by Dorien Grey
While he was doing that, I reached inside my shirt for Stuart Anderson’s photograph. When he returned with my drink, I set the photo on the bar in front of him.
“Would you happen to know this guy?” I asked.
He picked up the photo, looked at it carefully then handed it back to me, shaking his head.
“Sorry, Dick, never seen the guy before.” He went back down the bar to attend to a customer.
I sat nursing my drink, idly looking around. At a table not too far from me, I noticed a double-take-hot guy about thirty seated with a rather attractive man in his early fifties. They looked like two successful executives, and I wondered idly if they were just business associates here for dinner or if the younger guy was part of the menu. I tried not to stare, but my attention kept wandering back to the younger guy. If he wasn’t ModelMen material, I didn’t know who was.
At one point, he caught me looking at him. He gave me a quick, warm smile and a wink then returned his attention to his companion.
I engaged in some healthy erotic fantasy until Tod, the waiter, came over to the service area of the bar to place a drink order. He saw me, smiled, and nodded. I returned both the smile and the nod then waited while he gave Kent his order. When Kent turned away to make the drinks, I took advantage of the momentary lull to call Tod over.
With an eye on Kent so as not to keep his customers waiting one second longer than necessary, he crossed the four or five steps from the service area.
“Can I help you, Dick?” he asked. Good waiters and good bartenders share a lot of traits; remembering names is one of them.
I slid Anderson’s picture along the bar so it was in front of him.
“Would you happen to remember seeing this guy around here? Especially last Sunday night?” I asked.
Glancing in Kent’s direction to check his progress, Tod picked the photo up and studied it closely, as Kent had done.
“Well, I was working Sunday, and he wasn’t here then,” he said. “I recognize him, though. He’s been in a couple times, but not for a long while, now—maybe two, three months.”
Well, that was a mixed bag of news.
“Do you remember anything special about him?”
“He was a damned good tipper,” Tod said with a quick grin. “But other than that, no.”
“He usually pick someone up?”
Tod pursed his lips.
“Usually, yeah. Guys like him don’t just come in for the food, you know.” He grinned again then noticed Kent setting the drinks on his tray at the waiter’s station. “Gotta go,” he said and hurried to pick up the tray and head off toward a group of four guys at one of the farther tables.
Okay, I thought, so we’ve established Anderson wasn’t a total stranger to town. That he hadn’t been in lately might have been linked to when he started seeing Phil. I’d have to remember to ask the Glicks when Anderson had become a client. I’d also have to take his photo down to Hughie’s. ModelMen was the top of the hired-man ladder, Faces just a couple rungs below. I wondered just how far down the ladder Anderson had climbed.
I had a couple more questions for Tod, so I sat nursing my drink until he returned with an order from another table. I picked up my glass and moved a couple stools closer to where he stood waiting.
“A couple more things, Tod, if you don’t mind,” I said.
He smiled. “Sure.”
“Do you happen to remember anyone the guy in the photo I showed you went home with? I know it’s been a long time, but…”
Tod chewed the corner of his lower lip for a moment then looked toward the far end of the bar where most of the…younger gentlemen…were sprinkled.
“Paul,” he said. “The one in the tan jacket and white shirt.” He gave an almost imperceptible nod to indicate a very nice-looking guy about two-thirds of the way down the bar. “I know he left with Paul one night. The others…I’m not sure about.”
At that point, Kent set the drinks on his tray.
“Thanks again, Tod,” I said. He just smiled, picked up his tray, and left.
I fixed my eyes on the guy Tod had pointed out and stared at him until I caught his eye. He glanced at me, looked away then brought his eyes back. His face broke into a small but definite grin, and he nodded an acknowledgment. The universal language of cruising.
I had to take a moment to explain carefully to my crotch that I was going to be in control of the situation this time, not it. I smiled at Paul, who got up off his stool and came down to take a seat beside me.
“Hi,” he said, as though we’d known each other for years. “What’s up?”
“You’re Paul, right?”
He looked at me with just the slightest trace of suspicion on his face.
“Yeah,” he said. “Do we know each other?”
“I’m sorry to say we don’t,” I told him sincerely.
Up close, he was pretty typical of Faces’ younger clientele, which is to say pretty damned attractive. Dark-brown hair, eyes so dark brown they were nearly black, just the hint of freckles—Irish heritage, I guessed.
I reached into my shirt pocket and took out my business card and Anderson’s photo, giving him my card first. He looked at it then up at me with a raised eyebrow.
“And…?”
I laid Anderson’s photo in front of him.
“I understand you went home with this guy a couple months ago,” I said, “and I’d just like to see if I can find out a little more about him.”
Paul shook his head.
“Sorry,” he said, “I don’t talk about people I meet.”
“That’s commendable,” I said, “but I’m not out to get anybody into any trouble. Just the opposite—I’m trying to maybe save somebody’s life.”
He looked mildly reassured but still skeptical.
“His?”
I shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” I said. “He was killed Sunday night.”
Paul looked truly shocked.
“Killed? You mean somebody…?” Then a look of realization spread across his face. “The guy at the Montero?”
