you can be so sure?”

  He leaned forward, both hands on the arms of his chair.

  “You had to know Paul. He was eight years younger than me, and I was his Big Brother. He always wanted to be just like me, do everything I did. I turned out to be a sculptor, but Paul’s big dream was to be an architect, and he would have been a terrific one.

  “He moved out here from Duluth a year and a half ago to go to Greer, which is one of the best architectural design schools in the country. Naturally, I said he could live with me while he went to school. When he found out I was into leather, he wanted to do it, too. I tried to explain to him that it wasn’t that simple, that for me it wasn’t just a game. It’s part of who I am.

  “It wasn’t who he was, but he wanted it to be. I tried to keep as close an eye on him as I could. I wouldn’t let him go to the Mal
e Call without me. I had to protect him. He was my kid brother, for Christ’s sake!

  “He went home with a couple of the guys there, but he always checked with me first so I’d know who he was with. If I said no, he didn’t go. And I told him never to go into the back room. Going home with someone was one thing, but the back room was strictly off limits. He didn’t belong there—it would be like tossing chum into a shark tank.

  “Then one night I was busy talking to someone, and the next thing I know, I see Paul coming out of the back room. I had a shit fit, but he swore he’d just gone to look in to see what was going on. He said he hadn’t done anything, so I believed him, but I was still pissed.

  “Then, a couple months later he started getting sick. Then he got sicker. And sicker. And I…” He leaped from his chair and said, “Excuse me, I’ve gotta take a piss.”

  He hurried out of the room. A minute or so later, I heard the toilet flush, and he returned and sat back down in the rocker, picking up his story.

  “Just before he died, he told me he’d lied to me. That he had gone into the back room that night and he’d had sex. He said Cal had been cruising him all night, and when I got distracted talking, Cal motioned for Paul to follow him into the back room and he did. He asked me to forgive him for lying to me.”

  For a moment, he clamped his lips together, and his face looked as though it was going to break into pieces and crumble off his skull. My gut ached for him.

  “Can you imagine that?” he said, pulling himself together. “He’s dying, and he asks me to forgive him! Two days later, we both died.”

  All I could do was shake my head. “God, Don, I’m so sorry,” I finally managed to say. “Did you do anything about Hysong after you found out he’d given it to Paul?”

  He took a very deep breath and resumed his rocking. “When he told me, I was more concerned with him and with being with him. I couldn’t have left him even for a minute, and I didn’t. But the day after I got back from the funeral in Duluth, I bought a gun and I went down to the Male Call that night to wait for Cal. I was going to kill him the minute he walked in the door.

  “I had it all planned. Six bullets. I’d shoot him in each knee first then blow his balls off then shoot him in the stomach, then the chest just below the heart, then in the head. I wanted him to know exactly what was happening to him and why.”

  “But you didn’t,” I said.

  “Only because Cal didn’t come in that night. And because Carl had been watching me every second and knew what I was going to do. I don’t know how he knew—I probably had it written across my forehead. But he came over and took me back to his office and sat me down and talked to me for three hours. He convinced me the worst thing I could do for Paul would be to rot in jail for the rest of my life for a piece of shit like Cal.

  “He told me that if Cal had given it to Paul, that meant he had it himself and that he was bound to die the way Paul had died and that shooting him would just put him out of his misery quickly. That he’d suffer a lot more dying the way Paul had.”

  “What happened to the gun?” I asked.

  “I gave it to Carl. He locked it in his safe. I guess it’s still there. I stayed away from the Male Call for a couple of months just because I didn’t want to have to face Cal.”

  “But you did start going back,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah. I really like the Male Call—it’s the only place in town where I feel really comfortable, and I was becoming a hermit. So, I started going back and kept as far away from Cal as I could. I didn’t even look at him if I could avoid it. I tried to warn everybody I could about him, until I was sure he’d come after me, but he didn’t.”

  Obviously, I’d just found one of the major sources of the rumors.

  “So, why did you go to the meeting at Jake’s?” I asked.

  “Because I thought the guys were going to talk about killing Cal, and I wanted to tell them what Carl had told me. But we ended up just talking about ways we could make Cal’s life as miserable as he’d made ours. And you know, even though shooting Cal was too good for him, I’m glad somebody took him out.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But the cops arrested the wrong man. That’s why I’m trying to find out who really did it.”

  Gleason simply shrugged. “Good luck,” he said.

  *

  I left shortly thereafter and headed back to the office, hoping one of the other guys from the meeting might have gotten my message and called.

  On the way, I went over my conversation with Gleason. I really felt sorry for him—it was clear he felt responsible for his brother’s death. And he’d been open about wanting to kill Cal, something I don’t imagine he’d have admitted to if he really had done it.

