by Dorien Grey
Joshua was set to be released on Thursday. The doctor said he was making an excellent recovery, but said he felt we should keep him home for two weeks to be safe. I wasn’t pleased with that prospect, but we had no choice.
When Monday afternoon rolled around I was actually looking forward to my appointment with Art Manners at the Nightingale. I was more than ready for a Happy Hour.
*
I had to leave the hospital before Jonathan arrived from work, but Joshua took my departure totally in stride, hardly looking up from his coloring book as I hugged him good-bye and left.
It occurred to me as I got to the Nightingale I hadn’t a clue as to what Art Manners looked like. It was 5:20, and there were only five guys in the place, including the bartender. They all looked up as I came in but then went back to their drinks and conversations.
The bartender, who must have weighed close to three hundred pounds and barely fit in the space between the bar and the back bar, came over to take my order.
“A Manhattan,” I said and he merely nodded and went off to make it.
While he was gone, I looked around. The Nightingale was a typical small neighborhood bar, comfortably nondescript. The only attempt at individuality was a metal birdcage suspended from the ceiling in a small alcove set into the back bar, in which was a dusty stuffed bird on a perch. Since I was never very good at ornithology, I took a wild guess that it was supposed to be a nightingale.
I took my drink to a small table against one wall—I knew it might get pretty crowded at the bar, and I wanted a little privacy for my talk with Manners. As I took my fourth or fifth swallow of my Manhattan, the door opened and a short, stocky guy in a crewcut came in. As he approached the bar, I saw that he wasn’t so much stocky as a compact mass of muscle. He looked in my direction then continued to the bar. I heard the bartender say, “Hi, Art,” thereby confirming my assumption.
Manners ordered a beer, paid for it, and came over to me. I gather I was the only unfamiliar face in the place.
“Are you Dick Hardesty?” he asked.
I nodded and extended my hand, which he took with a very strong grip then pulled up a chair and sat down opposite me. A really nice-looking guy, I determined, his outstanding feature being green eyes that contrasted with his medium-brown hair. Sexy.
Down, boy!
Our conversation went pretty much like the other ones I’d had. Manners had lost a close friend shortly before the meeting and blamed both Hysong and himself.
“Drew never went to the Male Call,” he said. “I met him through work. He wasn’t really into leather all that much, but we had other…common interests, you might call them. One night I talked him into coming with me to the Male Call, and Hysong latched onto him so fast I didn’t have time to warn him not to go with that bastard. Six months later he was dead.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” I said.
He looked at me. “Yeah, I can. If I hadn’t taken him to the Male Call, he wouldn’t have gone with Cal and I’m sure he’d still be alive. And I blame Carl, too.”
“Carl Brewer? Why?”
“He knew the rumors. He should have eighty-sixed Cal as soon as he heard them. Instead, he held off until too late. I don’t know how many other guys Cal got to between the time Carl should have done it and the time he did.”
“I understand you’re a friend of Pete Reardon,” I said, deciding it was time to take the conversation in another direction.
“Yeah, I ride with him from time to time. What about it?”
“I’ve heard talk about the Male Call being up for sale and that Reardon is interested in buying it. Do you know anything about it?”
“I’ve heard,” he said.
“Why would Reardon want it? He already has the Spike.”
“The Male Call’s bigger,” he said. “And it belongs to Carl.”
“I know they don’t get along, but…”
Manners’ grin cut me off in mid-sentence.
“‘Don’t get along’ doesn’t come close. Pete still swears Carl had something to do with fire-bombing the Dog Collar and his being sent to jail.”
“As I understand it, Reardon went to jail because the Dog Collar was a firetrap and a disaster just waiting to happen. It did, and twenty-nine guys died.”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
It was clear I had crossed the line in suggesting maybe Reardon might have richly earned his jail time.
“Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
He looked at me. “No, you shouldn’t,” he said. “Pete Reardon is a great guy, and he’s bailed me out of a couple of scrapes. I owe him.”
“I’m a little curious,” I said. “Knowing how Reardon feels about Carl Brewer and the Male Call, why do you go there?”
He took a long swig of his beer. “I said I owe Pete. He doesn’t own me. I go where I want to go.” He then polished off the rest of his beer and got up from his stool. “I’ve gotta get home,” he said and walked out without a backward glance.
Well, that certainly went well, I thought. At least I’d gotten some interesting information from him. Exactly what it meant I had no idea at the moment. Sometimes my mind is like a cow’s stomach, with one chamber for ruminating and another for digesting.
*
I made it back to the hospital by six thirty to find Jonathan sitting beside Joshua’s bed, writing in a notebook.
“Hi, guys,” I said, going over to give each a hug. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Joshua’s been telling me stories, and I’ve been writing them down for him,” Jonathan said. I noticed he had several pages of the notebook folded over.
“Can I read one?” I asked.
“Sure,” Joshua said before Jonathan had a chance to. I’d noted immediately he was looking and feeling much better and was eager to go home.
Jonathan flipped the pages to the first one and handed it to me. It appeared to be an epic saga involving a cowboy who is taking his sick horse to the hospital when he is captured by pirates and then thrown overboard from the pirate ship and is saved by his trusty horse. Not exactly what one could call a linear story—more stream-of-five-year-old-boy consciousness—but it was definitely creative.
