The Bottle Ghosts

by Dorien Grey

  Headshakes all around, though I tried to observe any sort of reaction that might give lie to the nod, until Carl spoke again. “Gee, a missing drunk! How often do you suppose that happens?” He laughed, but no one else joined him. He scowled around the group, then said “Oh, lighten up, fer chrissakes!”

  Brian chose to ignore him.

  “Well, if anyone does see Andy or hear anything, please be sure to tell the police. I have the number to call if anyone didn’t write it down.”

  “Does anyone have John and Andy’s phone number?” I asked. “I’d like to give John a call to see how he’s doing.”

  Everyone either looked blank, or shook their heads. I was aware of something…odd?…in the way Brian Oaks looked at me when he said: “As you know, Dick, we try to protect the members’ privacy as much as we can. I’ll give John a call and relay everyone’s concern and best wishes.”

  Did I just hear a door slam? I wondered. And why was he looking at me like that?

  Rather surprisingly, that was it. The rest of the meeting was taken up with a discussion of the various members’ experiences with either their or their partners’ not showing up somewhere because of drinking, and how each handled it.

  *

  Neither Jonathan nor I said anything until we got to the car and headed home.

  “Was something wrong with that picture?” Jonathan asked.

  “You mean that one of the synagogue stained glass windows with the pork chop motif? Yeah, it did strike me as a little…surreal. But I guess when you think about it, given the way the group seems to work, maybe not. And Carl’s comment did have some truth to it. They probably would have reacted differently if they knew about the others.”

  Jonathan scooted a bit closer and put his hand on my leg, casually.

  “So tell me about Nowell,” I said. “Did you have a chance to talk to him at all?”

  “A little. He was just bringing in water for the coffee when I got there, and I helped him set the table up. I asked him how he liked working for Qualicare, and he said ‘Fine.’ Period. I didn’t let on that I knew he didn’t work for them. He didn’t ask where you were, or why I was there alone, or anything. I told him I’d taken the bus and asked him how long it took him to get there. He said he walks.”

  He rubbed his hand lightly across the top of my leg, then said: “He’s really kind of strange, you know? I don’t know if he’s always that way, or just around gay guys, or…”

  “You don’t think he’s gay, then?”

  He gave a lower-jaw-jutted-sideways semi lip-purse (hey, I calls ’em the way I sees ’em) and said: “I honestly don’t know. I caught him looking at me a couple times, but it wasn’t really in a cruisy kind of way, I don’t think; just sort of like he was watching Tim and Phil in their aquarium. Maybe like he’s looking for something…” He shook his head quickly and looked out the window. “I really don’t know.”

  Now, if Nowell had indeed been employed by Qualicare, my automatic assumption would probably have been that he was straight and either was uncomfortable around gays or just wasn’t quite sure how to act around them. But because he was somehow—exactly how and why was another question—employed by a gay psychologist and seems to have taken some sort of interest in my partner…

  Hardesty! my mind scolded.

  Okay, okay.

  But it all was interesting, to say the least.

  *

  I’m not really all that big on the hidden meaning of dreams, but I know pretty well by now when I’m trying to tell me something, and the dream I had Thursday night would have needed no help from Brian Oaks—or a three-month-old chimpanzee, for that matter—to interpret. I was on the Titanic, watching the water moving quickly toward me up the sloping deck. Long, bone-deep blasts from the ship’s fog horn reverberated across the black, flat sea, calling desperately for help that would never come. I tried frantically to first walk, then run, backward, away from the water which came ever closer, faster and faster. I was suddenly aware of six men standing beside me, holding onto the sharply slanted railing, and calmly staring out into the night. I felt a hand on my shoulder…

  “Dick! Dick! Wake up!”

  My eyes shot open to see a concerned Jonathan, his face about a foot from my own. Seeing I was okay, his face broke into a sleepy grin.

  “Boy, that must have been some dream! You were kicking your heels into the mattress so hard I thought you’d walk yourself right up the headboard!”

