by Dorien Grey
There was a pause, and then: “Why, yes, of course. Would now be convenient?”
“I’ll be right over,” I said then added, “Is Mr. Glick there, too? I’m sure either of you could answer the question, but I probably should discuss it with both of you.”
“Yes, we’re signing with a new ad agency this afternoon, and my husband is going over the details of the contract.”
“Well, congratulations,” I said. “I won’t take up much of your time, I promise.”
“We’ll look forward to seeing you.”
*
The ModelMen offices were located on the second floor of a very nice new low-rise building close, but not too close, to the Central. The glass double door had a neatly but subtly scripted “ModelMen Agency” on it and opened into a small reception area tastefully but not ostentatiously furnished and decorated. Mrs. Glick was seated behind the reception desk, which was flanked by two highly polished wooden doors.
She’d been doing something with an open file folder in front of her when I entered, and she looked up and smiled as I approached. I went over to the desk to take her hand.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I said as she got up and led me to the door to the right of the desk.
“Our receptionist is out ill today,” she explained, “so I’m filling in for her. I rather enjoy it, actually.”
She knocked lightly then opened it. Inside was an office about the same size as the reception area but considerably more elegantly furnished. On one wall was an array of probably twenty professional portrait photos of extremely handsome men ranging in age from late teens to probably early fifties—the main agency’s stable of legitimate models, I gathered. It did not escape me that Phil, Billy, Gary, and Aaron were among them.
Mr. Glick was seated behind a polished mahogany desk. He rose as we entered and moved around to greet me. We shook hands, and he motioned me to a seat, returning to his own. His wife stayed by the open door so she could keep an eye on the reception area.
“What can we do for you?” Mr. Glick asked, leaning back in his chair.
I turned my own chair slightly so I could see both of them.
“Could you tell me if you have ever had occasion to fire any of your escorts?”
The Glicks’ eyes immediately connected, and held until Mr. Glick broke off and returned his attention to me.
“Yes,” he said. “Once. Only once. May I ask why you want to know?”
“The more I know about ModelMen and how it operates, the better I’ll be able to protect your interests. If there’s a possibility of a disgruntled former employee…”
Mr. Glick shook his head strongly. “Oh, no, no! That’s inconceivable. Are you suggesting…?”
It was my turn to shake my head.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” I said. “But I don’t want to overlook anything that could possibly link ModelMen with Stuart Anderson’s death.’
Mr. Glick continued shaking his head. “Out of the question,” he said. “Out of the question!”
“You’re undoubtedly right,” I said. “But could you tell me his name and the circumstances?”
It was obvious they were not about to volunteer any more information than I pushed for.
“Matt,” Mrs. Glick said. “Matthew Rushmore. We had to…let him go…because of his violation of the rules all our escorts are contractually obligated to follow.”
Again a pause, and again I found it necessary to step in.
“Any specific rule?” I asked.
Mr. Glick sighed. “Our escorts are extremely well paid,” he said, “and because of that we insist they have no contact with our clients except through us. Matt, we discovered, approached a client we’d originally referred to him offering his services on a freelance basis. This is completely unacceptable.”
I had a suspicion there was a little more to it.
“You don’t give a warning or a probationary period for transgressions of the rules?” I asked.
“No,” Mrs. Glick said. “Each of our escorts is carefully trained and fully understands our rules and why we have them before they are hired. A violation is grounds for immediate dismissal.”
“May I ask how you found out about it?”
Again the Glicks looked at one another but said nothing.
I knew something was being left out.
“Please excuse me,” I said, “but this is one of those instances I told you about when we first met, wherein I would not ask unless I really thought I had to know.”
Mrs. Glick nodded almost imperceptibly to her husband, who gave another deep sigh before speaking.
“Among the criteria we use in selecting our escorts is that they have certain areas of…well, specialization. Matt’s was, shall we say, catering to clients who enjoy a moderate degree of…discipline.”
“S and M, you mean?” I asked.
“Oh, no, no, nothing quite like that. Nothing…serious,” Mr. Glick hastened to add. “Never beyond what the client requests. However…”
I resisted the temptation to say anything and instead just kept my eyes locked on Mr. Glick’s until he looked mildly uncomfortable and glanced at his wife, as if for guidance.
“However,” Mrs. Glick picked up her husband’s faltering explanation, “Matt crossed that line, too. We would never have known about it had not the client contacted us and explained the situation.” She paused, looked into the reception area and moved to stand beside her husband. “I should add that we, of course, also removed the man from our client list—our clients, too, are expected to observe the rules as stringently as our escorts.”
She laid a hand lightly on her husband’s shoulder.
“This particular client claimed Matt had arranged a freelance meeting with him, and then went considerably beyond the bounds of what he had expected or wanted. He had, as a matter of fact, had to go to the emergency room for treatment of his injuries. He had the good sense to tell the hospital and the police he had been mugged by an unknown assailant.”
