by Dorien Grey
“Well,” I said, getting up quickly, “I really appreciate your help, but I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Miller.”
“Gary,” he said, getting up and taking my extended hand.
Now, there are handshakes, and there are handshakes, and this was a handshake! I looked up and met his intense blue eyes staring into mine.
“Maybe we could get together again sometime socially,” he said. “After Alan has gone a little further toward the back of my mind.”
“I’d like that,” I said, and this time I definitely wasn’t lying.
Chapter 5
I slept right through the alarm, which I’d set deliberately for a change, and didn’t get out of bed until nearly eight-thirty. Pissed at myself though I was, a long shower and about a half-gallon of Murine put me back in fairly good shape; by the time I’d shaved and gotten dressed, I was feeling downright chipper.
I made it to the office just before nine, checked with my service, looked through the mail, and seriously considered buying a new air conditioner. Maybe when this case was over, I could afford one—a nice little window unit I could take with me whenever they decided to tear down the building, an action already about thirty years overdue.
Reluctantly, I forced myself out of my dream world back into reality. Aside from possible future social benefits, my visit to Gary Miller had produced the first tangible…please, God…clue in the case—the phone number. Granted, it wasn’t much, but it was all I had.
I started to look for the folded paper I’d stuck in my pocket and cursed myself when I remembered it was still in the shirt I’d worn yesterday, which was hanging on the bedroom doorknob at home. Stu-pid, Hardesty! Stu-pid!
Ed. That much I remembered. And the 555 prefix. But was it 7897? Or 7987? Yeah—7897. I hoped.
Chances were nobody would be home, but I had to give it a shot. I picked up the phone and dialed. On the second ring there was the familiar click of an answering machine and a voice, warm and masculine, said, “Hello, this is Ed Grayley.”
Bingo!
“I’m not able to make it to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number at the tone, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
A three-second silence was followed by a mellow chime rather than the usual irritating metallic beep.
“My name is Dick Hardesty. I’m a private investigator, and I hope you might be able to give me some information in a case I’m working on. It won’t take but a minute of your time, so if you could call me I’d appreciate it.” I gave him my number then said, “Thanks,” and hung up.
So much for that. I returned a couple of calls left with my service, made an appointment for a haircut, and then decided to go down to Hughie’s on the off-chance of running into Tessie, the guy Bud the bartender had told me might know some more about Bobby McDermott.
Actually, I rather hoped I might find Phil there. (We Scorpios are great people except for an annoying tendency to be ruled by the crotch.)
Hughie’s at one in the afternoon is very much like Hughie’s at any other time of day—dark and clammy, a few unfamiliar shapes sprinkled around but basically the same people sitting on the same stools drinking the same drinks. Bud was at the far end of the bar under the comparative glare (maybe 40 watts) of a new beer sign, deep in conversation with a short number wearing what I vaguely made out to be a beard and a billed army cap.
Phil was nowhere to be seen.
I stood at my usual spot about a third of the way down the bar, waiting for my eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. It was nearly two minutes before the guy Bud was talking to noticed me and, with a jerk of his head, signaled my presence. Bud turned, waved, and, still talking, reached into the cooler for a frosted glass and drew me a dark.
“How’s it goin’, Dick?” he asked, taking a napkin off a stack with an elaborate flourish and placing it in front of me.
“Okay, I guess,” I said as he set the glass down on the napkin, little rivulets of melted ice immediately forming a wet circle on it. I fished into my billfold and pulled out a bill.
“You ever talk to Tessie?” he asked.
“No. I never made it back after the last time I saw you.”
“Well, you’re in luck. He came in early today.” He turned his head and called down the bar, “Hey, Tessie! Guy here to see you.”
The bearded number in the army cap picked up his drink and came toward us.
“That’s Tessie?”
“That’s Tessie. Used to be one of the hottest drags in the city. He’s going through a butch period right now.”
Tessie set his drink down beside mine as Bud made the introductions.
“Tessie, this is Dick.”
“I think I’m in love,” Tessie said with a winning smile, and his handshake was solid. “What can I do for you, Dick?”
“I understand you knew Bobby McDermott.”
He apparently missed the past tense.
“Sure, I know Bobby,” he said. “Haven’t seen him in a while, though.”
“And you’re not likely to, I’m afraid,” I said. “Bobby’s dead.”
“You’re shitting me!” He looked genuinely shocked. “What happened?”
“An accident,” I lied.
“Jeez, that’s a shame. Bobby was a nice guy—fucked up but nice. And, honey, that cock of his…” He spoke the last with a reverence that left little doubt as to how well he had known McDermott.
“Did you know any of the people he hung out with?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Not really. Bobby was sort of a loner. He had a lover who makes me look like King Kong—a real bitch, that one. Bobby used to drop by my place for a little consolation whenever he could get away, and I understand he hustled some, but, you know, I can’t remember him ever mentioning anybody by name. Isn’t that strange? But Bobby was always more action than talk, if you know what I mean.”
“I have a vivid imagination,” I said. “Do any of these names mean anything to you, then? Alan Rogers…Gene Harriman…Arnold Klein…Clete Barker…Arthur Granger?”