I nodded.
“I…” he started then just shook his head. “What can I tell you?”
“Anything you can about him. Any preferences? Any special requests? Anybody else you may have seen him with?”
Paul set his drink down and ran his hand across his face, his eyes cast to one side in thought. Then he slowly shook his head again.
“No. Nothing. Really. I met him here one Friday or Saturday night about three months ago. The usual routine. He was staying at the Montero, and he took me there.”
“Did you drive or take a cab?” I asked.
“Drove. A Caddy. He said he always rented a Continental, but they didn’t have one that time, and he was pretty unhappy about it.”
Hey, I sure would have been pissed, I thought.
He was quiet for a moment then said, “I only saw him that one time, though I gathered from what he said that he’d been here—Faces—a couple times before. As for the sex, nothing at all kinky. He was a bottom—a lot of married straight guys are bottoms, since that’s something they can’t get from their wives. Not wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, but not all hugs-and-kisses, either.” He was quiet again then sighed. “That’s it. God, I’m sorry to hear he’s dead. He seemed like a nice guy.”
“Yeah.” Noticing his drink was nearly empty, I said, “Can I at least buy you one for your time?”
He smiled. “Sure. Thanks.”
“No, thank you,” I said, motioning to get Kent’s attention.
*
Okay. I was pretty sure from what the Glicks had said and what I’d seen myself in both Phil and Paul that the chances Anderson would have picked up a street hustler were pretty remote. He apparently liked well-groomed brunettes who didn’t look like hustlers. Not out of the question that he might have just picked someone up, of course, but given the Montero…
I went home, had some dinner then headed out again arou
nd 9:30 for the Montero, hoping the garage attendant would be the same one who’d been on duty Sunday night. I wasn’t able to find a parking space within two blocks of the hotel and was really pissed. Patience was never one of my greater virtues.
As I walked down the ramp, I saw someone was in the attendant’s booth—a guy so large I wondered how he ever managed to fit in there. The effect was not unlike a full-rigged sailing ship in a bottle. He made no attempt to either get out of his chair or leave the booth as I came up.
“Help you?” he asked as I approached the half-open window on the entrance side.
I handed him my card.
“Yeah,” I said. “I was wondering if you were on duty Sunday night.”
“You’re wasting your time,” he said, setting his magazine on the small shelf that nearly touched his chest. “I already talked to the police.”
“I’m sure you did,” I said. “But would you mind telling me what you told them?”
He sighed and shifted his enormous weight on the fragile-looking stool.
“I told ‘em I didn’t see nothing. People come in, people go out—not many, but enough. As long as they’ve got the combination and don’t try to steal things from the other cars, that’s all I care about.”
I noticed the booth was equipped with large rearview mirrors on either side that enabled the attendant, seated facing toward the street, to keep an eye on what was going on in the garage without turning around—a blessing for this guy.
On a hunch, I said, “Did anybody leave the garage on foot?”
He thought a minute.
“Just the regular.”
“The regular what?”
“One of the guests who comes in pretty regular. He’s a runner. He went out around six-thirty as always.”
“You recognized him?” I asked.
“Sure. Knit cap, grey sweatshirt and sweat pants. Runs every morning at the same time when he’s here.”
“You recognized his face?”
He shrugged. “I guess so. I didn’t pay any attention. Same guy, though.”
Why did I not think so?
“Did you mention him to the police?”
“I mentioned it, yeah. They were more interested in who came in.”
“Did you see two guys drive in together?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. My wife made lasagna for supper Sunday night, and it gave me the runs. The cops checked all the entry times, and I was able to match all of ‘em to specific cars except one. I guess I must have been in the john when that one came in.”
“Does each guest get a special number, or is it a universal number?”
“Universal…changes every day at noon.”
So, Anderson very well might have—probably had—driven in with his killer. Of course, from what I’d gathered about this guy, even if he had seen Anderson come in he wouldn’t be able to describe who was with him.
But the runner…
“Anything at all different about the runner this time?” I prodded.
He shook his head. “Nope, except he was carrying a gym bag. And I think he had funny shoes.”
“Funny shoes?”
“Well, I just caught a glimpse as he went up the ramp, but they didn’t look like running shoes at all, just regular shoes.”
“You told the cops all this?”
He shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not—I don’t remember. I don’t think they asked.”
Jeezus!
“Well, thanks for your help,” I said and turned to go.
“We’re allowed to take tips,” he said, and I turned back, reaching into my wallet for a bill, which I passed through the window.
“Thanks again,” I said and left.
*
That’s how the killer left! Anderson must have mentioned that he ran every morning at the same time. The killer put his own clothes and any bloody evidence in the gym bag, put on Anderson’s running outfit, including the knit cap, which would hide his hair, then took the elevator down to the garage and left.
But what about the shoes?
That was easy enough to figure out. A sweatshirt and sweat pants are baggy enough to fit a variety of sizes, but if the killer were larger or smaller than Anderson, the shoes might not have fit. If I were to guess, I’d say the killer had bigger feet than Anderson’s—if they were smaller, he might have made do with Anderson’s running shoes.
