The Hired Man

by Dorien Grey

I emerged from the house to find myself at one end of the vast swimming pool. At the opposite end, in the space between the pool and the pool house, Mr. Glick stood in the center of a rough circle of pool chairs on which sat four of ModelMen’s escorts—Aaron, Phil, and two guys I assumed were Mark and Steve. The doors to the pool house were open wide, and I could hear music coming from inside. As I walked around the pool, Mr. Glick noticed me and waved, as did Aaron and Phil.

  I noticed the new fountain was in full operation, with water cascading down from about the roof level of the pool house to splash into matching smaller pools. Inside the pool house, a small bar was set up, behind which stood Gary, who was just handing a drink to Mrs. Glick.

  All four men got up as I approached. I shook hands with Mr. Glick, Aaron and Phil then Mr. Glick introduced Mark and Steve, and the handshake round was completed. I took quick stock of Mark and Steve in turn and decided immediately they were definitely ModelMen material.

  Mark was the taller of the two, with strawberry-blond hair and a subtle sprinkle of very sexy freckles. He looked to be about thirty, extremely handsome—surprise!—and filled out his form-fitting shirt and tight trousers admirably. His handshake, as with all the other escorts, was very firm, confident, and reassuring.

  Steve…

  If Phil reminded me of something by Michelangelo, Steve was definitely Botticelli—breathtakingly beautiful without being effeminate—almost androgynous but definitely sexy. His handshake, too, was solid, confident, and masculine.

  I thought again of how brilliantly the Glicks had chosen their escorts—Gary and Aaron, definitely butch types; Phil and Mark, every gay man’s all-inclusive fantasy; Steve and…and Billy, charm and innocence. I was impressed.

  “Why don’t you go get a drink,” Mr. Glick asked as his wife came out of the pool house to greet me. “Gary has bartending honors this evening.”

  I exchanged greetings with Mrs. Glick as I moved past her. Gary grinned as I approached.

  “Well,” he said, “aren’t you going to ask?”

  “I’m sorry?” I said. “Ask what?”

  “Who does a fella have to fuck to get a drink around here? I’ve got a great answer.”

  “I’ll just bet you do,” I said, and we laughed.

  When everyone had drinks, Gary came out from behind the bar and joined the group. We small-talked for about half an hour, and I was very much aware that, while the conversation covered a wide range of topics from politics to arts and literature, two subjects were never mentioned—sex or Billy. I had the definite impression, by observing how Mrs. Glick’s attention was focused on whoever was speaking at the moment, that these little dinners served as training exercises to hone the social skills of the escorts and that each of the escorts was subtly being graded. Interesting, to say the least.

  At almost exactly 7:00, Mr. Glick rose from his chair and, nodding to Johnnie Mae, who stood in the doorway of the main house, hands folded in front of her crisp white apron, announced, “I believe dinner is ready,” then led the group into the house. Fascinating.

  We sat again around one end of the enormous dining table but took up considerably more of it with eight present rather than four. Our wine had already been poured, and Mr. Glick rose from his chair at the head of the table and lifted his glass. It was then I noticed a ninth place had been set, the chair pulled back as though someone were sitting there.

  Everyone rose and lifted their glass as he motioned toward the empty chair.

  “To absent friends,” he said.

  I got an instant lump in my throat, and Phil’s eyes filled with tears, one of which ran down slowly down his cheek. He ignored it, and his face remained impassive. Mrs. Glick took a quick wipe of her eyes with her free hand. It was an awkward moment, and painful, and very nice.

  After Johnnie Mae had removed the dishes and served coffee and a marvelous peach cobbler—how in the world she managed to do it all and with such quiet efficiency amazed me—Mr. Glick said, “The purpose of tonight’s dinner was, as you know, to quietly honor Billy’s memory. I say ‘quietly’ because I don’t think words can ever accurately express the sorrow I know we are all feeling.

