by Dorien Grey
“Right off of Decorator’s Row,” I said. “I can find it. What time?
“Five-thirty?”
“Okay, I’ll see you then.”
We hung up, and on a whim—hell, it wasn’t a whim, I was covering my ass!—I called Phil, ostensibly to make arrangements for going to Billy’s memorial service Saturday. Luck was with me again, and he was home. We arranged for me to pick him up at around 10:00. The service was at noon, and it was about an hour’s drive.
“Oh, and, Phil,” I said, as if it were an afterthought, “what can you tell me about Matt Rushmore—especially anything you might know about his relationship with Gary?”
He thought a moment. “Not too much, really. Matt sort of kept pretty much to himself, though he and Gary did hang out quite a bit together when I first joined ModelMen.”
“Anything happen to change that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I just got the feeling things had pretty much cooled off between them by the time Matt left. I do know that the guy Matt worked over had been one of Gary’s regulars. No idea why he decided to go with Matt. I can’t imagine that making a difference in their relationship, whatever that might have been.”
“Hmmm.” I shifted the phone from one ear to the other. “Any other impressions of Matt?”
“Just that he’s pretty damned butch. I think Billy told me Matt has a wife and two kids somewhere, although how he’d have found out I don’t know. For some odd reason, Billy found that idea really hot.”
Although Matt had told me he’d never been to bed with Billy, I thought I’d double-check.
“Did Billy ever get together with him? You said he didn’t date the other escorts, but…”
“No, I’m pretty sure he never did. He said Matt had come on to him a couple times, but they’d never actually gotten around to doing anything.”
Interesting.
“Any particular reason you’re asking?” Phil wanted to know.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve got a couple questions for Matt, and I’m going over to his place shortly. I just wanted to see if you knew something I should follow up on.”
“Oh, okay. But, no, nothing I can think of.”
“Well, thanks, Phil,” I said. “I’ll see you around ten on Saturday, then, if not before, okay?”
“Okay. Take care of yourself,” he added, which struck me as a rather strange thing to say.
Now, don’t get paranoid, my inner voice cautioned. It’s just a phrase.
We exchanged goodbyes and hung up.
Interesting that Billy had told Phil Matt had come on to him when Matt said just the opposite, and that he didn’t dig totally gay guys—and Billy was certainly that. And that Gary had been a regular for the client Matt had beaten up. Did that mean Gary was into a little “down and dirty,” as Aaron called it? Maybe the client switched because Gary wasn’t down and dirty enough. Hard to say.
I also wondered what had happened to cool down the friendship between Matt and Gary. Well, I’d find out.
*
The three blocks of Brookhaven just off Beech were known as Decorator’s Row for all the exclusive furniture, art, and interior design shops concentrated in that area. Most of the stores were not open to the general public, as the discreet “To the Trade” signs on their doors announced, so foot traffic along that stretch was limited mostly to the occasional peasant looking enviously in the windows at the things they could never afford.
Harker marked the eastern boundary of Decorator’s Row, and 4242 was a pleasant courtyard building with a fenced-in small lawn edged with flowerbeds. Matt had not mentioned his apartment number, but I was able to find it easily enough on the list beside the door in the small alcove entry and rang the buzzer. A moment later, there was a responding buzz and the click of the door unlocking.
I found the right apartment and had just raised my fist to knock when the door opened to an impressive panorama of Matt Rushmore wearing a white tank top and torn cut-offs that left little to the imagination.
“Hi,” he said, standing back from the door. “Come on in.”
The apartment reminded me quite a bit of my own, in that neither Matt Rushmore nor I was likely to win a Happy Homemaker award. Not messy, but definitely lived-in. It was comfortable enough, but I didn’t get the impression Matt had ever considered interior design as a profession. Functional, livable. That about does it.
But whereas I have a lot—probably way too much—of little personal stuff around my place, breadcrumbs leading to my past in reminders of certain people or places, I couldn’t really spot anything that said “This is Matt.” Then, I noticed two small, framed color photos on one wall—a boy around ten and a girl around six. I didn’t have to ask who they were.
“Have a seat,” Matt said, and I sat down on one side of a surprisingly comfortable if nondescript-looking couch. “Would you like a beer?” He moved toward what I gathered was the kitchen.
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”
I heard the refrigerator door opening then two soft “psshhhht” sounds. He returned a moment later with two uncapped beers. He handed me one before sitting down in a recliner across from me, pushing back with his arms to lower the back slightly and raise the leg rest.
“So what can I do for you?” he asked after taking a long swig of his beer and setting it on the small lamp table beside the chair.
I sat back on the couch and crossed my legs.
“I’d like to hear a little more about ModelMen from someone who isn’t directly involved with it.”
He gave a shrug.
“Like what? If you’re looking for me to drag any skeletons out of ModelMen’s closet, don’t bother. The Glicks are nice people and were always good to me. Like I told you, Mrs. Glick does tend to go a little overboard in favoring Gary, but that’s probably natural. I think she still feels kind of guilty.”
“Guilty?” I asked. “For what?”
