The Bar Watcher

by Dorien Grey

  The Giacomino side of the case was more or less on hold until I heard from O’Banyon as to what more, if anything, he wanted me to do about it. I wondered if they’d had a chance to talk, or if Giacomino had already left town for his latest jaunt. In any event, I was pretty well convinced the chance of Giacomino’s being the killer was negligible.

  I also pondered the idea of getting out to the bars even more frequently than I already did, and hitting several every night, in hopes I might witness an incident—and more important, if I did, to make a careful note of who else was in the bar at the time. It was all a process of elimination.

  However, I realized that was rather like running out into the back yard every night in hopes of seeing a falling star. You might, but chances are you wouldn’t.

  It was when I reached the obituary section that my day really went down the toilet. About halfway down the long list of Mary Smiths, age 87, and Clarence Joneses, age 103, there was a very small announcement that said, Robert John Peterson, 28.

  “Robert John Peterson, 28, died Wednesday in St. Anthony’s hospital of complications from pneumonia. A former leading fashion model…”

  Chapter 11

  I called Jared as soon as I got home and caught him just as he was getting ready to leave for class. When I told him of John Peterson’s death, he didn’t reply for a moment, then said, “I’m afraid he won’t be the last.” Then he sighed and added: “Well, one thing’s for sure…where he is now, he won’t be running into Carlo D’Allesandro.”

  When I asked him if he could check around to see if any of the bartenders he dealt with might know anything about a Ronald Baker, he promised he would. Then there was another pause and he said, “Ronald Baker? The guy who hanged himself?”

  “That’s him,” I said. “What do you know about him?”

  “Marv, the bartender at the In Touch, was telling me today that one of his regulars, a guy named Ronnie, had hanged himself. He’d seen it in the paper.”

  “I’m kind of surprised that didn’t ring a bell with you.”

  “Oh, it did,” he said. “But from what I understand from Marv, this guy was a real nice, quiet sort, really shy, never any problem. He did tell Marv once that he wasn’t out to his family, and it sounded to Marv like he was apparently terrified they might find out. It looks like maybe they did.” He paused again. “What a fucking shame! What kind of parents make their children so ashamed of who they are they’d kill themselves?”

  In the case of Ronald Baker, I think I could make a wild guess.

  “Well,” I said, “regardless of what Dr. Pangloss says, this is not the best of all possible worlds.”

  Jared sighed. “Maybe someday.”

  “Yeah.” I glanced at my watch. “Well, I’d better let you get to class.”

  “Yeah, it’s about that time. Oh, before I forget, I’m getting into one of my leather moods and was thinking of maybe going to the Male Call Saturday night. Want to come along? You might see what you’ve been missing all these years.”

  “Uh, thanks, but I think I’ll pass this time. You just be sure you steer clear of Mitch.”

  Jared laughed. “Oh, I think he’ll be the one doing the steering clear,” he said. “You’re sure you don’t want to change your mind?”

  “Actually, I’m going to be tied up…uh, let me rephrase that,” I amended quickly. “I’ve got plans for Saturday. Toby’s coming over.”

  “Emphasis on the ‘coming,’ I hope,” he said with a laugh.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I have no doubt,” he said. “Well, I’d better head out. I’ll be talking with you soon—oh, and I am putting the word out. I’ve talked to about ten of my regular bartenders, and they’ve all agreed to keep me posted.”

  “Great! And thanks, Jared. Again, I owe you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m running a tab. Later.”

  “See ya.”

  *

  Just as I was finishing dinner, the phone rang again.

  “Dick Hardesty.”

  “Dick, this is Mark Richman,” the by-now-familiar voice said. “Sorry to bother you at home, but I’ve got a quick question.”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you read about that single guy who hanged himself?”

  “Ronald Baker,” I said. “Yes, I read it in today’s paper.”

  “Is it something we should be concerned about?” he asked.

  I was once again struck by the fact Lieutenant Richman was a pretty sharp cookie. Obviously, he’d been doing the same thing I had in looking out for suspicious deaths of single men.

  “From what I know, Lieutenant, it pretty likely was a suicide—the guy doesn’t come near fitting the profile of the others. And you know who his father is, so I don’t think I have to draw you a picture. If anybody at all were to be a potential target, I’d put my money on the good reverend.”

  “I see what you mean,” he said. “The Reverend Baker was one of Chief Rourke’s buddies, by the way. It was always hard to tell which one was the bigger homophobe.” He was quiet a moment. “His own kid, huh? I guess they’re right—what goes around comes around. Too bad it’s always the kids who have to pay.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said.

  There was another pause.

  “Well, thanks for the input. I had a suspicion that’s what the story was but wanted to check with you. Do you have anything new on any of the other deaths?”

  “I only wish I did,” I said, “but right now, it’s still just ideas and intuition. Did you have any luck at all with the bullet?” I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be—our killer wasn’t your average criminal.

  “No. Other than that they came from the same gun—and there are a lot of guns out there.”

  “Looks like we’re both at something of a standstill,” I said. “But I don’t intend to give up—it’s just a matter of time until it all comes together. I’ll keep you posted as soon as something solid comes along.”