  I managed a small grin and reached out to hug him to me. He was warm and smelled of sleep. “I’m sorry, Tiger. I never have nightmares. I have no idea where that one came from.”

  I lied.

  “Go back to sleep.” I pushed him gently back onto the pillow.

  “Okay,” he said, and he did. I did not.

  By the time I got to work Friday morning, I was fairly certain of one thing: I was on the Titanic as far as this case was concerned. It was definitely time for Plan B, whatever in the hell that might be.

  I sat at my desk in the kind of wading-through-molasses stupor that comes from waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to get back to sleep until six minutes before it was time to get up. The paper was open in front of me, the pen beside the unworked crossword puzzle, and while I knew it was there, I didn’t really see it. God, I hate mornings like that. I should have just stayed home!

  After a full pot of coffee, I was a little better able to make sense of everything my mind had been churning out ever since Jonathan woke me from the nightmare.

  I realized that while everything I’d done up to this point hadn’t been a total loss, continuing on the same course wasn’t likely to take me any farther than where I was now. I’d found out a lot more than I might have if Jonathan and I had not joined the group, but I sensed I’d gotten just about as much out of it as I was going to get. Whoever was doing whatever it was he was doing at least now knew that he’d better watch his step.

  There, of course, still wasn’t enough proof of any crime for the police to step in, and guys who get away with multiple murders tend to get a little complacent about their chances for ever getting caught. So it was time I took a more direct approach before somebody else disappeared.

  *

  When I felt sufficiently confident of being able to handle complete sentences, I called Mark Richman at police headquarters and told him that I was taking a new tack on the case, though I didn’t go into details mainly because I didn’t have any. I did tell him that I’d be sure to keep him posted. When I hung up with him, I called Marty Gresham and told him the same thing. He wished me luck. He also told me to give him a call if he could do anything to help—he was really getting into this detective thing, I could tell. I assured him that I would. I then hung up the phone and…well…just sat there.

  That was fun, my mind said. Now what’ll we play?

  Good question.

  Rather than panic, I determined to force myself to do the crossword puzzle. But when I couldn’t even come up with a simple eight-letter word for “redundancy” beginning with “p”, I gave up in disgust. (Oh, come on: you know it’s “pleonasm”.)

  So I just sat there drinking more coffee and playing beaver with a couple of formerly unsharpened Number Two Ticonderoga pencils.

  Well, I’d start with John, Andy’s lover. John…Ellison. I’d start with him since Andy was the most recent to disappear. And there had been something that had been subtly niggling at me since I talked with Bob some time ago. What was it? Oh, yeah, Brian’s brother…Ben? Maybe he might be able to tell me a little more about Brian.

  So I guess I wasn’t really at a dead end after all, and I felt better about that. But I was also still dead tired, so I did something I’d never done before: I got up from my desk, locked the office door, and went over to lie down on the couch to rest for a few minutes.

  *

  I’d no sooner closed my eyes than the phone rang.

  Damn! No rest for the wicked…or the weary…or whatever in h
ell the saying is!

  I was surprised, when I answered, to hear Jonathan’s voice.

  “Hi, Dick,” he said, in his usual upbeat way that always gave me an oddly warm feeling.

  “Jonathan. What’s up?” He never called this early in the day.

  Probably sensing the puzzlement in my voice, he paused just a second, then said: “Nothing. I just wanted to see how you were doing. I’m on my lunch hour, and…”

  Lunch hour? I looked at my watch and it said 12:25! How in the hell did that happen?

  “I’m fine, Tiger, thanks. Everything okay with you?”

  “Sure! I was just worried about you.”

  There’s that warm feeling again. “Well, I really appreciate it. I was just getting ready to go grab a sandwich for lunch.”

  Liar!

  “Yeah, I’d better be getting back to work, too. We just got a big order from Qualicare for a whole bunch of trees, so I guess I’ll be spending a lot more time around there for awhile.”

  It occurred to me that I hadn’t discussed our leaving the group with him. I hoped he wouldn’t mind, though I know he kind of enjoyed the meetings.

  “Okay. We’ll catch up tonight. See you at home.”

