by Dorien Grey
Like that’s going to make a difference now? My God, the man was hacked to death—not stabbed, you’ll note, but ‘hacked’—and probably by some wacked-out hustler you might have stopped by letting the cops know where they could start looking. Shit! Shit!
The first thing I wanted to do was to check with Phil. I knew he couldn’t possibly be involved in any way with what happened to Anderson, but I had to be absolutely sure. And he might possibly know something about Anderson’s sexual interests outside of ModelMen.
When I walked into the office, I didn’t even sit down before picking up the phone and dialing his number.
“Hello?”
“Billy, hi. This is Dick Hardesty, Is Phil by any chance around?”
“No, he’s not. He hasn’t come home yet. He had an all-nighter with a client.”
Oh, Jeezus!
“Do you know who he was with?” I asked, hoping my anxiety wasn’t too obvious. “It’s really, really important!”
There was a long pause, then: “Well, yeah, I know, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Dick. We’re never allowed to talk about our clients. Not to anybody.”
“Billy,” I said, “I can appreciate that, but you have no idea how important this is.” Then I had an idea. “If I give you a name, can you at least tell me if I’m wrong? That way you won’t be violating any rules.”
“Tell you if you’re wrong?” I could picture him thinking that one out. “Yeah, I guess I could do that. But don’t tell anybody, okay?”
“I won’t, I promise,” I said. Then I took a deep breath. “Stuart Anderson.”
Another pause. “No.”
Damn! “No? No, I’m right? Or no, I’m wrong, and it wasn’t Anderson.”
Billy laughed, obviously having no idea what I was trying to find out.
“No, you’re wrong. It wasn’t Stuart Anderson.”
I let my breath out in a great, long sigh.
“Thank you, Billy.” And thank you, God!
“Sure,” Billy said. “Are you okay? You sound kind of funny.”
“Well, I feel better now,” I said, “but please have Phil call me the minute he gets home, will you? I’ve really got to talk with him right away.”
“Sure. Is there anything else?”
“Not now, I don’t think,” I replied. “Oh, my home phone number—I don’t know if he has it. I’ll be here at the office until four-thirty and home after five.”
“Let me get a pencil,” Billy said, and I heard the phone being put down. A moment later, he came back on, and I gave him the number.
“Got it,” he said.
“Thanks again, Billy. I owe you.”
“I’ll remember that,” he said cheerily. “See you, then.”
“Bye,” I said as we both hung up.
*
I was still torn about calling Richman and letting him in on the fact that Anderson was bi and frequented hustlers. But if I did that, a background check might well bring Phil into it. I decided I’d wait until after I talked with him to see how likely it might be that ModelMen would be dragged into the situation.
If a street hustler had killed Anderson—and I suspected that was a pretty good bet—that was one thing, but to bring Phil and ModelMen into it unless it was absolutely necessary wouldn’t do anyone any good.
I was just getting ready to leave the office when the phone rang.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Dick…Phil. Billy said you wanted to talk to me. What’s up?”
“We’ve got to talk—someplace private. I know you just got home, but can you come over here? Or to my place?”
“Gee, Dick, I don’t know. I’m really, really beat, and the Glicks said that Stuart called last night when he got in and wanted me to come over. When they told him I was on an assignment, he asked for tonight. So I’ve got to grab a few hours of sleep and then get over to his hotel.”
Definite change of plans, Phil! I thought. But I still didn’t want to say anything on the phone.
“Phil, can I come over there? Right away? It’s important, believe me.”
There was only a slight pause, then: “Sure, I guess. If we can make it kind of short. I don’t mean to put you off, Dick, but…”
“I understand, Phil,” I said. “Give me your address, and I’ll leave the office the minute we hang up.”
“Billy’s here, of course,” Phil said. “It’s okay if he stays?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Okay, it’s 1933 Partridge, Apartment 4—you know where it is? About six blocks east of Barnes Park?”
