The Dream Ender

by Dorien Grey

  I tried my best to push the conversation aside long enough to enjoy our dinner, which was made a little easier by the fact that Jonathan had gotten a haircut on his lunch hour and was wearing a new shirt. He looked so spectacular that as we were looking at our menus I blurted out, “Jeezus, I love you!”

  He looked up from his menu, gave me a small smile, said, “I’m rather fond of you, too,” and went back to the menu—but I felt his foot rubbing up against my leg.

  It was eight thirty when we left Napoleon and drove to Daddy-O’s. I’d called Thursday when I got home to verify that Scotty DeVose, one of Brewer’s fired bartenders, was still employed there. I was determined that despite my conversation with Mel Franklin I would try to cling to my objectivity.

  Daddy-O’s was a pleasant little neighborhood bar not too far from The Central, the city’s main predominantly gay district. I’d not been to Daddy-O’s in years, but like most neighborhood bars, it hadn’t changed much. It was early, so there were probably eight guys sitting at the bar. A lesbian couple was playing darts, and another was deeply engaged in conversation in one of the booths.

  We took seats at one end of the bar as the bartender came over to take our order. His long hair was pulled tightly back into a rubber-banded ponytail, and he had a short chin-strap beard.

  “What can I get you gentlemen?” he asked.

  “A draft for me and…” I turned to look at Jonathan.

  “Tonic and lime,” he supplied.

  “A man after my own heart,” the bartender said with a smile. “Comin’ right up.”

  As he moved off for our drinks, I took a bill and a business card out of my billfold and laid them on the bar.

  “Do you have a minute?” I asked when he returned. I pushed the card toward him, and he picked it up.

  “A P.I., huh?” he said. “We don’t get many of those in here. What do you need?”

  “I’m looking into these rumors about someone deliberately spreading AIDS. Do you know anything about them?”

  He put the card back on the bar. “I’ve heard them, of course,” he said. “But I can’t believe anybody would do something like that.”

  “Have you heard any names mentioned?”

  He shook his head. “Just some names of guys who claim to know someone who knows someone—you know how rumors are. I can’t remember anything specific about any of them. The Male Call is mentioned a lot, though, now that I think of it. I used to work there. It’s a pretty rough place, so I’m not surprised.”

  “Do you have any reason to think, having worked there, there’s anything to the rumors?”

  “I couldn’t say. I was drinking too much back then and a lot of it’s sort of a blur. It took my getting canned to pull my act together.” He indicated Jonathan’s tonic and lime with a nod of his head. “That’s as strong as I go now.

  “But as for the Male Call, like I say, it’s a pretty rough place, and a hell of a lot goes on there that wouldn’t be tolerated in other bars. So, it’s not surprising the place would be a rumor mill.”

  “So, nothing specific about anybody getting AIDS from someone there?”

  He glanced up and down the bar to see if anyone needed another drink then said, “Look, guys who go to leather bars either are tough or want everybody to think they are. Intimidation and control are all part of the game. You have to take it all with a pound and a half of salt.”

  He picked up the bill I’d set out and headed for the cash register.

  “Keep the change,” I told him.

  “Thanks,” he said over his shoulder.

  *

  We made quick stops at two other bars between Daddy-O’s and Venture, neither of which produced any useful new information, and arrived at Venture shortly after ten. The place was just beginning to fill up, and I knew that by eleven it would be jammed.

  We looked around for Mario but didn’t see him. The smaller bar by the dance floor wasn’t open yet, but there were three bartenders at the main bar. I had no idea which one might be Ray, but we walked over to the nearest and ordered. After three beers, I’d switched to a weak bourbon-Seven, and I was sure with all the quinine Jonathan was consuming in his tonic with limes he’d never have to worry about malaria.

  Just as we were picking up our drinks, Mario appeared and, spotting us, came over.