And, I was sure, the fact he was probably married and wouldn’t care to have his family know he was into rough-trade hustlers, however discreet, might have played a part.
“How long ago was this?” I asked.
“About three months,” Mr. Glick said.
“So, you once had seven escorts?”
Mr. Glick shook his head. “No, we’ve always had only six. After Matt left, we were lucky enough to find Aaron, who was a friend of Gary’s.”
Aaron had told me, I remember, that his specialty was “down and dirty,” which I suspected might include a bit of innocent B&D if not downright S&M.
“And how did Matt react to his…termination?” I asked.
Mrs. Glick gave a small smile. “Quite well, I think,” she said. “You must remember that our escorts are also selected for and trained in being civil and adult. Matt had most of these qualities, but unfortunately, neither he nor we foresaw this happening. We lost one or two of Matt’s regular clients when he left, so we assume he is still seeing them.”
“And where is Matt now?”
Mrs. Glick removed her hand from her husband’s shoulder and walked again to the door.
“Part of our regret over this entire incident,” she said, talking over her shoulder as she looked out through the glass doors into the hallway, “was that each of our escorts becomes almost like family. Even given the severity of Matt’s transgressions, we couldn’t just throw him out into the street. Plus, we did not want to put him in the position of feeling animosity toward us.
“He is a very accomplished model—one of our most popular. But under the circumstances we thought it best to sever all ties with him. We arranged with another model agency to take him on. I understand he is doing quite well.”
“Which agency is he with now?” I asked.
“Charter,” Mr. Glick said.
I glanced at my watch and saw I’d been there far longer than I’d intended. I got up from my chair.
“I very much appreciate your time and candor,” I said. “And I have only one more question.”
Apparently relieved the interrogation was about over, Mrs. Glick said, “Of course.”
From everything I knew of Stuart Anderson, his being involved in anything even hinting of other-than-pretty-vanilla sex was remote in the extreme. Still, I had to ask. “Did Matt ever meet Stuart Anderson?”
“No,” Mrs. Glick said, but Mr. Glick raised his hand.
“Yes, he did, as a matter of fact,” he said. “We had Stuart to one of our dinners the night he became a client, so that he could meet our escorts. Everyone was there except Phil and Billy, who were on an assignment. That was the very night before we…had to let Matt go.
“But it was only in a setting with the other models. When Stuart next returned to town, Matt was no longer working for us, and as I think we told you, the first escort he spent time with was Aaron.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, thank you again for your time. I’ll be in touch.”
Mr. Glick rose, we exchanged handshakes all around, and Mrs. Glick walked me to the entrance.
*
Just as I was finishing dinner, the phone rang. I was pleased to hear Phil’s voice but immediately disturbed by its tone.
“Phil,” I said. “Is anything wrong? You sound strange.”
“I’m worried, Dick,” he said. “Billy’s not home.”
My confusion must have sounded in my voice.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
His voice was tense. “I mean he didn’t come home last night.”
“Well,” I said, hoping I sounded reassuring, “he did have a date, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but he hasn’t been home all day, either. And he hasn’t called. He always calls. Always—if for no other reason than to see if he has an assignment.”
“Well, why don’t you give the guy he had the date with a call? He might know.”
There was a slight pause. “That’s just it,” Phil said. “I don’t know who he was going out with. We usually tell one another, but not always. I’ve checked with all our—and his—friends. I even just called the Glicks to see if he’d checked in with them. Nobody’s heard from him.”
I was at something of a loss for words.
“I’m sure it’s all right, Phil,” I said. “There could be a hundred reasons.”
“No,” he insisted. “This isn’t like Billy. I’ve got a really bad feeling, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Look,” I said, “it’s still early. I’m sure he’ll show up or call before long. If, by some chance he doesn’t, give me a call in the morning, and I’ll see what I can do, okay? I wish there were something I could do now, but…”
“I understand. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Hey, don’t ever say that! You could never be a bother, and I’ll do anything I can to help. Just try to relax and see what happens, okay?”
Not sounding as though he meant it, Phil said, “Okay. Talk with you later. Thanks, Dick.”
“Take care, Phil.”
Maybe it was just a matter of emotions being contagious, but Phil’s concern began to give me an all too familiar feeling in my stomach, and I didn’t like it.
*
I was in the bathroom, about to step into the shower to get ready for work, when the phone rang. It was Phil.
“He’s not home,” he said. “He’s not home, and he hasn’t called. Something’s wrong, Dick. What can I do? I’ve called the hospitals; he’s not there.” I could feel his anxiety.
“I’ll be heading to the office soon,” I said. “When I get there, I’ll make a few calls, okay? Did you get any sleep?”
“Not much. I kept waking up every time I heard a noise, thinking it was Billy coming home.”
“Let me see what I can find out,” I said, “and I’ll give you a call the minute I know anything.”
“Thanks, Dick. I really mean it.”
“I know, Phil,” I said. “Now, go lie down for a while, hear?”
“I’ll try. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I put the receiver back on its cradle and stepped into the shower.
