The Bar Watcher

by Dorien Grey

  He interrupted his narrative to say, “My car’s on Arnwood, about a block down from the bar. Anyway,” he continued, “I’d just been minding my own business, but I started to see where this was headed, and I didn’t like it. Mitch had the kid backed up against the wall, and it was beginning to dawn on the kid that maybe he was in a place he didn’t want to be. Mitch has both arms on the wall, pinning the kid in, all the time talking to him about what he was going to do to him.

  “The kid started looking around, getting scared, and I walked over and told Mitch to let him go, now. Mitch told me to go fuck myself, and turned back to the kid. The kid tried to duck out from under Mitch’s arm, and Mitch grabbed him and slammed him into the wall so hard it knocked the breath out of him.

  “I told him again to let the kid go, and Mitch grabbed him by the arm and said ‘Oh, yeah, we’re going, all right,’ and started to drag the kid to the door.

  “That did it. My temper kicked into overdrive, and as they walked past me, I grabbed hold of Mitch’s shoulder and spun him around. It must of surprised him, because he let the kid go, and the kid ran for the door. Mitch shook me loose and started after the kid. By this time, I was really pissed. I ran up and grabbed him again and turned him around and punched him in the midsection so hard he doubled up and fell on the floor and puked his guts out.

  “One of Mitch’s buddies came running over and took a swing at me, and that’s all she wrote. Pretty soon it’s one big brawl, and then the cops came, and everybody was hauled off to jail, and I called you.”

  “Remind me never to piss you off,” I said.

  Jared shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess I do have a little bit of a temper.”

  “As Mitch can testify,” I observed.

  “Hey,” he said, “Mitch is Mitch. If he’d pulled that number on one of the regulars, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Everybody who goes there regularly knows what to expect, and everybody knows Mitch. But for him to try that shit on some kid who didn’t know what was going on…Mitch should have fuckin’-A known better. He could really have hurt the kid, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.”

  We were turning on Arnwood toward the Male Call. I looked over at Jared and saw him watching me.

  “I’ve got to admit,” he said, “all this excitement has made me pretty hot.”

  I realized I was getting a little warm myself, seeing a bare-chested, chiseled-muscled, bulging-biceped, unbelievably handsome walking poster for Every Gay Boy’s Masculine Fantasy sitting next to me, fondling his crotch.

  Noticing his dog collar again, and knowing what message it sent to those into master/slave games, I couldn’t help but comment on it.

  “The collar’s a surprise.”

  He grinned broadly. “What can I say,” he asked. “I’m versatile. Tonight was collar night.”

  I spotted his car and pulled up beside it. Jared made no move to get out.

  “Ever fucked a leatherman?” he asked.

  It was definitely warm in that car.

  “Not lately,” I said.

  “Ya wanna?”

  Let me count the ways.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said.

  Jared grinned and opened the door.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  Chapter 7

  I was a little late getting to the office the next morning, tired but happy. I took my time drinking the coffee I’d picked up at the diner downstairs, and did the crossword puzzle (in pen) until I was fairly sure Lieutenant Richman would be in, then called the police department and his extension. It rang four times before being picked up.

  “Lieutenant Richman’s office.”

  I didn’t recognize the voice.

  “Is the lieutenant in?” I asked.

  “He’s in a meeting, but he should be out in about fifteen minutes. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Uh, no,” I said. “I’ll call back in about half an hour.” The fewer people in the police department who had to hear the name “Dick Hardesty” the better, I figured.

  “Fine,” the voice said. “He should be here by then.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up.

  *

  Some things take a little time to register with me, and it wasn’t until I had been on my way to work that day that I suddenly flashed on something Jared had said when he called me about the interview D’Allesandro had given to the fashion magazine. John Peterson had been a member at Rage. So had Richie. Richie had appeared in some of Comstock’s videos, Jared had punched Comstock out when he was approached to be in them. And, as beautiful as John Peterson was, it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to think Comstock may have tried to recruit him, too.