  *

  Well, what I’d said about just getting ready to have lunch was only a partial lie. As soon as we hung up, I did run down to the diner for a tuna salad on rye with a side of potato salad. I was hungrier than I’d thought.

  As soon as I walked back into the office, I picked up the phone book to see if John Ellison might be listed. He wasn’t. Damn. What was Andy’s last name? Porter? Potter? Phillips! Andy Phillips. And there he was, right where he should be, between “Phillips, Alan” and “Phillips, Arthur.” I jotted down the number, then flipped through to find the “Oaks”. There were about twelve “Oaks” listed, but only one “Brian,” and only one “Benjamin.” I wrote down both numbers and both addresses.

  As usual, though I didn’t really expect anyone to be home, I called Andy Phillips’ number. No answer, no machine. I then dialed the number for “Benjamin Oaks.” It rang three times and I was about ready to hang up when I heard the receiver being lifted and a child’s voice saying: “Who’s this?”

  Well, so much for Ben Oaks’ being gay—if I had the right Benjamin Oaks, of course.

  “Hi. Is your daddy home?”

  “No.” Long silence.

  “Uh, is your mommy home?”

  “Yes.” Long silence.

  “Can I talk to her, please?”

  “Uh huh… Mom-mie!” There was no attempt to put a hand over the mouthpiece, and the result was enough to make me yank the phone away from my ear.

  A moment later, as I gingerly brought the phone back to my head, a woman’s voice said: “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Oaks,” I began with my usual awkwardness when I’m not sure I have the right number, “my name is Hardesty, and I’m trying to locate the brother of Brian Oaks.”

  A medium-sized silence, and then: “Yes, that’s my husband’s brother.”

  “What time do you expect your husband home? I’d like to talk with him, if I could.”

  “About what?”

  Damn it, lady, I hate when people do that!

  “Nothing all that important,” I said, trying to keep it pleasant. “Just an Oaks family matter I’d like to discuss with him. When did you say I could reach him?”

  “He’ll be home around seven. What was your name again?”

  One, two, three…deep breath.

  “Hardesty, ma’am. Dick Hardesty. I’ll call back around seven.”

  “We’ll be having dinner then.”

  I’m so glad I’m not straight!

  “Well, then, I’ll try between eight and eight thirty. Thank you for your help.” And I hung up.

  *

  While I was having my Manhattan, I explained to Jonathan that we wouldn’t be going back to the Qualicare meetings, and why. He seemed mildly disappointed, as I suspected he would, but said he understood.

  “You won’t mind if I go to an A.A. meeting every now and then, though, will you? It’s kind of hard to explain to someone who’s not an alcoholic, but it’s really important for me to remind myself every now and then of where I’ve been. The group really did that for me.”

  I reached over with my free arm and pulled him to me, being careful not to spill either his Coke or my drink, and gave him a one-arm hug. “Any time you want.”

  Just before we sat down to dinner, I tried calling John Ellison. Again, no answer.

  Around 8:30, as Jonathan was in his usual cross-legged pose in the middle of the living room floor with his textbook open in front of him, I tried Ellison one more time and then, after still no answer, called Ben Oaks.

  The phone was picked up on the first ring.

  “Yeah?” a man’s voice said.

  “Mr. Oaks? My name’s Dick Hardesty. I’m a private investigator and I wondered if I could talk to you for a few minutes about your brother Brian.”

  “I haven’t seen Brian in…what?…four, five months. What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing serious,” I said, once again lying through my teeth. Jonathan looked up at me casually, then returned to his book. “I’m working on a case and I’m just trying to get some background information on some of the people who might have some information about it. Would you mind answering a few questions for me?”

  “Now?” he asked, throwing me slightly off guard for some reason.

  “Well, if…” I started to say, but he interrupted me.

  “Tell you what. I’ve got to work tomorrow: time and a half, I can’t pass it up. I get off work at five, and I usually stop in at Jesse’s Place for a quick beer. You want to meet me there, say five-thirty, we could talk a few minutes.”

