by Dorien Grey
Table of Contents
Copyright
The Hired Man
Dedication
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
The Hired Man: A Dick Hardesty Mystery
By Dorien Grey
Copyright 2015 by Dorien Grey
Cover Copyright 2015 by Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Design by Ginny Glass
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in print, 2002.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental
Also by Dorien Grey and Untreed Reads Publishing
A World Ago: A Navy Man’s Letters Home (19541956)
Short Circuits: A Life in Blogs (Volume 1)
The Butcher’s Son: A Dick Hardesty Mystery
The Ninth Man: A Dick Hardesty Mystery
The Bar Watcher: A Dick Hardesty Mystery
www.untreedreads.com
The Hired Man
A Dick Hardesty Mystery
Dorien Grey
To those for whom a closet is just a place for hanging clothes.
Have you ever noticed that when people talk about “the oldest profession,” they never seem to include, or even realize that there is, a sizable male contingent of the group? Sexism, pure and simple, that’s what it is. Any gay male who lives in or has even visited a place with a halfway decent-sized gay community knows that hustlers are part of the landscape, like the Boston ferns in upscale bars and restaurants.
Hustlers are most often individual entrepreneurs who stand on street corners and wait for a car to pull up with an offer, or lounge around specific bars that always remind me of the shark tank in an aquarium. But just as there are considerable differences between hookers and call girls, so there are differences between hustlers and male escorts. Not more than one straight guy in ten can afford a call girl, and few gays have the money (or, let’s face it, the inclination) to indulge their whims on the high-quality talent discreetly available through a growing number of businesses providing the services of a male escort.
But for those who can afford it, they can give a whole fun new meaning to the term “hired man.”
Chapter 1
I was sitting at the bar at Napoleon, early as usual, waiting to have dinner with a brand-new client. Napoleon is a very nice, quiet gay restaurant in a former private home on the edge of The Central, the city’s rapidly growing gay business district in the heart of what some still called “the gay ghetto.”
The client, Stuart Anderson, was from out of town—the CEO of an expanding chain of trendy retail stores that was opening two new ones here. He’d called me from Buffalo the week before to set up an appointment. While I was dutifully impressed to think that my fame had spread beyond my local area code, he’d been really vague when I asked him how he had heard of me, or who had referred him. He’d just said “a business acquaintance” had made the referral, and I didn’t press it any further, although I was curious.
Also, although the subject of sexual orientation never entered the conversation, I automatically assumed he was gay (hey, I automatically assume everyone is gay) since I have had very few straight clients.
Part of the mystery of his secretiveness was solved within two minutes of his walking into my office for his four-thirty appointment. Stuart Anderson was an average-height, average-looking, pleasant enough man in his mid-forties, dressed casually but expensively and carrying a slim briefcase. He had no sooner taken the seat in front of my desk when I noticed that, although he had a healthy tan, the third finger of his left hand had a wide, untanned circle where he had obviously taken off a wedding ring. Oh, great, I thought, one of those.
Rather than just sit back and wait for the expected pass, I thought I’d nip in the bud any little game he might be intending to play.
“I appreciate your calling me, Mr. Anderson,” I said, “but I think we should clarify something before we proceed. I assume you know that I’m gay and generally specialize in gay clients?”
His only response was a small smile and almost imperceptible nod.
“I mention this only because it is an issue for some people, and I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings or awkwardness between my clients and me.”
He never lost the small smile, but his right hand unconsciously found his left, and his right thumb and index finger covered the telltale untanned circle.
“Not a problem,” he said. “My business here has nothing whatever…directly…to do with…anyone’s…sexual orientation. I was simply told you were very good at getting information.”
He slowly twisted the missing wedding ring. I wondered why in hell he’d bothered to take it off in the first place if he was going to make it so obvious he wore one.
It turned out he wanted me to do background checks on the prospective managers and assistant managers for the new stores, which was apparently something he did routinely and was probably a good idea, given he himself wouldn’t be around every day to check on things. I estimated it would take only a couple of days to do the checking. Hardly the most exciting of assignments, and certainly not one that any other private investigator in the city couldn’t handle in his sleep, but I wasn’t in a position to turn away any source of income. I had a couple other minor assignments I was working on, but they could be put on hold for the few days it would take to complete this one.
I told him my rates, and when he didn’t bat an eye, I reached into my desk and handed him a standard contract, which he signed without reading. I signed below his signature, and as I went to my new Xerox machine to make him a copy, he opened his briefcase. When I returned, he gave me the resumes of the four men and two women he was considering for the managerial positions, I glanced at them briefly to be sure they had all the necessary information and put them in the top drawer of my desk.