“Wow, Joshua!” I said. “This is good! I’ll bet you’re going to be a writer when you grow up.”
He nodded solemnly, though he was obviously pleased by the praise.
“Got time for a break, Jonathan?” I asked. “I can take over while you run down to the cafeteria.”
He got up from the chair and handed me the pen. “Yeah, I am pretty hungry.”
“Me, too!” Joshua said. “I want some ice cream.”
“You had your dinner, remember?” Jonathan reminded him. “We’ll talk to the nurse when she comes back. I won’t be long,” he said, tousling Joshua’s hair.
“Bring me some ice cream!” Joshua called after him as he left the room.
*
After a great deal of persuasion, I convinced Jonathan it would be all right if we both went home after Joshua was asleep.
“We’ve been here every night. He’ll be fine,” I said.
“I know, but…”
“He sleeps straight through anyway. At least he did last night. I asked.”
“Well, yeah, but he wakes up whenever the nurses come in to check him and…”
“And he goes right back to sleep, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And I don’t think he even knows we’re there when he does wake up for those few seconds.”
“Uh, maybe not. He’s too sleepy.”
“Exactly. And look, babe, he’s five years old, and we can’t be hovering over him every minute. He’ll be fine. This way, you can go right to work in the morning. I’ll come back first thing then go in to work myself and come by a couple times during the day. He’s got the TV and his books, and the nurses will keep an eye on him.”
“I should be here.”
“He’ll be fine,” I repeated.
“And I can bring him home without any help, I’m sure.” I thought it was time to pull out my trump card. “Besides,” I said, “we have not had one single night alone in over a year. I think we deserve one, don’t you?”
“I suppose,” he allowed. Then his face broke into that sexy, slow grin and he said, “You can bellow. I miss your bellowing.”
“I never bellow!” I protested.
“Uh-huh.”
The nurse assured us Joshua would be fine and told us to go home and not worry.
After Joshua was soundly asleep, we left.
Oh, and Jonathan was right. I guess I do bellow. A little.
*
As we were getting dressed Tuesday morning I reminded Jonathan it was rehearsal night for the Gay Men’s Chorus.
“Of course you're going,” I said, “It wouldn't look good for you not to show up—this is only your second rehearsal. I'll stay at the hospital until he goes to sleep, and there's no real reason you can't go and enjoy yourself.”
After a little more persuading, he reluctantly agreed.
Thursday finally arrived, and I got Joshua home safely at around two o'clock. He didn't want to go to bed, so I put several pillows on the couch, so he could lie there and watch TV, and covered him with a light blanket. The excitement of getting out of the hospital and being back home had worn him out, and he soon fell asleep, Bunny on the floor beside him.
Since I'd gotten precious little work done since he went to the hospital, I took the opportunity to start writing up some case progress notes for Glen O'Banyon.
Jonathan called around four, waking Joshua up from another nap, asking me if I could start dinner—he suggested macaroni and cheese and hot dogs by way of celebrating Joshua’s return.
“Let me say a quick hi to Joshua,” he said before hanging up, and I carried the phone over to the couch.
“Hi, Uncle Jonathan!” he said. “I’m home!” He listened for a few seconds then said, “Okay. Bye,” and handed the receiver back to me. “We’re having macaroni and cheese and hot dogs tonight,” he announced happily.
After dinner, which we made into an impromptu picnic on Joshua’s bed—the only way we could talk him into getting into his pajamas and under the covers so early—Jonathan left for the chorus and Joshua and I spent some time “playing cards.” When he decided he wanted to color, I went into the living room to call our friends, to whom we’d not talked since Joshua’d gone to the hospital, to let them know what was going on.
Bob and Mario were already at work, so I left a short message on their machine. Phil and Tim expressed surprise and said they’d like to come over and see Joshua the next night. Since Jonathan had made a huge pot of chili a week or so before and the containers had left little room in the freezer for anything else, I suggested they join us for dinner and they agreed.
Not sure whether Jared was still commuting to Mountjoy from Jake’s during the week, I called Jake’s number after making a quick check-in on Joshua. I felt I owed it to Jake and Jared to let them know what was going on with the case, too, so was glad to find Jake home. Jared, I learned, was back to spending the work week at Mountjoy.
I first told Jake about Joshua’s trip to the hospital, and like Tim and Phil, he expressed surprise and concern.
“Jared’ll be here Friday night…maybe we can come by and see him. Is there anything we can bring him?”
“Thanks,” I said, “but he’s already spoiled rotten. He’s got enough toys and books to last him until he goes off to college. He’ll just be glad to see you.”
Jake brought up the case before I had a chance to. “So, how’s your investigation going, if I can ask?”
“Of course, you can ask!” I said and gave him a quick rundown of my conversations with the guys from the meeting.
“You still think it was one of them, then?” he asked.
“Well, they all knew you had the gun, and they’re the most likely to have figured out where it was. Your bathroom has two doors, right?”
“Yeah, from the hall and from the bedroom, but I always keep the bedroom door closed.”
