The Bar Watcher

by Dorien Grey

  Entering Etheridge’s at exactly noon, I asked for Mr. O’Banyon’s table and was shown, without the slightest question being asked, to a booth at the far back of the restaurant. The high-backed booths guaranteed a maximum of privacy and were obviously designed for just that purpose. I asked for coffee, which the waiter brought immediately with two menus.

  It was about ten minutes after when O’Banyon appeared, exuding efficiency, confidence and control. I half rose to accept his handshake, and he slid onto the thickly padded bench opposite me, carefully placing his briefcase on the seat, against the wall.

  “I’m glad you could meet me,” he said. “You know why I called.”

  “Carlo D’Allesandro,” I said. “I assume you got the message I left with your office.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “No,” he said. “I normally check in first thing, but I was running late this morning and came directly from home to court. I called you from a payphone in the hall.”

  I nodded.

  “I was out of town yesterday,” he went on, removing his napkin from the table and placing it on his lap, “and didn’t get back until late. I heard the news about D’Allesandro in the car on the way from the airport just as I was thumbing through a copy of Rainbow Flag my driver had picked up. When I read the piece on D’Allesandro’s having fired John Peterson, I put two and two together.”

  The waiter appeared, and O’Banyon smiled at him and said, “We’ll need just a minute or two more, Alex, if you would.”

  The waiter smiled back, and disappeared as we picked up our menus.

  “Well,” I said, noting to my delight that they featured a Monte Carlo sandwich, “it looks like we don’t have any choice but to go to the police now—even though we still don’t have a single actual piece of evidence unless, as I strongly suspect, the bullet in the tire matches the bullet that killed D’Allesandro.”

  There was a brief pause as O’Banyon glanced at the menu then set it aside.

  “You’re right, of course,” he said. “But I’m afraid I’m walking on pretty thin ice here. As you know, I prefer to keep my involvement in all this as low-key as possible. I obviously can’t afford to alienate the too-many homophobes still in positions of authority in the police department by giving them any reason to be less cooperative in my future dealings with them than they already are. They’d love nothing better than to think I’ve been going behind their backs on Comstock’s death.”

  I thought a moment. “Were you able to talk to Lieutenant Richman?”

  O’Banyon shook his head. “I’m sorry, I fully intended to call him as I told you I would, but I got tied up in some other business, and…”

  “Maybe it’s just as well you didn’t, with D’Allesandro’s death making a complicated case even more complicated.” I said. “Perhaps I could just approach him on my own and lay out the basics of my suspicions. I won’t even mention Comstock if I can avoid it.

  “As far as he knows, I was a friend of Richie Smith, and I’ll just tell him that I followed a hunch with the two queens and found the bullet, and that he might want to follow up on it in light of D’Allesandro’s shooting. Once they have the bullet from the tire, I can’t imagine it won’t be linked to D’Allesandro’s death.”

  “You’re that sure the two bullets will match?”

  “I’d bet on it.”

  The waiter reappeared, refilled my coffee and poured some for O’Banyon then took our order and left.

  “All right, then,” O’Banyon said. “If for some reason Richman won’t hear you out, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll let you handle it and stay as far out of it as I can. But do keep me posted.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  *

  Since the two dead queens had been at Venture before heading off on their fatal trip to the Hilltop, I thought maybe I should talk to Mario, on the outside chance he might have noticed something or someone he hadn’t mentioned when telling Bob and me about the night he’d 86ed them. I could, of course, have just called Bob to ask for Mario’s phone number and called him at home, but thought I might as well combine a little business and pleasure and go directly to Venture.

  I called Bob to verify Mario was working that night and asked if he’d like to join me. He had some work to do at Ramón’s but said he would try to meet me at Venture around 11:00.

  I arrived at Venture at around 10:00. It was fairly busy for a weeknight, and Mario pretty much had his hands full waiting on customers. He smiled and waved when he saw me walk in the door, and I took a stool at the far end of the bar and waited until he had the time to come take my order.

