by Dorien Grey
*
Brunch with Jared was always a lot of fun, though there was a very distinct difference “B.J.” and “A.J.”—”Before Jonathan” and “After Jonathan.” Before Jonathan and I had hooked up, Jared and I had brunch a couple times a month, and always ended up at either his place or mine engaging in various energetic forms of horizontal recreation which we both enjoyed thoroughly. But once I decided Jonathan provided just about as much horizontal exercise as even this jaded Scorpio could handle, Jared had segued wordlessly from “fuck buddy” to “good friend.” Though neither Jonathan nor I ever spoke of Jared and my past relationship, I knew Jonathan was well aware of it. If it bothered him in the slightest, he was wise enough to never let on.
Have I mentioned that I was rather fond of the kid?
*
I had a message from John Bradshaw on the machine when we returned from brunch, and I called him right away. He’d had a weekend business meeting and I could sense from his tone that possibly one of the reasons he had not somehow managed to call earlier was that he knew I didn’t have anything specific to tell him, which in turn told me he was increasingly resigning himself to the idea that Jerry Shea was not coming back. Oddly, the possibility of Shea’s being dead—let alone having met with foul play—had never come up in any of our conversations. I know it had to have occurred to him, but I could well understand that it was just too painful a concept for him to deal with yet. Better to think of Shea in the broad category of “missing” rather than contemplate the more unacceptable likelihoods.
“Have you found out anything from the group that might help?”
I reluctantly said ‘no,’ but that I felt more confident than ever that somehow it was involved.
“Have you had a chance to think of anything else about anyone in the group that might help?”
Bradshaw was quiet for a moment. “Not really, I’m afraid. I did have a few thoughts about Brian, though—some little bits and pieces of information I picked up over the course of the sessions. Mostly he just sits there and listens, as you probably have noticed. But I gather he came from a pretty abusive alcoholic family. So he makes a good counselor: he can understand what everybody in the group is going through.”
Bob Allen had said basically the same thing when he first mentioned knowing Oaks.
“How about the others? Carl and Jay, John and Andy…” again, I said nothing about Andy’s disappearance.
“Nothing I’m sure you haven’t already found out for yourself. Carl’s the wild cannon in the bunch; I’m sure he’s spewed over everybody there at one time or another, though Oaks puts his foot down the second he starts to zero in on individuals. I don’t know this for sure, but I suspect he physically abuses Jay; Jay’s come into too many meetings with obvious bruises, though of course they’re always accidents. Carl’s not stupid, though; he knows just how far he can push the group without getting thrown out. Andy and John…well, that’s another couple that’s hard to figure out. Andy plays around a lot, and he uses his alcoholism to justify it; John could have anybody he wants: why he sticks with Andy is beyond me. Andy’s always trying to put the make on Nowell, the receptionist.”
I was glad he mentioned Nowell before I did.
“What is Nowell’s story, anyway? Do you have any idea?”
“Not a clue. I don’t even know for sure if he’s gay or not. My own guess would be ‘no,’ but those form-fitting tee shirts and sprayed-on jeans? He’s way too aware of how attractive he is not to be gay. If there is such a thing as a straight prickteaser, I think that’s how I might sum him up. He’s not exactly surly, but he never volunteers any information about anything not related to the group.”
Pretty much my own reaction.
“And how about Paul and Frank?”
“Really nice guys, but like Andy and John, they don’t show up half the time. Paul’s a manipulator. He’ll sit there and say how he really, really wants to quit drinking—he’s broken down a couple times during the meetings—but he can’t quit or won’t. He’ll be doing okay, then he’ll just disappear for days at a time. He works through temp agencies and only takes short assignments because he could never hold down a job where he had to be there every day without fail. And Frank’s an enabler, always making excuses for Paul. It’s not a very healthy relationship.” Suddenly, he gave a sharp laugh with not much humor in it. “But whose relationship in that group is?”
I’m afraid he had a point.
“Anything outstanding about Victor and Keith?” I figured I might as well bring up all the members while I was at it.
He thought a moment, then said: “Not really. Hard to really tell too much about Keith, since he almost never says anything unless he’s specifically asked. I assume he’s still carrying his 12 Step book and the Bible?”
“Yeah.”
“I remember it was our first or second meeting and somebody brought up going to church or something, and Keith volunteered—which was pretty unusual in itself—that Satan was the patron saint of alcoholics. Struck me as an odd thing to say. Talk about self-loathing!”
I thanked him for his help and told him I’d keep him posted—and added that I wouldn’t be charging him for the time Jonathan and I were at the meetings. I technically could have, since I was working on the case, but it wouldn’t be fair. Jerry Shea wasn’t the only missing man I was looking for.
*
I finally reached Ted Kemper Monday night just before dinner, asking him the same basic questions and getting the same basic answers, with one very interesting new bit of information.
When he was describing his impressions of Brian Oaks, he said: “He comes across as being Mr. Totally-In-Control, but at one of our first meetings with the group, we were talking about anger—about the anger alcoholics have against themselves, and the anger their non-alcoholic partners have against them for not being able to control their drinking. Oaks said that when he was a teenager, his father, who was a serious alcoholic, came home drunk one night and started slapping his mother across the face, hard. Brian went after him with a frying pan and sent the guy to the hospital with a concussion. I was kind of glad to hear that, in a way. It shows he’s only human. He said his dad never hit his mother again, though.”
