The Dream Ender

by Dorien Grey

  I next tried Chuck Fells’ number and immediately recognized the butch-voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Chuck, this is Dick Hardesty,” I said, beginning my spiel. “I’m sorry to bother you, but something’s come up in the Hysong shooting and I need your help.”

  Before he had a chance to object, I went on to explain about the gun being tied to Jake, Jake’s arrest, my certainty he was innocent, and the fingerprint evidence found at Jake’s. As I’d done with Morse, I went out of my way to try to phrase my comments to emphasize the “eliminating you as a possible suspect when the police expand their investigation” angle. The fact I had absolutely no real guarantee the police ever would do any such thing was beside the point. If the guys I talked to thought they would, that’s what mattered.

  “I don’t like being hassled,” he said.

  “I don’t blame you,” I assured him. “I don’t either. But with the fingerprints, it’s either a matter of me taking five minutes of your time to get them or you dealing with the police. All I want is your prints. They’d probably want to give you that whole ‘you’re a potential suspect’ routine, and I guarantee that’ll take up more time than I will.”

  “Okay, okay!” he said. “I get off work at five. You can come over at five thirty. You’ve got five minutes, not six, got it?”

  “Got it,” I said, holding my temper in check. I glanced at the address I had written on my notepad with his phone number. “Sixty-two sixty-three Cherry, right?”

  “Right.”

  “All right, I’ll see you at five thirty sharp. Thanks.” I hung up before he had a chance to.

  Because I dreaded calling Manners and Spinoza—I’d had a hard enough time holding my temper with Morse—I took a break to join Jonathan and Joshua, who were on the floor. Joshua, with a number of toy soldiers, was bravely defending the Lincoln Log fort against a combined force of Indians and pirates—for whom he’d apparently suddenly developed quite a fascination, I noticed—represented by Jonathan with identical toy soldiers.

  “How’s it going, guys?” I asked.

  “Looks like Joshua’s got me on the run,” Jonathan said. “Of course, we’re playing by his rules, which are kind of flexible.”

  I went into the kitchen for a glass of water then returned to the phone to try Art Manners.

  He picked up on the third ring. I again went into my spiel but didn’t get very far. I did make it all the way to mentioning the prints found at Jake’s when he broke in.

  “Look,” he said. “I can’t be bothered with all this shit. I didn’t do it, I’m not about to give anybody my fingerprints without a warrant, and if Jake didn’t do it he’ll be acquitted. I gotta go.”

  And he hung up.

  Charmer, I thought, as I replaced the receiver onto the cradle.

  Reluctantly, I dialed Spinoza’s number. No answer, but I left a message on his machine, knowing even as I did so it was probably an exercise in futility.

  *

  Barnes Park, located as it was about two blocks off Beech, the main commercial street of the gay community, had a reputation as being one of the cruisiest parks in the city at night, and had a large gay/lesbian contingent any time of day. A last-minute phone call from a prospective new client had delayed my departure from the office, so I didn’t arrive there until nearly twelve twenty. Fingerprint kit in hand, I headed in the direction of the public restrooms. As Morse had said, there were several benches within a hundred feet or so, and several of them were already occupied with people—mostly guys—eating lunch or reading. If any of them were there specifically to keep an eye on who entered or left the restrooms it certainly wasn’t obvious.

  Having absolutely no idea which of the half-dozen or so guys might be Morse, I took a chance on just walking slowly by and trying to make a guess. This proved to be not the most scientific of approaches, and I still hadn’t a clue as I approached the last bench.

  “Dick Hardesty?” the man on it asked. Morse, obviously, though I would never have picked him out unless he’d said something. He was wearing a dress shirt and tie, with his suit coat folded neatly beside him, on which sat a brown paper bag apparently containing his lunch. He’d been reading a book, which he set down next to the bag.

  “Yeah,” I said, walking over as though I’d known it was him all along. “Sorry I’m late.”

  We shook hands, and I sat down beside him, on the side opposite his coat, lunch, and book.

  “I figured it was you when I saw the kit. It’s obviously not a lunch box,” he said, grinning.

  “I really appreciate you meeting me.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” I said, noting he’d set a half-eaten sandwich aside when I’d approached.

  “Thanks,” he said, picking it up.

  We talked in generalities for a few minutes while he ate. A nice guy, I determined. He mentioned he was an actuary for a large insurance company nearby, and I found it a little hard envisioning him as a leather bar regular—which just goes to prove…what?

  I asked him, as casually as I could, what he knew about the other guys from the meeting.

  “Not all that much, really,” he said.

  “Are you and Art Manners close?” I asked, remembering it was he who had reported Manners’ saying the Male Call was for sale.

  He crumpled up his sandwich wrapper and replaced it in the bag, taking out a large peach.

  “Not really,” he said, taking a large onomatopoetic—love that word—bite. “We talk quite a bit when we run into one another at the Spike or the Male Call, but we don’t hang out together other than there. He’s into bikes big time, and I don’t have one.”

  “I understand he’s pretty close to Pete Reardon,” I said.

  Morse grinned. “Yeah, you could say that. They both try to keep it quiet—they don’t want to tarnish their butch image—but everybody knows they’ve got something going on.”

