The Bar Watcher (13 page)

“Wow,” I said.

“Wow, indeed,” Toby agreed. “But don't worry about it. Like you told Devon, there's all the time in the world. We'll see each other again soon, I'm sure.”

“Okay,” I said. “How about here? Saturday night around ten?”

“I'll be here. Now you'd better go see your friend.” Toby extended his hand again. “See you Saturday.”

Our handshake tightened briefly into a something more than a handshake, and I had to literally force myself to release it, pick up my drink from the ledge and move through the crowd to Bob.

He watched my approach with a raised eyebrow.

“Now, you sure as hell didn't leave that USDA Prime hunk just to come over here,” he said.

“It's a long story,” I said, “but yes.”

“Well, get your ass back over there! You can see me any day. That's one fish you sure don't want to risk letting off the hook.”

“Like I said, a long story,” I repeated. “But we're going to meet up here Saturday, I hope.” I emptied my glass and put it on the bar as Mario came up. “One more for the road, barkeep,” I said. “Tomorrow's a workday.”

“Hey, babe,” Bob said as Mario returned with my drink, “Do you know that stud Dick was talking to?”

Mario shook his head. “Sorry, Bob, I've been too busy to notice much of anything. Which stud was that?”

Bob gave a slight jerk of his head.

“That blond over there against the wall. In the sprayed-on T-shirt.”

Mario looked without appearing to look.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Toby, I think his name is. Really nice guy, from what I can tell. Kind of quiet, but…”

“Is he a regular?” I asked.

“I wouldn't call him a regular,” Mario said, dunking glasses into a sink of soapy water then into another of clean then placing them on a towel on the drain counter directly in front of us behind the bar. “Once every couple weeks or so. Hard not to notice somebody who looks like that, though.”

Bob grinned. “Who knows, Dick? You may have found Mr. Right at last.”

“From your lips to God's ear,” I said.

When I glanced over to where Toby was still standing, I saw that Devon had moved from wherever he had been and was standing next to him.
Good luck, kid
, I thought with a mental smile.

“So, did you find out anything?” Bob asked.

“No, I'm afraid not,” I replied. “Apparently, those two had the magic ability to piss off anyone who came within a hundred yards of them.”

“Talk about pissing people off,” Bob said, “what did you think about D'Allesandro getting shot? Now there was a guy just begging to be offed. What an unmitigated asshole. I'm just surprised it took somebody this long to kill the jerk. Whoever did it deserves a public service award.”

I hadn't told Bob everything I knew—or suspected—about D'Allesandro's death, or about my growing hunch somebody had apparently set out to rid the world—or at least the gay world—of its human vermin. And with the deaths of Barry Comstock, Richie Smith, the two queens and Carlo D'Allesandro, he was off to a good start.

I glanced at the doorway just in time to see Devon leaving—with Toby.

*

I'd only been home about ten minutes and was just getting undressed for bed when the phone rang. There was so much background noise, it took me a moment to recognize the voice.

“Jared? You'll have to speak up—I can barely hear you. What's going on?”

“Dick, I hate like hell to bother you, but do you have a hundred-fifty dollars handy?”

“A hundred-fifty dollars?” I asked. “What for?”

“Bail,” Jared said. “I'm in jail.”

*

When I got to the Eastgate Precinct station, several leather types were emerging, and there were several more in the lobby. I made my way to the desk and told the utterly bored-looking policewoman behind the counter I wanted to post bail for Jared Martinson. Without a word, she handed me a form and a pen, took my money and turned what passed for her attention to the guy behind me in line.

When I'd completed the form, I handed it back, and she took it and dropped it onto a tray with several other forms.

“Wait over there,” she said, indicating three already-full chairs near the entrance.

The place looked like a leathermen's convention—more leather than a saddle shop. A good ten people were in the lobby at any given moment, coming and going as the door beside the desk kept opening to regurgitate still more.

“What happened?” I asked a paunchy older guy wearing a biker hat, a pair of leather chaps and a leather vest with no shirt.

“A fight at the Male Call,” he said. “Sort of got out of hand. The cops busted the whole place.”

Another officer came through the inner door and picked up the slips from the tray, disappearing back inside. About ten minutes later, Jared came out. I'm not really all that much into leather, but in Jared's case…

It was a side of him I'd never even suspected existed. Most guys in leather drag look like they're playing some sort of game. Jared was dressed like he was born in it. He was wearing a black leather armband, a black studded dog collar, black leather pants I have no idea how he could have possibly gotten into and black leather boots. Period. Oh, and he was also wearing a black eye.

He came immediately over to me.

“Jeesus, Dick, I appreciate this. I didn't know who else to call, and I've got to be at work in the morning.”

“No problem.” We left the station and headed for the car. “What happened?” I asked as we pulled away from the curb.

He looked just a little sheepish.

“Well, I was just in one of my leather moods. I don't get them very often, but every now and then… So I went to the Male Call.”

“And the fight started, and you got caught up in it,” I said.

Again, he looked like a little boy caught at something.

“Well, not exactly,” he said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I was sort of the one who started it.”

“Now, that sounds like the beginning of an interesting story. Care to elaborate?”

He shrugged and looked out the side window.

“I hadn't been there very long,” he began, “when three or four college kids came in like they were taking a tour of the local zoo. They were pretty well bombed, and one of them took a shine to a guy who practically lives there—Mitch, his name is. A real hardcase, mean as they come, the kind of guy who gives leather a bad name.

