by Dorien Grey
“Uh…that’s okay. I don’t want to interrupt her,” Elliott said. He loved Cessy, but really didn’t want to go through another sisterly interrogation.
“Okay. Talk to you later, then.”
“Thanks again, Brad. Bye.”
* * *
I’m glad.
About what?
That they found out who that man was. Now his family will know.
I’m afraid most of them are dead now, too.
Still, I’m glad. Names are important. Families are important. I wish…
I know. And if you have a family, we’ll find them.
You think so?
I’m sure.
That would be nice. I hope you’re right.
I am. Trust me.
I do.
* * *
Elliott wasn’t much of a bar person. When he did go out, it was either with friends, or with the specific purpose of finding a partner for the evening. To go out by himself with a purpose other than cruising was new to him, and not particularly appealing. Still, he’d gotten John’s photo from Brad on the understanding that he’d show it around to people he knew at the bars, and he was a man of his word.
So, Friday night, after dinner and watching a little TV, he took a quick shower and got ready to go out. Leaving John’s photo in the manila envelope Brad had given him, he took it and left the apartment. Not wanting to go through the hassle of trying to find a parking place on Halsted on a Friday night, he walked up to the el station, got off at Belmont, and walked east toward Halsted, the main street of Boys Town. He found it interesting that he sensed John was with him.
He knew he couldn’t possibly hit all the bars in one night, or even in several. His trivia file told him there were at least eighteen bars on Halsted, and another twelve on Clark, with at least five on Broadway. He felt just a bit strange, realizing just how long it had been since he’d been out by himself; and while he wouldn’t be averse to picking someone up, the sense of John’s presence made him feel just slightly guilty about even considering it. Even though he was increasingly convinced John was not from Chicago, he had no way of knowing how long John may have been in town before he was killed. He also was increasingly convinced, with no basis, that John had been gay. It was possible someone might have seen him.
His first stop was at Spin, at the corner of Belmont and Halsted. He walked in to find a typical Friday night crowd. Spin was one of what he called his “mood” bars—he either felt immediately comfortable and had a great time, or couldn’t wait to leave, and he never really knew until he got inside the doors which mood would prevail.
Going to the bar, he ordered a weak bourbon-Seven, thinking that if he was going to be hitting several places, he wanted to make sure he didn’t let the alcohol get the better of him. As he surveyed the crowd, he spotted several guys he knew, and a couple he decided he wouldn’t mind getting to know, but the reason why he’d come kept him in check.
He was about to start approaching those guys he knew when he heard someone said, “Elliott! Good to see you out and about!” He turned to his left to see Danny Sable, an old acquaintance who had been at the dinner party the night of the accident.
“Sorry I didn’t get to stop by the hospital to see you,” Danny said, leaning toward Elliott to be heard over the general din of the music and the crowd, “but I didn’t even hear about it until a couple of days later.”
“That’s okay,” Elliott said, raising his voice and tilting his head toward him. “It was no big deal.”
“Well, you were lucky. It could have been a lot worse.”
Elliott thought of John, and agreed.
“What’s with the envelope?” Danny asked, gesturing with his glass.
“Glad you asked,” Elliott said, turning slightly to set his drink on the bar, then opening the envelope and removing the picture. “I was wondering…have you ever seen this guy before?”
Danny took the photo and looked at it, tilting it toward the light. “Can’t say that I have,” he said. “Jeezus…who beat the crap out of him? Nice-looking guy other than that, but what happened to him? He looks a little…”
“Dead,” Elliott said, noticing Danny’s automatic recoil at the realization.
Danny quickly handed the photo back to Elliott, who replaced it in the envelope.
“Well, I hope you’ll excuse my asking,” Danny said, “but where the hell did you get a picture of a dead guy, and why are you carrying it around with you?” he asked. “I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.”
Elliott merely smiled and turned to pick up his drink.
“Long story,” he said, “but this guy was brought into St. Joe’s ER the same time as I was, but he didn’t make it. He had no I.D. so they listed him as a John Doe. I told my brother-in-law, who’s a homicide detective, that I might have recognized the guy from somewhere, and he managed to get the guy’s picture for me on the grounds that if he might have been gay, somebody from the community might recognize him.” Elliott, aware of John’s presence, felt a little uncomfortable talking about him so casually.
“Did you recognize him?” Danny asked.
“I’m not sure,” Elliott lied. “But I figured it would be worth showing his photo around, just in case. He has a name, and an identity, and probably people who are looking for him somewhere. I hate the idea of their never knowing what happened to him. He deserves better.”
Danny shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose,” he said. “Well, like I said, he was a nice-looking guy, and I’m sure I’d remember if I’d seen him before.”
“It was just a long shot,” Elliott said. “But thanks.”
They exchanged a few more words, Elliott looking around the crowd, until Danny nudged him and pointed toward a tall, thin blond just approaching the bar with an empty glass in his hand.
“Have you talked to Alex?” he asked. “He knows everybody, plus he’s got a photographic memory. I’ll bet he can tell you the name, address and phone number of just about every guy in town. If anybody’d remember seeing your guy, it’d be him.”
