by Dorien Grey
“So, Art did what, now?”
“He stole the gun that killed Cal Hysong,” I repeated.
“How do you know that?”
“The police found his fingerprints.”
“On the gun?”
“No, on Jake’s window ledge, which pins Art to stealing the gun, and they figure whoever stole it used it.”
Reardon shook his head slowly in a wide arc.
“That stupid sonofabitch!” he said. I wasn’t quite sure how he meant that.
“You didn’t know anything about it?” I asked.
“He hated Hysong’s guts. I knew that.”
Was it just me, or did I hear the sound of tapdancing?
“Do you think he could have killed him?”
He looked at me as though the thought had never occurred to him. I wasn’t convinced.
“Shit, that sonofabitch was crazy enough to do anything.”
Well, that was an interesting response, I thought.
“He could have?” I echoed. “Do you have any reason to suspect he might have?”
He stared at me for a minute before answering.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t feel right talking about Art—him being dead and all…”
“I understand you and Manners were close.”
He shrugged. “Neither one of us was exactly the ‘close’ type, but we got along pretty good. So what?”
“I’ve heard you’re trying to buy the Male Call and that Manners was going to back you financially.”
“I’ve been thinkin’ of buyin’ the Male Call for a long time, yeah. Brewer’s run the place into the ground, but it’s got a lot of potential for somebody who hasn’t got his head as far up his ass as Brewer does. When Art heard I was thinkin’ about it, he offered to help with the financing. Not that I couldn’t handle it on my own, but both places need a lot of work and a little extra money would come in handy.”
“That was pretty generous of him,” I said. “And what did Art want in return?”
“He didn’t want anything. Like I said, we were friends and Art had more money than he knew what to do with. But we talked about him maybe managing the Spike while I ran the Male Call.”
Interesting, I thought. From what I’d heard, Manners wanted to run the Male Call, which was the bigger bar by far. And I was more than a little skeptical of Reardon’s claim he had enough money to buy Brewer out on his own.
“You really need two leather bars?” I asked.
He looked at me as if I were slightly daft. “Why not? This town’s been supporting two leather bars for years. Always competing with each other. Why split the profits when you can have them all? Nothin’ wrong with a monopoly. I can tell you this—if I don’t take over the Male Call, it’s gonna fold. Nobody else’s willing to touch the place with those AIDS rumors and Cal’s death hangin’ over it. Who’s he going to get to buy it? The shape it’s in now? I know the leather scene better’n anybody in town, including Brewer. No, anybody else who tried would fall flat on his face.”
“So, why not let the Male Call fold? Then the Spike’d be the only game in town.”
“Spike’s not big enough,” he said. “And guys like to be able to move around—as long as they got more than one place to go, they’re happy. They don’t give a shit who owns them. And I could save a bundle on volume discounts from the suppliers if I was buyin’ for two bars. Split Specials nights between ’em, different events, different nights, no makin’ it difficult to choose which bar to go to on which night. That way, neither place gets shortchanged. No, it’ll work out great.”
Though I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t quite see how he thought he could overcome the stigma of the AIDS rumors and Hysong’s death. Plus, he’d be bringing with him his own stigma of the Dog Collar fire, which he’d never fully overcome.
I realized we’d gotten off my main line of questioning. Reardon obviously knew more than he was saying, and I wanted to find out what it was.
“So, bottom line,” I said, “do you think Art killed Hysong?”
He took in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly before nodding.
“Like I say, Art could be pretty crazy sometimes. I remember more than a couple of times him sayin’ he wanted to see Cal dead.” After another pause, he continued. “I remember, too, that right after he went to a meeting at Jake Jacobson’s place to talk about what could be done to stop Cal from spreading AIDS, he was telling me about Jake’s collection of rifles. Art said he was thinkin’ about borrowing one to go shoot a rat.”
Hmm, I thought. But I was getting tired of the bobbing and weaving.
“So, do you think Art killed Hysong?”
Another long, deep sigh, then another head nod. “I know he did.”
“And you know this how?”
“He told me.”
Surprise, surprise!
“He told you?” I asked. “When?”
“A couple of days before the ride,” he said. “Art had been acting really strange, really depressed. He was always moody, but I’d never seen him so down.”
“Did you ask him why?”
He shook his head. “I figured he’d tell me if he wanted me to know.”
“But why didn’t you tell the police when you found out he’d killed Hysong?”
“I don’t rat on my friends,” he said simply.
“Well, that’s noble of you, but what about Jake? He’s going to be tried for a murder he didn’t commit.”
Reardon shrugged. “If they know Art stole the gun and have his prints, that should let Jake off the hook. And now that Art’s dead, if the trial does go on and it looks bad for Jake, I’ll step in with what I know.”
“So, why not go to the police now and save everyone a hell of a lot of time and effort?”
“Because I don’t want to get into trouble for not coming forward the minute I knew Art did it. But don’t worry—like I said, if it starts looking like Jake’ll be convicted, I’ll come forward. But not until then. I’ve got too much to lose.”