  I found it very interesting that Carl Brewer had talked him out of it. I’d had Carl on my list of potential suspects, but if he’d killed Hysong, why would he risk getting caught stealing Jake’s gun when he had Gleason’s right there in his safe? So, on the one hand, that might remove them both as suspects. On the other hand, Gleason may have been counting on my being thrown off-track, and Carl Brewer might not have wanted to have the murder weapon traced back to a gun in his safe.

  Shit! Why can’t life be easy?

  No messages on my machine, and I was just turning around to go back downstairs to grab something for lunch when the phone rang.

  “Hardesty Investigations.”

  “This is Frank Reed, returning your call.”

  Frank Reed? I realized I hadn’t heard his real name before—Jared had referred to him as “Butch.”

  “I’m glad you called,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you about Cal Hysong’s death.”

  “What about it? I heard they think Jake did it, and I’d like to shake his hand. Why are you calling me about it?”

  “Well, it’s kind of complicated,” I said. “I’ve been hired to look into the circumstances leading up to Hysong’s death, and I understand you and several other guys from the Male Call had a meeting shortly before he was killed.”

  “So?” he demanded. “Does that mean I had something to do with his death?”

  “I wasn’t implying that it did,” I said, calmly. “This is all just part of the information-gathering process, and I’d really appreciate it if we could meet face to face for a few minutes to talk.”

  There was a long pause, then, “I suppose, but I don’t know what you’re looking for or what I can possibly tell you.”

  “That’s what private investigators do—we look at bits of seemingly unimportant or unrelated information and see if they might fit into a bigger picture. Sometimes, the pieces fit, sometimes they don’t. So, when would you be free? We can meet wherever’s convenient for you.”

  Another pause. “There’s a coffee shop near me, on the corner of High and Gibraltar—Alexander’s. You know it?”

  “I know where it is, yeah.”

  “I can meet you in front of the place today at two thirty.”

  “Great. I’ll see you there. Thanks.”

  *

  Gertrude Stein said, “A rose is a rose is a rose.” She could just as easily have said “A coffee shop is a coffee shop is a coffee shop.” Alexander’s was…uh…a coffee shop. Large windows faced both streets, covered with mostly raised Venetian blinds. There was a recessed doorway with a menu posted on the window beside it, a long counter along the inside wall with maybe a dozen round stools, orange-plastic-upholstered booths along the outer walls and under the windows, and in the middle were four or five tables, with red-and-white checkerboard plastic tablecloths. High ceilings with ceiling fans making a half-hearted effort to stir the air—you know the place.

  I got there about 2:25, having driven around looking for a parking place on the side street where there were no meters. I spotted Reed half a block away, though I’d never seen him before. One thing about leather men—when they’re not in leather, they tend to look just like everybody else. But for some reason, the second I saw Reed approaching, I thought
, Fireman. Don’t ask me why; I long ago gave up trying to figure how my mind comes up with these things.

  Nice-looking guy, about my height and build, probably a couple years younger. I’d noticed recently that more and more people seemed to be “a couple years younger” than me, and while I chose not to dwell on it, I was very much aware of it.

  “Dick Hardesty?” he asked as he came up to me.

  I extended my hand. “That’s me,” I said as we shook. “Do you prefer Frank or Butch…or Mr. Reed?” I added with a grin.

  “Butch,” he said. “It has nothing to do with leather—my dad started calling me that when I was four.”

  “Obvious prescience,” I said, and he returned the grin.

  “Or wishful thinking,” he replied.

  We entered the coffee shop and took a booth under the side window. There were only five other people in the place, including the waitress.

  “Menus?” she called from behind the counter.

  “What kind of pie you got today, Janice?” Reed asked.

  “Cherry, coconut creme, blueberry, and apple.”

  “Cherry,” he ordered. “And coffee.”

  Both he and the waitress—Janice, unless Reed was into making up names—looked at me.

  “Coconut creme and coffee,” I said, raising my voice just loud enough to cover the fifteen feet between us.

  Reed and I small-talked while waiting for our orders.

  “Your day off, I gather?”

  He nodded.

  “I was out running when you called,” he said. “I was really surprised to get your message. Still am, as a matter of fact. What’s this all about?”

  Janice was approaching with a coffeepot and two paper placemats in one hand, and two small plates of pie in the other. How waitresses manage to do that without dropping things all over the floor always amazes me.

  The coffee cups were already on the table, inverted on their saucers. She pulled two paper-napkin-wrapped silverware sets out of her apron pocket and got everything set up for us.

  “Cream and sugar’s over there,” she said to me, indicating the ubiquitous array of condiments lined against the wall as though awaiting a firing squad.