Business over.
Well, that was easy, I told myself.
Anderson made no move to get up.
“I was wondering if you’d like to join me for dinner?” he asked.
Ta-Dah! I thought.
“That’s very nice of you, Mr. Anderson,” I began, “but…”
“It’s Stuart, please,” he said with a smile. “And please don’t misunderstand—I’m not trying to come on to you. It’s just that we have a mutual…friend…whom I’m meeting for dinner this evening, and I thought you might like to join us. I know he’s looking forward to seeing you.”
He had me. I still suspected there might be a hook in there some
where but decided I didn’t really have too much to lose…except a client, of course.
“Well, sure,” I said. “That would be nice.” I didn’t ask who the mystery friend might be but got the distinct impression Anderson was giving me a little test to see how curious this detective he’d just hired was.
He stood, still smiling, and reached across the desk as I got up to shake hands.
“Seven-thirty, then? At Napoleon. You know it, don’t you?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll see you there. And thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and I had a sudden mental picture of a cat and a mouse.
And with that, he picked up his briefcase and left.
*
At exactly 7:25, Stuart Anderson walked into the restaurant…alone. Uh-huh. Here we go, I thought. He came over and took the stool next to me. Noticing my drink was still about three-quarters full, he nonetheless asked “Ready for another?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine, thanks,” I said as the bartender came over.
“Tanqueray with a twist,” he said, reaching into his pocket to extract a roll of bills large enough to choke a pony, if not a horse. He peeled a twenty off the top, laid it on the bar in front of him, and stuck the wad back in his pocket.
“And our mutual friend?” I couldn’t resist asking.
Anderson smiled. “He’ll be along in a moment,” he said. “Actually, I made the reservations for eight o’clock, to give us a few minutes to get to know one another.”
Sigh.
“I don’t normally mix business with pleasure,” he continued, “but I so seldom have the chance to just relax, it’s nice to be among kindred spirits when I can.”
Kindred spirits, I thought, listening for the imaginary sound of hairpins hitting the floor.
“Yes,” I said. “I noticed you’re married.”
He glanced at his left hand, splayed his fingers, and grinned.
“Yeah,” he said. “Fifteen years, three kids—a different world. And a totally separate world,” he added.
Indeed, I thought.
“Any problem juggling them?” I asked.
Bisexuals have always been a puzzle to me. Like the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, I wasn’t really sure I believed in them, but what other people did or thought was none of my business.
The bartender came with Anderson’s drink, took his money and went to the register to ring up the sale and make change.
“Not at all,” Anderson said, jumping me back to where the conversation had left off. “When I’m in the straight world, I’m straight. When I’m in the gay world I’m…not straight. Obviously, most of my life is strictly heterosexual, but I’ve always enjoyed the things gay men can do that women can’t.”
Well, that was certainly cryptic, I thought, but didn’t choose to follow up on it. If he expected me to ask “Such as…?” he’d just have to wait. I still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t all part of some game he enjoyed playing, and if he thought for one minute I wasn’t aware he was playing it…
“Fortunately,” he went on, “I get to travel quite a bit, and when I do, I like to indulge myself a little.” He took a sip of his drink then turned to look full at me. “How about you?” he asked. “Totally gay?”
I took another drink from my Manhattan before answering.
“About as gay as they come,” I said.
“Hmm,” he said. “How old were you when you knew?”
I sat back on my stool.
“I was really a late bloomer,” I said. “I think I was five before I was absolutely sure.”
Anderson looked a bit surprised.
“And you’ve never…?”
I grinned and shook my head.
“Never the slightest interest,” I said, rather hoping we could drop this whole line of conversation pretty soon.
Luckily, at that moment I noticed someone coming into the small bar—about 6′3″, black wavy hair, incredibly handsome. When he saw me he smiled, revealing about seventy-two of the whitest, most perfect teeth I’ve ever seen.
“Phil?” I turned around on my stool and got up. Anderson smiled broadly as Phil came over and grabbed me in a huge bear hug, which I returned.
When we released one another, Phil turned to Anderson and shook hands.
“Stuart,” he said warmly. “Good to see you.”
I managed to sit back down, and while Phil and Anderson exchanged a few words and Phil gave the bartender his order, I recalled my first meeting with him—known then as “Tex”—at Hughie’s, a hustler bar not far from my office. He’d been in full Marlboro Man drag at the time, but I thought even then he had the Marlboro Man beat by a mile. Seeing him now, looking like he’d just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine, only underscored the fact that Phil was an amazingly handsome—and sexy—piece of work.
