The Bar Watcher

by Dorien Grey

  Under normal circumstances, I probably would have felt obligated to look more deeply into the murder on my own, since I was, however peripherally, involved. But Comstock was a bastard, and I didn’t have the financial luxury of running around working on cases without any money coming in. Besides, this particular case had gone beyond private investigator stage and was now firmly in the hands of the police, where it belonged.

  But, being me, I knew once I want to know something, a little thing like its being none of my business wouldn’t stand in my way. And while I told myself that if Barry Comstock were still alive I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire, I couldn’t help but be intrigued as to what was going on.

  I was therefore more than a little surprised when, on going to my office the morning after my arrest and release, my answering service told me I’d had a call from Glen O’Banyon’s office. O’Banyon was one of the city’s most successful, wealthy and, therefore, most powerful lawyers. He was also well known to be gay, though he played the closet game quite well. He traveled in the upper circles of the city’s social elite, always accompanied at straight functions by one beautiful woman or another, and at gay functions by some incredibly hot guy. I found it interesting that he was so rich the young men he had with him were never referred to as, or thought to be, hustlers—just ambitious young men who enjoyed the reflected celebrity.

  I returned the call immediately, pretty much at a loss as to why he might have called, other than the extremely unlikely possibility that perhaps he wanted to represent me in this murder thing. When I identified myself to whoever answered the phone, I was told he was with a client but would return my call as soon as he was free. I thanked her and hung up.

  A few minutes later, as I was trying—unsuccessfully, as usual—to balance my checkbook, the phone rang.

  “Hardesty Investigations,” I said, allowing it to ring twice before answering.

  “Mr. Hardesty,” a warm, very professional-sounding voice said, “this is Glen O’Banyon. I was wondering if we might get together for a talk. Would you by any chance be free at…” There was a pause and the sound of pages being turned. “…three-fifteen today, at my office? I realize this is short notice, but it’s quite important.”

  “Three-fifteen will be fine, Mr. O’Banyon,” I said, hoping I sounded appropriately casual yet businesslike. “I’ll see you then.”

  “I appreciate that. I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  We hung up, and it occurred to me I hadn’t even considered asking what it was all about. With men as rich and powerful as Glen O’Banyon, you knew there had to be a good reason. I also had the sudden suspicion I might know the reason—O’Banyon might very well be one of Comstock’s partners in Rage.

  I just hoped that, if such were the case, O’Banyon wouldn’t turn out to be a total asshole like Comstock. And considering that, if he were one of the partners, O’Banyon might, if he’d talked to Comstock following our final meeting, be well aware Comstock and I hadn’t exactly hit it off—and that I’d actually if briefly been considered a suspect in his murder. If so, I couldn’t imagine what O’Banyon might want from me.

  *

  The law offices of O’Banyon, Brown & Stern were located on the top floor of one of the city’s newest high-rise office complexes, where the rent per square foot was probably three times what I paid for my entire office. I checked in at the security desk in the marble lobby for verification that I was expected then made my way to the double bank of elevators discreetly watched over by surveillance cameras and a building employee in a blue blazer, who directed me to one of the only two elevators that went to the top floor.

  I checked my watch as I got on the elevator. It was 3:10.

  When the doors opened on O’Banyon’s floor, I noted that his offices were not merely on the top floor, they were the top floor. A receptionist’s desk faced the elevators, and on the marble wall behind the desk, over the receptionist’s head, were the words “O’Banyon, Brown & Stern” in discretely elegant raised brass letters. To either side of the wall were brass-framed glass double doors, flanked by more floor-to-ceiling brass-framed glass, ending in richly wallpapered walls that formed the windowless box of the reception area.

  I announced myself to the receptionist, who smiled and pressed a button on her intercom.

  “Mr. Hardesty to see Mr. O’Banyon,” she said, and less than twenty seconds later, an attractive dressed-for-success young woman I assumed to be O’Banyon’s secretary appeared at one of the glass doors, which opened automatically and silently.

  “Right this way, Mr. Hardesty,” she said, smiling.

  I followed her down a rather long corridor to another small, more intimate reception area with a desk, a comfortable-looking sofa and two large overstuffed chairs. She knocked on the large oak door to the left of the desk, opened it, and said, “Mr. Hardesty is here, Mr. O’Banyon,” then turned to me and, with one hand on the door handle, stepped aside to let me pass, though the door was wide enough an armored personnel carrier could have gotten through with no problem.

  As I entered the room, Glen O’Banyon set aside a file he’d been reading, got up from the leather chair behind his desk and came across the room to greet me. I’d seen him in person a couple times at community events of one sort or another but never really up close. He was considerably shorter than I’d remembered, about 45, slim, with graying hair. His handshake was firm and warm.

  “Mr. Hardesty, right on time, I see. A good sign.”

  Of what, I had no idea, and he didn’t elaborate.

  Releasing my hand, he motioned me to a seat in front of his desk, and moved around it to sit back down.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, and he looked to his secretary, who was still at the door.