And in the meantime, Jake goes through hell and the city spends tons of the taxpayers’ money, I thought. Jeezus, what did this guy use for brains? I knew that arguing with him wasn’t going to get me anywhere.
The intercom light on his desk phone came on followed by an angry bee-on-steroids buzzing. He picked it up.
“Yeah? Okay, I’ll take it.” Putting his hand over the mouthpiece he said, “I’ve got to take this one,” and I quickly got up from my chair.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I think we were about done anyway. Thanks for your time.”
We did a fast handshake, and I let myself out.
Actually, I wasn’t done: I just needed some time to step back and think some things over.
As I walked through the bar I paused to look at some of the photos on the wall surrounding the platform with Reardon’s bike, noting again that the bike was facing in the opposite direction from usual. No big deal, of course, but its new position meant it had to have been backed up the ramp rather than pushed up. It struck me that it would have been easier to guide it up the ramp from the front end than from the back, but I wasn’t exactly an expert on manipulating motorcycles up and down ramps.
I then got distracted looking at the photos. Reardon and his bike were in probably a quarter of them, and in two of them he and his bike were side by side with a guy I recognized as Art Manners on a powerful-looking bright-yellow Harley—I didn’t know Harley made yellow bikes, and suspected Manners must have customized it, as the elaborate detailing also indicated.
Must be nice to have money, I thought.
*
First thing Friday morning, I called Glen’s office, asking Donna to have him call me. I’d been thinking about my conversation with Reardon since I left his office, and now, sitting behind my desk drinking coffee, more thoughts, like gas bubbles in a tar pit, kept rising to the surface of my mind.
Could it be that Reardon wasn’t quite as dumb as I’d thought while we
talked? Everything could have been perfectly on the up and up, of course, but my gut—upon which I relied probably far more than I should—told me something wasn’t quite right.
Friendship is friendship, but money is money. To hear Reardon tell it, Art volunteered to lend him the money—which, of course, might be true. But why would Manners have told Don Gleason he’d be managing the Male Call, while Reardon claimed he’d offered to have Art manage the Spike. If, as I suspected, Reardon couldn’t have afforded to buy the Male Call on his own, that would mean Manners was probably going to put in most of the money, which in turn would have put him into the driver’s seat in deciding which bar he was going to manage.
Yet again, to hear Reardon talk, it sounded as though he was still planning to buy Brewer out. While he hadn’t said anything about there being a formal business arrangement between him and Manners, I wondered if they had one; I’d imagine a partnership would have been the most logical way to go. And if there was a legal agreement between them, I wondered if it contained any contingency for death of one partner.
While I could in a way understand Reardon’s reluctance to turn in his friend after he learned that Art had killed Hysong, it struck me as odd that he hadn’t come forward right after Manners died, to get Jake off the hook—especially since he didn’t seem particularly reluctant to tell a perfect stranger—me—that Manners had confessed to killing Hysong.
Well, I guess different people have different priorities. Nevertheless, and for whatever reason he might have had to tell me that Art killed Cal, the fact was that now he had told me, Glen had to know. It might be the key to stopping Jake’s trial even before it started.
I rummaged around until I found Reardon’s home number and dialed it. I knew I might be waking him up, but it was a chance I had to take.
I heard the phone being picked up, followed by, “Hello?”
“Mr. Reardon, Dick Hardesty. Sorry to bother you again, but I should have asked you when we talked yesterday—would you be willing to tell Jake Jacobson’s attorney what Art told you about having killed Hysong?”
“Why should I?”
“You said you’d come forward at trial if you had to, but we might be able to stop this whole thing before it ever gets that far. And if you don’t, Jake may go to prison for a crime you know he didn’t commit. I appreciate your loyalty to Art,” I said, “but the fact is he’s dead now. He can’t be prosecuted for Hysong’s murder. I can’t imagine you’d want to see Jake tried for it.”
“No, of course not.” He paused, then said, “But you’re asking a hell of a lot.”
“I know that,” I said. “But Art doesn’t need your protection now. Jake does.”
“Let me think about it.”
“That’s all I ask.”
He hung up without saying good-bye, and I replaced the receiver on the cradle, my lips pursed.
I really wanted to call Jake and Jared right away to let them know that Reardon had confirmed Art Manning had killed Hysong, but Glen had specifically asked me to channel anything I found out about the case through him. Hard as it was to resist the temptation to let Jake and Jared know immediately, I understood.
I knew Glen could and would subpoena Reardon for the trial even if he couldn’t get him as a voluntary witness for the defense. And I knew that even if he did cooperate, St. John would claim his testimony was hearsay and probably try to get it ruled as inadmissable. Shit! What did I know about how lawyers and D.A.s did their jobs? I shouldn’t even have been speculating.
And why did I keep getting a mental picture of Reardon pushing his motorcycle backwards up the ramp? It must have been a bitch maneuvering the rear tire. Lowering it down the ramp rear tire first would be infinitely easier, I’d think.
And what the hell did that have to do with anything?
I knew that, whatever Reardon’s decision, for me the bottom line was the case was solved. Art Manners had killed Cal Hysong. Jake was, as I’d known from the beginning, innocent. It was up to Glen to convince either the D.A. or a jury of that fact. I’d do whatever else I could to help, but I largely saw my job as done.