  I’d sort of let the whole fact of Comstock’s porn business slip past me, but now I realized I should definitely look more deeply into it. And since both Comstock and D’Allesandro used beautiful men in their work, it was very possible they knew each other, and, by extending that thought, that they might possibly have some sort of working relationship.

  *

  I realized my coffee had grown cold, and that my pen was still on the R in hierarchy on the crossword puzzle in front of me. A glance at my watch showed that forty-five minutes had gone by. Did it again, Hardesty, I thought as I picked up the phone.

  “Lieutenant Richman,” he said after three rings.

  “Lieutenant, this is Dick Hardesty. We spoke some time ago about the death of Richie Smith.”

  There was only the slightest of pauses then: “Yes, I remember. Glen O’Banyon referred you to me. What can I do for you?”

  Good luck, Hardesty, I thought, and plunged right in.

  “I have some information I think the police should know,” I said, “but I’m in a very awkward position here, and the situation is sufficiently complicated as to be difficult to explain under any circumstances. I wonder if we could meet and talk privately.”

  “There are proper channels for these things,” Richman said. “If you have information regarding, say, a suspicious death…” The lieutenant was no dummy, obviously. “…you should contact the homicide division.”

  “Of course you’re right,” I said, “but as I say, this is extremely complicated, and it would be much easier if I could pass it by you first. Then I’ll be glad to do whatever you suggest.”

  A longer pause. “I suppose we might be able to do that. My wife and family are out of town this week, and I stop for breakfast at Sandler’s on my way to work. Do you know the place?”

  “Right across from Warman Park,” I said. It was about two blocks from the City Building where the police administrative offices were located.

  “That’s the one,” he said. “I’m usually there at seven, so if you’d like to meet me tomorrow morning, we can talk about your problem then.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said, and sincerely meant it. “See you then.”

  *

  I called Rage in hopes of finding Troy on duty but was told it was his day off. Taking a chance anyway, I identified myself and told whomever it was manning the phone I needed him to give me the address and phone number of one of their members: John Peterson.

  “Who did you say this was, again?” he asked. “We aren’t allowed to give out information on our members.”

  “This is Dick Hardesty, of Hardesty Investigations,” I said. “I believe you were told it was all right to talk to me.”

  A pause, then: “Oh, yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Hold a second.”

  I held a second. Then a minute. Then two. I was about to hang up when I heard the receiver being picked back up.

  “Sorry,” he said, “he was in our ‘inactive’ file. He lives at Eighteen-eighteen Oak, and his number is two-eight-one-three-four-eight-seven.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and hung up, then immediately dialed Peterson’s number.

  The phone rang four times before a tired voice said, “Hello?”

  “John Peterson?”

  “Yes.” He sounded as though I’d gotten him out of bed.<
br />
  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I hope I’m not disturbing you. My name is Dick Hardesty. I’m a private investigator, and I thought you might be able to answer a few questions I have.”

  There was a long silence from the other end then: “About what, specifically?”

  “Well, actually, the questions are more general than specific, but I’m working on a case with an awful lot of holes in it, and I’m trying to fill some of them in,” I said. “I know this is an imposition, but would it be possible for us to talk in person for a few minutes?”

  “I’m not exactly in a having-guests-over frame of mind right now.”

  “I understand,” I said, “but it would be just for a few minutes, I promise.”

  More hesitation. “Well, okay. I don’t get many visitors these days—the place is a disaster area.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. “When would be convenient for you?”

  “Anytime, I guess. I don’t go out much these days.”

  “An hour, then?”

  “Sure, why not? You have my address?”

  “Yes, thanks. I’ll see you in a little while. Bye.”

  *

  The door was opened by a devastatingly handsome but somehow drawn and very tired-looking John Peterson. He was wearing a bathrobe, and I noticed an odd purple blotch of skin above his left eye, and another on his neck, which looked almost like a hickey—but a sinking feeling in my stomach told me it wasn’t.