“I’ll find it,” I said. “And I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. Bye.”
*
Nineteen-thirty-three Partridge was in an area of solid older apartment buildings, mostly three-story, mostly well kept up. I rang the buzzer for Apartment 4 (“P. Stark/W. Hooper”) and the outer door immediately clicked open. Apartment 4 was on the ground floor, in the rear. I was just raising my hand to knock when Billy opened the door.
“Hi, Dick, come on in.” he said, stepping aside as I entered then closing the door behind me. I was favorably impressed—a lot cleaner than my place; comfortable-looking furniture, including an obviously new couch; nice prints on the walls; a few plants on the window ledges. Absolutely no evidence of Phil’s “Tex” persona.
“You want some coffee, Dick?” Phil called from what I assumed, being the astute detective that I am, was the kitchen.
“Yeah, please,” I said, loudly enough to carry the distance. “Black.”
“Have a seat,” Billy said, and I did. He seemed hesitant to sit himself, looking toward the kitchen where Phil was emerging with a coffee cup in each hand. He started to give one to Billy, but he shook his head.
“I’ll go get it,” he said, and headed toward the kitchen, discreetly leaving Phil and me alone.
Phil handed me my coffee then sat on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, elbows on knees, both hands on his coffee cup.
“So, tell,” he said, and I did.
The color drained from his face, and he quickly slid sideways to put his coffee cup on the table lamp beside the couch. He started to say something then merely shook his head and put one hand over his mouth.
“Billy!” he finally managed to call, and Billy returned, looking mildly puzzled.
“Yeah?”
“Tell him, Dick,” Phil said softly, and I repeated what I’d told him.
Billy’s eyes grew wide, and he plopped down on the couch next to Phil, nearly sloshing the coffee out of his cup.
“Holy shit!” he said.
We were all quiet for a moment until I said, “When you couldn’t go over Sunday night, did ModelMen send someone else?”
Phil shook his head: “I don’t think so,” he said. “I’d have to check with the Glicks to be sure.”
“Did Anderson go for street hustlers, do you know?” I asked.
Again a head-shake. “I don’t think so. He said a couple times that he liked the discretion of ModelMen—a lot safer all around. But who knows?”
“Did he have any…uh…special interests in guys?” I asked.
Phil thought a moment. “Not really. He was pretty vanilla; nothing at all kinky, at least not with me. He did seem to like darker-haired guys over blonds, but other than that…”
There were a million questions I wanted to ask, but I decided that now was not the time and this was not my case. The main thing was that Phil had an alibi if he really needed one.
“Well,” I said, taking a drink of coffee, “If the police find any links between you and Anderson or ModelMen, you and the Glicks had better be prepared for a pretty rough time.”
“Jesus!” Phil said.
We finished our coffee in silence, and I decided it was time I left so Phil could get some sleep. I got out of the chair and looked around for something to do with my empty coffee cup. Billy got up and took it from me then picked up Phil’s cup from the lamp table and headed into the ki
tchen.
“I’d better get going,” I said. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up about all this. And I’m really sorry about Anderson; he sure as hell didn’t deserve this. There are just too damned many sick people in this world.”
“Both hustlers and johns,” Phil said. “It’s pretty damned dangerous out there for hustlers, too, but not many people think about that, or care. Which is one of the reasons both of us went with ModelMen. Our clients are pre-screened, and we don’t have to worry about any deadly surprises.”
He was quiet for a minute, his eyes on mine. Then he sighed and said, “Stuart was a nice guy. You’re right…he didn’t deserve this.” He moved forward to give me a hug. “Thanks, Dick. I appreciate your concern.”
“Call it a vested interest,” I said, smiling as we released from the hug.
Billy came back, and the three of us moved to the door. I shook hands with both of them.
“Watch yourselves,” I said as Billy opened the door and I went out into the hall.
*
I’d been home all of ten minutes and was just thinking about what to have for dinner when the phone rang. I figured it was probably Jared, or maybe Tim Jackson returning my Sunday message.