  “Thank you, Donna,” he said, and she left, pulling the door closed behind her.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. O’Banyon?” I asked, getting right to the point. O’Banyon smiled and leaned back in his chair.

  “Before I start,” he said, “I’d like to say I’m sorry for the inconvenience the police put you through last night.” So, he knew about that. Word travels fast.

  “Understandable mistake,” I said then decided to go with my suspicion. “I gather you were Mr. Comstock’s partner in Rage?”

  O’Banyon smiled again and nodded.

  “Very perceptive,” he said. “I was one of them, yes.”

  “Then you undoubtedly know we didn’t exactly hit it off.”

  “Yes, I heard. You wouldn’t sign the contract.”

  “You know about the contract, then?”

  O’Banyon nodded with another smile.

  “I drew it up for him, although he was the one who insisted on the terms. I told him you’d be a fool to accept it, and I’m glad to see you didn’t.

  “Barry never had a very high regard for the value of professionalism. He had his own way of doing things that frequently crossed the border of arrogance, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that characteristic was one of the factors that contributed to his death.”

  I was still a little confused as to exactly what I was doing there, and said so.

  “I’ve discussed this by phone with my other partner, who is currently in Europe on business, and we’d like to hire you to try to expedite the identification of Barry’s killer.”

  “You don’t think the police will be able to?”

  “Possibly, eventually. But as you know, even though Chief Rourke’s recent retirement has brought some welcome changes in the police department’s dealings with the gay community, the element of homophobia is still quite strong; and crimes involving gays—even those against such prominent members of the community as Barry Comstock—are still dealt with as something less than first-class priorities.

  “In any event, the police tend to view a murder as ‘a murder’ and don’t spend too much time contemplating peripheral factors such as motives. To be honest with you, I’m not being
totally altruistic here. While my participation in Rage is not general knowledge, it’s not a secret, either, so I cannot overlook the possibility, however remote, that if the murderer’s anger was directed at Rage, it might extend beyond Barry to include me.”

  He gave a small smile and matching shrug. “And, finally,” he continued, “there is the simple fact that someone from the community would be much better qualified to work with and within it than the vast majority of the police, who don’t have a clue—and certainly very little interest in acquiring one—about how the gay world operates. A gay private investigator would be more likely to know what questions to ask, and of whom.”

  He had a point, of course. Gays would be much more willing to talk and cooperate with another gay than with the police.

  “But,” I said, “I don’t think the police would take too kindly to someone meddling in what they see as their affairs.

  O’Banyon gave another subtle shrug. “Understandable, but I see this as more of a supplemental investigation, and I trust you to be discreet enough not to draw their undue attention. Should you find out anything that would benefit them in their investigation of the murder, all the better—although I would expect to act as intermediary for you in relaying any such information.”

  He was silent for a moment, watching me, and then added, “Do you have any questions?”

  I did, as a matter of fact. “Well, for starters, maybe you could tell me a little more about Barry Comstock. I gather I wasn’t the only one to think he was never up for a ‘Mr. Congeniality’ award.”

  O’Banyon smiled. “No, I’m sure you’re not. Not that it’s any excuse, but in his heyday as a porn star, he could have anything and anyone he wanted. The fame rather went to his head, I’m afraid—not an uncommon thing. He and I were not exactly what you’d call close. But he was shrewd with money, and knew how to make it. Rage was his idea, and I and our other partner were more financial backers than directly involved in the operation.

  “Barry had, I understand, other business ventures he ran in conjunction with Rage, but since they didn’t interfere with Rage’s success, I never considered it much of my concern.”

  “Ventures such as…?”

  “I understand he still had his hand in the porn industry. And Rage certainly provided a wealth of potential artistic talent for it.”

  O’Banyon then leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his lap.

  “So, do you think you’d like the job?”

  “I’ll give it my best,” I said.

  “Good.” He reached to press a button on his intercom. “Would you bring the contract in, please, Donna?” He smiled yet again. “I hope you’ll excuse my presumption in assuming you’d agree. But I’m also sure you’d hardly be surprised to know I checked you out quite carefully. I know the role you played in Chief Rourke’s early retirement, for which the entire gay community owes you a debt of gratitude, and I’ve spoken with various members of the Bar Guild, who think quite highly of you.”

  “I really appreciate that,” I said as the secretary knocked softly and entered carrying a leather-bound folder. “But as I told Mr. Comstock, there are no guarantees.”

  “None are expected.”

  O’Banyon nodded, and the secretary opened the folder containing the contract and placed it and a pen on the desk in front of me.

  “I’ll give you a moment to look over the contract. You’ll note it’s for a period of two months, with the possibility of extension should circumstances warrant.”

  As I picked up the contract, he resumed reading the file he’d moved aside when I entered. I went through the contract quickly, noting with considerable relief that my fee had no stipulations or qualifications attached. It specified I was to investigate the circumstances behind the threats that may have led to Comstock’s death, and to follow “other possible connections” which might arise from my investigation of them. It gave me a pretty wide field, though it did request the exclusivity of my time during the period of the contract—a logical request. I wondered if O’Banyon also knew I wasn’t working on anything at the moment anyway.

