by Dorien Grey
Oh, fer chrissake! my mind-voice snorted.
Jonathan hadn’t stopped smiling since he first saw me, a fact not lost on Mario, who glanced quickly from Jonathan to me and gave a quick raised-eyebrow grin.
“Why don’t you finish that edging, Jonathan, then show Dick what we’ve been doing since he was here last.”
Well, it hadn’t been that long, but….
“Bob not here?” I asked as Mario and Jonathan returned to their work.
“Yeah.” Mario poured more paint into his roller pan. “He’s in the basement with the exterminator.”
“Oh, oh. No problems, I hope.”
Mario shrugged without looking away from his rolling. “Well, when we bought the place, the pre-sale inspection showed that there was some minor termite damage, but we were in a hurry to close, so we made an arrangement with the former owners that they’d pay for any problems. We brought another inspector in to see just what needs to be done. We’ll probably have to fumigate, though.”
Jonathan finished the window frame, put his brush down on top of the open can, and came quickly over to me. “Come on, Dick, I’ll show you the new bathroom!”
He led the way back down the maid’s stairs to the kitchen where a gaping hole in the wall led to the new half-bath. One of the workers, who had been apparently framing in the new wall, gave Jonathan a big grin and a wink. Jonathan blushed and gave me a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.
“Bob said I could help decorate it when it’s ready,” he said, ignoring the worker. “He brought a book of wallpaper samples and some tile samples for the floor. It’ll be really nice.”
The worker kept looking at Jonathan with a small smile and an expression that reminded me of the wolf eyeing Red Riding Hood. Jonathan quickly turned and led me into the dining room where either he or Mario had stripped most of the woodwork.
“It looks like you have a new friend,” I teased, giving a head-jerk in the direction of the new half bath.
Jonathan looked uncomfortable, making me wish I hadn’t said anything. “Yeah. He wants to have sex with me. He told me so. But…” His look of discomfort did not go away.
“But?”
He looked at me and gave a semi-frown, then a quick sigh.
“Nothing.” He moved toward the main staircase. I followed. About halfway up the stairs, he turned to me.
“Is it because I was a hustler?”
Now that one caught me by surprise.
“Is what because you were a hustler?” I was sincerely confused.
“Is that why you don’t want…?” He shook his head. “Never mind; it’s not important.”
“Yes it is important, whatever it is. I don’t think…”
At that point, I heard Bob’s voice, talking with someone as they entered the dining room.
Seeing me on the stair, he said: “Well, hello, stranger; I’ll be right with you.” He then turned back to a large man with a beer belly that stretched the buttons on his uniform shirt and flowed over the top of his belt, completely hiding the buckle. They continued walking to the front door as the man took a large measuring tape from one side of his belt. Bob opened the door for him, then closed it behind him and turned toward me. When I glanced toward Jonathan, I saw he had gone on up the stairs and disappeared.
Now what have you done? I asked myself.
Like you had no idea! my mind answered. God, you can be such a jerk!
“Busy place.” I moved back down the stairs to shake hands with Bob.
“The joys of home ownership,” he sighed. “And now it looks like we’ll definitely have to fumigate.”
“When?”
“By sheer luck, he had a job cancellation for tomorrow, if you can believe that! So it’s either tomorrow or wait nearly a month. It’ll take three days. I hate to bring all the work to a halt right in the middle of everything, but it’s better to get it done now than when we’re moved in—which we hope will be in three weeks.”
He started up the stairs and I followed. When we reached the top, he said: “Which creates something of a minor problem.”
“Jonathan.”
“Yeah. He can’t stay here, obviously, and he’d be welcome to stay with us, but as you know we’ve only got a one-bedroom, and…”
I raised my hand to stop him. “I understand. Completely.”
“Maybe Phil and Tim can put him up for a few more days.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’d be willing to, but they really need their time right now. I’ve imposed on them…and you…too long as it is.”
