Snowman

by Abramson, Mark

  "If I’d known you were going to ask so many questions, I would have told Nick to keep his mouth shut about those fingers he found. We didn’t have to call you, you know," Arturo kept complaining but he found the plumber’s business card and set it down on the bar:

  Butch Steele

  - The 24-Hour Plumber -

  — No leak too big or small —

  We have the tools for your pipes!

  415 - 555 - 0569

  "Where did you find this guy?" Nick asked. "It sounds like he’s advertising something besides plumbing. Does Phil work for him?"

  "What do you mean? He was the only one whose advertisement said 24 hours. I found him in the back of this week’s B.A.R.."

  "With the hustler ads?"

  "No, in the first section, back there with the goods and services." The paper was still beside the phone where Arturo had left it, folded to the page in question. Arturo drew a circle around the ad and tossed it on the bar next to the business card.

  "Here!" he said before he stormed back toward the kitchen.

  Unlike most of the escort ads, the plumber didn’t show his picture, Nick noticed. Now the interrogators turned their attention toward him. Up until this morning, Nick had never set foot inside Arts Bar and Restaurant unless Tim was there. But the police treated him as if he were intimately acquainted with the place. What was worse, the one who asked most of the questions made Nick feel like a suspect.

  "I don’t know anything," he pleaded. "I was just helping out Arturo. I don’t work here."

  "What is your relationship to the owners of this establishment?" the cop asked while he wrote in his notebook.

  "None, I already told you."

  "You just happened to be walking by on a Sunday morning, dressed in a Polo shirt, Bill Blass trousers, and a pair of expensive loafers?"

  "Are they?" Nick looked down at his clothes, now streaked with dirt and grime from the chore of helping Arturo clean up the plumbing mess. How did this cop know so much about clothes? Nick had bought the shoes and slacks at Macy’s in Santa Rosa. He remembered that the shoes were on sale that day and he could have sworn the trousers were only Dockers or some similarly priced knock-off brand.

  "Then you thought you’d pound on the door of a business that wasn’t even open yet, just so that you could volunteer to haul out some spare human body parts?"

  "Okay, I can see how that sounds, but don’t put words in my mouth. Arturo let me in here… dragged me in here… and the only ‘relationship’ I have to this place isn’t so much with the owners as it is with Tim Snow…" Nick instantly regretted having blurted out Tim’s name. There was no reason for him to be involved in this mess, but it was too late now. Where the hell was Tim, anyway? He was the only reason Nick happened to be in San Francisco this morning in the first place.

  The quieter of the two policemen, the one who was writing everything down, said, "Tim, that’s T – I – M, short for Timothy?"

  "Yes," Nick mumbled under his breath.

  "And Snow as in ‘winter snow’?"

  Nick spelled it out slowly, one letter at a time, but sarcasm was beyond the reach of this particular member of San Francisco’s "finest."

  "And what is Mr. Snow’s relationship to you?"

  "He’s my boyfriend," Nick said. Hell, this was Castro Street, after all. The police should be used to this. "He might have been my legal husband by now if it hadn’t been for Proposition 8 and the fact that he was in a wheelchair for most of last winter."

  "Wheelchair? What does that have to do with…?"

  "He was too vain to be in a wheelchair for the wedding pictures."

  "Whatever… does this Mr. Snow have employment here?" the officer asked, frowning.

  "He did before the accident," Nick said. "He was a waiter… oh good… here’s Aunt Ruth. She always knows what to do. Ruth, thank God you’re here!" Nick yelled out and everyone turned their attention toward the front door.

  Ruth came bustling in, replaced the chair in the open doorway and put the CLOSED sign back where she’d found it.

  Then she plopped her purse on the bar and sat down on the stool next to Nick and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Nick, what on earth is going on?" Ruth wrapped one arm around his shoulder. "Arturo didn’t tell me you were here too, sweetheart."

  Nick had never been so happy to see her. "I was looking for Tim…" Nick started to answer, but he was cut off.

  "I’ll be the one asking the questions here, if you don’t mind, Ma-am," said the burly cop.

  "How do you do, officer," Ruth said, extending her hand and leaning forward. "My name is Ruth Taylor, and you are…

  let me see… Officer O’Sullivan, I can see that now by the inscription on your little brass badge. I am so sorry to interrupt."

  "Captain O’Sullivan," he corrected. "Homicide. And this is Officer Parker, my assistant." In spite of his gruff exterior, the policeman was visibly affected by the presence of a lady. The tension in his jaw and shoulders relaxed a little and his voice softened. "Now then… where were we? Oh, yes… you said that Mr. Snow was in an accident. Do you mean those were his hands lodged in the sewage pipes?"

  "Accident!" Ruth cried out. "I just left Tim beside the pool at Sam’s in Hillsborough and he was fine. Who got their hands stuck in a pipe? Where’s Arturo?"

  "Then you do know Arturo, Miss Taylor?" Captain O’Sullivan asked. "Perhaps you can help us. You are Mr.

  Musgrove’s Aunt, I take it?"

  "No, sir," Ruth corrected him. "Tim Snow is my nephew.