But now the question was: Where did Anderson pick up his killer? If not at Faces or through ModelMen, where? Any of the nicer gay bars or restaurants, I imagined, and there were any number of possibilities there. Perhaps the guy he’d picked up hadn’t even been a hustler.
But I rather suspected that Anderson, like a lot of guys in his position, would prefer the…well…control or the emotional distancing that paying for sex with a guy would provide, especially if he had serious questions about his own sexual orientation. Just picking up another guy might be putting himself too much on the other guy’s level, too much of a concession to his own gay side.
And if the garage attendant hadn’t gone into what, for him, passed for detail with the police, I might have that bargaining chip to use with Richman.
Chapter 5
First thing Thursday morning, I called Lt. Richman’s office. I wanted to talk with him but was still leery of being seen too often around police headquarters. He agreed to meet me by the fountain in Warman Park at about 12:30, and I took his willingness to accommodate me as another indication of the department’s tacit recognition it needed links to individuals in the gay community when dealing with crimes directly involving that community. Progress, slow but sure.
I was surprised, shortly after hanging up, to hear a knock at my office door and to see, though the opaque glass, the outline of an imposing male figure.
“Come on in,” I called, and the door opened to reveal Gary…I never did get his last name. Iris Glick’s brother, he of the sea-green eyes.
I went over to take his hand.
“Gary,” I said, “this is a surprise. Have a seat.”
He took the chair to the left of my desk, and I went around it to sit down.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
He smiled—he did have a nice smile, I noticed.
Oh, fer chrissakes, Hardesty, can it! my mind chastised.
“Iris was going to call and tell you they signed the contract,” he explained, “but I told her I’d bring it over. I’ve always been curious about what a private investigator’s office looks like.” His mouth spread into a slow, very sexy grin.
Okay. Sexy. We get it! my mind-voice said with no little exasperation.
“Not much to see, as you’ve noticed by now,” I said, my eyes wandering over his very nice-looking face and equally nice-looking torso. He was wearing a white Polo shirt that showed off both his tan and his muscles to full advantage.
He hoisted his rear slightly off the seat to reach into his back pocket, from which he pulled out my original envelope with the contract.
“I’m glad you’re working for Iris and Arnold,” he said. “A terrible thing to have happen to that Anderson guy.”
“Did you ever meet him?” I asked, formulating a couple hundred questions I’d like to ask him.
“Yeah, when he first became a client. Whenever possible, Iris likes to have new clients over for dinner with as many of the escorts as are available that night. A little extra touch of personalized service, and it gives the client a chance to see what’s available.”
Nice touch, I had to admit.
“I’m curious,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how did you happen to get into the business?”
He grinned again. “I like sex,” he said. “Like it? Hell, I love it! And I’m afraid Iris was getting a little worried about me just giving it away left and right, thought I might get into trouble. And since I’d always been sort of the black sheep of the family, I guess one of the reasons Iris wanted to start ModelMen was to save me from my wastrel ways. Now
I’ve got the best of both worlds—lots of sex and I get paid for it, too.”
“Any drawbacks?”
He shrugged. “Oh, sure—there are drawbacks to everything, I guess. The biggest one is that I don’t always have a choice in who I fuck…or who fucks me. But when that happens, I just close my eyes and go with it. And I still have quite a bit of free time, as it were.”
I noticed he still had the grin, and his eyes were now locked on mine. I suddenly had the urge to go swimming.
Are we getting a message here, boys and girls?
“How about you, Dick?” he asked. “You like sex?”
“You might say that.”
Gary got up from his chair and moved around to sit on the edge of my desk. He was wearing a very subtle but very nice men’s cologne, and he was close enough I could almost feel the heat radiating from him. I also couldn’t help but notice a very respectable bulge running down the inside of his left pant leg. He saw me looking.
“You want a little?” he asked.
I got up from my chair, went to the door and locked it, then returned to push him back onto the desk, which was fortunately pretty clear of obstacles.
“If a little’s good, a lot’s better,” I said as I reached forward to unbuckle his belt.
*
I just made it to Warman Park at 12:18 after a quick trip home for a badly needed shower and a change of clothes. After my little session with Gary, I was more firmly convinced than ever the Glicks had a great thing going for them. I also realized, with a mixture of mild embarrassment and considerable pleasure, that I had been privy to half of the escort wing’s offerings; and from my brief chat with Aaron when he’d walked me to the car, I suspected I’d be chalking up another before too long. I’m sure the Glicks probably wouldn’t be too happy to know that I’d been getting for free what should have cost, at their going rate—whatever that might be—a tidy fortune.
I strolled to the central fountain, enjoying the flora and fauna—particularly the two-legged fauna (male variety)—and idly looking around for a police lieutenant’s uniform. It occurred to me it would stand out like a sore thumb in these peaceful surroundings. So, I was a bit surprised, as I sat on one of the marble benches surrounding and facing the fountain, to see a nice-looking guy in casual dress coming toward me carrying a gym bag and realize it was Lt. Mark Richman in civvies. And while he cut a handsome figure in his police uniform, he was even more impressive in street clothes.