  “But we must now address the inevitable consequences of the terrible circumstances surrounding Billy’s death and, as you know, the earlier death of one of ModelMen’s clients.” He motioned to me with one hand. “Mr. Hardesty will explain the situation.”

  I decided it would probably be better if I stood, so I did. I outlined the similarities of the two murders without going into too many specifics. The fact of Anderson’s having been dismembered and the perversity involving his wedding ring, and the fact Billy’s head and hands were cut off, had never officially been made public record, and I didn’t see any point of going into them now..

  The police, I explained, were putting two and two together, and with ModelMen the only obvious link between the two deaths, it was almost inevitable everyone at the table would be contacted and questioned thoroughly. I cautioned them that, while the police would have legitimate grounds to ask questions about Stuart Anderson, the names of ModelMen’s other clients were irrelevant. If asked to supply any clients’ names, they should respectfully decline to answer without the presence of the Glicks’—and by extension, their—lawyer, Glen O’Banyon. In fact, I stressed, if any questions touched on areas they felt uncomfortable discussing, they should ask to have O’Banyon present before answering.

  I ended by urging them strongly to go back over everything they knew or could think of about Billy or Stuart Anderson to see if there was anything at all—however insignificant it might seem—that could help find the killer. I did not mention the latest murder, nor the implication, however remote, that the killer might be one of them.

  I sat down amidst a silence so deep I could hear the tick of the grandfather’s clock in the foyer.

  After a moment, Mr. Glick broke the silence.

  “Mr. Hardesty would like to have a short talk with each of you individually in the study, if you don’t mind. Aaron might like to go first, since he has an appointment with a client at nine. This whole thing is very hard on all of us, I know, and Mrs. Glick and I want to thank you all for your cooperation.”

  Aaron and I got up and left the dining room.

  *

  As I’d more or less expected, my individual talks with the escorts didn’t produce much of substance. Phil’s impression that Billy didn’t fool around with the other escorts notwithstanding, there had apparently been a little fraternization with most of them. I suspected that might be the case with all or most of them with one another. He had no enemies, never had a run-in with any of the other escorts, had no apparent personal or family problems, no addictions, hadn’t been depressed or worried or distracted prior to his death.

  As for Anderson, no one other than Phil and Aaron had ever spent time with him other than at the “introduction dinner.”

  Aaron’s accounting of their one get-together pretty much backed up Phil’s assessment that Anderson was pretty vanilla in his sexual preferences and not at all into anything that might smack of “kink.” Aaron had suggested a little mild bondage, even offering to let Anderson be the leader thinking he might be willing to broaden his horizons a bit. Anderson had been reluctant to even consider it, so Aaron dropped the subject.

  I encouraged each of them to keep thinking and to contact me or the Glicks if they came up with anything at all.

  *

  Saturday morning’s paper, which I got up early to go out and buy, carried the story of the discovery of a mutilated woman’s body in a Dumpster in an area known to be frequented by prostitutes. No reference was made to her being headless and without hands; the victim was simply listed as “unidentified.”

  I had realized about halfway to the newsstand that, it being Saturday, Richman probably wouldn’t be at work. I held out the hope he might contact me but also realized that, since the victim had not been male, the focus of the police investigation had undoubtedly shift
ed gears. My value to it had been moved aside.

  Nonetheless, I wanted to find out anything I could that might help me figure out where to go next.

  I stopped at the local deli for a bagel and coffee, read the paper—saving the crossword puzzle for later—and returned home. I figured by that time Tim might be up and would have something else he could tell me.

  I dialed his number and heard the phone picked up, followed by Jared’s voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Jared?” I was momentarily flustered. “I’m sorry, I thought I dialed Tim’s num—” You’re an idiot, Hardesty, my mental voice said as I realized that, yes, I had dialed Tim’s number.

  He laughed.

  “Tim’s in the shower. See what happens when you put business before pleasure? You missed out on a great night.” Then he hastened to add, “We sure missed you…but we managed.”