  Arturo and his partner, Artie, are my landlords around the corner on Collingwood Street. I also work for them from time to time, which is why I am here today. I understand Artie threw his back out."

  "Hiya, Ruth! Welcome back," came from the direction of the front door. It was Jake, another waiter, arriving for work, followed by Scott, the redheaded bartender, and bringing up the rear was James, the other waiter. "Cheese it, it’s the fuzz!" Jake said in a loud stage whisper. James started laughing and held his wrists together as if he were turning himself in to be handcuffed.

  Captain O’Sullivan was not amused. "The CLOSED sign at the door seems to do little good," he said to no one in particular. "Maybe we’d better lock it for the time being."

  "That’s okay, Officer," Ruth said. "They all work here."

  "And Arturo wanted to air the place out. It doesn’t smell so bad anymore, does it guys?" Nick asked the new arrivals.

  "No worse than usual," Jake said.

  "I’ll need sworn statements from each of you," Captain O’Sullivan said. "Were you all working here last night?"

  "Yes," James answered. "All except for Nick and Ruth.

  Nick doesn’t work here. How’s it going, Nick? Are you working brunch today, Ruth?"

  "Please give Officer Parker your names, phone numbers and a current address where you can be reached. I also need the names of any other employees and to the best of your recollection any customers who might have used the ladies’

  restroom last night."

  "Customers!" Jake said. "There were dozens of customers. It was Saturday night! Since this is the Castro, there maybe weren’t as many women as men, but that doesn’t rule out anyone using the ladies’ room. I’ve used it myself when there was a line at the men’s and no one else in there."

  Ruth stood up and went behind the bar, started opening refrigerators and pulling out mixers, juice and bar fruit. Scott filled a bucket from the ice machine and carried it behind the bar. He said, "I suppose you could get some idea of who was in for dinner last night from the reservation book."

  "It’s right here on the corner of the bar," Ruth slid it over to Officer Parker, since he was doing all the writing.

  "There were lots of walk-ins, though," James said. "Just when we thought it was quieting down, we got a party of 10

  around 9:30. I took them and then Jake got a few late deuces right afterward."

  "Phil had a big crowd around the piano, too," Jake said.

/>   "A lot of them didn’t eat. They just came in for drinks, but any one of them could have used the ladies’ room. There was that old queen who used to be on Broadway… in the chorus, no doubt. He hadn’t been in since his stroke. He gets drunk and tells stories about working with Carol Channing and what a foul mouth Julie Andrews had. You wouldn’t think it, would you?

  She was Mary Poppins and she played a nun."

  "Don’t forget; she was topless in 10," James said.

  Scott corrected him, "No, it was S.O.B."

  "That’s right, I forgot. Well, anyway, when you get a few drinks in that guy he’s kind of loud, but he sure can belt out the old show tunes."

  Captain O’Sullivan shook his head as Officer Parker tried to write everything down. "Does Carol Channing spell her name with an ‘e’ on the end of Carol or not?" he asked Jake.

  "I don’t think so," Jake said.

  "Never mind that," yelled Captain O’Sullivan.

  "You could probably get some more names of who was here last night by looking at the credit card receipts," Ruth said, trying to be helpful.

  "Friday was the 15th of the month, though," James said.

  "A lot of people get paid on the 1st and the 15th, so there was more cash than usual. Still, there were some charges. You could ask Artie. He keeps track of them behind the bar and then he figures out our tips that are on the charge slips at the end of the night. Where is Artie, anyway?"

  "He threw his back out," Ruth said.

  "I was afraid of that," Scott said. "I told him not to try to lift that keg by himself, but he’s been on such a health kick lately, losing weight and exercising. He suddenly thinks he’s a he-man or something."

  "We’ll need to question this Artie person, of course," said Officer Parker, scratching his head with his pen. "I also heard someone mention an employee named Phil, I believe?"

  "Phil is the piano player. He’ll be in a little later," Scott explained. "He doesn’t have to do a lot of set-up before work like the rest of us."

  Jake and James were putting out silverware, napkins and coffee cups on all the tables. "Unless you count filing his nails," Jake said. "I think he keeps his manicure in good shape for his other job, though."

  "He’s a high-class hooker, that’s for sure," James added.

  "We’ll definitely need to interview him, as well," said Officer Parker.

  "But, Sergeant O’Brien…" Ruth pleaded.

  "Captain O’Sullivan," he corrected her.

  "I beg your pardon," she said. "I am so sorry, but you have me terribly flustered, sir, and your arm was covering your name tag when you leaned against the bar like that… Captain O’Sullivan…"

  "It’s quite all right, ma-am."

  "I wasn’t even in the city last night, but I’ve been working with most of these nice young men off and on for months now, since shortly after I arrived in San Francisco, as a matter of fact. I can vouch for the character and integrity of each and every one of them without hesitation. I have also known Nick for almost as long, even though he doesn’t work here. He doesn’t even live here in the city, in fact."

  "Get his address," O’Sullivan barked.

  "Here’s my business card," Nick replied.

