The Bar Watcher

by Dorien Grey

  Lieutenant Richman slowly put his napkin on his lap and picked up his fork.

  “And the motive for these apparently unrelated deaths would be…?”

  I waited until he had taken a forkful of his eggs, trying to hold down the sudden feeling he must think I’m a loon, then said, “Before I get into that, just let me ask you one question, if you can tell me without it interfering with your investigation. Was D’Allesandro shot with a twenty-two?”

  He reached for the small pitcher of syrup the waitress had brought and poured it carefully over his pancakes before looking up at me.

  “Where did you say this car was?”

  *

  The first thing I did after reaching the office was to call Kimmes Associates. I had been battling with myself ever since my encounter with O’Banyon at Hughie’s to not open the Fibber McGee’s closet of speculations that presented themselves the minute the possibility of embezzlement from Rage was mentioned. I had first to find out the name of the Kimmes accountant killed in the “car accident.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted my gut instinct to be right, but I was pretty sure it was.

  I fished out the piece of paper I’d kept in my wallet since my trip to the library, unfolded it, smoothed it out and laid it on the desk in front of me.

  I identified myself to whomever it was who answered the phone, told her I was an associate of Mr. O’Banyon and asked the name of the accountant who had been handling the Rage account before his death.

  “That would be Mr. Sharp.”

  “Matthew Sharp?”

  “Yes, sir. Is there someone else who could help you?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’ve found out what I needed to know.”

  Matthew Sharp had been one of the two queens who went over the bluff on McAlester.

  *

  The doors of speculation burst open and sent me tumbling ass over teakettle into complete confusion. Sharp had been handling Rage’s account. Therefore, there was a trail of breadcrumbs—hell, make them croutons!—between one of the two queens and Comstock, and of course, there was one from Comstock to D’Allesandro, and one between both Comstock and D’Allesandro and Ritchie.

  All of which sort of blew out of the water my moral vigilante theory. They were still all bastards, but maybe that wasn’t what got them killed.

  And now we had Bart Giacomino thrown into the mix. If money was missing from Rage, was Comstock responsible? Or maybe Giacomino, whom O’Banyon indicated had problems with money? If it was Comstock, did Giacomino, who was in Europe when Comstock died, find out about it and use one of his family connections to have him killed? Of if it was Giacomino, did Comstock die because he found out about it? Or was Sharp, the accountant, just doing a little creative bookkeeping on his own?

  Or…

  Oh, shit, Hardesty, give it a rest!

  I was suddenly reminded of when I was in junior high, and one of our science classes had to do a map of the stars. I came to the amazing realization I could draw a straight line from any one of those stars to any other star. I was sure I’d made a scientific discovery of major proportions until the teacher gently observed you can always draw a straight line between any two points if you want to.

  Was that what I was doing here? Hell, who knows?

  I finished up my official weekly report to O’Banyon and continually tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to keep from getting back on the speculation merry-go-round.

  Luckily, the phone rang around eleven. It was O’Banyon, asking how my meeting with Lieutenant Richman had gone, and telling me Bart Giacomino would be at Rage to interview a prospective manager at one-thirty. He’d agreed to see me when he finished, around two or two-thirty. I assured him I’d be there.

  A quick lunch at the coffee shop downstairs—a ham salad on rye, a “BAW-el” of chicken-and-dumplings soup, and a chocolate shake, gourmet dining at its finest—then a stop at the dry cleaners for a drop-off and pick-up, and it was time to head off to Rage.

  I found a parking space just up the street, and as I passed the alley, I noticed a gleaming black Jaguar parked across from the side door. Troy was on duty, and I stood on the lobby side of the registration window and shot the shit with him for a while. With Giacomino using the office for interviews, neither Troy nor I mentioned taking advantage of the little room, though when I asked him if they’d taken out the two-way mirror, he said no. Maybe they were just waiting for the new manager to take over. Or maybe the new guy would decide that a fine old tradition like voyeurism deserved to be maintained.

