by Dorien Grey
Joshua looked mildly crestfallen, stared at the floor, and nodded.
I noticed, too, that Jonathan had been carrying his book bag, which he set on the floor next to the bookcase.
After the hug, Jonathan and Joshua headed to the kitchen and I returned to the couch and my Manhattan.
“I was going to put dinner on,” I called into the kitchen, “but I wasn’t sure what you’re planning on having. I don’t think the meatloaf is thoroughly thawed yet.”
“That’s okay,” Jonathan called back. “I figured we’d have macaroni and cheese.”
“And hot dogs!” Joshua added enthusiastically, pulling himself out of his sulk and contemplating his favorite meal.
When they came back into the living room, Jonathan went over to his book bag and opened it, replacing four books on the shelf.
“Evan Knight’s?” I asked, knowing fully well they were. God, I can be an asshole!
“Yeah,” Jonathan said. “He told me yesterday that if I wanted him to autograph them for me, he would. That was really nice of him.”
Wasn’t it, though? a mind-voice asked sweetly.
Knock it off! a chorus of others demanded.
“Did he say anything else about the party?” I asked.
Jonathan finished putting the books away and got up to carry his book bag into the bedroom. He paused in front of the bedroom door and turned toward me. “Just that he’s really glad we’re coming. He said he’d been telling a couple of his writer friends about us, and that they’re looking forward to meeting us.”
Us? Uh, Jonathan. a mind-voice said…excuse me, but…?
When he returned to the living room, stopping to pick G.I. Joe up from where Joshua had dropped him, he said, “It really sounds like it’s going to be a nice party. He said he’d hired some really popular bartender.”
A little bell went off in my head. Oh-oh!
“Did he mention the guy’s name?”
“Yeah, but I’d never heard of him before. A Kirk-something. You know him?”
Oh, yes! Just about every gay guy in town knew Kirk Sims. Kirk was indeed a great bartender, and specialized in private parties. Kirk was also known to have one of the largest schlongs in captivity, and for a sizeable gratuity, he’d be happy to take it out and stir your drink for you.
So it was going to be one of those parties, eh? I used to love them when I was single, but with a partner….
“So are you just about through with the landscaping?” I asked.
“We finish up tomorrow,” he said, scooping Joshua up from the floor and sitting down beside me. “I guess he wanted it done for the party, so we had a lot of guys working on it.”
Joshua, who had been helping Cowboy defend an empty-cereal-box fort, immediately tried to scramble down from Jonathan’s lap, but Jonathan held him tight.
“I’ve got to go back over there tomorrow afternoon to deliver some plants for the party,” he said offhandedly, staring intently at Joshua with a mock scowl and rocking him back and forth.
“Let me down!” Joshua demanded.
“No!” Jonathan replied, freeing one hand to tickle Joshua’s belly, which of course sent the kid into spasms of laughter and flailing legs.
I recognized this for what it was—a distraction from the announcement that Jonathan would be going back to Evan Knight’s house the next day. I really had to bite my tongue from asking, “Alone?”
*
After giving Joshua his bath, getting him into his pajamas and into bed, and reading him a story, Jonathan and I watched some TV before going to bed ourselves. As we got into bed, I was aware Jonathan was staring at me.
“What?” I asked.
He looked quickly away and climbed under the covers. “Nothing.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said, joining him and pulling him toward me. “What’s going on?”
He locked his eyes on mine for a moment, then said, “Are you jealous?”
That one caught me by surprise. “Me?” I asked, hoping I sounded incredulous.
“You.”
“Do I have reason to be?” I heard myself asking and immediately wished I hadn’t.
He gave me a small smile, and moved closer. “Of course not. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
He sighed. “It’s just that…well…Evan is a really nice-looking guy and he’s famous, and he really seems to like me…”
“And I don’t?”
He gave me a nudge. “Well, of course you do! That’s not the point!”
“What is the point?”