I answered with my usual “Dick Hardesty,” even though I didn’t get many business calls at home and friends hardly needed to be told my last name. Habits are odd.
“Mr. Hardesty,” an unfamiliar voice said. “My name is Arnold Glick. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but it’s extremely important that I speak with you privately, and as soon as possible.”
Arnold Glick of ModelMen. Phil hadn’t wasted any time getting in touch with him, obviously.
“Of course, Mr. Glick,” I said. “When and where?”
“Could it possibly be this evening?” he asked, and although his tone was casual, I could sense a definite urgency. “At my home, perhaps?”
I looked at my watch; it was 7:25.
“Well,” I said, “I was just about to have dinner, but I could come by around nine or nine-thirty, if you’d like.”
“Excellent.” Glick sounded relieved. “I do appreciate it. Let me give you my address, and the phone number, in case you are delayed.”
I reached for the pencil and pad I always try to keep by the phone and was pleasantly surprised they both were there; I invariably walk off with the pencil and leave it God-knows where.
I took down his number and address, told him again that I’d see him between 9:00 and 9:30, exchanged goodbyes, and hung up.
*
Glick’s address, I recognized, was in the Briarwood area, which wasn’t exactly subsidized housing. Part of it sided the golf course of the Birchwood Country Club, the most exclusive country club in the city. It was rumored that the lobby of the main building had a large model of the Mayflower, since so many of the club’s members claimed…rightly or wrongly…direct lineage from its passenger list.
It would take me at least half an hour to get there and since I hadn’t even started dinner, I decided to grab something on the way. I changed my shirt, made a quick inspection to see if I needed a shave or not—I could pass—and headed out the door.
*
I pulled into the circular drive of 6811 Edgemont Court at exactly 9:00, after having driven up and down several nearby streets killing time. I didn’t see a single house that didn’t look like it cost more than the gross national product of Guatemala. Where in hell does all this money come from, I wondered, and why in hell don’t I have any of it?
The Glick residence made its neighbors look like squatters’ shacks by comparison. “Quiet ostentation” would pretty much describe it, if you took away the “quiet.” I decided immediately that however much money ModelMen pulled in, it wasn’t nearly enough to finance a place like this.
I parked in a mini-mall-sized parking area on one side of the house, found my way to the front door, and rang the bell.
Chapter 3
There was about a thirty-second wait, and the left side of the massive double doors swung open to reveal a tall, rather striking woman in her early-to-mid forties with jet-black hair almost to her waist and eyeliner that reminded me of Cleopatra. She wore a gold lame tank top and toreador pants.
Probably not the maid, I decided.
“Mrs. Glick,” I said, risking it, “I’m Dick Hardesty. Your husband is expecting me.”
She smiled warmly and naturally and extended her heavily jeweled hand.
“Please come in, Mr. Hardesty,” she said. “My husband is on the phone but should be off shortly. Why don’t we go into the study?”
She closed the door behind me and led the way through the marble-floored circular foyer of which the focal point was a staircase like the one at Tara, only nicer, then through a large, Doric-column-flanked doorway into a surprisingly comfortable study complete with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a fireplace. I would not have been the least bit surprised to see Sherlock Holmes in a smoking jacket, seated in one of the wing-back chairs by the fire.
“Please,” she said, with a sweeping-handed, full-arm game-show-hostess gesture toward one of the wing-backs, “have a seat. I’ll go check on my husband.”
And as I sat, she turned and left the room, the soft click of her stiletto heels marking her path across the foyer.
I took the time to look more carefully around the room. A large French-paned window flanked by wooden shutters rather than curtains; rich, dark paneling—walnut, I think; a muted rose carpet; an elegant writing desk that managed to look both fragile and sturdy at the same time; some very nice paintings on the wall areas between the bookcases. One of the paintings was a marvelous French cityscape by Raoul Dufy—I had a print of it in my bedroom hallway. I got out of my chair to verify what I already knew—this wasn’t a print.