  “Hi, Dick!” he said as he came up. “What can I get you? A Manhattan?”

  I was pleased he’d remembered what I’d been drinking the night we had dinner, but then, that’s what good bartenders do.

  “I think I’ll go for an Old Fashioned, whiskey, sweet.”

  He grinned. “Always keep ’em guessing,” he said.

  “Oh, and when you’ve got a second, could I ask you a couple quick questions about those two queens you were telling us about at dinner?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Let me get your drink first.” He moved off to make it.

  Between frequent interruptions while he attended to thirsty customers, I was able to determine, as I expected, that other than his direct involvement in the incident between Billy and the two queens, and the fact they had pretty well pissed off most of the other guys in the bar by their behavior, Mario couldn’t think of any one customer who might have been displaying particular interest in or antagonism toward the queens.

  “Sorry, Dick,” he said. “It was a busy night, as I said.”

  “That’s okay, Mario,” I said. “It was worth a shot. I’ll let you get back to work.”

  Picking up my drink, I got up from the stool and walked to an empty spot along the wall opposite the pool table. There were maybe a handful of guys against the wall, most of them leaning against the small elbow-level shelf where you could set your drink. I took my time looking around, spotting a couple I knew and exchanging nods when our eyes met.

  Standing closest to me, about five feet down to my left, was a very tall, very skinny kid who looked like he couldn’t possibly be more than fifteen—though he must have been older, because they check IDs pretty carefully in this town. He still had a serious case of acne, and he exuded a sense of awkwardness. It wasn’t hard to figure out he was brand new to the game.

  I continued looking around, and the next time I glanced to my left, the kid had moved about two feet closer to me. I didn’t look directly at him, but I could see out of the corner of my eye he was looking at me every time he thought I wasn’t aware of it. I wanted to smile but didn’t. He somehow reminded me of a puppy—or more honestly, of myself at that age.

  Someone walking past smiled and said, “Hi, Dick.” I recognized him as a guy who worked down the hall from my office, and said “Hi, Chad.” The next time I glanced to my left, the kid was practically at my elbow. I turned to him and said “Hi.”

  Dark as the bar was, I could see him blush.

  “Hi,” he said, only meeting my eyes for a fleeting second then looking down at his drink.

  I didn’t say anything else and pretended to stare at something in front of me. Although he didn’t move his head, I could feel his eyes darting back and forth from his drink to me.

  I really felt sorry for the kid—he was excruciatingly uncomfortable, but the need was there. He just hadn’t been playing the game long enough to know how to express it.

  Finally, he turned to me and blurted out: “Wouldyougohomewithme?”

  I turned to him and smiled.

  “My name’s Dick,” I said. “What’s yours?”

  The kid looked like he was going to fall over.

  “Devon,” he said. “My name’s Devon.”

  “Well, Devon,” I said, “I’m really flattered that you would ask me, but I’m waiting for a friend.”

  He looked as thou
gh he’d been slapped. His eyes dropped again to his glass.

  “Oh.” he said, his voice flat. “Okay. That’s what everybody says.”

  I kept looking at him until his eyes came back up to meet mine.

  “Well,” I said, smiling again, “I really mean it. But don’t ever let it bother you if people turn you down—most of the time it has nothing to do with you. Maybe, like me, they really are waiting for a friend. There’ll be a lot of guys who will jump at the chance—you just wait. You’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Devon smiled. “Thanks,” he said.

  We talked for a few minutes, and I learned, to no surprise, that he had just turned twenty-one and this was only his third time in a gay bar. He’d known he was gay since before puberty but had never gotten up the courage to act on it. And because he had always been taller than the other kids his age, and skinny, he’d had a rough time of it.

  As a result, he was firmly convinced he was ugly. The gay world was totally new to him, and totally frightening. Like a lot of kids coming out, he automatically assumed there was a set of rules to follow, rules everyone knew but him. I did my best to assure him there wasn’t, and that the best thing he could do was to simply be himself.