“For leaving him when he was just a kid.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why should she feel guil…” And then the little light came on in my head. “She isn’t his sister. She’s his mother?”
Matt just gave me a raised eyebrow and took another swig of his beer.
“But why the charade?” I asked.
“Glick didn’t want kids. His own or anybody else’s.”
“So he doesn’t know?” I was incredulous.
“Why should he? Iris is forty-three, Gary is twenty-nine. Do the math.” He looked at me for a moment then said, “And if I were you, I wouldn’t bring that particular subject up with anybody—especially not Iris or Gary.”
“How many other people know about this?”
“No idea. I haven’t told anybody anything,” he said.
“Except me.”
He gave me an odd smile.
“I didn’t tell you squat.”
He was right. He hadn’t come right out and told me anything. I got the impression I wouldn’t want to play poker with him.
“So,” I said, deciding it was a good idea to move on to something else, “you met Gary while you were in the Corps, I think you said.”
Matt drained his beer and got up from his recliner, reaching out for my almost-empty bottle. I quickly polished it off and handed it to him.
“That’s what I said,” he said as he went back into the kitchen. “Boot camp. A long time ago.”
“Were you in four years?” I asked.
He came back and stood directly in front of me. He turned to one side to put both beers down on the table next to the couch then grabbed my hand and pulled me abruptly to my feet.
“Let’s cut the shit,” he said. “You wanna get it on or not?”
No, Hardesty, you stupid shit, you don’t, my mind yelled. This guy could be a killer!
Uh-huh, my crotch answered as I unbuckled his belt.
*
On the drive home, my crotch was whistling a happy little tune while my mind was so pissed it wouldn’t speak to me. And I
had to admit, my mind was right. Why in hell do I do some of the things I do? What if Matt was the killer? Not only could I have ended up in a Dumpster somewhere but it would mean I’d just had sex with the guy who had killed Bobby—and Stuart Anderson, and that poor prostitute.
Of course, the odds were about… What’s the population of the world? Six billion? Six billion to one against it.
I hadn’t learned nearly half of what I’d gone there to learn, although the revelation of Gary’s being Iris’s son and not her brother was worth the trip (not that the sex with Matt wasn’t!). However, other than its interest value, I had no idea to what practical use that information could be put, or how it could possibly have any bearing on the case.
It did raise a lot more questions as to the whole Glick family dynamic. That Mr. Glick apparently didn’t know he had a stepson was interesting.
I wanted to know more about Iris Glick’s background—and Gary’s—but had no idea how to go about it, since I intended to follow Matt’s advice and not mention it to anyone. I made a mental note to arrange a little casual conversation with both Iris and Gary individually.
*
And then it was Saturday. I picked Phil up at 10:00 a.m., and we drove the fifty or so miles to Leeds, Billy’s home town, in relative silence. We got there nearly an hour early and stopped at a little diner just outside town for a cup of coffee neither of us really wanted or needed.
We got to the little yellow-brick church at about twenty minutes to noon. There were already several cars in the parking lot, including a new Lincoln Town Car and a silver Porsche I recognized as Gary’s birthday present.
The church was small, and simple, and somehow comforting, as I assume all churches are supposed to be. Phil took me over to introduce me to Billy’s mom and dad, who hugged him warmly. I expressed my awkward but very sincere condolences, then Phil and I excused ourselves and went to a pew near the front.
The Glicks, in a typical act of extreme kindness, had sent a portfolio of all Billy’s modeling work, which was displayed on a stand near the small urn containing his ashes. They were in attendance, along with all of the surviving escorts, who had been presented as Billy’s friends from the agency.
I hate funerals, which is a truly stupid thing to say, I know. They’re bad enough when the deceased had a chance to live a complete life, but Billy….
And funerals always pry open doors within me I have worked very hard to keep closed and locked. I suppose it’s a case of “ask not for whom the bell tolls…”
But the service was brief and very dignified and, I’m sure, comforting to Billy’s poor folks. The church’s small choir, of which Billy had once been a member, sang “In the Garden” and “Amazing Grace,” and I sat next to Phil who, while outwardly composed, gripped my hand tightly throughout the entire service.
Afterwards, the minister invited everyone to the church basement where, in typical small-town fashion, coffee, cake and sandwiches were served by the church’s ladies’ auxiliary. It was a Norman Rockwell moment where the best of what makes us human was on display, and where there were no madmen and no Dumpsters.
*
As goodbyes were exchanged in the parking lot, while Phil was talking with the Glicks, I managed to get a moment with Gary, telling him there were a few things I wanted to talk to him about and asking him to give me a call when he had a chance. On the drive back to town, I invited Phil to spend the rest of the day with me—go to a movie, maybe, or just kick back, but he said he thought he’d rather just spend some time alone. I understood; I didn’t really feel like doing anything myself. I suggested we have brunch on Sunday instead, and he agreed.
“Tell you what,” I added. “I think it’s about time you start concentrating on you and the rest of your life. Why don’t you call one of your friends and ask him to join us for brunch—give you a chance to start a little socializing outside ModelMen?”