Bob reached out and touched my arm, then started toward the master bedroom. “Hell, it’s no imposition at all for us! Jonathan’s more than earned his keep. We’d be glad to have him stay here as long as he needs to. But it’s the next three days we have to think about.”
“I’ll have him stay with me,” I heard myself saying, surprising the hell out of the part of me that hadn’t said it. With everything that was going on being in a constant state of flux: Tom, the department, Cochran, Giacomino, the fire, the community, and God-knows-what-all else, I didn’t think Cochran’s boys would be spending too much time looking for one hustler who they must now believe, after some time with nothing seen or heard from him, had gone back to Wisconsin. With Tom…dead…yeah, dead…I couldn’t imagine that I was of any value or interest to Cochran.
But I knew the main reason I was hesitant was because of my uncertainty about myself and exactly what I thought might be going on with Jonathan. On the one hand, being relatively alone with him for three days would give me a chance to get to know him a little better and get a better handle on where I thought this might or might not be leading. But on the other hand, I really didn’t want to hurt him, and I knew that I’d have to fight myself like hell to keep from what they still euphemistically call “taking advantage” of him. And it would be taking advantage in spite of the fact—or more exactly because of the fact—that he obviously wanted to be more than just friends.
Oh, fer Chrissakes, Hardesty, my mind snapped. Aren’t you overdoing this ‘I’m so noble’ crap? The kid’s 19, not 12. He knows what he wants. Stop behaving like something out of Victorian novel! What you’re really afraid of is getting involved with someone again! You’re not worried about your hurting him—you’re worried about him hurting you!
Oh, shit!
When we got to the bedroom, Jonathan had started painting the other window frame. Bob announced that the house would have to be sealed for the next three days, work would have to stop on the bathroom, and Jonathan would be staying with me. Jonathan, who had not smiled since Bob and I entered the room, merely looked at me, expressionless. “I can sleep in the coach house,” he said. Bob and Mario exchanged glances, then looked at me with slightly raised eyebrows.
“They’ll be tenting the coach house, too,” Bob said.
“And I want you to come and stay with me.”
“Really?” he asked, still suspicious, but reminding me somehow of the reactions of a puppy to whom a hand is held out just after having been scolded.
“Really,” I said, and hoped to hell I meant it.
I then told them all of Giacomino’s “reassignment” and what that would mean if Jonathan didn’t file charges before he left town, and that Richman wanted Jonathan to come down in the morning to sign the paperwork. I gave him the notepad and pen and told him to write out everything exactly as it happened. He took them to his room and came quickly back, his spirits seeming to have once again picked up.
“I’ll pick you up at 7.”
“I can bring Phil and Tim, can’t I? I can’t leave them here; they’d die.”
“Well, we won’t have time to take them home before we have to be downtown, and…”
“That’s okay,” Mario said. “We can take them home with us tonight and watch out for them until it’s clear to bring them back.”
“Thanks, Mario!” Jonathan said. “I’ll show you how much to feed them and I’ll change their water tonight
so it’ll be fresh.”
A voice called from downstairs: “Mr. Allen?”
“Ah,” Bob said. “The exterminator. He was measuring for the tent. I’d better get down and see if he needs anything.”
“I’d better get going, too, and let you guys get back to work. I’ll see you at seven, okay, Jonathan?”
“Sure,” he said with a big smile.
I followed Bob back downstairs and, with a wave to the workers in the half bath, I left.
*
It was Friday night, and I had only been out cruising once since Tom died. There! I was getting used to saying/thinking it. But that encounter had been about as exciting as an oil change, and while sheer habit is a powerful force, I realized I really still wasn’t in the mood for trolling for tricks. So I just stayed home, went to bed fairly early, and watched some porn videos. I was more than a little surprised, while taking care of business, to find myself thinking of Jonathan.
*
Jonathan was waiting on the front porch as I pulled up at ten minutes to seven. He had the legal pad in one hand and his old backpack in the other which, I assumed, contained clothes to last the three days he’d be at my place. He was wearing some of the clothes Tim had given him, and looked really nice.