  “Gee,” I said, “I’m glad to hear that.” My crotch was very unhappy to think about what it had undoubtedly missed. “Can you ask him to give me a call when he gets a chance?”

  “Sure. I’ve got to be heading home pretty soon—got a ton of work to do, and there’s still that damned thesis. I don’t know why it can’t just write itself.”

  “You have my deepest sympathy,” I said.

  “Thanks. Oh, you got any plans for tomorrow? Thought maybe we could go to brunch.”

  “Sure,” I said. “And you can give me a blow-by-blow of last night.”

  He laughed. “How about I just give you a blow?”

  “You got it!” I said. “Give me a call in the morning, and we’ll set up the brunch details.”

  “Will do. Later.”

  *

  Just as Jared’s thesis refused to write itself, my apartment wasn’t self-cleaning, so I reluctantly went into Saturday-chores mode. Actually, it was probably just as well, since the sound of the vacuum and the clatter of dishes in the sink tended, however briefly, to drown out thoughts of the case and distract me from trying to figure out what my gut hinted it knew but wouldn’t tell me.

  I was piling up clothes to take to the laundry when Tim returned my call. He sounded tired but happy.

  “Sorry you couldn’t join us last night, Dick,” he said.

  “Not nearly as sorry as I am. I had to work on this damned case, which is just about all I’ve done since I took it. And your little bombshell yesterday really threw me.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Imagine what it must have done for the cops.”

  “No doubt it’s the same guy responsible?”

  “Well, the cause of death was different in each case: Anderson choked to death, Billy suffocated, and the woman was stabbed. But my gut tells me it was the same guy.”

  “Anything similar to the wedding ring thing with Anderson?” Part of me was sitting back listening to the other part of me, amazed at how matter-of-factly I could talk about such incomprehensible things.

  “No, thank God.”

  “And nothing new on Billy?”

  “Yeah!” Tim said. “I’m sorry—I’ve been so damned busy. The ME is releasing Billy’s body to his folks. Comparing blowups of that photo the cops got of the tattoo with the body is about as positive identification as they’re going to get until the head and hands are found.” He paused. “But I’ve been thinking of something in regards to that tattoo.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, although the part of me that was sitting back didn’t really want to know.

  “If the purpose of cutting off the head and hands was to prevent identification, why didn’t the killer slice off the tattoo?”

  “Oversight?”

  Tim sighed. “No, I don’t think so. I think it was games.”

  “Games?” I asked, incredulous.

  There was another momentary pause.

  “Remember, we’re not exactly dealing with a poster boy for mental health here. I have no idea how this guy’s mind works, but serial killers often play little games. That Anderson had his wedding ring shoved up his ass might have been the killer’s way of showing his disapproval of bisexuals. He may have left Billy’s tattoo so we would eventually be able to identify the body and know that he was gay. With the latest—the woman—who knows? Maybe he’s telling us he’s omnisexual, or just that he doesn’t discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation.”

  “Jeezus!”

  “Hey,” Tim said, “I’m no psychiatrist. Who knows what this guy is doing, or why?”

  As usual, he was right.

  “I really appreciate everything you’ve done, Tim,” I said. “Can I buy you dinner tonight, by way of appreciation?”

  He laughed, and once again I was struck by how easily he could switch between his work life and his personal life. In a job like his, it would almost have to be a necessary survival skill.

  “Oh, sure, Hardesty! I read you like a book. What you really want is to take me out, get me drunk then have your vile, masculine, lustful way with me time and time again. What kind of guy do you think I am?”

  “Well, we’ve already pretty much established that,” I said. “And of course you’re right about my intentions. But that would be after dinner.”

  He laughed again. “Actually, I’d love to,” he said, “but I’m afraid last night pretty well did me in for a while. I’m still walking bowlegged. Can I take a rain check?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Listen, Jared wants to go to brunch tomorrow. You think you’d be up to it?”

  “Up to brunch, probably. Up to the two of you again so soon, I doubt it.”

  “Hey,” I protested, “we don’t have to have another three-way.”