  “That’ll be fine. I’ll see you there. And thanks.”

  We didn’t mention how we’d be able to identify one another, but if Ben looked as much like Brian as Bob Allen had said…and Jesse’s Place was the kind of bar where a new face—mine—would be hard to miss. It was a typical, totally straight working-class neighborhood bar with, as I recall from having been in there once on a case for Glen O’Banyon, a dart board, a pool table, and about four TV sets all tuned to the Big Game of the moment. The clientele tended to the natural, authentic born-butch heterosexual. They were to most gay-bar butches the way leather is to Naugahyde. The conversation centered on the sport du jour, the job, the kids, and the wife. I don’t think there was a Harley, an arm band, or a sling set among them. In short, the kind of place I really felt uncomfortable.

  Luckily, I didn’t think it would likely be too busy at 5:30 on a Saturday afternoon.

  *

  We’d arranged to have dinner Saturday night with Tim and Phil (the people, not the goldfish) at Napoleon at eight o’clock, and I was pretty sure we could juggle things so as not to be late. The day was filled with Saturday things, including a stop at Reef Dwellers so Jonathan could pick up more fish food (those two little buggers could eat!) and some plastic grass for the bottom of the aquarium, since Jonathan thought they might be getting bored and decided it would be nice to give them somewhere to play tag and hide-and-go-seek. We also stopped to get some leaf polish—not for the ficus, which now was actually beginning to look like a ficus; there were now too many leaves to even think about trying to polish each one—but for the small jungle of elephant-ears and ivies and philodendron we were accumulating from rejected or too-sick-to-sell plants Jonathan insisted on bringing home. He did have a green thumb, and was happy as a clam when he was working with them. And, of course, he named them all.

  When we got home, I tried John Ellison’s number again and this time got through.

  “Hello?” Eagerness was clearly evident in his voice. I suppose he was hoping it might be Andy, or someone with news of him.

  “John, hi…this is Dick. Hardesty. From the Qualicare Thursday night group.”

  His eager tone changed to slight puzzlement. “Dick. Oh, hi. This is a
surprise.”

  “I just called to see how you’re doing,” I said. I didn’t even bother to make a pretense of asking if he’d heard from Andy. I knew he hadn’t.

  There was a slight pause, then: “Fine, I guess. I sure do wish Andy would at least call, though. It’s been way too long, and he’s never done this before.”

  Again, I resisted coming out with some sort of automatic reassuring response like “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” That might have made him feel better, but I couldn’t lead him on that way.

  “John, there are some things I need to talk with you about. About Andy; is there some way we could get together for a few minutes, maybe Monday? Or even tomorrow? We could meet somewhere.”

  Again, hesitation and then puzzlement. “I…I don’t know, Dick. You know Brian doesn’t like members of the group to meet outside the group.”

  “Well, that’s another reason I need to talk to you. Jonathan and I are leaving the group, and…well, it will be easier to explain in person.”

  “Uh…well, I go to the M.C.C.’s eleven o’clock service. Maybe I could meet you right after?” There was another pause, then a tone that conveyed suspicion. “You and Jonathan, right?”

  I suddenly realized that he might have thought I was coming on to him!

  “Yeah,” I said immediately, “me and Jonathan.”

  “Okay, sure. I’ll see you after church.”

  We exchanged our goodbyes and hung up.

  *

  I arrived at Jesse’s Place at around 5:25. The fact that I was able to find a parking spot just a few doors down from the bar reassured me that the place was probably fairly empty. I was right.

  Jesse’s Place was clean, pretty well lit for a bar, and smelled very strongly of cigarette smoke. There was, in fact, a light blue haze from the fact that four of the five guys seated at the bar, and the two playing darts, were all smoking.

  I didn’t see anyone who resembled Brian Oaks as I walked to the bar and ordered a draft. The bartender brought it, asked how I was doing, took my money, and went to the register. A couple of minutes later, the door opened and Ben Oaks came in. Bob had been right; there was no mistaking the family resemblance to Brian. He exchanged greetings with most of the guys in the place as he walked directly up to me.