  A thought popped into my head, which I immediately latched on to and put it in my “mull it over later” file.

  Finishing his peach, he glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to be getting back in a few minutes,” he said. “You want to do this fingerprint thing now?”

  “Sure,” I said, scooting a bit farther from him to put the kit down on the bench between us. I took his prints as surreptitiously as possible, though we did get quite a pause-and-stare from a hunky guy passing on his way to the restroom.

  While I put everything back into the kit and closed it, Morse wiped the ink from his hands then got up to leave.

  “Good luck in finding who did it,” he said, extending his right hand while holding his empty lunch bag in his left.

  “Thanks,” I said. “And I really appreciate your cooperation.”

  He smiled, nodded, and moved off in one direction as I headed in the other.

  *

  Since Jonathan had to leave for chorus practice by six thirty, I’d told him he and Joshua should just go ahead and eat, and I’d eat when I got home. No messages on my machine when I returned to the office, so I spent the rest of the afternoon puttering, organizing my notes for Glen, and going over yet again everything I’d learned thus far.

  There was something Morse had said that had rung a bell, about Reardon and Manners having something going on. Was it possible, I wondered, that Manners might have decided to settle his grudge against Hysong and help his buddy get even with Carl Brewer by forcing him to sell the Male Call? The bar’s business was already sliding because of the AIDS rumors, and killing Hysong would finish the job. Plus, Manners had ample reasons of his own to want to see Hysong dead—having “the crap beat out of him” by Hysong, as Jake had related, must have been humiliating.

  But first, I’d have to prove he stole Jake’s gun, and I couldn’t do that without getting his prints, which he wasn’t about to give me.

  If worse came to worst, I figured, I could try going over to his place and rooting through his garbage for something w
ith his prints on it. Definitely a last-resort move, but I’d do it if I had to. I’d probably end up with the same option with Spinoza, since I was pretty sure he’d also refuse to give his prints voluntarily.

  Oh, well.

  Chapter 21

  Fells’ apartment was in a large old apartment building not far from the river. I rang the bell to Apartment 503 at exactly five thirty and was buzzed in. Fells let me in without either a smile or the offer of a handshake. He proved to be tall, lanky to the point of being skeletal, with his hair cropped almost to his skull. His apartment, from what I saw of it, was in no danger of being visited by photographers from House Beautiful anytime soon. Utilitarian would probably describe it best and most charitably. It made Jonathan’s and my place almost palatial by comparison.

  He was wearing a blue work shirt with a white patch with an embroidered “Fells” on the pocket, and from some oily smudges on his blue work pants, I assumed he must be a mechanic of some sort.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he said, indicating a TV tray set up in front of a recliner on one side of the living room. I hadn’t said a word yet but walked over and set the kit on the tray, opening it.

  “I appreciate you doing this, Chuck,” I said, and he shrugged. He held out his right hand and I took it. “Relax,” I said when he splayed his hand, his fingers rigid. “Just let me roll them.”

  It took some effort, but eventually, he got the idea and the left-hand printing went much easier.

  “You’re going on the AIDS ride this Sunday?” I asked, though Don Gleason had already told me he was.

  “Yeah. You ride?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I’ve never been around bikes much.”

  As he wiped off his fingers, I said, “Do you have any idea who might have stolen Jake’s gun. You giving me your prints pretty much rules you out.”

  “Not a clue,” he said, wadding up the paper towel and laying it on the TV tray.

  “What do you know about Art Manners and Tom Spinoza?” I asked.

  “Why them?”

  “No special reason, except that I haven’t gotten their prints yet, and I know they both had a good reason to want to see Hysong dead.”

  He shrugged again. “We all did. Both Art and Tony have had it in for Cal for a long time, way before this AIDS thing ever came up.”

  “What was Spinoza’s beef?” I asked, taking my time to put everything back in the kit and close it.

  “Cal was always on his case,” he said. “Any time Tom’d start zeroing in on somebody, Cal would barge in and snap the guy up. One time, Tom and a guy were in the back room and in the middle of getting it on when Cal just pulled Tom off the guy and took over. Tom didn’t have the guts to fight him.’

  “I gather most guys didn’t,” I said.

  “True.”

  “One last question,” I said. “I understand Spinoza had sex with Hysong once.”

  I was totally surprised when he actually laughed. “Once? Cal used to screw him at least once a month. It was his way of showing Tom who was boss.”

  Then, as though suddenly thinking he’d said too much, he glanced into the kitchen, where I could see a bag of groceries sitting on the plain wooden table.

  “I just got home, and I’ve got stuff to do. And your five minutes is up.”

  “Right,” I said, though I’d gotten the impression he was more bluster than bite, which took away some of my irritation with him. “Well, thanks again.”

  I deliberately extended my hand. A flash of mild surprise crossed his face, but he took it and we shook.

  “You ought to get yourself a bike,” he said, which I took as an oddly out-of-left-field compliment.

  “Have a good ride Sunday,” I said, walking to the door.

