The Dream Ender

by Dorien Grey

  “Did you know any of the guys on the…the other list…well enough to know anything about them? Lovers? Friends? Where, other than the Male Call, they hung out?”

  There was a slight pause. “I probably knew most of them, or at least knew who they were. But there were only a couple I knew really well. Stu Elliot had been a friend for years. His best buddy, Mark, still comes in frequently. I can put you in touch with him if you’d like. John Ellysse was one of the roughest, toughest studs I ever knew. Nobody messed with John. I don’t think he went anywhere else. He didn’t have time. What hardly anybody but me knew was that he lived with and took care of his sister, who has Down syndrome. She was his life.” He paused again, longer this time, then said, “Christ! What a fucking waste!”

  I could clearly hear the bitterness and anger in his voice.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” he continued. “If I ever found out that somebody was actually going around deliberately giving AIDS to other guys, I swear to God I’d kill him myself!”

  *

  I waited until I was sure Mario and Bob would be up then called. Bob answered, and from the faint sound of a lawnmower in the background I assumed he was at the kitchen phone by an open window.

  “Got the farmhands out on the south forty, I hear,” I said.

  “Hey,” Bob replied, “he’s younger than I am. Besides, he needs the exercise. I get all I need doing dishes. To what do we owe the honor of a midweek daytime call?”

  “Two things,” I said. “I’ve been hired to look into the source of these rumors about somebody deliberately spreading AIDS, and I need your and Mario’s help.”

  “Sure!” He didn’t ask who had hired me, but I hadn’t expected him to. Bob never pushed. “These rumors are everywhere,” he continued, “and they’re making everyone even more skittish than they already were. It’s hurt all our businesses, but I understand it’s been really hard on the Male Call. What do you need?”

  “I need to know everything I can about who’s spreading the rumor and where they heard it. I’m going to try to track it backwards to see if it points to anyone in particular. Could you and Jimmy…”—Bob’s fulltime bartender at Ramon’s—“…make some sort of list for me? I know it’s a lot to ask, but there’s a lot on the line here. If it’s just a rumor, I want to know who started it, and if it’s not a rumor, somebody’s got to find and stop this guy.”

  “Of course, we’ll help,” Bob said, “but if there is somebody deliberately spreading AIDS, there really isn’t very much anybody can do about it. It isn’t a crime—that I know of.”

  He was right. Deliberately kill someone with a gun and there’s no question you’ll face a murder charge. Deliberately kill someone by giving them AIDS and…Gee, fella, that wasn’t a nice thing to do. Possibly some civil suit or other could be filed, but I wasn’t sure what the basis would be, or who would file it—the victim often didn’t live long enough to go through the suing process.

  “I’m not sure what can be done about it,” I admitted. “But people have to know the truth. There’s very little of it around these days, and these rumors are hurting everybody.”

  Bob sighed. “I agree. It was bad enough when we had to live in fear of the police. Now we have to be afraid of one another.”

  I no longer heard the sound of the lawnmower in the background, and a moment later there was the creak of a spring as, I assumed, the screen door to the kitchen opened.

  “Is Mario handy?” I asked. “I’ve got a question for him.”

  “Sure,” Bob said. “He just walked in. Here he is.” I heard a lowered-voiced, “Dick wants to talk to you,” followed by Mario’s, “Hi, Dick. What’s up?”

  “Bob can fill you in on most of it, but I wanted to ask you something about one of your bartenders—guy named Ray.”

  “Ray Croft? What do you want to know?”

  “Do you know where he worked before he came to Venture?”

  “He last worked at the Male Call,” he said. “Why?”

  I really didn’t like the idea of maybe getting someone into trouble, but I was curious as to what reason Ray may have given for leaving the Male Call.

  “Did he say why he left?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he told me he’d threatened to punch out the owner and got canned. Brewer’s got a reputation for being really tough on his employees, so while I can’t approve of what Ray did, I can understand it. But I’d been in there a couple of times while he was on duty and he’s a damned good bartender, so when he came to Venture, I hired him. We get along fine.”

