by Dorien Grey
Table of Contents
Copyright
The Bottle Ghosts
Dedication
“Whenever someone says ‘Life is hard'...
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
The Bottle Ghosts: A Dick Hardesty Mystery
By Dorien Grey
Copyright 2015 by Dorien Grey
Cover Copyright 2015 by Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Design by Ginny Glass
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in print, 2005.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental
Also by Dorien Grey and Untreed Reads Publishing
A World Ago: A Navy Man’s Letters Home (1954–1956)
Short Circuits: A Life in Blogs (Volume 1)
The Butcher’s Son
The Ninth Man
The Bar Watcher
The Hired Man
The Good Cop
www.untreedreads.com
The Bottle Ghosts
A Dick Hardesty Mystery
Dorien Grey
To those who fight addiction one day at a time…and win.
“Whenever someone says ‘Life is hard,’ I’m always tempted to ask: ‘Compared to what?’”
I forget who said that, but I always thought it made a good point. To be human is to have problems, and I’ve never met anyone who didn’t have their own little private demons running around somewhere inside. How we deal with them—and how successfully—is largely up to us. But there are people who, for whatever reason, find their demons to be a lot bigger than they can handle on their own. Luckily, for most who really want it and know where to look, help of some sort is available. And those who are lucky enough to have someone willing to stick with them through the rough times have a definite advantage.
Okay, so it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to follow the logic on that one, but sometimes taking a new look at the obvious can give us a different perspective on our own demons, and just how insignificant most of them really are. I hadn’t given it all that much thought, myself, until I was forced to take a good, close look at those who live with the bottle ghosts….
*
Chapter 1
How were things going? Pretty well, I’m happy to say. Business was, as always, sporadic, but steady enough to keep the bills paid, and there were enough interesting cases scattered among the yawners to keep me on my toes. But it was my private life that had undergone a real sea-change. I was in a relationship, after…well, what seemed like a long, long time.
I’d found Jonathan while working on an earlier case, and despite the difference in our ages (not all that much, really, but enough that I was frequently aware of it) and our being from worlds-apart backgrounds, I realize now I’d been fairly well “smitten” from the first time I set eyes on him. And of course the fact that he looked on me as his knight in shining armor certainly didn’t hurt.
Don’t get me wrong: it wasn’t all skittles and beer. Like any two people getting together, we each brought our own sets of emotional luggage into the relationship, and Jonathan wasn’t always what he seemed. But then neither was I, I’d guess. Shortly after we got together I ran into one of my old fairly-regular tricks at a party who, for some reason, wasn’t too happy to hear I was in a relationship. When Jonathan went off to the bathroom, the guy came over to me.
“You’re not really serious about this monogamous thing, are you?”
That one took me aback for some reason, so I just said, “Yeah, I am.”
He laughed. “Come on, Hardesty. You’ve been in the candy store too long. You’re hooked. You’ll be back to picking up tricks in no time.”
“Don’t count on it.”
At that point, Jonathan returned and the guy walked off. Jonathan just gave me a raised eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.
I guess a lot of the guys who knew me largely in a horizontal position couldn’t figure out why I’d give up a long and admittedly cherished habit of bedpost-notching, and I couldn’t explain it to them. The truth of the matter was that I’d looked back on the past few years of my life and realized that I couldn’t remember the names or the faces of eight out of any ten guys I’d gone to bed with. I wanted something more.
I’d been single for so long I’d almost forgotten exactly how much adjusting being in a relationship really takes, and it goes one hell of a lot further than who gets to use the bathroom first in the morning. For Jonathan, this was his first real relationship, so I’m sure it was equally, if differently, confusing for him. It helped that several of my…our (see what I mean?)…friends had recently paired up, so we had a built-in social circle to keep us pretty busy, which in turn helped me avoid missing my Saturday night cruising ritual. While frequent tricking was lots of fun and great for the ego, it could also get pretty close to becoming an addiction. Monogamy has its own rewards: you never have to hang around bars until two in the morning and then maybe go home alone anyway. And I found that the running conversations I’d been having with my crotch over the past several years had pretty much quieted down—though it did put in its two cents worth every time a hot number crossed my field of vision.
And I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit to being a little worried about that; I really didn’t know if I could work the monogamy thing or not. But I knew all I could do was give it my best shot and just see what happened.
*
My 9:30 appointment had called the day before, sounding pretty distraught. I don’t like to go into too much detail over the phone, particularly in a first-time call from a prospective client. You can learn a lot more about what’s going on when you can sit down face to face and watch the other person’s reactions as well as listen to his voice. He did tell me, however, that his lover had apparently disappeared and, perhaps not surprisingly, he wanted me to find him. When I had asked how long the lover had been gone, he said five days. My immediate reaction was that the guy had just taken off for whatever reason, but I set up an appointment to discuss the possibilities in greater detail. I’d halfway expected the guy to call back saying the lover had shown up, but he didn’t.