  *

  Interesting bit of information about Spinoza, I thought on my drive home. I’ve often said that I never really understood the leather scene or what motivates guys who are into it. My problem, not theirs. But I do know that if somebody used me like a blow-up doll whenever he felt like it, I’d be a little more than mildly resentful. And to then find out the guy was doing it even though he knew he had AIDS…

  I got home a little after six and joined Jonathan and Joshua near the end of their dinner. Though Joshua almost always hopped out of his chair and ran into the living room to play as soon as he was finished eating, he’d apparently been in the middle of a long dissertation on his day at “school” when I arrived, and for my benefit, started over from the beginning. Jonathan excused himself to get ready for practice, but Joshua sat with me until both his story and most of my dinner were more or less finished—it’s a little hard to tell with Joshua’s stories sometimes.

  Jonathan left on time, and after we did the dishes, Joshua brought over the latest issue of Life for us to “read.” We’d no sooner sat down when the phone rang. I got up quickly to answer it.

  “Dick, it’s Butch Reed. You left me a message?”

  “Yeah, Butch, I did. Thanks for getting back to me,” I said and then went into my story and request.

  “Sure,” he replied. “Though my prints are on record with the department, and you can get them there if you want.”

  “Thanks, Butch, but the police aren’t officially involved yet. I’m just laying the groundwork for when they are.”

  “Ah, okay,” he said, sounding a little confused. I certainly couldn’t blame him. “Your office is downtown, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I said, giving him my address.

  “I’ve got some business downtown tomorrow,” he said. “Do you want me to stop by your office? Say ten thirty?”

  “That’d be great!” I said. “I’m on the sixth floor—six thirty-three. I’ll see you there, then.”

  “Right,” he said and hung up, and I returned to Joshua and Life.

  I’d gotten so I really enjoyed my time with Joshua. Sometimes, I’d just watch him while he played and reflect on how much he’d grown since he first came to us. He was a terrific kid. I understood how difficult it must be for him to have lost his mother and father at so young an age, and he still talked of them in terms that implied he expected them to come back, though he was old enough now to realize they couldn’t. But despite his occasional testing, Jonathan and I did our best to let him know he was loved, and I think he realized it.

  *

  At exactly ten thirty Wednesday morning, there was a knock at my office door and Butch Reed entered.

  “Wow, you’re prompt!” I said as I stood up and moved around my desk to shake hands.

  He grinned. “Hey, we try never to be late for fires, either,” he said.

  I gestured him to a seat and asked if he’d like coffee, which he declined.

  As long as I was up, I figured we might as well get the prints out of the way, so I took the kit from the file cabinet drawer where I’d put it earlier and set it on my desk closest to him.

  “I’ve been wondering,” I said as I opened it and took out a blank card and the fingerprinting materials. “What do you know about Tom Spinoza? I hear Hysong almost singled him out for harassing.”

  “Yeah, that was Cal for you. I just had that one incident with him. With Tom it was a regular thing. If it had been me, the second time Cal tried to pull his bullshit, I’d just have found myself somewhere else to hang out. But Tom kept coming back for more.”

  “You think he liked it?” I asked, and Reed shrugged.

  “I really don’t know Tom all that well. I don’t think he did,” he said, “and I don’t think he thinks he did. But who knows how somebody else’s mind works? I have a hard enough time figuring out my own sometimes.”

  We accomplished the fingerprinting without breaking our conversation.

  “And Tom isn’t exactly the friendliest guy in the world,” he continued, wiping his fingers. “He’s fine when you get to know him, but he likes to hold most people off at arm’s length. He’s like a lot of guys in figuring that the best defense is a good offense.”

  “Well
, he does a great job of that,” I said. “I’ve only talked to him once, and I don’t think I’d recommend him for a job as a maitre’d at the Imperator. I fully expect that when I ask him for his prints he’ll tell me to go fuck myself. The whole idea of getting the prints is to rule people out, and it’s pretty evident that anyone giving them willingly didn’t steal the gun. Anybody who won’t give them goes to the top of my suspects list, and so far Art and Tom are right up there.”

  “Well, I wish you luck,” he said. “And if that offer for coffee still stands, I think maybe I would like half a cup.”

  As I got up to go to the coffeemaker, I had a thought. “Do you know where Tom works, by any chance?”

  “Yeah, he works for the phone company—repairman. Why?”

  “Just curious,” I said.

  I poured for us both, offered him creamer and sugar, then took my cup behind my desk and sat down. We spent the next half-hour just talking, and I decided that, barring some sudden damaging revelation, he was definitely off the suspect list entirely.

  After he left, I dialed Spinoza’s number again. I assumed he’d be working but wanted to give it a shot, just in case. Answering machine again, so I hung up, determined to keep trying from both the office and home until I got him. The “going through the garbage” option seemed increasingly likely, if no more appealing.

  *

  I’d not spoken to Glen in some time so called his office to check with Donna to see when he might be in. I was surprised when she put me directly through to him.

  “Hi, Dick,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  I brought him up to date with what I’d been doing and the fact I was still intent on getting Manners’ and Spinoza’s prints. I asked him if he’d heard anything on Jake’s impending trial.

  “Got word this morning just before you called. It’s set to start three weeks from today, and Judge Ferber has been assigned to it.”