  “Let’s move over here,” he said, leading us to the far end of the bar. He indicated the bartender closest to us, one my crotch had pointed out to me when we entered—blond crew-cut, obviously tailored short sleeve white shirt that molded his impressive biceps, probably older than he looked. “That’s Ray,” he said. “I’ll get him for you in a minute.”

  Though Mario was as relaxed as if we were sitting in his living room, we knew he was working, and that riding herd on a busy gay bar wasn’t the easiest of jobs. Sure enough, less than two minutes into our conversation one of the other bartenders flagged him down, telephone in hand, and Mario excused himself. On the way down the bar, he stopped to say something to Ray, who looked in our direction and nodded then went back to fixing a drink.

  A few minutes later, Ray came over.

  “I’m Ray,” he said, extending his hand to first Jonathan then me. “Mario says you have some questions for me?”

  “Yeah,” I said, noticing his eyes kept moving back to the customers near his station. “We won’t keep you long. I’m trying to track down the source of these rumors about somebody deliberately spreading AIDS.”

  “Yeah, Mario told us all to start paying attention to them. Lots of talk, little substance.”

  “I understand you worked at the Male Call,” I said.

  “That’s right. And if you know that you know I got canned for threatening to deck the boss. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m only interested in getting to the base of the rumors. A lot of them seem to wind their way back to the Male Call.”

  “Well, I don’t know who’s spreading them, but I know it isn’t me.” he said. “Carl Brewer’s a prick, and I wouldn’t piss on the Male Call if it was on fire, but saying someone from there was deliberately spreading AIDS—no way, unless I knew for a fact it was true. And I don’t.”

  “Well, I’ve heard a couple names mentioned from the Male Call.”

  He nodded. “Cal Hysong, I’ll bet.”

  I hoped my surprise didn’t show. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, for one thing, compared to Cal, every other guy in the bar is a drag queen, and if you doubt it just ask him. I don’t know what there is about that guy everybody finds so fucking hot, but they sure as hell do. And the guy’s an arrogant asshole. He treats everybody like shit, and they’d still fall on their backs and throw their legs up in the air anytime he snapped his fingers.”

  “Well,” I said, “he’s not the only ultra-butch guy at the Male Call.”

  “No, but he’s the only one I know of who didn’t start wearing condoms as soon as they figured out how it’s spread. Man, that’s asking for trouble these days. And anybody who would let him get away with it is asking for it, too. I’d really hate to think that anybody would knowingly infect somebody else, but if anybody would, my bet’s on Cal Hysong.”

  Increasingly, so was mine.

  *

  Even though the evening was fairly frustrating from the standpoint of finding out anything I hadn’t either already known or suspected—and that in itself bothered me because I couldn’t be sure exactly how objective I was really being, or whether I was just accepting things because they fit in with what I already thought—the time with Jonathan was very pleasant. Talking with Jimmy and Bob at Ramon’s was nice, though not even Jimmy, who attracted rumors like a magnet attracts metal shavings, could supply any additional information, and spending time at Griff’s listening to Guy Prentiss sing old show tunes was, as always, a great pleasure.

  We got home around one to find Craig curled up asleep on the couch in front of the TV. I wasn’t sure if we should w
ake him or just let him sleep, but he woke up when Jonathan turned the set off.

  “Hi,” he said sleepily. “How was your evening?”

  “Great,” Jonathan said with a smile. “Joshua behave himself?”

  “No problem. I read him a story before bedtime and he ‘read’ me one. He’s got ’em all memorized.”

  Jonathan got the couch ready while Craig excused himself and went into the bathroom. He came padding out a minute later in his shorts, his clothes over one arm; he laid those carefully out on a chair.

  I must say, Craig was definitely crossing the threshold between being a kid and a young man. Jonathan saw me looking at him and gave me a small grin then mouthed the words “Don’t drool,” which fortunately Craig didn’t catch. We said our goodnights and went to bed.

  “Was I ever that young?” I asked as we got under the covers.

