The Bar Watcher

by Dorien Grey

  Even giving the benefit of the doubt, that left D’Allesandro. I had no indication Jared had ever met or even seen the guy, and while he was obviously furious with what D’Allesandro had done to John Peterson, it was via a newspaper article. Plus, tempers burn hot, but fast, and a having a flash of temper isn’t necessarily the same thing as carefully, calculatedly plotting a murder.

  Why was I zeroing in on people I’d already met, anyway? I’m sure every one of the dead men had enemies I’d never even thought of. What one guy might have had it in for all of them?

  Puzzle time.

  And for some reason, what Peterson had said about his illness and Rage really bothered me. A bath would be an ideal place for spreading any infectious disease, especially one that might be transmitted by sex. I had, as I’d told Jared, been really skeptical of the rumors I’d been hearing in the community about a “gay cancer,” but after seeing and talking with Peterson, I tended to agree with Jared they may not have been unfounded. I’d have to remember to bring it up to O’Banyon the next time we talked.

  It was getting fairly late in the day, but I decided to stop by the office and jot down a few notes, and maybe do a rough draft of my next report to O’Banyon. I was a little surprised to find, when I checked with my service, that I’d had another call from him. I returned it immediately, hoping he might still be in, and wondering what was up. When I identified myself to the receptionist, I was put right through.

  “Mr. O’Banyon’s office.”

  “Donna, this is Dick Hardesty. Is Mr. O’Banyon in?”

  “No, I’m afraid he’s left for the day. He should be home by now, and he did want me to put you through to him as soon as you called. Could you hold a moment, please?”

  “Sure.”

  There was a slight click and a moment later another, and I heard O’Banyon’s voice.

  “Thank you, Donna,” he said, and there was yet another click as she disconnected. “Dick, I’m glad you called. Something has come up, and we should talk.”

  “Fine,” I said, wondering but not asking why. “Name the time and place.”

  There was a brief pause, then: “Do you know a bar called Hughie’s?”

  Hughie’s? Now, that caught me totally by surprise. Hughie’s was a hustler bar about two blocks from my office. Not the kind of place I’d have associated O’Banyon with in a million years.

  “Yes, I know it,” I said, now really curious.

  “Could you meet me there in about an hour?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll see you there.” And he hung up.

  I held the phone about a foot from my face and looked at it as though it had a life of its own and had just told me something that puzzled the shit out of me. Then I realized how stupid I must look, so I put it back in its cradle, mildly embarrassed.

  *

  My curiosity kept me from doing anything much constructive, so after a couple abortive tries, I just gave up. I changed into a T-shirt I kept in the bottom drawer of a file cabinet along with a couple changes of clothes (you never know when you’ll need one), and headed out the door to walk down to Hughie’s. I figured if I had a choice of looking like a hustler or a john, I’d go for the hustler.

  Walking into Hughie’s at any time of day is like walking into a movie theater from broad daylight—it always takes a couple minutes for your eyes to adjust. As usual, the place smelled of stale beer and damp air conditioning. While I wasn’t exactly a regular, I’d been there several times, mainly because it was so close to work and because it served dark beer on draft—in frosted mugs, no less.

  Bud, the bartender, gave me an uptilt of the head when he saw me and automatically reached into the cooler for a mug. Drawing a dark, he brought it over to me, putting it on a fresh napkin that immediately became waterlogged from the condensation of the ice running down the sides.

  “How’s it going, Dick?” he asked.

  “Great, Bud. You?”

  He shrugged. “Same as the past fifteen years behind this same fucking bar.”

  Before he could elaborate, someone at the far end yelled, “Hey, Bud, how about some fucking service here?”

  “That answer your question?” he asked, and moved off.

  I’d only taken a couple swallows when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” O’Banyon said.

  But when I turned around, the guy beside me sure as hell wasn’t the Glen O’Banyon I knew. He was wearing a battered football jersey and Levi’s with a hole in one knee. Obviously, my surprise was written all over my face.

  “I know,” he said with a smile. “But I can’t spend all of my life in court.”

  “Well,” I said, “this is about the last place I’d ever expect to see you!”

  “Which is exactly why I come here—seldom, admittedly, but it’s good just to get away for a couple hours every now and then. Actually, this place is a lot closer to my roots than that penthouse office of mine—though that fact’s just between you and me, of course.”

  I nodded my agreement, then said. “I gathered from your call there’s a problem. What is it?”

  Somehow, knowing Hughie’s was not exactly terra incognita made him seem a lot more…well, like me, I suppose.

  Bud came up and said, “What’ll it be?”

  “Millers.”

  Bud nodded and turned to the cooler to extract a bottle and pop the top off on the opener just out of sight on his side of the counter. He put a napkin on the bar in front of O’Banyon and set the bottle on it, taking the bill O’Banyon handed him. He didn’t ask if he might like a glass. Hughie’s wasn’t a glass type of place.

  When Bud left to take care of another customer, O’Banyon took a long swallow and set the bottle on the napkin.

  “We seem to be getting deeper and deeper into the woods, here,” he said cryptically.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that I got a call today from Bob Kimmes at Kimmes Associates, the accountants for Rage. It appears there’s a problem with the books. A lot of money seems to be missing.”