  I did mention to him—without naming John Peterson specifically—that there might be a health problem he should be aware of, and guard against.

  A few members came and went, and finally the inner door opened and a nice-looking guy with pecs the size of Butterball turkeys and biceps only slightly smaller around than his waist came out. I recognized him as the manager of one of the local gyms—Jim Hicks, I think his name was—and, since he wasn’t carrying a gym bag, I assumed he had been Giacomino’s interview.

  A minute later, the inner door opened about halfway, held by a large…well…odd-looking man. He reminded me instantly of a painting of a very handsome man done by a third-rate artist—either something was there that shouldn’t have been, or something wasn’t there that should have been. Hard to explain, but…

  I first thought he was African-American until I realized he just had one of the darkest tans I have ever seen. His hair was so black it would make tar look like a pastel. He wore a suit the cost of which I could only imagine. A white silk shirt open at the collar revealed about six gold chains over a mat of curly, solid-black glistening, chest hair and, on the hand holding the door, one of the largest and most garishly ugly gold-and-diamond pinkie rings I’ve ever seen.

  “Dick Hardesty?” he asked, and I smiled and walked to meet him.

  He smiled broadly in return, revealing a mouthful of perfectly capped teeth, and held the door open with his elbow while he shook my hand.

  “Come on in to my office.”

  That one didn’t get past me, you can be sure. Your office, huh?

  He closed the door, motioned me to a chair and walked behind the desk to sit in Comstock’s chair.

  “Glen tells me you want to talk with me,” he said casually.

  “Yes, I did.” I hoped I sounded equally casual. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me—I know you’ve been busy.”

  He gave a casual flip of his pinkie-ringed hand.

  “Busy isn’t the word. I just got back from my villa in Cannes last week, and next week I have to be at my beachfront place in Molokai for a dinner for the governor. But business before pleasure.”

  Uh-huh.

  “I understand you were in Europe when Barry Comstock was killed.”

  Giacomino leaned back in his chair and sighed.

  “Yeah, I was skiing with the crown prince at Luftsenhagen when I got the word. I was devastated, of course. Barry was one of my best American friends.”

  Okay, Charlie, I get the picture. You can knock it off, now!

  “Exactly what is your involvement with Rage?” I asked, as though crown princes and Luftsenhagen cropped up a lot in normal conversation. “Other than being a financial backer.”

  He pursed—no, make that puckered—his lips, which made him look very much like a chimpanzee, and furrowed his brow—a very disconcerting combination, I have to admit.

  “Mostly financial,” he said, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and placing his hands under his chin, spread wide with fingertips touching, as though he were holding an imaginary basketball. “I’m so seldom in the country, of course. At first I’d intended to be a lot more involved, but Barry wanted to run the whole show, more or less, until Glen talked him into turning the books over to…ah…”

  “Kimmes Associates,” I provided.

  “Yeah, them. I could have done it, of course, if I had the time. I’m very good with bookkeeping. But I simply don’t have the time.�
�

  “What do you make of the apparent…irregularities…Kimmes found?”

  Giacomino shook his head.

  “No idea at all. I’m sure it’s just a minor error somewhere. To even think that Barry might have been…no, it’s impossible. Of course, he did live pretty high on the hog for a former porn star. But, no, he would never have…”

  I had to give the guy credit—he could bob-and-weave with the best of them.

  “Did Barry have any…” I started to say “enemies,” but I knew the answer to that one before I even asked it, so I switched track in mid-sentence, especially since it was obvious Giacomino wouldn’t be adverse to putting the finger on Comstock. “…recent financial problems or setbacks you were aware of?”

  That puckered-lip, furrowed-brow thing again. Creepy.

  “No, not at all. Barry was always very good with money. Of course, that house of his was something of a bottomless money pit, and I’m sure he rued the day he bought it. As a matter of fact, he tried to sue the realtor who sold it to him, as I recall. Oh, and then there was that lawsuit…” He suddenly raised his eyebrows in patently fake surprise. “Oh, but you didn’t know about that, did you? No one did, and I was sworn to secrecy.”