  I was to file weekly reports with him on the progress of the investigation.

  “All in order?” he asked when I laid the contract on the desk.

  “It looks fine,” I said.

  He buzzed his secretary, who entered and watched as first I and then O’Banyon signed both copies then added her own signature as witness. She picked up the folder and left.

  “So much for the formalities,” O’Banyon said, smiling. Suddenly, he reached into his inside jacket pocket and extracted a large wallet, from which he removed a business card. He wrote something on the back and handed it to me. “This might be of some assistance to you,” he said. I glanced at it briefly before putting it in my pocket. It said, “Your cooperation with Mr. Hardesty will be appreciated. Glen O’Banyon.”

  Replacing his wallet in his pocket, he rose from his chair to walk around the desk toward me.

  “I’m afraid I have clients waiting, and I know you’ll want to get right to work. I’ve had Donna draft a small advance to cover your immediate expenses. She’ll have it with your copy of the contract.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said as I got up and took his extended hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. O’Banyon.”

  “Glen,” he corrected. “Glen, please.” He walked me to the door. “And it goes without saying that you have full access to Rage, its staff, and its employees. It may have been a bit presumptive of me, but they’ve been instructed to cooperate fully with you in any way they can.”

  We shook hands at the door.

  “Donna should have your copy of the contract ready,” he said, smiling. “I look forward to your first report, and if there’s anything you need in the interim, don’t hesitate to call.”

  With that, he returned to his desk as the secretary appeared in the doorway, envelope in hand, and closed the door behind me as I left.

  “Your copy,” she said with a smile, handing me the envelope. “I’ll walk you to the lobby.”

  Since I assumed that was standard procedure, I didn’t object. When we reached the reception area, she again smiled as I passed through the glass doors, and then turned to a well-dressed elderly couple seated in matching chairs against the wall on one side of the elevator.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs? Mr. O’Banyon is expecting you. If you’ll follow me…” She gave me another brief smile, which I returned, and then I pressed the button for the elevator.

  *

  My mind was already working overtime as the elevator doors closed and the car began its soft-whoosh descent. Since the only way to gain entrance to Rage was to be a member and to check in at the lobby, it would seem pretty obvious the roster of those in Rage the night of the murder should include the name of the murderer. And I’d be willing to bet that would be where the police would concentrate first. I also knew the obvious answer is frequently wrong.

  I felt kind of sorry for the guys who had been there that night, because I knew the police would be harassing the hell out of them. I’d go down and do some checking, of course, especially to find out how someone might get in without going through the lobby.

  The other obvious thing was that if the murderer were unhappy with Rage’s membership policies, it was probably because he didn’t meet Comstock’s standards. If that were the case, how would he have gotten in? Anybody less than a seven on a ten-scale for “Hot Face/Hot Body” would stand out like a sore thumb in there. Still…

  *

  I decided to go home and change into something a little more casual before going to Rage to see if the blond Adonis might be on duty, and maybe to nose around the place for a few minutes before the busy hours started around 9:30 or 10. Not that it was likely to be busy tonight, or for quite some time, until the chance of the police dropping in on “official business” subsided.

  I waited until I got home to open the envelope and take a look at the check O’Banyon h
ad included. It was more than enough to cover any expenses I might incur short of a trip to Hong Kong. I decided I liked working for rich people.

  I’d showered that morning before going in to work but decided another wouldn’t hurt. Besides, I tend to use showers like some people use Valium—and I do some of my best thinking in there. Chris used to say I should have been a fish; I spend so much time in the water.

  After drying off, I rummaged through my clothes for something I hoped would help me look like just another one of Rage’s regulars.

  *

  When I approached the bath, I decided to take a walk around the block to check out the immediate area. I noticed at once that Rage sided onto a relatively wide alley, and that two cars were parked close against the wall on the other side under “Private Parking” signs. About a third of the way down Rage’s otherwise-solid brick wall was a door, with another, double door at the far end of the building. The second floor had a number of opaque windows, with another doorway opening onto a fire escape. It would be pretty hard to enter the building that way, even if the second-floor doorway leading to the fire escape could be opened from the outside. The suspended ladder was too high off the ground for anyone to reach, even by jumping at it; and if the killer had tried to leave that way, the ladder would have stayed down, and the police would certainly have seen it.

  Walking down the alley, I noted that the first door was slightly recessed and appeared to be more of a private entrance than an emergency exit, as the double door at the rear obviously was. Directly across from the first door was another “Private Parking” sign with no car under it.

  As I went to have a closer look at the first door, I glanced down at the ground and saw a key lying beside the stoop. Curious, I picked it up and, on a hunch, put it in the lock. It didn’t fit. Still, something told me this was a clue, so I put it in my pocket and resumed my circle tour. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I spotted another key about ten feet from where I’d found the first, at the edge of a small puddle in the center of the alley. A new key, like the kind you’d get with a nice, new car.