Which probably accounted for the knock on my office door at nine-thirty sharp the next morning. I hastily shoved the paper with its unfinished crossword puzzle in a bottom drawer of my desk and got up to open the door.
Yeah, I know I could just as easily have yelled “Come on in!” but it always pays to start things off on a more accommodating note.
I opened the door to find a nice-enough looking guy about in his early-to-mid thir
ties, about my height, slightly receding hairline, wearing a brown suit, a mustard-colored tie, and a worried expression.
“Mr. Bradshaw,” I said, extending my hand, which he took. “Please, come in.”
I showed him to the chair closest to the open window, from which a pleasant breeze managed to flow over the still-not-working air conditioner, which I was seriously considering turning into a planter.
“Would you like some coffee?” I asked before attempting to sit down. That was another change in my life—a new addition to the office. Jonathan had bought me a coffee-maker with his first paycheck from the landscape nursery where he now worked.
“Thanks, no.”
He looked mildly uncomfortable, which I guess might be expected considering the circumstances which brought him to me in the first place.
I moved quickly around the desk and sat down, turning my chair slightly to be able to face him head-on.
“So tell me how I can help you.”
He cleared his throat, making a quick tracing of his lower lip with his thumb and index finger.
“My partner, Jerry, didn’t come home Friday night.”
His voice reminded me of an old steam locomotive just leaving the station: very slow, deliberate words at first, then a definite closing of the gap between the words as they increased in speed and power to reflect the urgency of what he was saying.
“He hasn’t been home since. He hasn’t called and none of our friends have heard from him, and nobody in any of the bars he frequents when he’s drinking has seen him, and I’ve called everywhere I could think of, and even the jails and the hospitals, and…”
He was at full steam, now, and I could almost see the mental pistons, like fisted arms bent at the elbow, pumping the adrenalin through him. Well, he’d been building up all this pressure for several days now, after all.
“Have you been to the police?” I asked as casually as possible, hoping my tone would give him a second to put on the brakes.
Apparently realizing what he’d been doing…and that he’d unconsciously been edging himself forward in his chair as he talked…he stopped abruptly and readjusted his position before continuing at a more controlled pace. But first he sighed and nodded.
“I called them after I’d checked everywhere myself. They wouldn’t even take a report until the third day, and when they did they weren’t very encouraging. He’s an adult, he’s a drunk, and he’s a faggot: he can fend for himself—they didn’t say that in so many words, but that’s clearly what they meant.”
“Your partner’s an alcoholic?”
He looked at me oddly. “Yes. Didn’t I tell you that when I called?”
No, he hadn’t, as a matter of fact. That little bit of information put a whole new light on the situation. Drunks get drunk and disappear. They sober up and come back.
“Uh, no, I don’t think you did.”
“Does that make some sort of difference?” he asked, a little defensively—and I suddenly realized I certainly couldn’t blame him. I’d never been personally involved with an alcoholic, so I had no right to make any sort of judgment.
“Not at all,” I hastened to add, rather ashamed of myself. “Please, continue.”
He had looked there for a moment as if he were going to get up and leave, but I could see him relax slightly, and he picked up where he’d left off.
“The officer who filed the report gave me the impression this sort of thing happens all the time. He asked if Jerry were suicidal, if he’d been having ‘problems at home,’ as he put it, or if he was in trouble with the law or with somebody in particular, or if he had any serious medical condition. When I told him ‘no’ on all counts, he made it pretty clear that this wasn’t exactly what they consider a top-priority case, so unless his body shows up somewhere, there really isn’t too much of an incentive to do much of anything. He said they’d put out the information, but…that’s when I decided to call you.”
“Has he disappeared before?”
“Yes, but not like this. He’s a serious alcoholic and he goes on binges like clockwork. Usually, it’s every three months—that’s as long as he can hold out. He did go six months, once, but…I always know when they’re coming on, and I do my best to help him avoid them, but he can’t. And then he goes off for a day…sometimes two, but never more. We agreed that when he’s drinking, he can’t come home. I won’t be around him when he’s drunk. And he always calls me from wherever it is he finds himself when he sobers up and I go get him. And then we start all over again.”
“Does this fit the three-month pattern?”
Bradshaw shook his head. “No, and that’s another thing that tells me something’s wrong—well, more wrong than usual. It’s been less than a month since his last binge. And I didn’t really see this one coming.”