  He shook his head as if mentally scolding himself, but I wasn’t fooled for a minute. I did notice his eyes never left me. When he didn’t see whatever reaction he apparently expected, he continued.

  “But I’m sure that, since you’re working for us, it would be considered privileged information. Glen handled it, and it was settled out of court. It was a scam, of course, but Barry did not like being scammed.”

  I sat back in my chair and crossed my legs.

  “Could you sketch in the details, now that it’s been mentioned?”

  I had the distinct impression Bart Giacomino had his own agenda in all this, though of course I had no idea what it might be. Whatever it was, he was probably trying to cover his own ass by applying the old “Oh, look over there!” routine.

  “It was about two years ago,” he said. “A cameraman who’d done some work on Barry’s videos brought him two incredibly hot identical twins, blonds—farm boys just in from Nebraska. The cameraman and the kids swore up and down they were eighteen—they had fake IDs, and they could easily have passed for it.

  “Barry always had this special thing for blonds, so of course he had to “audition” them personally. The next day the kids’ irate father showed up screaming that Barry had raped his two innocent sixteen-year-old babies and threatening to sue him for every penny he had. It was, as I say, all an extortion set-up, but Barry was uncharacteristically stupid enough to fall for it, and he settled, just about the time Rage opened. Even I don’t know how much was involved, but I know it was a big chunk of change. And I do know that Barry was not happy about it.”

  From what I knew about Barry Comstock and his reluctance to part with money, I could imagine just how not happy he must have been. Might he have decided to use a little of Rage’s money to restock his coffers?

  “As partners, I assume all three of you have access to Rage’s books?”

  There was what I found to be a rather significant pause before he responded.

  “Well, yes, of course. But the accountants are doing all that now. They’re responsible for looking after the money. We get quarterly reports.”

  In the back of my mind, I could swear I heard the quiet sound of tap-dancing.

  I saw him subtly push one sleeve of his jacket up with an index finger to reveal his Rolex. He looked at it rather pointedly.

  “I think I’ve taken up about enough of your time,” I said, getting the hint, but hastening to add “For now. But I do have one more question.”

  His expression did not change, but I was sure there was an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes as he said, “Of course.”

  “I understand you were one of the founders of Glitter,” I said.

  He nodded. “One of my many successful business ventures,” he said.

  I gave an “I see” return nod.

  “And I’d heard you recently sold your interest in it.”

  He again—this time with no subtlety whatsoever—pushed up his sleeve to look at his watch.

  “I’m sorry, Dick, but I have another interview waiting. Maybe we can talk again when I get back from Molokai. Bob Redford called yesterday to ask me to set up a charity function with him and Liz Taylor in New York on the nineteenth, so I know I’ll be back before then.”

  Uh-huh, I thought, but only said, “I’d appreciate that,” and echoed his getting-up motion to lean forward across the desk and take his extended hand. He escorted me to the outer lobby, where a clone of the gym manager I’d seen when I came in was standing at the registration window talking with Troy. From the obvious bulge in his pants, I gathered it had been an interesting conversation.

  Giacomino and I shook hands again, and he turned to the hunk at the window, who was clearly aware of his awkward condition. It was not lost on Giacomino, either, I could tell.

  “Chuck Roth?” Giacomino said, holding the door open with his elbow. “Come on in to my office.”

  Roth managed an embarrassed smile as we passed one another, and I winked at Troy, who stood behind the window with a huge, shit-eating grin.

  “I like this job,” he mouthed.

  “Gee,” I said, “who’dda thunk?” I was tempted to go over and talk with him more, but the outside door opened and a member walked in, so I just gave him a wave and left.

  *

  It’s one thing to be able to draw a nice, clean straight line between any two points and something quite different when you start connecting every point to every other point. The whole thing starts to look like an indistinguishable squiggle.