  “Have you heard Ray badmouthing either Brewer or the Male Call—or linking the rumors of someone spreading AIDS to the Male Call?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. I always tell our bartenders they’re there to listen not to talk. But now that I think of it, what Bob said at brunch is true—a lot of the rumors do seem to involve the Male Call. Care to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I explained it to Bob, but I’ve been hired to track down the source of these rumors and find out if there’s any truth behind them. He can fill you in on what I need.”

  Like Bob, Mario didn’t ask who hired me, but I don’t think he had to.

  “I’ll be glad to do whatever I can,” he said.

  We talked for a few more minutes then said our good-byes and hung up.

  I made a list of other bar owners, managers, and bartenders I knew well enough to ask for help and decided to devote a night to making the rounds to talk to them. I figured maybe Jonathan and I could make a night of it and also made a note to call Craig Richmond to see if he might be available to watch Joshua either Friday or Saturday night.

  And so the day passed in lists and notes and planning just how best to go about my investigation.

  *

  My list of bars, of course, included Hughie’s, a hustler bar close to my office and for a while a regular afterwork hangout, not because of the hustlers but for the fact they serve dark beer on tap—and in frosted mugs, no less. It was at Hughie’s I had met Jonathan.

  I seldom went to Hughie’s anymore, now that I had a reason to go right home from work, plus I knew Jonathan didn’t want to be reminded, even by proxy, of his brief hustler days.

  While Hughie’s and the Male Call didn’t have much of a crossover clientele, I knew that there wasn’t much in this town going on that Bud, Hughie’s perennial bartender, didn’t know about. So, I left the office an hour early and walked the two blocks to the bar.

  I hadn’t been there in a couple of months, and while the interior had not changed by so much as a replaced burned-out lightbulb, I sensed…something different…and for some reason, that felt very, very strange. Hughie’s never changed. Never. I always thought of it as a time warp. Hughie’s today was Hughie’s five years ago and Hughie’s five years from now. Different and Hughie’s didn’t belong in the same sentence.

  One of the things I noticed as I walked to the bar—Bud had, as usual, seen me enter and reached into the cooler for a frosted mug—was that it was a little after four yet there was practically no one in the place. Usually, the hustlers started drifting in between three and four o’clock, anticipating the arrival of johns as soon as the offices started closing. Now, there were only two guys I could have spotted as hustlers from a block away and two or three regulars—the same guys who had been there the last time I was, sitting on the same stools.

  Bud had my beer waiting when I reached the bar, and I dug a bill out of my pocket to hand him.

  “How’s it goin’, Bud?” I asked, as I did every single time I came into the place.

  “Pretty good, Dick. You?”

  “Pretty good. Really busy, but otherwise pretty good.” I looked around the bar. “Where is everybody?”

  He shrugged. “Business is off lately,” he said, and he didn’t have to explain why.

  “I wanted to ask you about that,” I said. “You got a minute to talk?”

  He slowly looked up and down the bar. “What do you think?”
/>   I grinned.

  “So, what do you want to know?” he asked, putting both hands on the bar.

  “What do you know about these rumors of somebody deliberately infecting other guys?”

  “I’ve heard stories,” he said noncommittally.

  “Any specifics? People? Places?”

  He lowered his head, thought a minute, then looked back up at me.

  “You know how rumors are,” he said. “They’re all over hell, and they can be damned bad for business. The hustlers don’t talk about it—at least when the johns can hear. It’s bad for business. A lot of the johns who come in here, they’re straight, but even they’re becoming aware of AIDS and they’re getting skittish. And the minute they hear one story about somebody handing out AIDS like breath mints, they’re gone.

  “You never hear definite names, though, which is typical with rumors. There’s hints that it’s this one or it’s that one.”

  I nodded. “Well, could you do me a real favor and try to remember any specific names you might hear? I’m trying to track down the source of these rumors and to find out if there’s any truth to them.”