  “Oh, come on, Gramps, it’s not that bad,” Jonathan said, moving closer. “Besides, Craig and I aren’t all that far apart in age.”

  “Rub it in,” I said and turned off the light.

  Chapter 10

  We’d arranged with Craig to come over Sunday after church and stay with Joshua while we met Jake and Jared for brunch at Rasputin’s, one of the places we used to go fairly regularly BJ—before Joshua. They were there, sitting at the bar, when we arrived and got up for an exchange of hugs.

  “Hey, Jonathan,” Jake said, taking him by the shoulders and stepping back to arm’s length. “You been working out? You’re lookin’ good!” Then he turned his head to look at me. “You…eh!”

  Jonathan blushed furiously as he did every time Jake flattered him.

  “No, just working,” he said. “And I think Dick looks great.”

  Jake grinned at me. “He’ll do.”

  While I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask about what they might know about the Male Call and its clientele, I determined I wouldn’t say anything if neither of them brought it up, and they didn’t. We talked about everything except the Male Call and the rumors and the shadow I could sense even now had fallen over our two friends.

  But when Jake excused himself to go to the bathroom while we were finishing our coffee, Jared reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a piece of paper.

  “The phone numbers you asked for,” he said.

  I took it without a word and put it into my own pocket.

  I’m paid to get information. I have no control over what that information might be or what the person hiring me might do with it once I give it to him. Contrary to what Brewer had suspected, I hadn’t found any indication of a direct tie-in to Pete Reardon or anyone from the Spike as being instrumental in spreading the rumors. But every bit of information I had gathered thus far on who might be deliberately spreading AIDS pointed directly at Cal Hysong.

  I was more than a little conflicted. I felt Brewer had a right to know what I’d found out so far, but I still had some other leads I wanted to follow—specifically, talking to the guys on the list Jared had given me at brunch. But, I reasoned, at least I could give Brewer a heads up.

  I waited, again, until ten thirty Monday morning before dialing his number.

  “Brewer.”

  “Mr. Brewer, Dick Hardesty. I’ll be writing up a full report later but wanted to give you a quick rundown on what’s going on.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been wondering.”

  “Would you like to get together for a few minutes today?” I could as easily do it over the phone, though I really always prefer to talk to clients face to face.

  “I’ve got a busy day today. Can we just do it over the phone?”

  “Sure.”

  “So, what have you got?”

  “I’ve still got several leads to follow,” I said, “but there’s one constant in everything I’ve found out so far, which is why I’m mentioning it now.”

  I then laid out for him what I’d been doing, to whom I’d talked, what they’d told me and what I’d deduced from it. I pointed out again that there were still paths to follow, but that I could find no evidence Reardon or anyone from the Spike was engaged in a concerted effort to put the Male Call out of business. More important, I told him, at this point, everything centered on the strong probability that Cal Hysong had AIDS and was knowingly giving it to the men with whom he had sex.

  I did not tell him about my conversation with Stan Jacobson, but I did mention the fact of Hysong’s insistence on sex in the dark and on wearing at least a towel in the baths.

  When I finished, there was a long pause—to the point where I was beginning to wonder if he was still on the line. Then, just before I spoke, Brewer said, “Okay. I’ll take it from here. You can send me your bill.”

  Send him my bill? Whoa, there, cowboy!

  “Uh,” I said. (I hate saying “uh,” it makes me look like I’ve been caught by surprise. Well, I had been.) “We still don’t know without question that it’s Hysong. It’s your decision, of course, and I’m certainly not out to pad my bill, but…”

  “No,” Brewer said, “You only confirmed what I suspected.”

  “Can I ask what you plan to do?” I said, wishing to hell I hadn’t even called him until I’d at least checked with the guys on Jared’s list.

  “I’m not sure. But the first thing I’m going to do is to permanently eighty-six Hysong and tell him that if I ever catch him within two hundred feet of the Male Call, I’ll blow his fucking head off.”

