by Dorien Grey
“Hi, Dick!”
“Hello, Oscar.” He set the ice in the sink and made a gesture to come toward me, then apparently thought it might not be a good idea. I walked over to him, instead, and gave him a hug which obviously pleased him and which he returned with surprising strength. I noticed he’d borrowed some of Phil’s after-shave, but not too much, and he smelled as good as he looked.
Hardesty…my mind cautioned.
What? I mentally replied, feigning innocence.
You know damned well ‘what’, it said. Just cool it!
“You look good, Oscar,” I said as we broke the hug and moved away from one another. “Are you behaving yourself around Tim and Phil?”
He gave me a quick look of surprise before he apparently realized I was kidding, then he grinned broadly and said: “Oh, sure! They’re really great guys, and they let me help them do things around here, and I get to feed the fish, but not too often so they won’t get too fat, and I’ve even got a TV in my room so I can let them be alone when they don’t have something they want me to do.” Then his smile softened, and he said: “You look good, too.”
Har-des-ty!
I know.
Fortunately, we heard the sounds of other people in the dining room. “So what would you like to drink?” Jonathan asked.
“Bourbon and seven.”
The smaller kitchen table had been set up with bottles of gin, vodka, bourbon, scotch, sweet and dry vermouth, rum, and several bottles of various mixes. A large cooler on a chair beside the table was filled with ice and several different kinds of beer.
Jonathan swiftly and smoothly moved to take a glass from several rows of different sized glasses on the counter to one side of the refrigerator, took ice out of a rather elegant-looking ice bucket with a small silver scoop, replaced the lid, dropped the ice into the glass, and reached for the bourbon. “Strong or weak?” he asked.
“Medium.”
I turned to see Jared entering the kitchen.
We exchanged a handshake and a hug, which wasn’t lost on Jonathan, who had been staring in wide-eyed wonder at Jared.
“Jared,” I said by way of introduction, “this is…Oscar.”
Jared gave me a quick, raised-eyebrow look, and I just nodded.
“Nice to meet you…Oscar,” he said as they shook hands.
More people were coming in, now, and after Jonathan had given me my drink and gotten a beer for Jared, Jared and I decided to make room for the new arrivals, and moved back out into the living room. For somebody who didn’t drink, Jonathan made a pretty good bartender.
There were several people I knew, and several more I didn’t. Tim and Phil were natural hosts, and made sure everyone met everyone else. There was a nice woman from Tim’s work—the only one of his coworkers to whom he was out—and her husband, a few of Tim’s other friends, and a few guys Phil used to work with in his ModelMen days: Aaron Aimsley, who radiated so much sexual heat he would never be allowed in Madam Tussaud’s Wax Museum lest he melt the figures, was as usual all in black. Mark Neese, another ModelMen alum, as usual looked as though he’d just stepped off a magazine cover, and the androgynously beautiful Steve Thomas came in with his wife, a very attractive blonde named Cindy.
And I was delighted, a little later in the evening, to see Iris and Arnold Glick, the founders of the ModelMen agency which had gotten Phil off the streets, come in. I’d not seen them in quite a while, and we managed a few minutes of conversation between the usual party interruptions.
All in all, a very pleasant evening. Aaron, I noticed, spent quite a bit of time in the kitchen talking with Jonathan. I was only mildly concerned, since while Aaron could easily eat Jonathan alive, he was basically a nice guy. He liked to play rough, but always respected his partners’ limits. And I knew full well that Jonathan wouldn’t be leaving with him even if he wanted to.
And why should you care if he wanted to? my mind asked.
I nipped that little line of thought in the bud and forced myself back to enjoying the party.
*
I stayed after most of the guests had left, to help with the cleanup. I’d been hoping that maybe Jared would want to get together afterwards, but he had a date with some biker number he was meeting at the Male Call, and had to leave around ten. We did arrange to meet for brunch on Sunday and I knew that if we followed our usual Sunday Brunch pattern, the afternoon would pretty much take care of itself.
Phil and Tim were picking up the living room while I helped Jonathan wash the dishes. I’d really been quite impressed with Jonathan, what little I’d seen of him during the evening. He really worked his tail off. I knew Tim and Phil obviously appreciated it, since it took a lot of the pressures off them.
“Well,” I said when we’d put the last of the glasses in the cupboard, “I guess I should be getting on home.”
Jonathan looked disappointed. “Can’t you stay? I’ve got a big bed.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Jonathan, but I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”
“Tim and Phil wouldn’t mind. We could ask them.”
“Well, I really wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that,” I said, feeling doubly uncomfortable for being put in an awkward position and for being tempted.
Jonathan’s face became very sober. “I understand.”
I reached out and took him by the shoulders. “No, Jonathan, I don’t think you do.”
Well, how the hell could he understand when I didn’t myself? But I gave it the old college try.
“We haven’t known one another for a week yet. As I told you at the restaurant, I want you to understand that someone can want to be your friend without expecting you to pay for it with sex. Let’s just work on the friends part right now, okay?”
He picked up on that one like a shot. “And later?”