“Huh-uh,” Tessie said, shaking his head. “Not that I know of. I might recognize them if I saw them, but the names don’t mean anything. Sorry.”
I shrugged. “That’s okay. When’s the last time you saw Bobby?”
He thought for a moment.
“Oh, God, it must be about three weeks or more. No, I take that back…or do I? No, three weeks is about right. He came by my place…” There was a moment of reflective silence then, not a little wistfully: “I sure am going to miss that stud.”
The ringing of the phone was barely audible over the jukebox throb, and Bud, who’d been washing glasses at the sink almost directly in front of us while appearing to tune out our conversation, moved off to answer it.
“Tessie!” he called. “It’s for you.” He clamped his big hand over the mouthpiece. “And tell your fucking tricks this ain’t your fucking answering service.”
Tessie sighed dramatically then gave me a wink and a smile.
“Ah, the price of fame,” he said and headed toward the wall phone just outside the men’s room at the far end of the bar. Bud waited until he picked up the receiver then hung up.
I finished my beer and ordered another.
“Tessie any help?” Bud asked as he set the beer on a new napkin.
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry about that.”
I drank slowly, sort of waiting for Tessie to get off the phone—not that I had anything in particular to talk to him about but simply as a matter of politeness. But when, after ten minutes, he was still leaning against the wall, the phone to one ear while he examined his fingernails in the dim light, I finished what remained. Leaving some change on the bar for Bud, I caught Tessie’s eye and waved goodbye. He smiled, blew me a kiss, and went back to examining his fingernails.
I debated whether to return to the office or just go home and have the service forward Grayley�
��s call, assuming he’d call at all. However, I decided I really should go by the office even though it was probably hot enough in there by now to bake bread.
I was right about the temperature, so I stayed only long enough to call the service and tell them to give Grayley my home number if he called, and that I’d be home in fifteen minutes.
*
The early edition of the evening news had just come on the tube when the phone rang.
“Dick Hardesty.”
“Mr. Hardesty…”
I recognized the voice from the answering machine.
“This is Ed Grayley. I just got home and got your message.” In the background I could hear a TV tuned to the same channel I had on.
“I appreciate your promptness,” I said.
“I work for an airline. After a while, it gets so that promptness isn’t so much a virtue as it is a way of life.”
As with Gary Miller, there was something about Grayley’s voice I instinctively liked. It wasn’t a bedroom voice, like Miller’s, but it produced good vibes, nonetheless.
“What can I do to help you, Mr. Hardesty? I’m very big on intrigue.”
I laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you. It’s nothing very glamorous, I’m afraid. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Alan Rogers.”
There was a pause, then: “I’m sorry? What was the name?”
“Alan Rogers.”
“Damn, now I’m disappointed. I was all set to help you solve some exotic case with my brilliant deductive reasoning, but I’m afraid I don’t know any Alan Rogers.”
“That’s strange,” I said. “He had your phone number.”
“He did? Did he say where he’d gotten it?”
“I’m afraid not. He’s dead.”
There was another pause.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. But then, I’m right—there is some deep, dark mystery. A murder?”
“I…uh…I don’t know if that’s exactly accurate,” I said, knowing full well I thought it was exactly accurate. “But I am curious as to how he got your phone number.”
“I tell you what,” Grayley said, his tone as familiar as if we’d known each other for years. “Are you doing anything right now?”
“Just talking to you.”
“Good. I do hope you don’t think me presumptuous, Mr. Hardesty, but mysteries really do intrigue me. The fact that it’s none of my business doesn’t get in the way of my wanting to know more about this one—and to find out how this Rogers guy got my number. Would you like to meet me for a drink?”
He was being a little presumptuous, but what the hell? His voice set off some pleasant flashes of erotic fantasy, and…
“Sure,” I said. “Where do you suggest?”
“What part of town are you in?”
“Bradford.”
“Great! Do you know where the Carnival is?”
I did—it was about five blocks away from my apartment. A nice, comfortable, gay businessmen’s bar with a good if slightly expensive restaurant.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know where it is.”
“How about meeting me there about six-thirty? We can catch the tail-end of their happy hour.”
“Fine. I hope they don’t mind shorts—I’ll be wearing white shorts and a white Polo shirt with blue trim.”
“In this weather, shorts are the uniform of the day,” Grayley said with a laugh. “I’ll get into an old pair of cutoffs with a white tank top. Don’t worry—we’ll find each other.”
Somehow, I was sure we would.
“Okay,” I said. “See you at six-thirty.”
As I hung up, I wondered why in hell I was suddenly feeling like a teenager going to his first prom?
*
I’d always liked the Carnival, but I didn’t get out to the bars all that often; and there were at least six within a mile of my apartment. It attracted a nice mix of average gays and lesbians, and your average heterosexual wandering into the place probably wouldn’t immediately catch on to the fact that it was a gay bar.
On this hot afternoon, summer business suits predominated, since most of the clientele had stopped in directly from work. I was, thank God, the only one in white shorts and a white Polo shirt, and as usual, I was about ten minutes early.