  We were quiet for a minute, and then Devon said, “Well, I’d better go get another drink. Thanks again for talking with me. Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime?”

  I offered him my hand, and we shook. He had a nice, firm grasp.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” I said. “Good luck.”

  He smiled again, nodded, and headed off toward the bar.

  “You did that very well,” someone said, startling me. I turned to my right to see an incredibly hot-looking blond I instantly recognized—though I had no idea from where. A wet dream, maybe? He wasn’t an ex-trick, that’s for sure. I’d never have forgotten a face and body like that.

  “Thanks,” I managed to say. “He’s a nice kid.”

  The blond kept staring at me, smiling. “And are you?”

  I was puzzled. “Am I what? A nice kid?”

  “Waiting for someone.”

  “Oh…yeah. I am, actually,” I said. “A friend,” I hastened to add, hoping he believed me. “He’s dating the bartender.”

  “Ah,” the blond said.

  I extended my hand. “I’m Dick,” I said, as he took it.

  “I heard,” he said. “I’m Toby.”

  “Nice to meet you, Toby,” I said, and wondered if he had any idea how much I meant it. There was something about his voice…the tone? The inflection? His body practically yelled “Butch” but his voice was…what…soft? Gentle? Not what I’d consider effeminate, but it somehow didn’t quite go with his body. It was…gay, if that makes any sense.

  At that moment, Bob came in the door and went directly to the bar as Mario smiled and waved a greeting.

  “Speak of the devil,” I said, as Bob looked around the room, spotted me and waved.

  Toby grinned. “Well, you’d better get over there, then,” he said. “Besides, we wouldn’t want Devon to think you’d turned down his pass and then accepted mine.” This is a pass? I thought. There is a God!

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Wow, indeed,” Toby agreed. “But don’t worry about it. Like you told Devon, there’s all the time in the world. We’ll see each other again soon, I’m sure.”

  “Okay,” I said. “How about here? Saturday night around ten?”

  “I’ll be here. Now you’d better go see your friend.” Toby extended his hand again. “See you Saturday.”

  Our handshake tightened briefly into a something more than a handshake, and I had to literally force myself to release it, pick up my drink from the ledge and move through the crowd to Bob.

  He watched my approach with a raised eyebrow.

  “Now, you sure as hell didn’t leave that USDA Prime hunk just to come over here,” he said.

  “It’s a long story,” I said, “but yes.”

  “Well, get your ass back over there! You can see me any day. That’s one fish you sure don’t want to risk letting off the hook.”

  “Like I said, a long story,” I repeated. “But we’re going to meet up here Saturday, I hope.” I emptied my glass and put it on the bar as Mario came up. “One more for the road, barkeep,” I said. “Tomorrow’s a workday.”

  “Hey, babe,” Bob said as Mario returned with my drink, “Do you know that stud Dick was talking to?”

  Mario shook his head. “Sorry, Bob, I’ve been too busy to notice much of anything. Which stud was that?”

  Bob gave a slight jerk of his head.

  “That blond over there against the wall. In the sprayed-on T-shirt.”

  Mario looked without appearing to look.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Toby, I think his name is. Really nice guy, from what I can tell. Kind of quiet, but…”

  “Is he a regular?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t call him a regular,” Mario said, dunking glasses into a sink of soapy water then into another of clean then placing them on a towel on the drain counter directly in front of us behind the bar. “Once every couple weeks or so. Hard not to notice somebody who looks like that, though.”

  Bob grinned. “Who knows, Dick? You may have found Mr. Right at last.”

  “From your lips to God’s ear,” I said.

  When I glanced over to where Toby was still standing, I saw that Devon had moved from wherever he had been and was standing next to him. Good luck, kid, I thought with a mental smile.

  “So, did you find out anything?” Bob asked.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” I replied. “Apparently, those two had the magic ability to piss off anyone who came within a hundred yards of them.”