  “Oh, yes, we do!” Tim said emphatically. “And damned soon. But I really do have something else I’ve got to do tomorrow—a birthday party for one of my god-kids. I’m due out in the suburbs at around one o’clock. That wouldn’t give us nearly enough time…for brunch.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You get some rest today and have fun tomorrow, and we’ll get together whenever you can. And thanks again. As I may have mentioned a couple dozen times, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “It’s always nice to be appreciated,” he said. “Later, then.”

  *

  Not seeing any practical way to put off the inevitable, I slung the laundry bag over my shoulder, immediately having a physical déjà vu of being back in the navy, toting my seabag up the gangplank onto the Ticonderoga for the first time. Although the coin laundry I went to wasn’t the closest one, I liked the people who owned it, and they had a seventeen-year-old son, Jeff, who not only was hot as hell but always came on to me pretty damned strong. He was way too young for me to even consider following up on it, of course, but my ego sure liked the stroking.

  Sure enough, Jeff was on duty, and there was only one other customer in the place, just taking a load of wet laundry out of a machine. She carted it over to a dryer, tossed it in, fumbled in her pocket for change; then, when she was convinced the dryer would do its job, she picked up her clothesbasket and left.

  Jeff, who’d given me a big grin when I walked in (which I, of course, returned strictly as a matter of common courtesy), watched carefully as I filled up two machines. Reaching into my pocket, I realized I’d forgotten to bring change.

  Yeah, you “forgot,” my mind said sarcastically. Who do you think you’re kidding?

  I walked over to Jeff, whose eyes had never left me.

  “Can I get some change, Jeff?” I asked, giving him a big smile.

  His eyes dropped deliberately and obviously to my crotch.

  “You can get anything you want,” he said, moving his eyes back up to mine.

  Was I that subtle at that age? I wondered.

  “Thanks,” I said noncommittally. “The change’ll do for now.”

  I handed him a bill, and he opened the register, scooping up quarters with two fingers from one of the trays.

  “My folks are gone for about an hour,” he said, carefully and slowly placing each coin into my outstretche
d hand, making sure his fingers touched my palm. “You want to come into the back room with me for a while?”

  Yes! Yes! Yes! yelled my crotch.

  No! No! No! countered my conscience.

  “How old are you now, Jeff?”

  “Nearly eighteen,” he said.

  “Well, if you’re still interested in three years, I’ll be glad to take you up on that offer.”

  As I returned to put the money in the machine, leaving Jeff looking disappointed at the counter, my little voice said, Prick-teaser!

  Hey, I told it, he’s just a kid. He doesn’t know he’s prick-teasing.

  Not him, stupid, my mind said contemptuously. You!

  *

  It being Saturday, and me being me, I knew I couldn’t just sit home contemplating my navel—not when there was the possibility of contemplating someone else’s. As so often was the case, I knew I didn’t have to go out, but going out was more than just a perhaps too deeply-entrenched habit. It was my way of taking a much-needed break from thinking continuously about the case.

  I gave Phil a call to see how he was doing and whether he knew when Billy’s body was being released. He said he had talked with Billy’s folks, that he was driving out to see them and take them some of Billy’s things, and that he’d call me when he got back

  That pretty much put a damper on my urge to go out, but I decided I really had to have some time away from the case. After debating the pros and cons, I thought I might just swing by Ramón’s for the start of their happy hour then go to the store for the week’s groceries. Maybe a quick one at happy hour would satisfy my need for a Saturday bar fix, and I then could just go home and relax for a change. Fat chance, but…

  I got to Ramón’s at around 5:30 and was rather surprised to see so many people already there. I took a stool fairly close to the front door, just at the end of the bar, which provided me a good vantage point to play my little observation game.

  I like to pick out someone I don’t know, at random, and see what I can figure out about them just by watching. Their body language, the way they laugh, whether they smoke or not, whether they’re right or left handed—stuff like that. Like I said, I get a kick out of the little things in life.