“The point is that I’m human, and so are you, and that just because we’re together doesn’t mean we’re never going to look at another man again.” He looked at me intently before continuing. “That also doesn’t mean we’re going to do anything about it, but a little fantasy every now and then never hurt anybody. And don’t tell me you’ve never had any! I’ve seen you look at other guys. A lot.”
He had me there, of course, and I was more than a little embarrassed to think I was that obvious about it.
“And if I thought you ever really meant to do anything about it,” he continued, “I’d be worried. But I know you wouldn’t. And I won’t either. If we can’t trust one another to know where the lines are, we’re in deep trouble.”
That was the first time since we’d been together that the subject had ever seriously come up, and he was completely right.
“Jeezus, I love you,” I said, grabbing him to me.
He pulled his head back far enough to give me a big grin.
“Show me,” he said.
And I did.
CHAPTER 5
Defenestration: the act of throwing something or someone out a window. It was a word in my Friday morning crossword puzzle, and I found later that day by spending a couple of hours in the city’s main library, the cause of death for one Morgan Butler, age 31. The window in question was on the 17th floor of the Montero Hotel. What he was doing there was not explained. He was, the obituary dated August 14, 1953 noted, survived by his wife, Emily, his four-year-old son, Collin, and his mother, Gretchen. His father, the Reverend Jeremy Butler, preceded him in death. He had been an English teacher at Catherby Academy, a prestigious private school on the east side. Burial was at Rosevine Cemetery.
I was struck by the thought, immaterial though it may be, that Collin Butler had been Joshua’s age when his father died. It must have been tough on the kid, growing up without a father—if, indeed that’s what he did. I wondered if his mother might have remarried.
Well, at least I’d confirmed that Morgan Butler had been living here at the time of his death—that would make it easier to find out other things about him.
Out of curiosity, before I’d left the office I had opened the phone book to look under “Butler” just to see if Collin Butler might be listed. Sure enough, there he was (I didn’t think the chances were great that there would be more than one Collin Butler in town).
I was tempted to call him, but then remembered what Irving McGill had said—that Jeremy’s grandson had tried, or was trying, to have the Butler papers removed from the Collection. I wondered if it was because he might be a zealot like his grandfather and didn’t want Jeremy Butler’s name to be in any way associated with a bunch of fags. I also didn’t know if Collin was aware that some of his father’s papers were also included in the Collection. It was highly unlikely that Collin might know that his father was possibly gay. Collin was only four when his father died and it’s also very unlikely his mother would have brought the subject up even if she knew. And there was in fact no definite proof—at least not in the materials I’d seen at the Burrows—that he really was gay.
I would like to talk to Collin Butler, but didn’t want to get the Burrows in any trouble until I knew more about who he was and exactly on what grounds he wanted his grandfather’s papers removed. I made a note to check back with Irving McGill and perhaps with Glen O’Banyon to see what I could find out.
An
d just what did all this have to do with Taylor Cates’ death? Who knows? Maybe nothing, maybe something, maybe everything. Part of the fun of being a private investigator is sorting through piles of jigsaw puzzle pieces, trying to see what pieces might fit together.
I checked my watch just as I was getting ready to leave the library and saw that I might just have time to get in touch with McGill and see what he knew about Collin Butler’s efforts to remove his grandfather’s papers from the Burrows Collection. I decided to return to the office and call him from there. I knew if I went to the Burrows, I’d be tempted to take another look at Morgan Butler’s papers, and that could wait until another time.
Even so, it was close to 3:30 by the time I dialed the Burrows and asked to speak to Irving McGill.
“Yes, Mr. Hardesty,” McGill’s deep voice said. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering,” I began, “if you could tell me a little bit about Collin Butler and on what grounds he’s trying to remove his grandfather’s papers.”
“I think you’d be better off talking with Glen O’Banyon,” McGill said. “I really don’t know all that much about it, other than that he’s claiming ownership of all the Butler materials.”