He gave me a very strange, sad smile.
“I don’t have many friends,” he said. “Billy was pretty much it. This business isn’t the kind that lends itself to making friends, and there hasn’t been much time lately for me to do anything other than work. Before that, when I was street hustling…well, you get friendly with some of the other hustlers, but the turnover is really high, and there’s always too much competition going on. Probably sounds weird, but you’re the first real friend I’ve had in years who wasn’t in the business.”
I shook my head in disbelief, but I could see exactly what he was saying; and hard as it might have been for me to comprehend, I was sure he was right.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve got quite a few really nice friends, and I’d be more than happy to share them with you. I know any of them would be glad to know you.”
He smiled. “Thanks, Dick. That’s nice of you.” He was silent a minute. “And you’re right…I’ve got to start meeting people outside the business. What about that friend of yours, Tim? I remember you talking to him the day we first met, and you’ve mentioned him several times.”
That caught me by surprise.
“Tim?” I said. “Yeah, Tim’s a really great guy. But…well, you know what he does for a living.” I was thinking how Tim had performed the autopsy on Billy, although I didn’t think Phil could know that.
He smiled again. “Yeah, I know. But he sounds like someone I might get along with. We both have jobs that would turn a lot of people off.”
*
There were a couple calls on my machine at home—Bob Allen calling to say he and Mario were going out of town for a few days, Jared just checking in, and one from Tim, asking me to call. I didn’t detect any particular note of urgency or any indication he might have more bad news, but I returned his call as soon as I’d deleted the messages. He answered after the third ring.
“Hi, Tim, it’s Dick.”
“Like I wouldn’t recognize the voice?” he teased.
“I just got back from Billy’s memorial service.”
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s one of the reasons I called. I wanted to see how it went. How did your friend Phil take it?”
“It was a really nice service, and Phil did fine. You never did meet him yet, did you?”
“No, but I’m sure I’d like him. You have some pretty nice friends.”
“Present company included,” I said. “I’m having brunch with him tomorrow. Want to join us, if your busy social calendar will allow?”
“Sure, I’ll call in that rain check I took the last time you asked. Just let me know when and where.”
“I’ll do that.” Then, mildly irked at myself for being unable to resist dragging business into the conversation, I said, “Have you heard anything new about the murders?”
“Not much. The woman’s body was claimed Friday by her ex-husband, that’s all I know. We’ve determined the murder weapon was probably a military-issue knife, the kind you can pick up in any army surplus store, and that the killer stood behind the victim, probably holding them with one arm around the neck and reaching around to stab from the front. Right-handed. Death was probably instantaneous; the mutilation came afterwards.”
Well, that held some small degree of comfort, at least. Maybe it was so fast the victim didn’t have time to know what was happening. Since that was what I wanted to believe, I did.
Again I felt guilty for bringing up business.
“Tim, I’m really sorry. It seems like I’m always pumping you for information.”
“Not to worry,” he said. “It’s what you do. And I always enjoy a good pumping.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I’ve read your reviews.”
“So, call me with the details for brunch.”
“Okay. Talk to you in the morning. Bye.”
The receiver had barely touched down on the cradle when the phone rang, startling me.
“Dick Hardesty.”
“Dick, this is Gary. I just got back into town and wondered if you’d like to meet me for a drink. We can talk about whatever it is you want
ed to know.”
I glanced at my watch. It was still pretty early in the day for a drink, but I did want to talk to Gary. I thought momentarily about asking him over to my place—an idea my crotch seconded wholeheartedly—but realized that would not be a very good idea on several levels. I determined not to be distracted from my information-gathering this time around.
“Sure,” I said. “Now? And where did you have in mind?”
“I live fairly close to Venture. You want to meet there in about half an hour?”
“Okay,” I said. “Just give me time to change clothes.”
“That’s what I’m doing now,” he said. “Take your time; I’ll see you when you get there.”
*
Gary was sitting at the bar when I walked in. Although it was still a long time until happy hour, the place was fairly busy for an early Saturday afternoon. It had occurred to me as I drove to the bar that Mario, Bob Allen’s new lover, was a bartender there, and if Gary was a regular at Venture, Mario might know him. I’d have to check.
Gary turned around on his stool when I walked up beside him.
“What are you drinking?” he asked as he motioned to the bartender.
“Whiskey Old Fashioned, I guess,” I said, and Gary passed that information on to the bartender then handed him a bill when he brought the drink.
“Thanks,” I said.
We talked for a few minutes about Billy’s memorial and agreed it had gone very well, and how hard it must have been on Billy’s parents; he was their only child. I commented on how thoughtful it was of the Glicks to have given Billy’s portfolio to his parents, and how much they must have appreciated it.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the Glicks for you—generous to a fault.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to take that.
“Well, they’ve done pretty well by you. That was quite a birthday present.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it was.”
“It’s nice to be so close to one of your family members,” I said. “Have you and Mrs. Glick always been close?”
“Pretty much. I didn’t see much of her there for a stretch, but we hooked up again when she was working Vegas.”