I heard the clicking of Mrs. Glick’s shoes approaching and turned to see her enter the room accompanied by a small, grey-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman in—I swear!—a smoking jacket with a casually open-at-the-collar white shirt. I was mildly disappointed not to see a pipe.
He hurried across the room, hand extended, which I rose and stepped forward to take as he reached me.
“Mr. Hardesty,” he said in a smooth, rich voice, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming over.” He motioned me toward the chair I’d just left. “Please, let’s sit. May I get you a drink?”
“Not right now, thanks,” I said, and he gave me a quick smile.
He and I sat, and Mrs. Glick stood beside her husband, as though protecting him. When we’d settled in, Glick slid all the way into the chair back and said, “We have a serious problem.”
I nodded. “Stuart Anderson.”
He nodded and glanced up at his wife, reaching over to pat her hand gently.
“You have no idea how distressed we are over what has happened,” he said. “Stuart was a long-time business acquaintance, and a friend. Phil tells me you and Stuart were doing some work together. While your business arrangement with him is none of my business, I would assume that he died before it was completed, and therefore you were not paid for your services.”
I realized with something of a mild shock that he was right.
“That’s true,” I acknowledged, “but I’m certainly not concerned about money under these circumstances.”
“That’s very noble of you,” Glick said, and he wasn’t being sarcastic. “However, Stuart’s death creates a very complex set of problems and potential problems for the ModelMen Agency, and we would like to utilize your expertise in helping us resolve or avoid them. Would you be interested?”
“As a matter of fact, I would.”
Glick looked up at his wife, and they exchanged smiles.
“Wonderful,” he said. “I assume you have a standard contract you would need us to sign?”
I did, of course, but since I’d had no idea I’d be taking the Glicks on as clients, I hadn’t brought one with me.
“I’ll get you one,” I said. “Shall I drop it b
y your office?”
“Would you mind bringing it here?” Glick asked. “While all our escorts are also registered as models, we prefer to keep the two aspects of the agency as separate as possible. And my wife should be here all day—we’re having a fountain put in beside the pool house, and Iris likes to oversee these things.” He turned slightly to smile up at his wife again, who returned it.
I realized I hadn’t mentioned my fee, but it was in the contract, and I sincerely doubted the Glicks would have a hard time meeting it. I was sure the cost of a fountain beside the pool house would be considerably greater than the cost of my services for several months—full time.
“But perhaps we should go over a few things first,” I said.
“Of course.”
Mrs. Glick moved to sit on the arm of his chair.
“I recognize the importance of…discretion…to the escort service branch of ModelMen, and I will consider myself bound by it. I will not ask questions in what you consider sensitive areas unless I feel it is absolutely necessary.”
They both nodded.
“However, should there be something I feel I really need to know, I will expect your full cooperation. If any limits are set on where I can go and where I can’t, I can’t do the job you’re paying me to do, and you might as well just save your money and hire someone else from the start.”
“Understood,” Glick said.
“Good. I have several questions already, but if you’d prefer, since it’s getting late, we can take them up at our next meeting.”
Mrs. Glick slipped a hand behind her husband’s head to rest it on his far shoulder.
“We can start now, if you’d like,” she said, and her husband nodded agreement
“Good,” I said again. “I’ll try to make this brief. First, I understand from Phil that Mr. Anderson had called you when he got into town Sunday night, asking if Phil might be available for the night.”
Mrs. Glick smiled. “I took the call, and when I told Stuart that Phil was on another assignment, he set up an appointment for what would have been tonight.”
“He didn’t ask for anyone else from ModelMen?”
Glick and his wife exchanged quick glances, and then Mrs. Glick replied, “No, Phil was his…favorite companion. I asked if he might enjoy spending time with one of our other escorts, but he said he would wait until Phil was available.”