  “Sure,” he said. “It does seem that I hear the Male Call come up more often than any other bar, though. Rumor has it a lot of guys from there have it.”

  “Has Hughie’s lost any yet?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Only one that I know of. But it’s hard to tell. This place is pretty much a revolving door. Hustling’s a high-turnover and competitive business. Most of these guys are loners…I don’t know where they came from before they got here or where they go after they leave. It’s none of my business. I just serve beer.”

  A thirty-something guy in a business suit walked in, and Bud left to take his order as one of the hustlers picked up his own beer and sidled over toward the newcomer.

  Let the games begin!

  I finished my beer, put another bill on the bar for Bud and left.

  *

  That evening, having talked with Jonathan and called Craig to verify that he’d be available Friday night—he and Bill were going to a dance for gay and lesbian teens at the MCC’s Haven House on Saturday—I called Jared in Carrington. Luckily, he was home.

  We talked for a minute or two before I got to the main reason for my call.

  “Carl Brewer’s hired me to check into all these rumors about someone from the Male Call spreading AIDS.” I’m not normally that open about discussing my business, not even with Jonathan, but I knew I could talk to Jared, especially about something which by extension involved both him and Jake. “He wants to find out if there’s any validity to them,” I continued, “and if there is, who might be responsible.”

  “I sure as hell hope it’s only rumor,” Jared said. “I can’t comprehend anyone spreading this thing knowingly!”

  “Well, one thing I’m going to try to do is track your friend Mike’s sexual partners.”

  “Good luck on that one!” Jared said.

  “I know,” I agreed, “but I’m going to do the best I can. Do you know of any of the guys Mike had sex with before he got sick?”

  There was a pause. “Other than me and Jake, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Did he ever mention any names to you?”

  Another pause. “Not that I can think of,” he said. “But…I do remember him bragging at a party that he’d finally landed Cal Hysong. That was maybe six weeks before he…found out.”

  “Who’s Cal Hysong?” I asked.

  “Well, Cal’s sort of the alpha butch at the Male Call. As you know, a lot of the guys who go there do it for the fantasy. They put on being butch like they put on their leather. But not Cal. He’s the real article, and to land Cal is like landing a Great White. I’ve seen him just snap his fingers and have guys drop down and lick his boots.”

  Actually, I’d bet there were a lot of guys who’d be more than willing to lick Jared’s boots if he wanted them to, but I set my fantasies aside to let him continue.

  “He doesn’t like to take no for an answer, and I’ve had a couple of run-ins with him in the past. Remember when you had to bail me out of jail after that row at the Male Call awhile back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it was Cal I got into it with. He’s a first-class prick. We nearly got into it again last time we were in there.”

  “What happened this time?”

  “Pretty much a carbon copy of the first time. Cal was hitting on some guy who was way out of his league playing butch. Cal wanted to take him into the back room and the guy didn’t want to go. I finally stepped in and told Cal that if he didn’t back off, I’d kick the shit out of him…again. We would have gotten into it right then if the owner hadn’t stepped in.”

  “I’m sure I’ve seen him, but I can’t picture him off-hand.”

  “Well, you don’t go to the Male Call that often. Like most predators he has his own territory, and the Male Call’s it for him. Every now and then he’ll go out to the ‘faggot bars’ and ‘troll for fucks,’ as he puts it. That fishing analogy’s his, by the way. He doesn’t have any friends that I know of. He’s a biker, but while he’ll go on a run with some other guys every now and then he still stays aloof. But I guess the king doesn’t need friends as long as he’s got people intimidated.”

  “I gather he’s not your type?” I said. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

  “Nope,” Jared said. “He’s just a little too serious about it all for my taste. Sex should be fun and I don’t think fun is a word I’d associate with Cal. Jake’s always thought he was hot, though.”

  Knowing that Jake and Jared had a very open relationship and that they sometimes didn’t see each other for a week or so, I wondered if Jake had ever had the chance to act on his attraction. But that was for more my erotic fantasy than it was my business, so of course, I didn’t ask.