I sighed. “We’ll see when later comes.”
As if someone had turned on a light switch, his face brightened again.
“Okay,” he said, and closed the cupboard door.
*
I said good night to Tim, and Phil walked me to the door while Tim and Jonathan finished cleaning off the dining room table.
“You’ve got a fan,” Phil said with a warm smile, nodding to Jonathan.
“Yeah, I gather,” I said, mildly embarrassed. “Puppy love.”
We’d reached the door, but Phil hesitated with his hand on the knob. “Maybe, but he’s a pretty cute puppy. And I’ve noticed that he talks about everything and anything, as you’ve noticed. Except you. I suspect Jonathan talks about surface things, not things that are inside. And you are something of his knight in shining armor, after all.”
I sighed. “Yeah, I guess maybe he does see it that way. Well, give him time.”
*
Jared and I had arranged to meet for brunch at Rasputin’s at 12:30, and while I’d fully intended to sleep in—a pathetic little game I play with myself, since I always intend to sleep in on Sundays and never do—I was up and working the Sunday paper’s crossword puzzle by 7:30.
I’d just gotten up from my chair to start another pot of coffee when the phone rang.
“Dick Hardesty,” I answered, wondering for the four-thousandth time why I never just said “Hello.”
“Good morning, Dick. It’s Lisa.” Even if I hadn’t recognized her voice instantly, it wasn’t as though I’d have to go through a long roster of what women might be calling me.
“Hi, Lisa, what’s up?” I found myself straining to hear any tell-tale ‘clicks’ indicating the tap was back on, but there were none.
“Carol just came by”…uh huh…“and we were wondering if you’d like to come over for coffee.”
“Sure. Want me to stop by the deli and pick up some rolls?”
“That would be great. Could you get me an apple fritter? I love their apple fritters!”
“Anything else special?” I asked.
“I’ll leave it to you. Carol and Tom will eat anything as long as it’s fattening.”
We both laughed, and I told her I’d be over as soon as I’d showered.
*
The deli was only a block from their apartment, though a block beyond so I had to pass by their place and come back. I got there around nine.
Carol, it turned out, had only arrived shortly before Lisa called. They were playing it cool, too, just in case someone was keeping an eye on their building watching for who came and went. Paranoia ain’t fun, but sometimes it’s justified.
Tom, I could sense, was getting hyped up for his return to work, though he tried not to show it. We talked and laughed, and all tried to pretend that things were exactly as they should be. And for that little while, it worked.
Tom and Lisa were having dinner with Tom’s dad at the Montero that evening, and Tom was anxious to hear from his dad exactly what was going on with the labor negotiations, and to see for himself how the strike was affecting the operations of the hotel; it remained open despite the picket lines and drastically reduced staff. The papers had, of course, been running front-page stories on both the strike and the talks, and one of the papers began running a little box on the front page showing the projected cost of the strike to the city for each day the union stayed out.
From all indications the negotiations were as rocky as everyone had predicted. While Tom’s dad and his team kept a low profile, Joey G. took every opportunity to get his picture in the paper and on TV, complaining to everyone who would listen—including, I’m sure, Joe Giacomino, Senior in his east-coast prison cell—of management’s attempts to destroy the working man by refusing to pay a decent wage, etc. All bluster and bully-talk, but it more than made up in volume what it lacked in logic. The fact that the union workers were losing wages while they were out on the unnecessary strike he had called didn’t enter Joey’s equation.
*
I’ve always wondered why some of the things we do with relative frequency and in the same pattern are considered ruts, whereas others are always anticipated with pleasure. That was what my brunches with Jared had evolved into over time. We’d meet at around the same time, though we’d vary the place, have a couple Bloody Mary’s, talk, laugh, have brunch and then go either to his place or mine for the rest of the afternoon spent largely in various forms of horizontal recreation.
Jared had given his two-week notice to the beer distributor for whom he’d worked since he arrived in town; he was planning on moving to Carrington, the small town closest to Mountjoy College, where he’d be teaching. He was really looking forward to it, and I told him I’d help him move when the time came. Though it was only about an hour away, we both knew it would probably somewhat limit our get-togethers. It would certainly limit his incredibly active social life, which was always the source for colorful stories of his encounters and conquests, and which he always related with no sense of ego.
I got home around six, fixed dinner, and settled in for a night of TV. I thought briefly of running out to Ramón’s for a drink and a talk with Bob Allen, but then thought better of it.
You’re getting old, Hardesty, my mind said.
Bullshit! I replied.
I was just finishing a jumbo bowl of popcorn and thinking about heading to bed when the buzzer rang. When I opened the door I was a little surprised to see Tom coming up the steps. I held the door open as he came in.
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise.” I motioned him to the couch, then sat down beside him.
“Sorry for not calling first, but when we got back from dinner, I decided to take a walk, and I ended up here. Who’d a’ thought?”
I grinned. “You’re welcome any time; you know that.” There was a slight pause and when Tom didn’t say anything, I stepped in. “So how did it go with your dad? Talks going any better?”