  "But, Captain," Ruth went on. "You seem intent on questioning everyone here as if we were suspects in some kind of crime. All I know is that the plumbing got plugged up, Artie’s back went out over a beer keg, someone got their hand stuck in a pipe and what else did Arturo tell me…?"

  "The dumpster," Nick added, grimly.

  "Yes, I think he might have mentioned the dumpster too," Ruth repeated. "Thank you, Nick. I rarely have any reason to visit the dumpster myself, but can you please tell us what’s going on here? If one of us is being accused of having stolen something, I’m sure we’d all like to know."

  "Something was lost, Ruth, not stolen," Nick said.

  "Arturo and I found some fingers…"

  "Fingers?" Ruth asked as she poured a fresh pot of water into the coffee maker. "I thought you said they were stuck."

  "Ahem!" Captain O’Sullivan shook his head and waited until Ruth turned around again to face him. When the room was silent and he had everyone’s undivided attention, he said,

  "Someone has apparently lost their hands and Mr. Musgrove here seems to have discovered them in the dumpster while cleaning up the debris that clogged the sewer pipes."

  "Don’t forget the eyeball," Officer Parker said.

  "Oh, yes," Captain O’Sullivan said. "Parts of two hands have been found that were clogging up the pipes… and one eyeball… so far."

  Chapter 7

  o you want me to do you now?" Tim asked.

  Adam raised his head from where he was

  “D sprawled on the deck chair and turned toward Tim. "What’d you say?"

  "Do you want me to put some oil on you? That’s what I meant to say…" Tim laughed. He felt tongue-tied in the presence of someone so physically perfect. He knew his face must be turning red and it had nothing to do with the sun. "I’ve heard that black people can get sunburned too, if they’re not careful…

  or do you prefer African-American?"

  Adam let out a long yawn. "I don’t care… sure, you could rub some on my back, I suppose. What a perfect day, huh?

  The sun feels so good, but a person shouldn’t overdo it. The vitamin D is healthy, but you don’t want to dry out the skin. It ages you, you know." Adam reached into his bag and handed Tim a tube of some brand of cream he had never heard of before.

  "How long will you be here in Hillsborough?" Tim unscrewed the cap and knelt beside Adam. He began to smear the odorless lotion between his broad shoulder blades and watched it dissolve into his smooth skin. Tim didn’t dare straddle Adam’s legs, as Adam had straddled him earlier. For one thing, Tim wasn’t quite tall enough, and he was nervous already.

  "I have two weeks until my next job, a magazine shoot for Details in L.A. I was thinking about renting a car next week and driving down the coast."

  Tim was thinking about the last time he’d had sex with a black man, a stunning guy named Mario. Adam’s skin was so smooth over the taut muscles of his back and shoulders that Tim couldn’t help thinking about it. He’d never had a "thing" for black men… or blondes or Italians or redheads or anyone else.

  He considered himself lucky that he wasn’t restricted in his attractions to any particular type of guy. Life held so many more options that way.

  "‘Just my type’ means he’s genetically male and breathing!" That’s what Tim’s co-worker Jake had said often enough and Tim felt pretty much the same way. The color of Adam’s flesh reminded him of Mario. He was the only black man Tim could remember now, in fact. It was so long ago Tim wasn’t sure anymore if Mario was the guy’s name. He remembered the color of his skin and how he’d told Tim he was named for his Italian grandfather, but the rest of the family was Jamaican. Tim still had a snapshot of the two of them in front of Half Dome on his refrigerator at home. They’d driven to Yosemite one fine spring day when Tim still had his old black Mustang.

  "How about you?" Adam asked. Tim tensed a little, remembering where he was, and then he squeezed more lotion out of the tube.

  "Huh?"

  "How long are you staying here in Hillsborough?"

  "Oh… not long… I just stopped by to say good-bye to my Aunt Ruth. I’m driving down to L.A. Hey, maybe you could ride along with me." Tim knew he was stretching the truth a little. He’d planned to head down the coast, but he hadn’t made up his mind whether or not he would drive all the way to L.A.

  "That’s good, thanks," Adam said.

  Tim realized he was still massaging Adam’s back, so he stopped, put the cap on the tube and moved back to his own chair. "You’re welcome… no problem."

  "How soon are you heading out?"

  "Um… I don’t know… I didn’t plan to spend the night here last night. I was only gonna let my Aunt Ruth know I was going away so she wouldn’t worry." Tim stared at Adam’s long muscul
ar back and watched the sunlight play across the colors of his bare flesh. "I haven’t seen her in a while. She’s been spending a lot of time down here with Sam lately."

  "Yes, I gathered as much. Do you have friends in L.A.?"

  Tim was lost in thought, remembering Mario… or was it Marcello? Now he began to forget about Mario or Marcello or whatever his name was and think back to his last trip to L.A. He was in love with Jason at the time, but Jason was still mourning Karl, who died of AIDS before Tim entered the picture. Karl had left the house on Hancock Street to Jason and after Jason’s murder the house went to Tim. Then Tim met Nick and now they were taking a break from each other.

  "It’s kind of a long story." Tim started to take another sip of his coffee, but it was barely lukewarm now. "Jason had some friends in L.A. that I got to know a little bit when I was down there with him."