*
The phone was ringing when I walked into the office, and I ran across the room to catch it.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Dick?”
I recognized the voice, but it wasn’t Phil.
“Yes?”
“It’s Tim. Are you sitting down?”
Oh, God! I thought, and hastily moved around my desk to sit in the chair.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice sounding hollow.
“You remember the guys we met at the parade? Phil and Billy?”
“Yes.”
“Have you talked to them since the parade?”
“To Phil,” I said. “Billy…Billy hasn’t been home.” Oh, Jeezus!
“Billy’s the one with a little mouse tattoo over his left nipple?”
No! No, no, no!
“Yes,” I said.
“Well…we have a body, with a little mouse tattoo over the left nipple…”
“Billy?” I asked. “Is it Billy?”
“We don’t know.”
That didn’t register at first.
“Where did they find him?” I asked, not even knowing where the question came from.
There was a pause.
“He was found in a Dumpster behind one of the bars on Arnwood.”
I was totally numb by this time but heard my voice saying, “Well, maybe it’s not Billy. You met him. I’m sure you’d recognize him.”
“I’m afraid not,” Tim said, his voice heavy with what he was trying to tell me.
“Why?” I asked. “Why not?”
“Because all we have is a body. The head and hands are missing.”
Chapter 6
I must have finished the conversation with Tim somehow, because suddenly I was aware I was sitting there with the phone still in my hand, listening to a dial tone, afraid to move for fear I would throw up. Slowly, I eased the receiver back onto the cradle and leaned forward with my elbows on my desk, cupping my hands over my nose and mouth, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths.
I had to tell Phil, but I couldn’t do it by phone. When the nausea had subsided, I let my motor responses take over. They got me out of the chair, walked me to the door, made sure it was locked behind me then walked me to the elevator. By the time I reached my car, I was sufficiently pulled together to let my mind, which had been spinning wildly out of control, shift into gear.
How was I going to tell Phil? What could I say? I didn’t even know Billy’s last name, which meant Phil was going to have to go with me to the coroner’s office to try to identify the body. But how do you identify a body with no hands and no head?
The tattoo? Lots of guys have little mouse tattoos on their left pec.
Maybe it wasn’t Billy at all.
Having sex with a guy doesn’t make you best friends, and I’d only met Billy a handful of times. Still, what I knew of him I liked. A lot. He was funny and sexy as all hell, and sweet and young, and beautiful and full of life and some son of a bitch had taken all that away from him and I still thought I might throw up.
A blaring horn from the car behind me made me realize the light had turned green, and I moved along.
I parked about half a block from Phil’s apartment and idly thought I should have brought the photo Billy had lent me of Phil and Anderson and Glen O’Banyon and whoever else in hell it was in there with them. I walked down the hallway to Billy’s…no, to Phil’s…apartment and knocked on the door. A full minute went by, and I was about to knock again when it opened.
Phil took one look at my face, and all the color drained from his. His eyes riveted onto mine as though he thought they might help keep him from falling down.
“What is it, Dick?” he asked, although I think he knew.
“It’s Billy,” I managed to say. “He…”
“Is he hurt?” he asked. “Is he in the hospital?”
I shook my head.
Phil looked at me and duplicated my head shake, in slow motion. He started to say “No,” but couldn’t make it. I moved forward and grabbed him as he sagged against me and started crying like the very little boy who lives somewhere deep inside us all.
*
Sometime later, when the immediate tidal wave of grief had ebbed away to be replaced by a numb state of semi-shock, Phil was able to tell me Billy’s last name: Steiner. I asked if I could use his phone, and he motioned toward the kitchen. I got up and called Tim, gave him the information, and told him Phil’s address and phone number. Then I returned to the living room.
I had a thousand questions, but they could wait. We just sat there without saying anything.
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. While Phil stayed on the sofa, staring off into space, I answered the door to find two plainclothes policemen.
“Mr. Stark?” the shorter of the two asked.
“No,” I said, “I’m a friend.”
“And your name is…?”
“Hardesty. Dick Hardesty.”
I stood back to let the two officers enter then closed the door behind them. Phil looked up but said nothing.
The taller man turned to me and said, “Mr. Hardesty, we’d like to speak to Mr. Stark in private, so if you wouldn’t mind…”
Like shit I wouldn’t mind.
But before I could say anything, Phil did.
“No. I want him to stay.”
The two men exchanged glances that made it clear they would have preferred to be alone with Phil but apparently couldn’t legally tell me to leave. Instead, they simply ignored me and walked over to stand in front of him.
“Mr. Stark,” the shorter one said, “I’m Detective Carpenter, and this is Detective Couch.” They did not extend their hands, and Phil just looked from one to the other without speaking.
“May we ask your relationship to Mr. Steiner?” Couch asked.
“My roommate,” Phil said, his voice flat, then added, “My friend.”
The two detectives exchanged glances.
“I see,” Couch said.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I thought, but I said nothing. I folded my arms and leaned against the door.