Har-des-tyyyyyy! my mind cautioned softly.
Okay, okay.
It being a Saturday morning, we made it downtown by quarter after and found a parking place about a block away from the City Annex. There was a coffee shop on the corner, and I asked Jonathan if he’d eaten. When he said “no”, we went in and ordered a quick breakfast. He was back to being the old talkative Jonathan I remembered from our first meeting at Hughies, but there seemed to be a subtle change, somehow. He told me all about working on the house, and how he really liked Mario and Bob, and how his goldfish Phil and Tim—especially Tim—seemed to be getting bigger and how real-person Phil had stopped by one afternoon and brought some cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes, and how they’d talked about all sorts of things and really had a good time, and…well, maybe it was just that he was talking about things and people we had in common. I don’t know.
We walked into the Annex at exactly 7:57. From the amount of traffic we saw going in and out of the alley next to the building and the number of people in the lobby, I never would have guessed it was a weekend. There seemed to be an inordinate number of civilians around—mostly men; and then I realized they were obviously cops in plainclothes assigned to keep an eye—a very close eye, I’d judge from the number of them—on The Central.
We got to Richman’s office at exactly eight o’clock, and he must have seen us through the opaque glass on his door because he said “Come” before I’d even had a chance to knock. We entered, did our handshake ritual, and he motioned us to sit down with Jonathan in the chair closest to the desk. Richman returned to his seat and opened a manila file folder on his desk, taking out an assortment of official-looking report forms. Picking up a pen from a desk set in front of him, he began asking Jonathan the requisite questions, writing rapidly as Jonathan responded. I could tell Jonathan was embarrassed to talk about his hustling—an interesting change from the day we’d first met, I noticed—and that even a sketchy outline of what had happened that night disturbed him.
When they’d finished, Richman asked him to sign in several places, and then asked if he had brought his written statement of what had happened. Jonathan handed him the notepad, and Richman flipped quickly through the two or three pages he’d written. Noting that Jonathan hadn’t signed it, he asked him to do so, then signed his own name and the date under it.
“And you’re prepared to testify against him in court?” Richman asked. Jonathan nodded.
“Good. We’ll take it from here.”
He was silent a moment, then looked slowly from Jonathan to me, lips pursed.
“I have to be honest with you, Jonathan,” he said finally. “Giacomino is a very powerful man and a very wealthy one. There is an outside chance that he will not go to jail for what he did to you.”
Jonathan nodded.
“I know. But I want him to know he can’t go around beating people up and get away with it.”
Richman sighed. “You’re right, of course, and we’ll do whatever we can to see that he pays for his actions. I’m sure just the nature of the charge will encourage his wife to make his life a living hell. Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy.”
Figuring we were just about done for the moment, I was about ready to get up from my chair when Richman opened a drawer in his desk and brought out another manila folder.
“These are the photos taken at the scene of Officer Brady’s death,” he said, moving the folder across the desk toward me. “I took out those that…ah…those that weren’t necessary.”
Thank God for that! I thought. I don’t think I could have looked at any pictures that showed…well…Tom.
There were probably a dozen showing the car from all angles, most from the outside, starting from the back of the car and working around the passenger’s side. There were a couple taken from inside Reef Dwellers, showing the damage the car had done when it crashed through the wall and display window. But the ones I was most interested in seeing were the ones taken through the open driver’s side door. When I reached one showing the full front seat, I froze, my eyes riveted to a small box on the seat near the passenger’s door. I could almost feel the blood draining from my face, and I felt lightheaded.
“Dick! Are you all right?” I heard Jonathan ask, his voice anxious.
I forced myself to lean forward to hand the photo to Richman.
“That’s who killed Tom.”
Richman took the photo, looked at it carefully, then looked at me, his confusion written clearly on his face.
“What is it?” Jonathan asked.