  “Embezzlement?”

  “Well, Kimmes is calling them ‘irregularities’ at the moment. But if it is embezzlement, it could throw a whole new light on possible motives for Barry Comstock’s murder.”

  I drained my beer and set the mug at the inner edge of the bar to attract Bud’s attention.

  “How did all this come to light?”

  “Standard procedure, really. When Comstock died, it was natural to do an audit for purposes of the surviving partners’ interest.”

  “Kimmes is one of the best firms in the city,” I said. “How could they not have had some idea that something was wrong?”

  O’Banyon leaned forward, resting both elbows on the bar and staring at himself in the mirror on the wall opposite him. “That was my first question, and it appears we’ll never know. The CPA who handled the Rage account was killed in a car crash recently, I understand, and when a new accountant started going through things for the audit, the discrepancies started to show up.”

  There were those damned sirens in the back of my head again!

  “Do you happen to know the accountant’s name?” I asked, feeling a tightening in my stomach. My mind and stomach always seem to know things before I do.

  O’Banyon took one elbow of the bar so that he could turn toward me.

  “I’m sorry, no. I met him with Kimmes when we first went with them, but I don’t recall his name. As I’ve said, Rage was primarily Comstock’s baby. We get quarterly financial reports, but there’s never been any indication of anything amiss. Our other partner took a lot more interest in it than I did, but he didn’t mention anything, either. Why did you ask about the name of the accountant?” he asked.

  “A hunch,” I said, and let it go at that.

  “Well, you can call Kimmes’s office if it’s important.”

  My mind and stomach told me it was

  “I think I’ll do that
,” I said.

  Bud came over to bring me another mug, and when I laid a bill on the bar, O’Banyon waved it away and replaced it with one of his own.

  “Thanks,” I said. We were quiet a moment, and then I said, “So, there’s no way of telling at this point whether the…irregularities…come from Kimmes’s end or Rage’s?”

  O’Banyon shrugged. “Not at this point, no.”

  There was something else that had been on my mind since I first took the case, and thought it might be the time to bring it up.

  “You know,” I said, “up to now, it hasn’t been any of my business, and while I’ve never asked before, I think it might help for me to know the name of your other partner in Rage.”

  He stared at me for a full ten seconds, face impassive. I met his gaze and held it, not blinking or looking away. Finally it was he who broke the stare.

  “Bart Giacomino,” he said.

  Well, well, another surprise! Bart Giacomino was also one of the original owners of Glitter, although I’d heard he’d recently sold his interest in it. He fancied himself a real wheeler-dealer, as Comstock had, but Bart’s money reportedly came from what was euphemistically called “family connections.” His relatives were rumored to be big in casinos and other gambling but had distanced themselves from Bart when they found out he was gay.

  It might have been the beer, or the fact of O’Banyon’s being more in my territory than his at the moment, but I decided to press my luck a little.

  “Ah, if you don’t mind my asking…how did you ever hook up with Bart Giacomino? Or Comstock, for that matter.”

  He sighed, motioned to Bud for another beer and waited until it had been delivered before answering.

  “Bart and I were roommates in college,” he said, “and I spent several weekends at his family’s place in my senior year. Then, when I first opened my practice, they threw some business my way, which really helped get me started. This was before they found out he was gay.”

  I got the strong impression Glen O’Banyon was not in the habit of revealing much about his personal life, and I could certainly understand why—the higher you climb on the ladder, the more people there are waiting to pull you off of it. I probably should have been grateful he trusted me enough to tell me as much as he was. But I knew there was more, so I just continued to look at him until he met my eyes again and continued.

  “I owe Bart a lot,” he said, taking a long pull from his beer. “And when Barry was doing porn, Bart and he had something going for awhile. Barry pretty much used Bart, I think, but Bart never seemed to mind. So, when the idea for Rage came along, and they asked me to come in with them, I did. As I told you, Barry was very good about making money.”

  “And Bart?”

  O’Banyon gave a slight shrug. “He does okay, I guess, but he’s always lived pretty close to the edge. Bart’s attitude has always been that money’s there to be spent, and he does that very well. Luckily, he’s had partners who were able to keep the reins on him.”

  I was busily jotting down mental notes to go through later but wanted to take full advantage of the opportunity to learn as much as I could.

  “Would he talk to me?” I asked.

  O’Banyon stared at me again for a few moments, and I could tell he was debating just how far out on a limb he was placing himself by letting me in on things he’d undoubtedly prefer I didn’t know.

  “I think I see where you’re going with this, Dick,” he said, “and I’m not sure I’m too happy about it.”

  “I’m sorry, Glen” I said, aware I was calling him by his first name for the first time. Well, he asked you to, I reminded myself. “But I can’t do the job you hired me for if there are places I can’t go.”

  He shrugged again and took another drink from his beer.

  “You’re right,” he said at last. “But let me talk to him first.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  We were both quiet for a while. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but just the quiet of having reached a natural place for a pause. Then O’Banyon looked at his watch.