  “Good,” Richman said. “Let’s hope it’s soon. Good night.”

  *

  Friday night I set out on what I realized even before I left would be a futile random bar-hop on the outside chance of being present when something happened. I made it to the third bar before I made eye contact with a really hot guy I’d seen several times before but never talked to. Eye contact led to talk, which led to my crotch running away with my head again, which led to going over to his place, and that neatly took care of Friday night. My head was really pissed at me the next morning, but my crotch was very happy.

  *

  Saturday, while doing grocery shopping for the week, I made a point to stock up on cranberry juice. I gave the apartment a cursory cleaning (what it really needed would require a steam shovel and fire hose) changed the bed, did laundry, wrote Chris and Max a letter, talked to Bob Allen and a couple friends on the phone—you know the routine.

  Had an early dinner and went through my collection of Tchaikovsky’s music, picking out some I thought Toby would particularly like—Swan Lake, of course, and some of the other better-known stuff like Romeo & Juliet, the First Piano Concerto and 1812 Overture, plus some he might not have heard too often, like the Pathetique and Francisca de Rimini. That was about twelve hours of solid music, but I’m nothing if not an optimist.

  At about eight-thirty, the doorbell rang. I quickly put the Pathetique on, adjusted the volume and rang the buzzer to let Toby in. When I opened the door a moment later, he was standing there with one hand behind his back.

  “Hi there, Toby,” I said, genuinely glad to see him. “Come on in.”

  He came in, grinning, and brought his hand out from behind his back.

  “I got this for you,” he said, reminding me very much of a small boy with a gift for his teacher. “I thought you’d like it.”

  I could see from the shape of the neatly wrapped package it was a record. I was both delighted and a little embarrassed—I’m not used to getting presents.

  “Thank you
, Toby,” I said, sincerely touched.

  “Open it,” he said, still grinning.

  I tore off the wrapping as carefully as I could and saw it was an original cast recording of Boy Meets Boy. Being careful not to drop it, I moved forward and gave him a big hug, which he returned.

  “Thanks,” I said again.

  “You’re welcome. You think we should close the door now?”

  “Good idea.” I released him and moved past him to push the door closed. “Come on in,” I said, and led him to one of the chairs by the fireplace.

  “Why don’t we sit here?” he said, indicating the couch.

  We sat down side by side, and Toby tilted his head toward the stereo.

  “What’s playing?” he asked. “I like it.”

  *

  It was one of the pleasantest, most relaxing evenings I’d had in a long, long time. We did very little talking. Toby was absolutely enthralled by the music, and it’s hard to describe what a delight it was to watch his reactions to it, and to know this was, for him, something of a voyage of discovery. He knew the more popular themes, of course, but the rest was new to him.

  When the principle theme of Swan Lake came welling into the room, he reached over and took my hand and held it throughout the rest of the score. Okay, I know a lot of guys who’d have been running for the insulin about that time, and a lot more would think it was schmaltzy, and gooey, and maybe even B-movie corny. But it was also sweet and touching and—even at the risk of being thrown out of the Butch Gay Men’s Union—romantic.

  About eleven o’clock, as Francesca di Rimini was ending, Toby turned to me and said, “Would you like to go to bed now?”

  Being occasionally slow on the uptake, I must have looked a bit startled when I said, “No… No, I’m not tired at all.”

  A slow smile spread across his face.

  “I meant together.”

  I got up from the couch and extended my hand, which he took. I started to go turn the stereo off, but he said, “No, leave the music on. Please.”

  I did.

  *

  Everyone has heard the old jokes about having sex to Ravel’s Bolero, but if you’ve ever tried it and liked it, let me recommend Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. Time things just right, and it’s got Bolero beat by a mile!

  We lay there for quite a while after the music stopped, still not saying much. Toby had a wonderful air of calm and quiet about him, so the silences weren’t awkward, just…quiet. My hand, which had been resting palm-down on his washboard stomach, slid idly up his chest to his neck, and I casually fingered the chain he always wore.

  “Nice chain,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  “A story behind it?”

  Toby turned his head to look up at the ceiling.

  “It was my mom’s,” he said. “Actually, my grandmother’s, originally. It had a little locket on it, but I took it off. It’s all I have left to remind me of them,” he added quietly.

  I knew well enough not to go any further on that subject right now. I could tell it was a very private thing for him, and I figured if he ever wanted to tell me about it, he’d do it on his own.

  After another moment of silence: “I always wanted to be a musician,” he said. “Not a rock star or anything like that. More like the stuff Tchaikovsky did…classical.”

  “Do you play any instruments?”

  He turned on his side to put his head on my shoulder.

  “No,” he said. “My folks could never have afforded any instrument—or even lessons. And the school I went to was way too small to have a band.”

  “Well,” I said, “it’s never too late.”

  Toby looked up at me without moving his head.

  “No, it isn’t, is it? Maybe I will.”

  I was really curious to know more about Toby—where he came from, if he had any brothers and sisters, that sort of thing. I had asked him where he came from but hadn’t gotten a direct answer, just “a small town.” I could sense he had places inside him where he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—let anyone go. There had been a suggestion of it when he mentioned his mother, and we didn’t know one another well enough yet for me to have a more sure sense about where those boundaries were.