  “Who was at the party where Mike said he’d been with Hysong? Can you remember? Did Mike have sex that night with anyone there?”

  “Well, okay, so it was more of an orgy than a regular party. I think just about everybody was with just about everybody else at some point in the evening. I saw Mike with Jim Prescott and Ted Wills and Monty…” He paused to think “…Sherman. Oh, yeah and Brad Scott. And Jake and me.”

  “Sounds like some party,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah.” He was quiet for a long minute before he said, “When I think that Mike might have had it even then, and that he might have passed it on to some of the guys there that night…Jesus, that’s scary!”

  “Do you know if any of the guys you mentioned have…had any problems?”

  “Not that I know of. We’ve seen most of them—I can’t remember which ones, exactly—at the Male Call at one time or another since then, and they all seemed to be fine.”

  I’d reached for a pencil and written down the names Jared had mentioned. I’d try to check on them. “You got phone numbers on any of these guys?”

  “Some of them,” he said. “I’ll check my book and get them to you. And maybe Jake’s got some I don’t have.”

  We made plans for brunch on Sunday—Jared was coming in to spend the weekend with Jake.

  “He’s working his ass off again,” he said, exasperation clear in his voice. “I should stay up here this weekend to get some things done, but I know he’d be working Saturday if I didn’t come down there and keep him from it. These bullheaded Norwegians never learn.”

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday morning was spent roughly plotting out Friday night’s bar tour and who I hoped to talk to at each stop. There were a couple of places I did not want to take Jonathan—the Male Call and the Spike among them. Okay, I know we just went through that “I’m overprotective” thing, but, damn it, I don’t want to expose him to any situation that could lead to problems.

  Actually, I realized, a lot of it had to do with the fact that I didn’t trust myself not to slip into my possessive “Me Tarzan. Him Boy. Boy mine!” Scorpio mode if some pseudo-butch number made a
pass at him. I’m not particularly proud of it, but it’s there and I have to live with it.

  We couldn’t really hit very many bars in one night, anyway. Most started filling up around ten, so I figured we could make it more of an “us two” night out by going to dinner first, which would still let us get to at least one or two of the bars before the bartenders and/or owners got too busy. We’d hit Daddy-O’s, a nice little neighborhood bar where Brewer said DeVose, one of his fired bartenders, worked, then go to Venture—I made a note to call Mario to be sure Ray Croft would be on duty—and move on to Bob Allen’s bar, Ramon’s, to talk to Jimmy, Bob’s primary bartender. Jimmy could be waiting on a customer at one end of the bar and not miss a word of a conversation going on at the other end. Then we’d wrap up the evening at Griff’s, which I saved for last because it was our favorite piano bar.

  After I got back from lunch—I just ran downstairs to the diner in the lobby for a grilled ham and cheese, fries, and coffee—I pulled out the list I’d made of the Male Call dead and ill. There are times in this job that I wished to hell I didn’t have to do something, and this was right up there at the top of them.

  Luckily, I’d separated the two groups, and while it was the ill who were most likely to give me the information I needed, I hated the idea of having to pry into how they got the disease they knew would undoubtedly kill them and probably soon.

  So, I decided to start with those already dead to see if their friends or partners could give me any information at all on how they might have contracted it.

  I’ll spare you the details of each and every call. As a matter of fact, I was only able to make three before I had to give up simply because I couldn’t deal with having my guts ripped out by the grief of those the dead left behind. But as for useful information, there were some interesting comments.

  Though I knew they were all patrons of the Male Call, I asked if they were regulars at any other bars, or if they had any indication where and how they had contracted it. Three were directly traceable to the Male Call’s back room, and, most telling of all, two mentioned the name of the bar’s “alpha butch,” as Jared had called him—Cal Hysong. Each of the two had considered being screwed by Hysong something of a feather in their cap. Actually, it might have been a nail in their coffin.