“I thought you’d told me Morgan Butler had donated them to Chester Burrows.” I said.
“I did. They were specifically bequeathed to Mr. Burrows in Morgan Butler’s will, which fairly well knocks the legal legs out from under Collin Butler’s claim,” he said.
Interesting, I thought. And it certainly lent weight to the possibility/probability that Morgan Butler was gay.
“Morgan Butler knew Chester Burrows, then?” I asked.
“I really don’t know the circumstances of the bequest,” he replied. “Perhaps Glen O’Banyon could help you there.”
“Do you know anything more about the possibility of Morgan Butler being gay?”
There was a slight pause, then, “Other than what Taylor mentioned shortly before he died, no. It seems he’d found some evidence of it in Morgan’s papers, but I really didn’t have the time to follow up on it. There is just so very much else to be done.”
“How big a loss would it be to the Collection if Butler were to be able to withdraw his grandfather’s material?”
“The Butler papers are a very important part of the Collection, of course, but they represent only a very small portion of the total Collection. Their loss would be a great shame, but it certainly wouldn’t cripple the library in any significant way, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Well, yes, I guess I was,” I said.
“So you will refer your other questions to Mr. O’Banyon, then?” he asked, obviously ready to end the conversation.
“Yes, I’ll do that. Thank you for your help.”
“You’re quite welcome. Good afternoon, then.”
“And to you,” I said, and we hung up.
I looked at my watch and decided that 3:45 on a Friday afternoon was not exactly a good time to try to call one of the city’s busiest lawyers, so I put it on my mental agenda for first thing Monday morning, did a few minutes’ puttering around the office, and left.
*
It being Friday, we’d promised Joshua we’d take him to Cap’n Rooney’s Fish Shack for dinner. Cap’n Rooney’s was right up there with macaroni and cheese and hot dogs on Joshua’s list of fine dining, and I had to admit I kind of liked it, too, especially the malt vinegar for the thickly sliced “chips.”
Jonathan did not say a word about his trip to Evan Knight’s, and I didn’t ask him. Before we left for dinner, Tim had called to verify that he and Phil would be glad to join us at Steamroller Junction the following Saturday to see T/T’s show. I hadn’t had a chance to call Bob and Mario, who were also big T/T fans, but Tim said he and Phil were going to stop by Ramón’s later that night and would ask. Our social life was definitely picking up.
*
Saturday passed as Saturdays do with by-the-numbers chores, highlighted only by Joshua’s knocking over a small plant stand while engaged in a chair-cushion battle with Jonathan. Only one African violet was seriously wounded in the melee, and Jonathan had Joshua help him carefully dip the stems of the broken leaves in roottone and place them in water to root so there could be even more African violets than we already had.
I was mildly trepidatious about Evan Knight’s party—in large part, to be honest, because we’d not been to a large private party consisting largely of guys we didn’t know for I don’t know how long, and my crotch, stubbornly refusing to accept the concept of monogamy, invariably tried to get me in trouble. That, and because of my double-standard concerns over the Evan-Jonathan dynamics. Well, we’d just have to wait and see.
Craig Richman’s mother, who had agreed to let him spend the night again, dropped him off at around six thirty so we wouldn’t have to go over and get him, and we once again called out for pizza. Craig had brought along a small duffle bag with a change of clothes in anticipation of accompanying Jonathan and Joshua to the M.C.C. in the morning. It appeared we were establishing a nice sort of routine, and I was grateful once again to the Richmans for their confidence in us.
Since it was still fairly early, we decided to take full advantage of our evening out and stop by Ramón’s…Tim had said he and Phil would be going out there...for a quick drink and to say hello to Bob Allen. It was early enough that we were able to actually talk for a bit while I had an Old Fashioned and Jonathan had a tonic and lime and fended off the sexual teasing of Jimmy, the bartender. Bob said Tim and Phil had mentioned T/T’s show, and that he was sure he and Mario could juggle their work schedules so they could go. I told him, as I’d told the rest of the gang, that I’d pick up the tickets Monday after work.