“How long have you been together?”
“Four years next month.”
There are some questions that cannot really be asked diplomatically, so I’ve learned just to ask them and hope for the best.
“Can I ask if…well, is your relationship monogamous?”
Bradshaw’s smile defined the word ‘rueful.’
“It is on my part, I know. And as far as I know, Jerry is, too—when he’s sober. When he’s on one of his binges, all bets are off.”
He looked at me sadly and shook his head. “I have to wear a rubber when we have sex. I hate that. But I’ve told him that while I love him more than anything in the world, I won’t die for him.”
Well, that told me a little bit more about penguins than I cared to know, I thought. But I could empathize with him.
He moved slightly forward in his chair again.
“And to make things even worse, if that were possible, I’ve got to leave town in the morning for an eight-day business trip that I can’t get out of. I’m not out at work, and there is no way I could explain this. I won’t be home if Jerry comes back, or calls, or…” I could see him getting more distraught, and again I could empathize with him completely. “He knows I have to leave tomorrow—the trip has been scheduled for weeks. I can’t comprehend how he could do this.”
“Do you have an answering machine at home?”
“No. Our old one broke and we never replaced it.”
“Well, I suggest you pick one up today. Record a simple message: ‘Jerry, please call Dick Hardesty at…’ I’ll give you my numbers before you leave. And leave a note for him inside the apartment to the same effect.”
“You will help me find him, then?” His voice reflected his relief.
“I’ll do my best.”
I couldn’t hear him sigh, but I saw it in his body language. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Here are some recent photos, a list of the places he always goes when he’s drinking, and the addresses and phone numbers of our friends, though as I say I’ve already checked with them all.”
I took the envelope from him, lifted the flap, and quickly glanced through its contents. There was a photo of Bradshaw with his arm around a slightly shorter, stocky man with reddish-blond hair and a big smile; another photo of the same guy, close up, grinning into the camera, and a piece of paper with a list of bars and the names, addresses, and phone numbers of six or seven people. A lot more information than most new clients have with them on their first appointment. I replaced everything into the envelope and set it beside the phone.
“Could you tell me Jerry’s last name, and where he works?”
“Shea…Jerry Shea,” Bradshaw said, then sighed again. “He’s not working right now. He’s a waiter, and a damned good one. He’d worked two years at the Imperator until they fired him for coming to work drunk during his last binge. He’d never done that before! He was very conscientious about his job. And of course he was devastated when he got fired. I don’t know; that might have had something to do with his disappearing.”
Jeezus, I thought. How could he be so stupid? But then I realized that was a stupid thought in itself. The Imperator
is one of the, if not the, most exclusive restaurants in the city. I’d imagine a good waiter there—and a place like that wouldn’t hire any but the best—could make a fortune in tips. How could he blow it like that?
“Did he have any friends there he might contact?”
Bradshaw shook his head slowly. “He was friendly with a couple of the other waiters, but I don’t remember their names, and they never really socialized outside of work. And I’m sure he’d be too embarrassed and ashamed to ever try to contact them. But again, when he’s drinking…who knows?”
“Was he doing anything about his problem? A.A. or anything like that?”
Bradshaw edged forward in his seat again. “Oh, yes, he goes to meetings a couple times a week. St. Agnes, the Gay/Lesbian Community Center, the M.C.C.. And we belong to a gay couple’s therapy group at Qualicare that meets every Thursday.”
Qualicare was the city’s largest and fastest-growing HMO, which had bought out the old St. Anthony’s Hospital complex and embarked on a huge expansion program. I’d heard it offered a wide range of mental as well as physical health programs. I guess alcoholism qualified in both categories, and I was pleased to know they made a specific outreach to gays.
I told him my rates and gave him a contract, which he signed. While I was Xeroxing a copy for him, he reached into the same pocket from which he’d taken the envelope and brought out his checkbook. While all this was going on, I took the opportunity to ask him a few more questions.
“What kind of car does he drive—and do you have the license plate number?”
Bradshaw looked up from writing the retainer check. “He doesn’t drive. He lost his license right after we met and I wouldn’t let him even try to get it back. It’s a real sore spot between us, I’m afraid. I’m pretty sure he had a spare key made for my car—he denies it, of course—and uses it when I’m out of town on business. I’ve gotten so I check the odometer when I leave and when I get back and he knows it. I was gone on business during his last drinking binge, and I know damned well he had the car. We had a real blow-up over that one, and I brought it up in the group one meeting. I guess some of the others have had the same problem. Anyway, to answer your question, either I take him where he needs to go, or he takes the bus.”