  Obviously Giacomino was hiding something when it came to Rage’s books. Why, I wondered, had he sold his interest in Glitter? It was, from everything I could tell, a cash cow, and the obvious conclusion to be drawn from his having given up his place at the udder was that he needed money.

  And if even half of his “Bob and Liz and the crown prince and villas and beachfronts” routine was true, that must involve one hell of a large and continuous outlay of cash. I made a mental note to call O’Banyon Monday morning to see if he knew more about Giacomino’s financial situation.

  *

  Since once I start a case I feel compelled to work nonstop until it’s solved, I’d determined some time ago I had to make a conscious effort to make my weekends my own. It wasn’t easy, especially in a convoluted case like this, but I really had to try to shut my mind off and step away from it. I hadn’t had much actual practice at it, but was determined to try.

  I tried to force myself to sleep in Saturday morning, which of course didn’t work, so got up and, after dragging out my coffee/breakfast routine for as long as I could stand it, and telling myself yet again that I should have the paper home-delivered every day instead of just on Sunday so I’d have a Saturday crossword puzzle to work on, I studiously applied myself to doing really fun things like dishes and laundry and cleaning the oven.

  The day went relatively fast, and before I knew it, it was time to think about getting ready to go to Venture to meet Toby—assuming he would be there. Well, his loss if he’s not, I told myself. I just wish another little voice in there hadn’t snickered.

  *

  I arrived at Venture around 9:30 and noted they had two bartenders on duty—well, it was Saturday night. I was glad to see that Mario was one of them. I made my way to the end of the bar closest to him; he smiled and, both hands occupied with making a drink, gave me a nod hello. No sign of Toby yet, but we weren’t supposed to meet until 10:00, so I wasn’t concerned.

  As soon as he was able, Mario came over to take my order.

  “How’s it going, Dick?” he asked as he put a napkin in front of me.

  “Pretty good,” I said. “Don’t you ever get a night off?”

  He grinned. “I’ve got two days starting tomorrow,” he sa
id. “Bob and I are going to drive out to Tilton to a gay bed and breakfast.”

  “Ah,” I said, “a romantic getaway.”

  He just grinned wider.

  “I’m glad for you.” I said. “You both need a little time to relax.”

  “If I’m lucky, I don’t think there’ll be too much relaxing,” he said. “What can I get you?”

  “Whiskey Old Fashioned—”

  “Sweet,” Mario finished.

  “You are good,” I said.

  “So I’ve been told,” he said and reached for a glass.

  *

  I took my drink and went to my usual spot along the wall. Shortly before 10:00, I glanced at the door to see Toby coming in. He went directly to the bar without looking around, said a few words to Mario and, still without any indication he was looking for me, came directly over to where I was standing. I noticed he was carrying two drinks—one of them a Whiskey Old Fashioned.

  “Hi, stranger,” he said, looking directly at me for the first time and putting the Old Fashioned on the ledge by my side.

  “Hi yourself,” I said. “Glad you made it.”

  He gave me a little smile. “Like you thought I wouldn’t? I always do what I say I will.”

  “Nice to know. And if the Old Fashioned is for me, thanks.”

  He nodded a “you’re welcome.”

  Not recognizing what was in his glass, I said: “What are you drinking?” I obviously hadn’t been paying attention the night we met.

  “Cranberry juice. I don’t drink.”

  Interesting.

  We idle-chatted with the usual mild clumsiness of a first conversation, dropping in little bits of personal information as we went. Toby, I discovered, was relatively new to town. He’d first worked as an orderly at a local hospital, which may have had something to do with his being a health fanatic. No alcohol, no caffeine. Strict vegetarian (so much for the fantasy of quiet dinners of home-cooked burnt-crispy pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy for two); three hours a day, every day, at the gym, which I might have expected—nobody has a body like that without a lot of effort. He’d left the orderly job to work for a construction company, which in effect boosted his per-day exercise regimen to eleven hours.