  I was pretty sure he didn’t have much in the way of formal education, but what he lacked in “sophistication” he more than made up for in gentleness, sweetness, and a kind of inner serenity.

  We continued lying there for another fifteen minutes or so, until Toby said, “Well, I’d better be getting home,” kissed me, and got out of bed to begin putting his clothes on. I watched him dress in the half-light that filtered down the hall and through the open bedroom door. God, but he was a beautiful specimen!

  Again I couldn’t help but…compare isn’t the exact word, but I suppose it comes closest to what I was doing…Toby and Jared. I’d thought before that if Jared were a horse, he’d be a Clydesdale—all mass and power. Toby was a Thoroughbred, sleek and strong and fluid.

  I got out of bed, put on my robe and walked him to the door.

  “Thanks again for the record,” I said. “That was really nice of you.”

  He smiled, little-boy pleased.

  “I’m really glad you like it,” he said. “And thank you for the introductions to Mr. Tchaikovsky. He’s awesome.”

  You’re kind of awesome yourself, Toby, I thought, but only smiled.

  We hugged goodnight, and I opened the door.

  “Give me a call,” I said.

  “I will,” he replied.

  I stood in the doorway, watching him walk down the hall. When he reached the stairwell, he turned, smiled and waved, then disappeared down the stairs. I closed the door and returned to bed.

  But late as it was, I didn’t go right to sleep.

  You’re doing it again, aren’t you? my mind asked.

  Doing what?

  Your “Is this Mr. Right?” number.

  Well, actually, I wasn’t…or so I told myself, anyway. As great as Toby was, and as much as I enjoyed being with him, like Giacomino—and that was a lousy comparison—there was either not something there that should have been, or there was something there that shouldn’t have been. I had no idea which, and I was more than a little pissed with myself because of it.

  I realized suddenly—again—that I didn’t have Toby’s phone number. Not only that, I didn’t even know his last name.

  And what do you do for a living, Mr. Hardesty? my mind asked, sarcastically.

  Well, I thought in my own defense, the last-name issue has never come up, and I think asking a guy for his phone number is kind of pushing it. If he wanted me to have it, he’d have given it to me.

  Yeah, but why wouldn’t he want you to have it? my mind countered.

  Glancing at the clock, I was surprised at how late it was. I had to get some sleep.

  All right, already, I told myself. I’ll ask him for it. Now let’s drop it, okay? And, turning over on my stomach and bunching the pillow up under my head, I went to sleep.

  *

  Bob called shortly after I got up Sunday morning to ask me to join him and Mario for brunch, which I did. Other than that, it was a fairly quiet Sunday. I stopped in to the office for a few minutes after brunch to finish typing up my weekly report to O’Banyon, and was embarrassed by how little I had to say. I felt like I wasn’t earning what I was being paid, and considered telling O’Banyon so.

  But then I realized that, one, I was doing whatever I could, and, two, this case was not over yet. The bar watcher was still out there somewhere, and I knew I would find him, eventually. The only question was how many others would die before I tracked him down?

  *

  Another week went by. I noticed in Tuesday’s paper the Chicago Symphony was coming to town and made a note to see if Toby would like to go. I cursed myself again for not having his telephone number so I could just call and ask him. What a fucking poor excuse you are for a PI, Hardesty!

  I thought about just driving over t
o his place—at least I knew where he lived, from having driven him home after our first night together—and slipping a note under his door but decided against it. I’d wait until he called.

  I talked to Jared a couple times. Three or four of his bartender contacts had reported incidents—fights, heated arguments, some drunken loudmouths making trouble—but none sounded like the kind of thing that would draw the bar watcher’s attention. Either that, or he just hadn’t been there to see it happen. Not every argument or fight in a bar involves the deliberate cruelty that had gotten five men murdered.

  And despite the trepidation that always preceded examining the paper every morning for possible new victims, there was nothing that said: “Oh-oh, here he is!” What did set my mental alarms off, however, was the increasing number of young, single men appearing in the obituaries as dying of “pneumonia” or “complications from pneumonia” or “after a long illness” or simply “in St. Anthony’s (or City General or Atherton Memorial or…) Hospital.” I had a chilling premonition that what had killed John Peterson was like the cow that kicked over Mrs. O’Leary’s lantern, and that somebody had better start yelling “Fire!” pretty soon.

  On what I sensed was far more than a whim, I went back over the entire week’s papers, making a list of the names—there were twelve. I wrote them down, put them in my shirt pocket, and headed out the door for Rage.

  *

  The disappointment I felt when I saw that Troy was not on duty rather surprised me—I hadn’t known I’d care whether he was there or not. The guy behind the window was someone I’d not seen before, a very exotic-looking guy with skin the color of coffee-with-cream and shockingly blue eyes. Oh, yes, and—surprise!—a body to kill for.

  I identified myself and asked to see the manager. The guy nodded, picked up the phone under the counter, said something into it I couldn’t hear then replaced the receiver. He gave me a smile any toothpaste-ad executive would have given his arm for, and said, “Jim will be right with you.”