  His voice was calm, but I could sense the anger under the calm. I hoped to God he wasn’t planning on doing something stupid. And if he was serious about my sending him my bill, that meant I’d just managed to talk myself out of a client.

  I’d give it a couple of days to see if he might call. In the meantime, though, I wouldn’t pass up any other offers.

  *

  When Brewer hadn’t called back by Thursday, I finished writing up my report to him—most of which I’d told him on the phone already—and prepared my bill. I still felt a little—what? Guilty? No, more ill at ease—over the idea that I hadn’t taken the case as far as it could possibly have gone if Brewer hadn’t chopped it off. I really hadn’t expected him to do that, but I should have learned by now that people don’t always do what I expect them to do.

  Friday night, just as we were finishing dinner Bob called to invite us—Joshua included—to a barbecue at their place on Sunday, and we accepted with thanks.

  “Oh,” he said after we’d gotten the what-time-and-what-can-we-bring (I volunteered potato salad) details out of the way, “have you heard the latest rumor going around?”

  “Great,” I said. “That’s all we need, another rumor going around. What’s this one about?”

  “About a guy named Cal Hysong. He got eighty-sixed from the Male Call for spreading AIDS.”

  Well, Brewer certainly hadn’t wasted any time. I hadn’t a doubt in the world about the source of this tidbit. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been handing out fliers.

  “No, I hadn’t,” I said. “But guilty or not, I wouldn’t want to be in Hysong’s shoes. People will be avoiding him like the plague—no pun intended—and he probably won’t be able to walk into any bar in town.”

  “Yeah, but if he is guilty, at least when he shows up anywhere, people will know the fox is in the henhouse.”

  “So much for innocent until proven guilty,” I said.

  “You think he’s innocent?” Bob asked, sounding incredulous.

  “Frankly, no, I don’t. But I’d just like to be absolutely sure before we start forming a lynch mob.”

  “Agreed, but under the circumstances, better safe now than maybe sorry later.”

  “Yeah, but that’s the tragic part—no one’s safe.”

  *

  Saturday afternoon we made a family project of making potato salad to take to Bob and Mario’s barbecue. While I’ve never been on Julia Childs’ Christmas card list, I do make a mean potato salad—a throwback to my single days when I’d make a huge batch and eat it all week long
, and I learned that the flavor is always better if you make it the day before you start eating it. We let Joshua “help” by mixing the chopped onions, celery, and olives with a long wooden spoon in a deep pot to keep spillage to a minimum. Then, when we had it in the bowl and sprinkled with paprika, we let him arrange egg slices and whole olives on top.

  We got to Bob and Mario’s at around two, to find Jake and Jared already there. Tim and Phil pulled into the drive right behind us. Joshua insisted on carrying in the potato salad. Mario held the screen door open for the five of us as we entered the kitchen.

  “Look what I made!” Joshua announced to the others sitting around the kitchen table, then marched it over to Bob, who stood at the kitchen counter making hamburger patties.

  Bob wiped his hands on a towel and took the bowl. “This looks great, Joshua,” he said. “And you made it yourself?”

  Joshua nodded. “Yep,” he said, then looking quickly at Jonathan and me, added, “Almost.”

  At that point, one of their two cats—I couldn’t tell if it was Butch or Pancake (long story)—made the mistake of walking into the room, and Joshua was off like a shot.

  “Joshua!” Jonathan cautioned. “Take it easy!”

  “That’s okay,” Mario said with a grin. “They can take care of themselves.” He put the potato salad into the fridge and took out beers for Tim, Phil, and me and a Coke for Jonathan. “I’ve got lemonade when Joshua’s ready.”

  When Bob had finished making the hamburgers, we all moved out into the fenced-in backyard. I noticed the grill and the picnic table were already set up. Joshua had been reluctant to leave the cats, who were not allowed outside, but he soon became engaged in looking for the box tortoise that Mario assured him was somewhere in the yard.