“Thanks,” Elliott said. “I’ll do that. Excuse me, will you?”
Danny merely nodded, and Elliott moved down the bar to where the blond was waiting for his drink. Elliott had seen him frequently in various bars over the years, but only actually spoken to him two or three times.
“Excuse me…Alex,” he said, moving next to him.
The blond turned and gave him a big smile. “Hi, handsome. Elliott, right?” he said as though they were good friends who’d seen one another the day before. “I haven’t seen you around much lately. Been out of town?”
“No,” Elliott replied, “just busy. I was wondering if you can help me?”
Alex grinned. “I thought you’d never ask!” he said. “Your place or mine?”
Luckily, Elliott knew he was joking.
“Well, we can try the bathroom later,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to take you away from your evening.”
Still grinning, Alex said: “Well, I am with someone as a matter of fact. But there’s always room for one more. But what can I do for you at the moment?”
Elliott set his nearly empty drink on the bar again, and opened the envelope, taking out the picture. “Do you know this guy?”
Alex glanced at the photo, then his eyes widened in surprise. “Is he…”
“Dead, yes,” Elliott said.
“Jesus, what a shame!” Alex exclaimed. “He was a good-looking guy under all those bruises! What are you doing with his picture?”
Elliott gave the same basic explanation as he’d given Danny, while Alex continued to stare at the photo. Finally, he handed the picture back and shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Elliott. I’ve never seen him before. You think he was from around here?”
“Apparently not,” Elliott said as he returned the photo to the envelope. “But that’s what I’m trying to determine. I thought if anyone might recognize him, you would.”
Alex turned to the b
artender to pay for his drink, then turned back to Elliott. “Yeah, I’d think so, too. But I really don’t think I’ve ever seen him.”
“Well, I appreciate your looking at it,” Elliott said.
“No problem,” Alex said. “I wish you luck in finding out who he was.” He glanced across the room and nodded at someone. “Well, I’d better get back,” he said. “But I’ll take a rain check on that bathroom thing, okay?”
They exchanged grins, and Alex moved off into the crowd.
Elliott was debating whether to order another drink or leave when he heard, “That’s nice of you,” and turned to the stool on his right, to see an extremely good-looking Hispanic, early thirties, looking at him.
“I’m sorry?” Elliott said, and the man indicated the envelope.
“I couldn’t help overhear your conversation,” he said, then smiled. “Though it wasn’t exactly easy with all this noise. It’s nice of you to want to find a name for someone who doesn’t have one. Obviously, you’re a romantic.”
That struck Elliott as strange, since while he considered himself many things, a romantic was never one of them. He took quick stock of the guy as he talked. Though he was sitting down, Elliott estimated him to be about his own height and weight, with black hair, intense dark eyes and perfect teeth. But it was the color of his skin that most drew Elliott’s attention. He had always been attracted to Hispanics, and especially to those with this guy’s coloring, a cross between a soft olive and coffee-with-cream, as though he’d been born with a perfect tan.
“I’m Steve,” the man said, extending his hand. “Steve Gutierrez.”
“Elliott,” Elliott replied, taking it. “Smith.”
Steve gave him a quick raised eyebrow, but said nothing.
“So, did you see the picture?” Elliott asked.
“Not really,” Steve replied. “But then I’m just new in town and don’t know all that many people yet.”
“Ah? Where are you from?”
“California,” Steve said. “I was born and raised in Barstow, and most recently lived around Big Bear.”
“What brings you to Chicago?” Elliott asked.
“I’m a commercial artist,” Steve said. “A good job came up here, so I took it.”
“How do you like the place so far?”
“I like it. There’s a lot going on. But I don’t know how I’m going to feel about the winters.”
Elliott laughed. “You lived in Big Bear, you’ll get used to them.” He turned to signal the bartender for another drink.
CHAPTER 6
He awoke in the night, aware only of the sound of Steve’s breathing beside him. He had become so accustomed to nightly, if brief, “conversations” with John that not having one had awakened him. It was rather like someone accustomed to the loud ticking of a clock suddenly being aware that it had stopped.
He didn’t know if John was unhappy with him for not having devoted the entire evening to his search, or being discreet in leaving him and Steve to their own devices as had been the case with Rick. Part of him did feel guilty, but the rest was relieved to realize John had not totally taken over his life.
He closed his eyes, concentrated on listening to Steve’s regular breathing, and went back to undisturbed sleep.
In the morning, while he was in the kitchen making coffee, Steve wandered into the den, where Elliott found him looking through the pages of Moonrise. John’s presence was instantly there.
Steve looked up at him and grinned. He was wearing one of Elliott’s robes, open to the navel, and it took all of Elliott’s willpower to resist dragging him back into the bedroom.
“So you’re a Hill fan, too!” Steve said. “I knew there was something I liked about you.”
Elliott walked over beside him and laid his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “A recent convert,” he said, “but I do like his work.”
Steve tapped the picture open on his lap. The page featured a shot taken across a valley to another ridge of hills where the moon was just appearing over the highest peak. The valley floor was sprinkled with the lights of a small town.