  “I really should get going,” he said. “I’ve got to be in court tomorrow, and there are things I have to do yet to get ready.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I should go, too—I’m meeting Lieutenant Richman early tomorrow morning. But there is one last thing, if you’ve got another minute.”

  “Fire away.”

  “I went to see John Peterson today, and he told me some really disturbing things.”

  O’Banyon cocked his head and gave me a raised-eyebrow questioning look.

  “About Barry?”

  “Yeah, but more important, about Rage.”

  O’Banyon had his nearly-empty bottle raised halfway to his mouth, but he quickly set it down again.

  “What about Rage?”

  “Peterson is ill—really ill—and he’s convinced he got whatever he has from his visits to Rage.”

  I filled him in on everything Peterson had told me about his sexual history and the doctors suspecting the mysterious ailment of being sexually transmitted.

  “If that’s true,” I said, “Rage could be a breeding ground for it, and a lot of guys are in real, serious danger.”

  O’Banyon looked troubled, and shook his head slowly as if in disbelief.

  “Damn!” he said at last. “The minute I started hearing about this gay cancer thing, I was sure it had to be related to sex. Maybe it’s a new form of clap or syphilis, and we know those are sex-related. But this new thing? I convinced Barry to make condoms readily available in every room, but you know guys—most of them don’t want to be bothered.” He continued to shake his head, slowly. “But we can’t go overboard and just shut the place down. There’s way too much money involved here, and until we know more about this thing, all we can do is warn the members to be careful.

  “Bart is interviewing for a new manager this week, as a matter of fact, and I’ll be sure he puts up signs. It may hurt business, but it’s worth it if it keeps even one guy from getting this…whatever. Then, when we know more….”

  “That’s all I can ask,” I said.

  We finished our beers, shook hands and left the bar to go our separate ways.

  Chapter 8

  Five-thirty is much too early to expect any civilized human being to get out of bed, but if I was to meet Lieutenant Richman at seven, I had little choice. I staggered into the kitchen, fumbled for the coffee filter, coffee and water, turned the coffee maker on then stood leaning against the sink with my forehead resting on the cabinet above, trying to convince myself I was still sleeping.

  When I figured there was enough coffee in the pot, I sloshed it into a cup, momentarily grateful I took it black and was therefore spared the complexities of adding cream and sugar. Then I somehow found my way to the bathroom to begin getting ready. It was going to be a long, long day.

  *

  As early as it was, I was able to find a parking place with relative ease, and as I walked the half-block to Sandler’s Café, it suddenly occurred to me I’d never actually seen Lieutenant Richman and had no idea what he looked like. But for once, I wasn’t early, and I was fairly sure not that many uniformed police would be there having breakfast.

  I was right. When I entered, I immediately saw a really attractive guy wearing a police lieutenant’s uniform seated in a booth against the far wall. I went immediately to him and extended my hand.

  “Lieutenant Richman, I’m Dick Hardesty.”

  He turned slightly to be able to take my hand then motioned me to the seat opposite him. As I slid into it, my Scorpio nature kicked in, and I determined that Lieutenant Richman’s being straight was definitely the gay world’s loss—mid-forties, short-cut brown hair greying at the temples, very handsome, obviously but discreetly butch.

  The waitress had followed me to the table, stopping on the way to pick up a carafe of coffee and a cup and saucer, which she placed in front of me as soon as I sat down.

  “I’ll get you a men
u,” she said, but I shook my head.

  “Just coffee, thanks,” I said. It was still a bit early to even consider eating anything.

  She turned to Lieutenant Richman, who ordered a typical man-sized breakfast—pancakes, two eggs over easy, ham, toast, and juice, and a side dish of oatmeal.

  “I often don’t have time to get lunch,” he explained as the waitress headed off toward the kitchen. He looked at me for a moment the way heterosexual men tend to look at one another when they are not too uncomfortable to do so. “So, what is it you wanted to tell me, Mr. Hardesty?”

  “Dick, please,” I said, mentally taking a deep breath before continuing. “I think it might be to your advantage to check out the car in which those two men were killed a week or so ago, coming down McAlester. The car landed on its top, but the front passenger’s side tire is blown, and there’s a hole at the top of the tire. If you rotate it so you can reach inside, you’ll find a bullet—a twenty-two.”

  Lieutenant Richman gave me a raised-eyebrow look and leaned slightly forward.

  “And how did you come across this information?” he asked.

  I deliberately took a sip of my coffee before plunging ahead.

  “Well, you remember my asking you about the circumstances surrounding Richie Smith’s death,” I began.

  I told him about the incident at Glitter, and of my subsequent suspicions when Richie was found dead the next day, and about the two queens’ having been kicked out of Venture and their comments at the Hilltop, and about talking with the gas station attendant who’d heard the “pops.” The waitress brought the lieutenant’s breakfast, but he made no move to eat it.

  “Very flimsy stuff, I know,” I continued, “but I’ve found that going with my hunches pays off more times than not. So, I decided to check the car out on the hunch that a blown tire had sent them through the guardrail, and the blowout might not have been an accident. That’s when I found the bullet. And then when Carlo D’Allesandro was murdered, I was pretty sure it was related to these other deaths.”