  I hadn’t meant to stare, but he gave a small smile and said, “Those go away with makeup, but I was just too tired today to bother. Come on in.”

  I followed him into the large, expensively furnished living room, which looked, well, very much lived in. Newspapers and magazines lay scattered on the chairs and floor, the coffee table had several filled-to-overflowing ashtrays and an empty beer bottle. Several dirty coffee cups and glasses were on the end tables.

  “I had a houseboy,” he said, pointing me to a chair, “but he quit when I got sick. I should clean this mess up, but I just haven’t been in much of a mood to do housecleaning lately.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “This is House Beautiful compared to my place.” I picked up a magazine from the seat and put it on the lamp table beside the chair. Peterson sat on the only clear section on the sofa.

  “So, what can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I understand you’re a member at Rage,” I said.

  He smiled, but there was no humor in it.

  “Was. No more.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to say, or how to ask what he meant.

  “Did you get to know any of the other members?” I asked, then realized how stupid that must have sounded.

  Peterson smiled quickly and naturally. “Does anybody go to a bath to get to know someone?” he asked. “I sure didn’t. I went there so I wouldn’t have to get to know anybody.”

  I gave him an embarrassed grin. “Sorry, let me rephrase that. Did you know a guy named Richie Smith?”

  Peterson gave me a quick raised eyebrow.

  “Sure, I know Richie,” he said, “though I’d just as soon not. I did see him in Rage a couple times, and we mutually ignored one another.”

  “So, you knew him from outside,” I said.

  “He was one of D’Allesandro’s hangers-on. Richie thinks the fact he’s in porn makes him better than print models. He hit on me once, just before Ron, my lover, died, and I turned him down flat. He acted like that had never happened to him before—maybe it hadn’t. But he was really insulted.

  “And the first time I saw him after Ron died—Ron was thirty-one years older than I—he said, ‘Too bad about your old man—but, hey, I bet my grandpa could use a hot fuck.’ And he laughed.” He shook his head. “I’ve never spoken to him since, and I never will.”

  No, I thought, you won’t.

  If I’d thought telling him Richie was dead would bring him any comfort, I would have, but dead was a word I preferred to avoid using any more than necessary.

  “I should fill you in on a few things,” Peterson continued, reaching into his bathrobe pocket for a pack of cigarettes and matches. He offered me one, but I shook my head and waited while he lit up and reached for one of the full ashtrays on the coffee table in front of him.

  “Ron and I had been together since I was nineteen,” he continued, leaning back on the sofa. “And I still haven’t gotten over his death. It was Ron who urged me to become a model. I resisted at first, because I was having a hard enough time in the real world dealing with guys hitting on me all the time. And I was pretty sure being a model would just make it worse. Not that I’d ever give in to temptation—Ron and I were each other’s whole world, and we never cheated.

  “But then when he died, I decided I really should see if I’d been missing anything. Rage had just opened up, and I joined. I thought a bath would be a good place to catch up, especially since I certainly didn’t want to get into another relationship.

  “About my second visit, Barry Comstock invited me to come into his office, and asked if I’d like to be in his porn videos. I told him ‘No way in hell’—I had a good, legitimate career going, and I wasn’t about to risk it. But every time I’d go to Rage, he’d approach me. He really got to be a pain. I kept saying ‘No’ until finally I just stopped going to Rage at all.

  “But by that time, in any case, I’d decided fucking my brains out just wasn’t what I really wanted, so I just sort of retreated into myself and my work.

  “And then I got sick. My doctors still aren’t sure what it is, but they told me they do think it’s sexually related, and that it’s probably highly contagious—they’re seeing more and more gay guys with the same symptoms.” He put out his cigarette, moving other butts aside to get to the bottom. “And more and more of them are dying,” he added softly, almost to himself.