“We have a lot of the same stomping grounds, Hill and I, and we’re both into landscapes. This was taken not 20 miles from where I lived in Big Bear,” he said. “I can even tell you exactly where he took the shot. I did a painting from almost the same spot, only in daylight. I recognize a lot of these places, even though they were taken at night.”
He indicated Sand Petals, on the table beside him, with a nod of his head. “That one has a couple shots of places I know from around Barstow; most of them are from the Mojave and Death Valley.”
“Yeah, I kind of thought they must have been taken around there,” Elliott said. “Did you ever meet Hill?”
“No, never,” Steve said. “I gather he’s apparently something of a recluse.”
“Aren’t all you artist types?” He grinned, and Steve returned it.
“No, just the photographers. All us painters is party folk.”
“I’d like to see your paintings sometime,” Elliott said. And he knew as he said it he wanted to see them not only for himself, but for John.
Steve reached up and put one hand over Elliott’s. “I left most of them with my folks when I moved,” he said, “but I have a few you’re welcome to see any time.”
“I’d like that,” Elliott said. “Now what say we go have some coffee?”
* * *
Driving home after dropping Steve off at his apartment and accepting his invitation to come over for dinner that night, he reflected on the serendipity not only of having met Steve at all, but its implications for a possible lead to John’s identity. He was now certain that John was from California, and Steve’s coincidental verification of the locale of the photos meant he might not have to pursue contact with G.J. Hill, from whose publisher he had received no response to his email.
His mental trivia file included bits of geographical data, among which was that both Barstow and Big Bear were in San Bernardino county, the largest county in the contiguous United States—larger than nine states—and that while Barstow was in the high desert and Big Bear was in the mountains, they were only about 50 miles apart. He could ask Brad to contact the local police jurisdictions and send them John’s photo. He had no way of knowing what sort of set up either San Bernardino county or Barstow or Big Bear might have regarding missing persons from their areas, but it would certainly be worth checking into. Exactly how he was going to go about convincing Brad to do this without Brad questioning his sanity, he had no idea.
He was a little surprised to realize that he’d sensed no particular surge in John’s presence during these deliberations, and he had no idea what that might mean. That he was totally off base? That John didn’t make the same connections he’d made? However, most troubling was the sudden and unwelcome recurrence of the idea that there was no John at all and he was just playing some strange mental game with himself.
He remembered that when he was in about the sixth or seventh grade he had looked at a map of the stars and realized that he could draw a straight line from any star to any other star. He’d considered this a profound scientific discovery until he disclosed it to his teacher who explained that any two points, anywhere, could be connected by a straight line. He wondered if that was what he was doing now—making connections between random points?
He forced his mind off the entire situation by busying himself with organizing a briefcase full of paperwork on the current financial status of the Sheffield project, and comparing completed expenditures with projected costs for the remaining work. He was pleased to find the project almost exactly on budget.
After the evening news, Elliott changed clothes and headed for Steve’s, arriving shortly before seven. Steve lived in an attractive new six-unit building on a corner lot on Diversey, and Elliott, who had been favorably impressed when he’d dropped Steve off, was even more so when Steve showed him into his second-floor apartment.
An impractically sma
ll balcony, hardly deep enough to stand on, spanned the glass-fronted living room, which was both sparse and comfortable at the same time. The walls were hung with what Elliott assumed to be Steve’s own work, mostly landscapes and still lifes, with display lights over each picture. He imagined that using them to provide the room’s primary source of illumination at night would be very effective.
“I’m impressed,” he said, looking around the room.
“I’m glad you like it,” Steve said, obviously pleased.
“And these are all yours?” Elliott asked, indicating the pictures.
Steve grinned. “They’re all mine, but not all of mine. As I said, I left most of them with my parents.”
Going over to one, a study in greys and browns of a row of sagging and dilapidated wooden buildings against a mountain backdrop, Elliott was entranced. Like Hill’s photos, Steve’s paintings seemed to be much more than simply a realistic depiction of the subject matter. There was something elusive Elliott didn’t feel sufficiently knowledgeable about art to grasp, but there was the definite suggestion that each brush stroke was like a sentence in a long and fascinating story.
“Calico,” Steve explained, anticipating his question. “A great old ghost town in the hills not too far from Barstow.” He pointed to another painting on the opposite wall of the shell of a four-story concrete building clinging to the side of a mountain. “That one’s Jerome, Arizona. I guess you could say I have a thing about ghost towns.”
“Not too many of those around Chicago,” Elliott said, “but I can see your interest. I’ve always been intrigued by them, too. Actually, I think my folks took me to Calico when I was a kid. Maybe that’s where I got it.”
The subject of desert ghost towns made him alert to John’s presence, but he noted no particular spiking of John’s interest as he viewed the pictures. There were a few more paintings of desert landscapes and mountains reminiscent of Hill’s photographs and apparently done in the same general region.
Steve pointed to the painting next to the one of the abandoned building in Jerome. It looked familiar. “This is the one I told you about—Hill took a photo from the same spot.” While Hill’s photo had been at night, despite the painting’s vibrant blue sky and vivid greens of the trees, the shape of mountains which formed the skyline was identical.