  “Talk about pissing people off,” Bob said, “what did you think about D’Allesandro getting shot? Now there was a guy just begging to be offed. What an unmitigated asshole. I’m just surprised it took somebody this long to kill the jerk. Whoever did it deserves a public service award.”

  I hadn’t told Bob everything I knew—or suspected—about D’Allesandro’s death, or about my growing hunch somebody had apparently set out to rid the world—or at least the gay world—of its human vermin. And with the deaths of Barry Comstock, Richie Smith, the two queens and Carlo D’Allesandro, he was off to a good start.

  I glanced at the doorway just in time to see Devon leaving—with Toby.

  *

  I’d only been home about ten minutes and was just getting undressed for bed when the phone rang. There was so much background noise, it took me a moment to recognize the voice.

  “Jared? You’ll have to speak up—I can barely hear you. What’s going on?”

  “Dick, I hate like hell to bother you, but do you have a hundred-fifty dollars handy?”

  “A hundred-fifty dollars?” I asked. “What for?”

  “Bail,” Jared said. “I’m in jail.”

  *

  When I got to the Eastgate Precinct station, several leather types were emerging, and there were several more in the lobby. I made my way to the desk and told the utterly bored-looking policewoman behind the counter I wanted to post bail for Jared Martinson. Without a word, she handed me a form and a pen, took my money and turned what passed for her attention to the guy behind me in line.

  When I’d completed the form, I handed it back, and she took it and dropped it onto a tray with several other forms.

  “Wait over there,” she said, indicating three already-full chairs near the entrance.

  The place looked like a leathermen’s convention—more leather than a saddle shop. A good ten people were in the lobby at any given moment, coming and going as the door beside the desk kept opening to regurgitate still more.

  “What happened?” I asked a paunchy older guy wearing a biker hat, a pair of leather chaps and a leather vest with no shirt.

  “A fight at the Male Call,” he said. “Sort of got out of hand. The cops busted the whole place.”

  Anoth
er officer came through the inner door and picked up the slips from the tray, disappearing back inside. About ten minutes later, Jared came out. I’m not really all that much into leather, but in Jared’s case…

  It was a side of him I’d never even suspected existed. Most guys in leather drag look like they’re playing some sort of game. Jared was dressed like he was born in it. He was wearing a black leather armband, a black studded dog collar, black leather pants I have no idea how he could have possibly gotten into and black leather boots. Period. Oh, and he was also wearing a black eye.

  He came immediately over to me.

  “Jeesus, Dick, I appreciate this. I didn’t know who else to call, and I’ve got to be at work in the morning.”

  “No problem.” We left the station and headed for the car. “What happened?” I asked as we pulled away from the curb.

  He looked just a little sheepish.

  “Well, I was just in one of my leather moods. I don’t get them very often, but every now and then… So I went to the Male Call.”

  “And the fight started, and you got caught up in it,” I said.

  Again, he looked like a little boy caught at something.

  “Well, not exactly,” he said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I was sort of the one who started it.”

  “Now, that sounds like the beginning of an interesting story. Care to elaborate?”

  He shrugged and looked out the side window.

  “I hadn’t been there very long,” he began, “when three or four college kids came in like they were taking a tour of the local zoo. They were pretty well bombed, and one of them took a shine to a guy who practically lives there—Mitch, his name is. A real hardcase, mean as they come, the kind of guy who gives leather a bad name.

  “So, this kid’s buddies wander off to the back of the bar somewhere, and the kid’s coming on to Mitch real strong. Mitch starts playing with him like a cat with a mouse, and the kid’s too dumb or too drunk to know what’s really going on.

  “Then Mitch starts telling the kid what he’s going to do to him, and the kid thinks it’s as exciting as all hell and that Mitch is just fooling around. Big mistake. Mitch asks the kid if he likes getting fisted, and the kid laughs and says ‘sure,’ and it’s clear as hell he doesn’t even know what fisting is. But Mitch knows.”