*
Monday came and went—God knows where—with no word from Richman or Marty Gresham, not that I really expected any. It was Tuesday, just after I’d returned to the office from picking up lunch from the diner downstairs, when Marty called.
“Marty! How did it go? Did you reach everybody?”
“Yep. Went pretty well, I think. I told them all that we were investigating the apparent disappearance of a member of a group they belonged to at Qualicare and asked if they might have any information. No one did, of course, but they all acted totally surprised. A couple were sure he was just off on a binge somewhere. But I did find out something I think you might find of particular interest.”
He had me. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“I had everyone’s name and phone number except that Nowell guy’s—the receptionist? I called Qualicare to get it, since I figured he was one of their employees, and guess what? He’s not! He works for Brian Oaks.”
Well, well, well.
That was certainly an interesting bit of news, and I definitely wanted to pursue it, but wasn’t quite sure how. I couldn’t ask Oaks without letting him know what I was up to, and I’d never said more than two dozen words to Nowell since we’d joined the group.
I mulled that over for awhile, and remembered that while Nowell was pretty aloof from everything and everyone, Jonathan had said the guy had actually smiled at him, and I’d caught those glances. That was something. Maybe, if I could drop Jonathan off at Qualicare a little early Thursday night so he could go in first without me, he might have a chance to actually talk to him; ask him how he liked working for Qualicare, maybe, in hopes of getting some idea of what his relationship to Oaks might be. It was worth a try.
*
Jonatha
n had an exam coming up at school, and was really nervous about it. He spent all night Monday and Tuesday studying. He even insisted on staying up until midnight Tuesday night. It was one of the few times since we’d gotten together that I’d gone to bed alone, and I didn’t like it, but didn’t say anything.
I did tell him that I’d pick up some take-out chicken on my way home Wednesday night so he wouldn’t have to worry about fixing dinner, and he readily agreed. Also, to give him a little extra time, I told him I’d take him to school and pick him up afterwards.
He was distracted all the way to school, sitting knit-browed and talking quietly to himself—from what I could tell, he was reciting some sort of soil acidity chart for various decorative shrubs.
After I dropped him at the college, I headed for Ramón’s. I wanted to see if I could talk to Bob Allen and maybe get some more information on Brian Oaks. To my surprise, both Jimmy, the regular bartender, and Bob were behind the bar, apparently cleaning and restocking the back bar. Two guys were leaving just as I entered, and the place was pretty empty. Well, happy hour had just ended, and it was, after all, a Wednesday night.
Jimmy took my order while Bob finished replacing the bottles on the glass shelves, then poured himself a draft and came around the bar to sit beside me. We exchanged small talk—the usual “what’s been happening since last we met” sort of thing. The owner of Venture, where Mario worked, had offered Mario the manager’s job, and he was debating whether he really wanted the extra responsibility. They’d gotten a card from Chris and Max saying how great it was that we’d all had a chance to get together, thanking them for brunch, and congratulating them again on the house and what they were doing with it.
As soon as I had the chance, I brought up Brian Oaks, asking if Bob might have remembered anything else about him, maybe knew anyone who was seeing him professionally, had ever met either one of Brian’s lovers—just sort of casting an un-baited hook into the waters to see if it might snag something.
“As a matter of fact, I saw Brian professionally for awhile,” Bob said. “That was back when he first returned to town, and I was still having a really rough time coming to grips with losing Ramón.”
That caught me a little by surprise, but it probably shouldn’t have. Bob and I can tell each other just about anything, but I knew Ramón was a subject he preferred not to address. Obviously, keeping it inside hadn’t worked, and I was glad to hear he’d sought some professional help.
“I met his current lover once—the first time I ran into Brian. A really nice guy, from what I can tell. A commercial artist. Brian has an office in their home, as I think I told you, and he’s got a lot of Chad’s artwork around. But Brian’s kind of a strange duck in that when I said I’d like to talk to him about Ramón, he said he’d be glad to help, but that we couldn’t have a professional and a social relationship at the same time. So I’ve not really seen him or Chad socially since, even after I stopped going to him. I understand, of course, and he really did me a lot of good. I’ll always be grateful for that.”
He had been sitting there staring into his beer, slowly twisting the glass around on the napkin as he spoke. Apparently he was back in a place he seldom went, and I was sorry I’d asked. But then he looked up at me and gave a small smile and a shrug, which I understood.
“The really interesting thing,” he continued, “…and maybe I shouldn’t even be telling this…is that I think Chad’s got a drinking problem himself. I’ve seen him several times, out alone and drunk out of his mind. Given Brian’s past history, I really find that both hard to comprehend and a really fucking pity.”
We both sat quiet for a few minutes, nursing our drinks.
Finally I broke the silence. “So no idea about Brian’s personal life? Whether he plays around, or…?”