“But someone could get from the bathroom into the bedroom to look for the gun, right? Especially if the hall door to the bedroom was closed, they wouldn’t be seen.”
There was a pause. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. That never occurred to me.”
“Do you remember who went to the bathroom that night?”
He laughed. “I have a hard enough time remembering what I had for breakfast this morning,” he said. “Remembering who might have gone to the bathroom weeks ago…sorry.”
“No problem,” I said.
“So, anybody stand out as a prime suspect?”
“Not really. They all had a damned good motive. You don’t run into someone like Hysong very often, thank God.” I paused while my mind did a quick flashback through my conversations.
“What do you know about Tom Spinoza and Art Manners?” I asked.
“Good question,” Jake said. “Tom likes to play hard-ass, but I think his bark’s worse than his bite. I think he gets a kick out of ticking people off.”
“Yeah, well, he succeeded with me,” I said, and he laughed.
“I’m not surprised,” he said, “but Tom’s basically okay. As for Art, he’s a good-enough guy, but there’s something…I don’t know. It’s hard to put my finger on. I understand he’s really close to Pete Reardon, and I always wondered why he spends so much time at the Male Call, considering the bad blood between Pete and Carl Brewer. Not that guys don’t go to both places, but…”
“I was wondering the same thing. You suppose he might be keeping tabs on the Male Call for Reardon?”
“Hmm, that never occurred to me, but I wouldn’t be surprised. It seemed like he was always up on the latest rumors, though I don’t remember that he particularly went out of his way to spread them.”
“How does Manners get along with Carl?”
“Okay, I guess. I know they speak, but I’ve never seen them having much of a conversation. I’m sure Carl knows about Art being close to Pete. But again, you have to remember we’ve never been what either of us would consider regulars at the Male Call. All we really know is what we pick up when we do go there.”
“Understood,” I said.
We talked for a few more minutes then said our good-byes. I returned to Joshua’s bedroom just in time for Story Time.
*
Jonathan got home around ten, and by the time I’d filled him in on my phone conversations and our busy upcoming weekend, it was time for bed. My mind wouldn’t let me sleep, though. It kept replaying my conversations with the guys from the meeting. Again, any one of them could very well have done it. They all had a solid motive and they all were angry, but for some reason, Spinoza and Manners’ anger seemed to have an element of—What? Defensiveness?—in it. True, with Manners I’d undoubtedly provoked it, but still…
Once again, the gun was the pivotal element in this whole case. Whoever had stolen it had killed Hysong, and while there were probably an untold number of guys out there he had infected and who but for the gun might also have been prime suspects, not all of them knew about Jake’s gun and only one person had taken it.
I’d never given much thought to “Why Jake’s gun?” It was clearly a matter of opportunity. Most people don’t have guns of their own, and to buy one for the purpose of killing someone, as Don Gleason had done, would be a slam dunk for the police when it came to tracing the murder weapon to the killer. So, knowing someone else had a gun that could be stolen—and particularly a rifle with the power and range of Jake’s…
So, though I might be wrong—it’s been known to happen—I was pretty much staking everything on it being one of the guys at the meeting. If I was wrong, well…
I’m not sure what time I finally did get to sleep, but it seemed as though I’d just dozed off when I felt Jonathan move my arm from over his chest as he got up, and I cracked one eye open to see that it was morning. Damn! I hate w
hen that happens.
The next thing I knew, I heard the shower running and was aware of someone standing beside the bed, not two feet from my face. I opened my eyes to see Joshua, his pajama top pulled up with one hand.
“You wanna see my scar?” he asked.
Apparently, the bandage I’d put on after changing it before Story Time the night before had come off during the night, showing a bright red scar about two inches long.
“That’s a very nice scar, Joshua,” I said. “Thank you for showing it to me. I’ll get you a new bandage in a minute.”
“That’s okay,” he said, dropping his pajama top back in place and turning to pad out of the room toward the kitchen.
I got up quickly, threw on my robe and followed him; as I’d suspected, he was dragging a chair over to the cupboard preparatory to climbing up on it to reach into the cabinet for the cereal. I didn’t want him to do any stretching just yet, so I hurried over and said, “I’ll get it, Joshua. You can get the milk out of the refrigerator for me.”
I got the cereal, a bowl, and a large and small glass out of the cupboard and set them on the table as he came over with the milk. Rather than let him scramble up on the chair as he normally did, I lifted him onto the thick cushion that enabled him to reach the table then went to get him some juice from the refrigerator.
“As soon as you finish your cereal, we’ll put on a new bandage,” I said.
“Can I go to school today?” he asked, splashing milk over the mound of cereal in his bowl.
“Not for a while yet,” I said. “We want to make sure you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” he said, munching a mouthful of cereal. “I want to show them my scar.”
“It’ll still be there,” I said, pouring water into the coffeemaker. “Trust me.”
Jonathan came into the kitchen, toweling his hair.
“Hi, Uncle Jonathan!” Joshua said, pulling up his pajama top. “You wanna see my scar?”
Jonathan shot me a look, and I said, “His bandage must have come off during the night. I told him I’d put a new one on as soon as he finishes his cereal.”