I took a seat near the door where I could watch everything and everyone in the mirrors behind the bar and ordered an Old Fashioned. At exactly six-thirty, a pair of cutoffs and a white tank top walked into the bar, filled out by a six-foot, naturally muscular frame. Dark-brown hair cut short, dark eyes, a nice tan, and a definitely interesting face. Not Gary Miller but decidedly handsome. And sexy. No doubt about it—my kind of guy.
He saw me, smiled, and walked over.
“Made it,” he said, extending his hand.
We shook hands, and I was favorably impressed by the casual firmness of his grip.
“Do people set their watches by you?” I asked, smiling as he pulled out the stool beside me and sat down.
He grinned. “I know. Sometimes I think my punctuality is a curse. But it drives me up a wall to be late.”
He motioned for the bartender and ordered a whiskey sour.
“I’m the same way,” I said while we waited for his drink, “only I always manage to be too damned early.”
Grayley paid for his drink, and I noticed that his hair, which I’d first seen as dark brown, was actually black, beginning to turn salt-and-pepper. It only added to his appeal.
“So, tell me…,” he said, grinning and getting directly to business, “…more about this Rogers thing.”
I fished in the small pocket of my shorts and pulled out the folded piece of napkin, handing it to him. He unfolded it, looked at the note, and raised his eyebrows.
“Yep. That’s my writing, all right. Let me think. Since it’s handwritten, it apparently wasn’t business-related. And I don’t give out my home number casually—which hopefully speaks well for my lack of promiscuity.”
I sipped my drink while he thought aloud.
“Alan Rogers…Alan Rogers…Alan…hmm.” Suddenly, his face brightened. “Yeah! Sure! Now I remember. This was a guy I met at the Cochise Club—oh, hell, it must be nearly two months ago, now. Nice guy, I thought at first.
“We danced a couple of times, and he came on pretty strong. He asked me for my number, and I gave it to him, but when I asked for his, he said he couldn’t give it to me because his lover was too jealous.
“Well, that took the wind out of my sails real fast. If I’d known he had a lover I never would have given him my number. Maybe I’m square, but I don’t believe in playing that kind of game, and I told him so. And that was about it.”
“A gentleman of principle, I see.”
“I try,” Grayley said. Noticing that my drink was nearly empty, he signaled for the bartender with his free hand.
“You never saw him again?”
“Huh-uh. Like I said, I don’t see any percentage in going to bed with someone who has a lover. Too strong a middle-class, middle-west upbringing, I guess. I learned a long time ago that if someone will dump a lover for you, you can be damn sure one day he’ll dump you for someone else.”
“Two minds with but a single thought,” I said.
He raised his glass.
“I’ll drink to that.”
“Can you tell me anything else about him?” I asked as we set our glasses back on the bar.
“Like what? What are you looking for?”
I felt like saying, “That’s two different questions,” but thought better of it and shook my head in frustration.
“I wish to hell I knew. I’m open for anything…” I caught his quick smile. “…no pun intended. Was he with anyone when you met him?”
Grayley shook his head.
“Not that I saw. The place was jammed wall-to-wall, as usual, but I didn’t see him talking to anyone else.”
“Did he say anything about his life, about people he knew—anything?”
Grayley took another
drink.
“Other than that he had a lover? Hmm. Don’t forget, this was only one night—or, rather, a small part of one night—a couple of months ago. The only reason I remember him at all is because he was very attractive, and because, as I told you, I don’t give out my phone number to that many people. That’s no bullshit, by the way.”
I was flattered that it seemed important to him I believe him.
“But let me think,” he continued then paused to run one hand over his chin. “No, honestly, I don’t remember him saying all that much of interest. Said he was an artist—I remember that because I hoped for a minute he was going to ask me up to see his etchings. But other than that, no personal information. Just the usual bar chatter. And some pretty strong hints at the kinds of beautiful music we could make together. I, I gather, was to be the bassoon and he the oboe.”
We both laughed.
The bartender came over, and we ordered another round.
“I’m really sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Grayley said, and I got the distinctly pleasant feeling he meant it. “Can you tell me anything about what you’re working on, or is that some sort of privileged information?”
“Well,” I said, trying to be both truthful and tactfully evasive at the same time, “it started out pretty simple, and the further I get into it, the more complex it seems to be getting. I’m not quite sure what’s going on myself. Which is pretty frustrating, I can tell you.”
Grayley grinned. “Yeah, I’ve been frustrated once or twice myself.”
Our drinks arrived, and he insisted on paying.
“I always sort of fantasized about being a detective,” he said as the bartender rang up the sale. “When I was a kid, it was a toss-up between being Sam Spade and a fireman. So I ended up with the airlines.”
“What do you do for them?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“I’m what’s known as a passenger service representative for Pan World. Sort of a social director for VIPs traveling with us—make sure they’re happy while waiting for their flights, keep the madding crowds at bay, that sort of thing.”
“This is your home base, then?”
“More or less. I work all over, actually. I spent the last year in Nairobi. Before that, it was Singapore, Guam, Anchorage, Lima. Frankly,” he said, giving me another grin, “I think I’d rather be a detective.”