I did, but something in the back of my mind didn’t.
*
I was glad I decided to eat lunch at my desk—I’d called down to the diner in the lobby to order a chili cheeseburger, two cartons of milk, and salad, and when I ran down to pick it up I left my phone off the hook. I did that sometimes to avoid having someone leave a message when I knew I’d be right back.
I was just wiping a glob of chili off the edge of my desk when Glen called at twelve thirty. I quickly sketched in what I’d learned from Reardon, and he asked if I could type up a detailed report of exactly what had been said and drop it by his office on my way home. Since he was on a lunch break from court, we didn’t have much time for anything else.
I spent the next hour or so typing up as much of my conversation with Reardon as I could remember, including some of the questions it had engendered, then decided that rather than waiting until the end of the day, I’d take it over to Glen’s office in case he might return early.
*
The weekend came and went quickly, as weekends are wont to do. Though we hadn’t seen the gang in a while, we managed to talk with everyone at one point or another. All was well with Tim and Phil and Mario and Bob and we made the usual promises to get together soon. However, with Jake and Jared the casualness of the call was not quite the same.
I always find it fascinating to consider the little dances we all do to protect those we care about. I was, as always, particularly concerned about Jake and how all the stress he and Jared were under might affect his health. I didn’t discuss this with Jonathan because I didn’t want to upset him, which I knew it would. I didn’t directly ask either Jake or Jared—I was sure they’d tell me if I did, but I didn’t want to intrude upon what was a very private part of their lives.
So, aside from the obligatory, “How are things?”-type questions, I had to rely on what information they might volunteer. From everything I could gather, Jake was doing very well. He was, Jared had told me, under the careful watch of his brother Stan and had been put on a regimen of medications that changed from time to time as new information on AIDS became known.
Again I took comfort in the fact that Jake had access to the very forefront of the fight against the disease, which was still bloating the obituary columns of the newspapers.
No matter how hard I tried to keep my mind off it and to tell myself my part of it was largely over, I kept going back to everything that had happened since Manners was killed. Something just wasn’t right, and of course, I hadn’t a clue as to what that something might be. It had to do with Reardon, though. I wished to hell I knew more about the details of their relationship. Just how much of a relationship was it, and on what levels? I doubted it would fit with my conceptions of a romantic one—I found it hard to picture the two of them sitting on a sofa in front of the TV holding hands—but I long ago learned that every person sees the world through his own eyes.
I found myself wondering again about their financial arrangements. Had they ever been finalized? Carl Brewer told me Reardon had made what he called a “half-assed” offer, but I didn’t know if that had been before or after Art’s money had entered the picture. I somehow suspected it was before. With Art’s money, Reardon could have made a more solid bid—and I wondered if he might have, subsequently. I made a mental note to check with Brewer on Monday.
The fact Reardon was still talking about buying the Male Call even with Art now dead made me really curious about the current state of Reardon’s finances, and I made another mental note to see if there were some way Glen could check into them.
If I weren’t still working for Glen, I quite probably would have wanted to talk directly to Marty and Lt. Richman to see if the police might be able to step in on the basis of the information I’d been able to gather. But this was Glen’s show, and I trusted him to know when to do what as far as bringing the police in
.
Even while we were spending time with Joshua at the park on Sunday afternoon, my mind kept flitting from thought to thought. There was something Don Gleason had said about the relationship between Manners and Reardon. What was it? Not about their being fuck-buddies, but…
Damn! Probably wasn’t important anyway, but I hate not being able to remember things, and I particularly hated wasting my time worrying about things that were now out of my hands.
*
I wanted to talk to Brewer before calling Glen on Monday but held off until I was pretty sure he’d be up. When I finally did call, around ten forty-five, the phone was answered on the first ring.
“Brewer.”
“Yeah, Mr. Brewer, this is Dick Hardesty. I’ve got a couple of questions for you.”
“I guess that means you haven’t caught the guy who killed Cal, then?”
I wasn’t about to go into the details of Manners’ culpability, so I merely said, “Afraid not, but we’re getting there.”
“So, what do you need from me?” he asked.
“I was wondering if you’ve had any more offers on the bar?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah. I got a pretty good offer from a guy and I almost took it until I found out he was a front for Pete Reardon, so I turned it down.”
“How long ago was that?” I asked.
“Last week.”
“After Manners was killed?”
“Yeah, I guess so. What’s that got to do with it?”
Well, it was a pretty good clue that Manners’ and Reardon’s financial arrangement had gone through. The question now was exactly what the arrangement was, in that it apparently had not terminated with Manners’ death.
“Nothing, really,” I said, pulling myself back to reality. “I just was surprised Reardon would make an offer so soon after Manners’ death, since I’d heard they were really close. Any idea how Reardon got the money to come up with the new offer?”
“Not a clue. Probably just blowing smoke out his ass as always. But you never know what he might have up his sleeve.”
Like Manners’ money? I wondered.
“Do you think Manners might have been behind the offer, somehow?”