But there had clearly been some dramatic changes in his life
Obviously it had been Phil who had recommended me to Anderson, and I was secretly very pleased to know he’d remembered not only me but what I did for a living. Still, I was curious as to the details. Anderson didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would spend much time in Hughie’s (although you could never tell), and Phil was certainly not the same readily identifiable hustler I’d known. I was curious as all hell about what was going on but decided to let discretion be the better part of valor and see what I could pick up as the evening progressed.
Phil had ordered a Black Russian—another change from his beer-bottle-butch days—and he stood with his free hand casually on Anderson’s shoulder.
“So, how long has it been, Dick?” he asked.
“Don’t ask,” I said. “Too damned long,” and realized I meant it. I realized, too, that until I knew exactly what was going on between Phil and Anderson—which likely wouldn’t exactly require a caliper and slide rule to figure out—I had better watch what I said. “You’re looking spectacular, as always,” I said, “and it looks like you’re doing well for yourself.”
I immediately hoped Anderson wouldn’t take that last sentence the wrong way, but if he did, he didn’t let on.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Phil said, giving Anderson’s shoulder a squeeze and exchanging grins with him. “I’ve been working through ModelMen for about six months now. A great outfit.”
ModelMen! I should have guessed.
The ModelMen Agency, although less than a year old, was a hugely successful business venture that cleverly doubled as both a legitimate talent agency, specializing strictly in male fashion models, and an extremely discreet male escort service that provided…companionship…to very, very wealthy men like Stuart Anderson. That pretty much explained how Phil and Anderson had gotten together.
But I was still intensely curious as to how Phil had made the transition from diamond-in-the-rough street/bar hustler to this highly polished gem standing three feet away from me. I’d make it a point to find out when I could manage to talk to him alone, which probably wouldn’t be tonight.
“They were damned lucky to get you,” I said, and meant it wholeheartedly. “I guess I have you to thank for referring Stuart to me.”
“Guilty,” Phil said, grinning. “You’re kind of a hard guy to forget, and when Stuart mentioned he was going to hire an investigator to look into the backgrounds of his prospective management teams, I naturally suggested you.”
Trying (with only moderate success) to keep my crotch from reacting too strongly to that “hard to forget” line and cause me to strip him naked on the spot, I was glad when Anderson entered the conversation.
“If any of the applicants for the managers’ jobs might be gay,” he explained, “I didn’t want to risk his—or her—chances by putting the responsibility background checks in the hands of some potentially prejudiced straight investigator. Of course…” He grinned. “…I’m taking the chance that you won’t go off in the opposite direction.”
“Guaranteed,” I said.
The maître d’ came over to
announce our table was ready, and we followed him into the dining room.
Phil really impressed the hell out of me at dinner. We hadn’t done much talking the couple times I’d been with him, actually, but I did know he’d come from a lower-middle-class background and had never gone to college. That isn’t to say he wasn’t an intelligent and self-confident guy, but I never had the feeling he was ever too concerned about which fork was for the oysters.
I had no doubt he knew now. How, when, and where he’d learned was added to my “things to find out” list.
He talked easily with Anderson about stock trends and market shares and things about which I could barely venture an opinion. It was all blended together so smoothly and effortlessly it was as though he’d been that way all his life.
The food was, as always, excellent, and Anderson rather studiously avoided bringing up the wife and kids more than a couple times—and even then only peripherally. We didn’t talk all that much about gay things, either. Just general conversation on a wide range of subjects.
Anderson, I decided, was one of those nice guys easy to talk with about whom I felt nothing in particular one way or the other. He was returning to Buffalo the next day but was due back in town Sunday evening to set up personal interviews Monday with any of the prospective managers my research had not eliminated. I made sure I had his office address and phone number and told him I would have my report waiting at his hotel—the Montero—when he arrived.
But Anderson had other ideas, apparently.
“No,” he said, “why don’t you bring them around to the hotel first thing Monday morning, say around seven-fifteen? I’m in room 1485. I go for a twenty-minute run every morning at six-thirty, so that will give me time to get back and shower. We can have breakfast and go over your report—it will save me some time, especially if I have any questions.”
I really don’t like being jaded, but I immediately had the mental image of Anderson opening the door in his robe, which would conveniently manage to come open when I stepped into the room. Still, he hadn’t really even come close to making a pass, and it was unfair of me to think that just because his gay side was repressed most of the time he wouldn’t be able to keep it under control. I was mildly embarrassed to realize I was using exactly the same kind of specious logic many straight men use against gays.