“So, this kid's buddies wander off to the back of the bar somewhere, and the kid's coming on to Mitch real strong. Mitch starts playing with him like a cat with a mouse, and the kid's too dumb or too drunk to know what's really going on.

“Then Mitch starts telling the kid what he's going to do to him, and the kid thinks it's as exciting as all hell and that Mitch is just fooling around. Big mistake. Mitch asks the kid if he likes getting fisted, and the kid laughs and says ‘sure,' and it's clear as hell he doesn't even know what fisting is. But Mitch knows.”

He interrupted his narrative to say, “My car's on Arnwood, about a block down from the bar. Anyway,” he continued, “I'd just been minding my own business, but I started to see where this was headed, and I didn't like it. Mitch had the kid backed up against the wall, and it was beginning to dawn on the kid that maybe he was in a place he didn't want to be. Mitch has both arms on the wall, pinning the kid in, all the time talking to him about what he was going to do to him.

“The kid started looking around, getting scared, and I walked over and told Mitch to let him go,
now
. Mitch told me to go fuck myself, and turned back to the kid. The kid tried to duck out from under Mitch's arm, and Mitch grabbed him and slammed him into the wall so hard it knocked the breath out of him.

“I told him again to let the kid go, and Mitch grabbed him by the arm and said ‘Oh, yeah, we're going, all right,' and started to drag the kid to the door.

“That did it. My temper kicked into overdrive, and as they walked past me, I grabbed hold of Mitch's shoulder and spun him around. It must of surprised him, because he let the kid go, and the kid ran for the door. Mitch shook me loose and started after the kid. By this time, I was really pissed. I ran up and grabbed him again and turned him around and punched him in the midsection so hard he doubled up and fell on the floor and puked his guts out.

“One of Mitch's buddies came running over and took a swing at me, and that's all she wrote. Pretty soon it's one big brawl, and then the cops came, and everybody was hauled off to jail, and I called you.”

“Remind me never to piss you off,” I said.

Jared shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess I do have a little bit of a temper.”

“As Mitch can testify,” I observed.

“Hey,” he said, “Mitch is Mitch. If he'd pulled that number on one of the regulars, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. Everybody who goes there regularly knows what to expect, and everybody knows Mitch. But for him to try that shit on some kid who didn't know what was going on…Mitch should have fuckin'-A known better. He could really have hurt the kid, and I wasn't about to let that happen.”

We were turning on Arnwood toward the Male Call. I looked over at Jared and saw him watching me.

“I've got to admit,” he said, “all this excitement has made me pretty hot.”

I realized I was getting a little warm myself, seeing a bare-chested, chiseled-muscled, bulging-biceped, unbelievably handsome walking poster for Every Gay Boy's Masculine Fantasy sitting next to me, fondling his crotch.

Noticing his dog collar again, and knowing what message it sent to those into master/slave games, I couldn't help but comment on it.

“The collar's a surprise.”

He grinned broadly. “What can I say,” he asked. “I'm versatile. Tonight was collar night.”

I spotted his car and pulled up beside it. Jared made no move to get out.

“Ever fucked a leatherman?” he asked.

It was definitely warm in that car.

“Not lately,” I said.

“Ya wanna?”

Let me count the way
s.

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

Jared grinned and opened the door.

“Follow me,” he said.

Chapter 7

I was a little late getting to the office the next morning, tired but happy. I took my time drinking the coffee I'd picked up at the diner downstairs, and did the crossword puzzle (in pen) until I was fairly sure Lieutenant Richman would be in, then called the police department and his extension. It rang four times before being picked up.

“Lieutenant Richman's office.”

I didn't recognize the voice.

“Is the lieutenant in?” I asked.

“He's in a meeting, but he should be out in about fifteen minutes. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Uh, no,” I said. “I'll call back in about half an hour.” The fewer people in the police department who had to hear the name “Dick Hardesty” the better, I figured.

“Fine,” the voice said. “He should be here by then.”

“Thanks.” I hung up.

*

Some things take a little time to register with me, and it wasn't until I had been on my way to work that day that I suddenly flashed on something Jared had said when he called me about the interview D'Allesandro had given to the fashion magazine. John Peterson had been a member at Rage. So had Richie. Richie had appeared in some of Comstock's videos, Jared had punched Comstock out when he was approached to be in them. And, as beautiful as John Peterson was, it wasn't a stretch of the imagination to think Comstock may have tried to recruit him, too.

I'd sort of let the whole fact of Comstock's porn business slip past me, but now I realized I should definitely look more deeply into it. And since both Comstock and D'Allesandro used beautiful men in their work, it was very possible they knew each other, and, by extending that thought, that they might possibly have some sort of working relationship.

*

I realized my coffee had grown cold, and that my pen was still on the R in
hierarchy
on the crossword puzzle in front of me. A glance at my watch showed that forty-five minutes had gone by.
Did it again, Hardesty
, I thought as I picked up the phone.

“Lieutenant Richman,” he said after three rings.

“Lieutenant, this is Dick Hardesty. We spoke some time ago about the death of Richie Smith.”

There was only the slightest of pauses then: “Yes, I remember. Glen O'Banyon referred you to me. What can I do for you?”

Good luck, Hardesty
, I thought, and plunged right in.

“I have some information I think the police should know,” I said, “but I'm in a very awkward position here, and the situation is sufficiently complicated as to be difficult to explain under any circumstances. I wonder if we could meet and talk privately.”