We arrived at Evan Knight’s around nine and found a place to park about three houses down. This was indeed the Briarwood area, but the homes on this particular street were somewhat smaller than the ostentatious behemoths that made up most of the area. Still, it was a pretty impressive place, and I made a point to compliment Jonathan on the really good job he and Evergreen had done on the yard.
We passed Jake’s pick-up, directly in front of the house, and went up the lighted walkway to the massive double front door. We could hear the sound of music and laughter coming from somewhere at the back of the house.
We rang the bell, and the door was opened by a spectacular number in break-away black pants, a cummerbund, no shirt—one look at him made it clear why—and a white bow tie.
Ah, that Evan Knight, a mind-voice—my crotch, I suspected—said admiringly. Class all the way!
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the hunk said with a smile that made me weak in the knees. “Please come in.”
He showed us through the small foyer into the large living room. There were probably a dozen guys scattered in small groups around the room, and another shirtless Chippendale should-a-been with a tray of hors d’oeuvres was approaching three guys near the window. I was rather surprised to realize I didn’t know a single one of the people in the room.
You’ve been out of circulation far too long, a mind-voice observed wistfully.
“Mr. Knight is out by the pool,” our shirtless wonder said, gesturing with one beautifully biceped arm toward open sliding glass doors at one end of the room. “The bar is just to your left as you step onto the patio.”
The doorbell rang, and our hunk smiled and said, “Excuse me,” and turned to answer it.
We made our way through the living room, exchanging nods of greeting with a few of the other guests, and stepped out onto the large patio, where another dozen or so guys stood in small clusters or milled about. Five more were in the pool. Obviously, none had remembered to bring their bathing suits. I noted that one of the five was Jake, and from what I could see, even through the water…oh, lordy!
We turned to the left and approached the bar, which was set into a small alcove and had another gaggle of guys standing around it, admiring the bartender in a red jacket, white s
hirt with a red tie. I recognized him immediately as Kirk Sims, whom I’d seen bartending at several parties in my single days. As we got closer to the bar I could also see he was not wearing pants.
Jared stood just a little way to one side of the group, a fresh drink in his hand, and a bemused smile on his face. He saw us and gave a grin and a heads up nod of greeting as we walked over to him.
“Hi, guys,” he said, putting one large arm around Jonathan’s shoulders. “Glad you could make it.”
“Us too,” Jonathan said, grinning. “We just saw Jake in the pool and were wondering where you were.”
Jared took a long sip of his drink. “I’ll be going in in a few minutes. Just wanted to have another drink first.”
“Shy?” I asked, teasing.
“Oh, sure, Dick, sure,” he said. “You going to come join us?”
Got ‘cha there! A mind-voice observed. “Uh, I don’t know yet. We just got here and hadn’t thought about it.”
“Well why don’t you go get you and Jonathan a drink, and think about it?”
“Tonic and lime?” Jonathan said, and I nodded and walked to the bar.
“Yes, sir?” Kirk asked, the perfect bartender.
“A beer and a tonic and lime, please,” I said.
He reached beneath the bar’s counter and pulled out a beer, then scooped some ice into a glass, smoothly opened a bottle of tonic water, filled it and garnished it with a large slice of lime. “Would you like that stirred?” he asked politely, lifting up the front of his shirt to reveal a “stirrer” of truly monumental proportions. The other guys around the bar all laughed.
“Not just now, thanks,” I said, and he just gave me a raised-eyebrow grin.
“Chicken!” one of the other guys said good-naturedly.
I just returned his smile, took a few loose bills out of my pocket to drop in the tip jar, then took our drinks and returned to Jared and Jonathan.
“Why didn’t you let him stir it?” Jonathan asked with a grin.