  He glanced up at me, as though he had momentarily forgotten I was there.

  “Jesus, but I was scared,” he continued. “I still am. I don’t want to die. But I knew that, if I did get it from having sex, the only place I’d had sex since Ron died was at Rage. I felt that something terrible was happening and that it was probably happening at Rage, and I felt obligated to go see Comstock, to warn him. That was my big mistake.”

  “How so?” I asked, but even knowing Comstock only as briefly as I had, I could pretty much guess the answer.

  “Do you know what his reaction was? ‘Prove it.’ Prove it? And then, without missing a beat, he said he still wanted me to do his porn films. ‘If you’re sick, you can use the money,’ he said. I told him that even if hell froze over and I was willing to go along with him, if this thing is sexually transmitted. I’d be putting everyone I came in contact with at risk.

  “He just waved it off. ‘They’re all big boys now,’ he said. ‘They can take care of themselves.’

  “I told him I’d rather die than do porn, and he laughed out loud and said ‘Like you have a choice.’ I have never hated another human being so much in my life as I hated that man at that moment. But I didn’t say another word. I just turned and walked out.

  “Two days later, I heard he’d been murdered, and my only reaction was ‘Thank you, God!’ That same night, I developed a chill, and by the next day, I was back in the hospital with pneumonia. They told me I almost didn’t make it. But I was out within a week, and I pulled myself together enough to go the shoot that had been scheduled several weeks before. And when I walked on the set, D’Allesandro fired me. In front of all those people.”

  He looked at me, his face reflecting true disbelief and an almost tangible sadness.

  “How could any one human being do that to another?” he asked. “What had I ever done to him? In less than ten seconds, he totally destroyed my career. Why? Even if I beat this thing, no one will ever hire me as a model again.”

  I suddenly had the overpowering urge to find Comstock’s and D’Allesandro’s killer—and I had absolutely no doubt it was just one guy—just so I could shake his h
and.

  “And you think Comstock told D’Allesandro about the nature of your illness?” I asked.

  Peterson sighed. “How else could he have known? He’d certainly never bothered to come see me or even call while I was in the hospital.”

  “Do you know if he and Comstock might have had some sort of…well, working arrangement?”

  He thought a moment before answering. “I don’t know for an absolute fact, but I do know D’Allesandro was very particular about who he hired as models. He wanted a specific body type, or a specific look, or a specific attitude, and he turned down a lot of really good-looking guys, but he’d always tell them to go see Comstock. In return, Comstock would keep him supplied with hustlers.”

  “And what did you think when D’Allesandro got shot?” Stupid question, Hardesty, I thought immediately.

  Peterson gave a sad, weak smile that somehow reminded me of a painting of an early Christian martyr. “As they say, there is a God” he said.

  *

  After talking with John Peterson, my first reaction was to put him right at the top of the suspects list. If anyone had a better motive to kill both Comstock and D’Allesandro—or a stronger case for justifiable homicide—I couldn’t imagine who it might be. The motive was a little weaker with Richie. Peterson had a damned good reason to dislike the guy—break both his legs, maybe, or cut off his balls, but murder was stretching it a bit. Even so, that would wrap up who killed those three.

  But what about the two queens? There was no indication—though I cursed myself for not having at least pursued it when I was with him—that Peterson even knew them, and it was pretty hard to think of a scenario where those two—bastards that they may have been—could have done anything to him. They lived in a totally different world from the others. Still, I made a mental note to check them out a little more closely to see if there might be some remote tie-in.

  And while I was on the subject of prospects, farfetched though it might be, I had to reluctantly admit Jared just might be one. He had a temper, he had good reason to have a grudge against Comstock…but that was about it without stretching things. Granted, he’d known and disliked Richie, and he’d been at the Hilltop just before the queens went over the bluff, but even in the most illogical scenario that they had really pissed him off—as they pissed off just about everyone who went anywhere near them—getting mad enough to kill them?