Bob shook his head. “No, but I’d rather tend to doubt that Brian plays around. He’s too much of a square shooter for that, I’d imagine. I know he really loved…shit, I can’t remember his name…Brian’s first lover who killed himself…and he seems totally devoted to Chad. Of course, you never can tell.”
*
I’d gotten so involved talking with Bob that I left Ramón’s with just enough time to make it to the college, but about halfway there I came to a line of traffic backed up behind a broken stoplight that was stuck on red. It apparently forced the cars to sit there forever, even when no other cars were coming, until they got up enough guts to move through. Odd how strongly we’re brainwashed to obey the law, regardless.
Jonathan was standing on the curb and, as I approached, he held out his thumb in a typical hitchhiker gesture. I instinctively sensed a game coming on, and assumed from that that he thought he’d done well on his test.
“Thanks for the lift, buddy,” he said as he got into the car and tossed his book bag into the back seat.
Yep. Game time.
“No problem. Where are you headed?”
He gave me a classic hustler’s shrug. “No place in particular. My car’s broke down and my wife’s out of town with the kids, so I came looking for a buddy of mine to borrow some money to get my car fixed, but he wasn’t home.”
“How many kids you got?” I asked, pretending I was paying attention to the road.
“Five.”
I looked at him in surprise—partly, I think, in realizing just how easily I was learning to slip into these games, and how much fun they were.
“Five? You don’t look that old.”
He shrugged again. “I like to fuck.”
“So what are you going to do about your car?”
He shook his head. “I dunno. I gotta get some money some way. You got any ideas?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. You ever make it with guys?”
He jerked his head back in mock revulsion. “Shit, no! I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot.”
I shook my head. “Too bad. I thought we might work something out.”
He looked at me with a semi scowl. “You’re a faggot, huh?”
“Oh, yeah!”
He was silent a moment and then said: “What do you guys do with one another?”
“You really wanna know?”
He gave a slow side-to-side head movement. “Well…yeah, maybe. Why don’t you tell me…real slow?”
By the time we reached the apartment we all but jumped out of the car, ran up the stairs and slammed the door behind us.
If you’ve got a pencil, you might want to write this down: “Games are fun.” Remember that; there’ll be a quiz later.
Chapter 8
We arrived at Qualicare shortly before 6:30. I had no idea what time Nowell got there to open the place, but Jonathan said he wouldn’t mind waiting in the hall for a few minutes if he had to. We talked on the way over about what I’d like for him to try to find out: specifically, what Nowell’s relationship to Brian Oaks was, and then generally anything else he might be able to find out without pushing too hard.
Are you sure you want to do this? one of my mind voices asked.
Do what?
Throw Jonathan into the lion’s den, it replied, and I recognized it as my Scorpio side speaking.
What do you mean? I knew full well what it meant.
Pushing Jonathan into a little private meeting with a really hot guy who’s obviously been cruising him.
Oh, come on, I snapped. I trust Jonathan.
Yeah, but Nowell’s hot and Jonathan’s human.
I dropped Jonathan off at the corner closest to the Family Care Center building, then drove around trying to see if there was a parking area closer than the one we normally used. They were just starting construction on what would apparently be a parking garage paralleling the Family Care Center and the other new building going up next to it, but they’d only begun to pour the concrete pillars for it. So I parked where we normally did and decided to kill a few more minutes by walking around the building to see if maybe the back door closest to the meeting room might be open. I took my time, looking at all constructi
on going on everywhere around. Obviously, money was no particular object for Qualicare.
When I reached the back of the building, I saw that the dirt area between the Family Care building and the one under construction right next door had been replaced with a large concrete apron with four neat circles where I assumed they’d be planting trees. I tried the back door. It was locked. Oh, well. I continued on and circled around the building to the front entrance, then all the way down the hall to the meeting room door, ten feet away from where I’d just tried to get in.
I walked in at about ten until seven, to find Nowell seated at his desk going over some papers in an open folder in front of him, and Jonathan in the meeting room, talking with Victor and Keith. I said “Hi” to Nowell, who looked up from the papers just long enough to give a noncommittal “Hi” in return.
By 7:00 p.m. everyone—all six of us—were seated with our coffee, awaiting Brian Oaks’ arrival. I’d taken a seat so that I could see through the open door and keep a surreptitious eye on Nowell. It was really about the longest single opportunity I’d had to concentrate on observing him.
He is kind of hot, isn’t he? my crotch asked, rather surprising me because I hadn’t been hearing too much from it recently. I had to admit it was right, then I shot a quick look at Jonathan who was looking at me with a small smile. Of course I immediately felt guilty for absolutely no reason. Damn, I hate when that happens!
I saw Brian enter the reception area, then stop by Nowell’s desk and bend over to talk with him quietly for what seemed like a rather long time.
Hmmm, I thought. And what might that be about?
Finally, he came into the meeting room, closing the door behind him.
He’d no sooner sat down when Carl said: “We had a call from the police. They said John had filed a missing persons report on Andy and wanted to know if we might know where he was. Why would they call us? I don’t even know their last names!”
“They called everyone, I suspect,” Oaks said, and everyone nodded, including Jonathan and me. “Was anyone able to tell them anything?”