“It’s a box of Cracker Jack,” Richman said.
Chapter 12
Jonathan was staring at me, obviously totally confused, as apparently was Richman, though his face had regained its normal composure. I knew he was giving me time to pull myself and my thoughts together.
There had to have been a full minute of total silence while I tried to figure out how to make anyone but me understand what was going on. Finally I decided just to plunge right in and hope the water wasn’t too far over my head.
I explained—mostly to Richman, of course, since poor Jonathan had no idea of all the twists and turns this story had taken—about the long and bitter history between the Giacominos and the Bradys; of how the Bradys suspected Joe senior had caused the death of Tom’s older brother; of the fight Tom had had with Joey G. over the box of Cracker Jack when they were kids, and of Tom’s dad’s observation that the Giacominos never forgot or forgave. I’d thought at the time that he was exaggerating, but I believed it now with all my heart.
Joey G. had just been humiliated, as an adult, by Tom’s dad at the labor negotiations. What better way, in Joey’s reptilian way of thinking, to get back at both Tom’s dad and at Tom for that long-ago defeat? The Cracker Jack box was unopened—I’d bet anything that Joey had known about the victory celebration Tom’s dad threw the night after the contract was signed and had waited outside the Montero. Whether he was waiting for Tom or Tom’s dad probably didn’t matter: Either Brady would do, but Tom was frosting on the cake.
“Is there another convenience store close to where Tom got his gas?” I asked.
Richman thought a moment, then said: “Yeah there’s one a block closer to town. Maybe Brady realized as he passed it that he needed gas, and stopped at the next one. Why?”
“I think Giacomino saw Tom come out and followed him at a safe distance so Tom wouldn’t notice he was being followed. When he saw Tom pull in for gas, he probably pulled into the one closest to him, went in, and bought the Cracker Jack. He knew full well what he was doing.”
“Yeah, but isn’t it possible Tom Brady bought the Cracker Jack for himself?”
“He loved it as a kid, but he ate so much of it
he couldn’t stand it as an adult. Of course Giacomino had no way of knowing that.”
Richman nodded. “I’ll have a squad check that out. If Giacomino did stop and buy the Cracker Jack it wouldn’t be enough to convict him, certainly, but it would be a good bit of circumstantial evidence. And there might be fingerprints….”
“I might tend to doubt that, given Joey’s background. He’d probably be smart enough not to leave prints.”
Richman nodded. “So go on with your scenario.”
“So, Joey G. waited for Tom to drive off, followed him to the stoplight at Evans and Beech, and pulled up beside him. Tom’s window was rolled down, I saw in the photo. He probably had it down because it was warm. If he’d seen Giacomino in the car next to him, I don’t think he would have rolled it down for a chat. And since Tom was apparently looking straight ahead when he…. Giacomino just shot him and tossed the Cracker Jack in through the window as his sick calling card: His little private joke, his revenge. He thought nobody else would know, but he’d know.”
I suddenly felt very much like a balloon when all the air has gone out of it—almost limp. I sat back in my chair, and was aware of Jonathan just staring at me, slack-jawed. Richman, too, was silent. We all sat there without speaking for what seemed like an eternity.
Finally, I heard Richman give a deep sigh. “I’ll buy it,” he said. “But buying it and proving it are two very different things. Assuming that he would have made sure his prints weren’t on the box, other than maybe being able to put him at the convenience store…. We’ll do our best to see what else we can find, but my guess is that we won’t be able to get enough to convict him. He’s a snake, but as you pointed out, he’s not stupid. Once we find out who got the gun for him, we might be able to make some tie-in there.”
He looked again from me to Jonathan. “And this throws a different light on this whole assault charge. I never realized just what a psycho Giacomino really was until now. Jonathan, for you to press charges against him could put you in very real danger. Normally, I would put you in protective custody, but since it’s apparent that someone within the department is working with or for him, I couldn’t risk your safety.”