Tom sighed. “Giacomino’s a total asshole.”
I shrugged. “So tell me something I didn’t know.”
He gave me a small grin and laid his hand on my leg. “Apparently little Joey is really out of his league, and he knows it. This is his first real negotiation, and he’s got not only his old man but the entire union hierarchy watching his every move. Dad says even some of the other guys on Joey’s team are obviously not happy with the way he’s handling things, especially in calling a strike so early in the game. Of course criticism only drives Joey further out into left field.”
“I don’t envy your dad. Or the union members, for that matter.”
Tom sighed. “Yeah, and there are four other guys on dad’s team, but of course Joey’s acting as though he blames dad personally for the strike. Management’s offering a really good, solid package, but Joey thinks he’s got to prove to his old man that he’s as tough as his dad was.”
We sat silently for another minute or two, appreciating the more-than-physical sensation of our hands resting on each other’s thighs.
“You ready for tomorrow?” I asked.
He nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Then he turned to look at me, face to face. “You know I’m going to lose my job over this.”
I started to say something, but he gave a quick headshake to cut me off. “Maybe not tomorrow or next week, but eventually. The only reason I haven’t been fired already is because Chief Black is understandably concerned about the reaction of the gay community. He doesn’t want another Stonewall on his hands. Any other time, under any other circumstances, I’d be out on my ass already. Chief Black’s a good man, and will be good for the department. But even I know the force just isn’t ready to integrate gay cops yet. The time will come, but not now. If I could have kept a low profile….”
I knew he was right, and it hurt: For him, for the community, for tolerance.
“I could just quit.” He said it almost more to himself than to me. “But I won’t. If this is going to be an issue, which it already is, then I’m not going to give anybody the idea that I left because I thought that gays don’t have a place on the force—or the right to be there.”
“You always were a man ahead of your time,” I said, and he grinned.
He glanced at his watch. “And I see it’s about time I headed for home. It’s going to be an interesting day tomorrow. I hope I don’t have any trouble going to sleep.”
“Well,” I said, “old Doc Hardesty’s got a sure-fire cure for relieving tension.”
He grinned at me again, and his hand took mine and moved it slowly up his leg. “I’ll just bet you do.”
And I did.
Chapter 8
I spent most of Monday thinking about Tom and wondering how things were going for him. I called Lisa at her work right after lunch to see if she’d heard anything but she hadn’t. I could tell she was worried, too, but, like Tom, she always tried to put up a good front. She had hoped to leave work early in order to be home when Tom got there, but her boss had called some sort of office meeting for 3:30, and she couldn’t get out of it. I told her I’d stop by the apartment around that time, which is about when Tom should be getting home.
Finishing up the paperwork on another case took my mind off things for a little while, but not too far off. I realized I had to do some more thinking about Jonathan, too. He couldn’t stay with Tim and Phil forever, and right now he was practically a prisoner in their apartment. I’d told him not to leave under any circumstances or for any reason, and I think he understood the reason for it. It had only been five days, but I’m sure he’d start to get antsy pretty soon, and I couldn’t blame him. I made a mental note to talk to Bob Allen, to see if perhaps he and Mario could put him up for a little while.
I just hoped this entire mess would resolve itself soon, but with so many different elements—the intradepartmental struggle for control, the shooting incident and its ramifications both inside the community and in the department, plus the added problem of the labor negotiations and the strike and Joey G.’s ties to Deputy Chief Cochran—it didn’t, again, seem likely to be over any time soon.
There was something else that had been swimming around the backwaters of my bra
in for some time, now—one of those infuriatingly elusive thoughts I instinctively knew might be important but couldn’t catch. And then it came to me: I’d known the name Giacomino rang a bell, but couldn’t place why. And then I remembered Bart Giacomino, whom I’d met in conjunction with another case some time back. Bart was a wheeler-dealer in the gay community who spent money like water and was rumored to be the black sheep of a powerful east coast gang-related family. Could he possibly be related to Joey G.? Bart and Glen O’Banyon had been college roommates, so if anyone would know if there was a connection, it would be O’Banyon. Other than satisfying my curiosity, I wasn’t sure what practical good having the information might do, but the more I could learn about Joey Giacomino and what might be expected from him, the better I’d feel. Anything was worth a shot.
I called O’Banyon’s office and left a message with his secretary, Donna, to have him call me at his convenience.
*
I’d gotten to Tom’s apartment building a little before 3:30 and when no one answered the buzzer, I figured he hadn’t gotten home yet, so went around to the entrance to the parking garage, where I was standing when he drove up at 3:45. He waved, and I followed him through the opened gates into the garage and to his parking spot.
“What, no flowers?” he asked as he got out of the car.
I just grinned and followed him to the elevator.
“Sorry I’m late. I had a flat tire. The perfect end to the perfect day.”
“Problems?” I asked, immediately feeling stupid for having done so.
He shrugged. “Ah, not really, I guess. They assigned me to the property room…waay in the back of the property room, to be exact, going through about four hundred boxes of unfiled reports. That should keep me busy until the turn of the century.”