The Bar Watcher (16 page)

“Bart is interviewing for a new manager this week, as a matter of fact, and I'll be sure he puts up signs. It may hurt business, but it's worth it if it keeps even one guy from getting this…whatever. Then, when we know more….”

“That's all I can ask,” I said.

We finished our beers, shook hands and left the bar to go our separate ways.

Chapter 8

Five-thirty is much too early to expect any civilized human being to get out of bed, but if I was to meet Lieutenant Richman at seven, I had little choice. I staggered into the kitchen, fumbled for the coffee filter, coffee and water, turned the coffee maker on then stood leaning against the sink with my forehead resting on the cabinet above, trying to convince myself I was still sleeping.

When I figured there was enough coffee in the pot, I sloshed it into a cup, momentarily grateful I took it black and was therefore spared the complexities of adding cream and sugar. Then I somehow found my way to the bathroom to begin getting ready. It was going to be a long, long day.

*

As early as it was, I was able to find a parking place with relative ease, and as I walked the half-block to Sandler's Café, it suddenly occurred to me I'd never actually seen Lieutenant Richman and had no idea what he looked like. But for once, I wasn't early, and I was fairly sure not that many uniformed police would be there having breakfast.

I was right. When I entered, I immediately saw a really attractive guy wearing a police lieutenant's uniform seated in a booth against the far wall. I went immediately to him and extended my hand.

“Lieutenant Richman, I'm Dick Hardesty.”

He turned slightly to be able to take my hand then motioned me to the seat opposite him. As I slid into it, my Scorpio nature kicked in, and I determined that Lieutenant Richman's being straight was definitely the gay world's loss—mid-forties, short-cut brown hair greying at the temples, very handsome, obviously but discreetly butch.

The waitress had followed me to the table, stopping on the way to pick up a carafe of coffee and a cup and saucer, which she placed in front of me as soon as I sat down.

“I'll get you a menu,” she said, but I shook my head.

“Just coffee, thanks,” I said. It was still a bit early to even consider eating anything.

She turned to Lieutenant Richman, who ordered a typical man-sized breakfast—pancakes, two eggs over easy, ham, toast, and juice, and a side dish of oatmeal.

“I often don't have time to get lunch,” he explained as the waitress headed off toward the kitchen. He looked at me for a moment the way heterosexual men tend to look at one another when they are not too uncomfortable to do so. “So, what is it you wanted to tell me, Mr. Hardesty?”

“Dick, please,” I said, mentally taking a deep breath before continuing. “I think it might be to your advantage to check out the car in which those two men were killed a week or so ago, coming down McAlester. The car landed on its top, but the front passenger's side tire is blown, and there's a hole at the top of the tire. If you rotate it so you can reach inside, you'll find a bullet—a twenty-two.”

Lieutenant Richman gave me a raised-eyebrow look and leaned slightly forward.

“And how did you come across this information?” he asked.

I deliberately took a sip of my coffee before plunging ahead.

“Well, you remember my asking you about the circumstances surrounding Richie Smith's death,” I began.

I told him about the incident at Glitter, and of my subsequent suspicions when Richie was found dead the next day, and about the two queens' having been kicked out of Venture and their comments at the Hilltop, and about talking with the gas station attendant who'd heard the “pops.” The waitress brought the lieutenant's breakfast, but he made no move to eat it.

“Very flimsy stuff, I know,” I continued, “but I've found that going with my hunches pays off more times than not. So, I decided to check the car out on the hunch that a blown tire had sent them through the guardrail, and the blowout might not have been an accident. That's when I found the bullet. And then when Carlo D'Allesandro was murdered, I was pretty sure it was related to these other deaths.”

Lieutenant Richman slowly put his napkin on his lap and picked up his fork.

“And the motive for these apparently unrelated deaths would be…?”

I waited until he had taken a forkful of his eggs, trying to hold down the sudden feeling he must think I'm a loon, then said, “Before I get into that, just let me ask you one question, if you can tell me without it interfering with your investigation. Was D'Allesandro shot with a twenty-two?”

He reached for the small pitcher of syrup the waitress had brought and poured it carefully over his pancakes before looking up at me.

“Where did you say this car was?”

*

The first thing I did after reaching the office was to call Kimmes Associates. I had been battling with myself ever since my encounter with O'Banyon at Hughie's to not open the Fibber McGee's closet of speculations that presented themselves the minute the possibility of embezzlement from Rage was mentioned. I had first to find out the name of the Kimmes accountant killed in the “car accident.”

I wasn't sure I wanted my gut instinct to be right, but I was pretty sure it was.

I fished out the piece of paper I'd kept in my wallet since my trip to the library, unfolded it, smoothed it out and laid it on the desk in front of me.

I identified myself to whomever it was who answered the phone, told her I was an associate of Mr. O'Banyon and asked the name of the accountant who had been handling the Rage account before his death.

“That would be Mr. Sharp.”

“Matthew Sharp?”

“Yes, sir. Is there someone else who could help you?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I've found out what I needed to know.”

Matthew Sharp had been one of the two queens who went over the bluff on McAlester.

*

The doors of speculation burst open and sent me tumbling ass over teakettle into complete confusion. Sharp had been handling Rage's account. Therefore, there was a trail of breadcrumbs—hell, make them croutons!—between one of the two queens and Comstock, and of course, there was one from Comstock to D'Allesandro, and one between both Comstock and D'Allesandro and Ritchie.

All of which sort of blew out of the water my moral vigilante theory. They were still all bastards, but maybe that wasn't what got them killed.

And now we had Bart Giacomino thrown into the mix. If money was missing from Rage, was Comstock responsible? Or maybe Giacomino, whom O'Banyon indicated had problems with money? If it was Comstock, did Giacomino, who was in Europe when Comstock died, find out about it and use one of his family connections to have him killed? Of if it was Giacomino, did Comstock die because he found out about it? Or was Sharp, the accountant, just doing a little creative bookkeeping on his own?

Or…

Oh, shit, Hardesty, give it a rest!

I was suddenly reminded of when I was in junior high, and one of our science classes had to do a map of the stars. I came to the amazing realization I could draw a straight line from any one of those stars to any other star. I was sure I'd made a scientific discovery of major proportions until the teacher gently observed you can always draw a straight line between any two points if you want to.

Was that what I was doing here?
Hell, who knows?

I finished up my official weekly report to O'Banyon and continually tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to keep from getting back on the speculation merry-go-round.

Luckily, the phone rang around eleven. It was O'Banyon, asking how my meeting with Lieutenant Richman had gone, and telling me Bart Giacomino would be at Rage to interview a prospective manager at one-thirty. He'd agreed to see me when he finished, around two or two-thirty. I assured him I'd be there.

A quick lunch at the coffee shop downstairs—a ham salad on rye, a “BAW-el” of chicken-and-dumplings soup, and a chocolate shake, gourmet dining at its finest—then a stop at the dry cleaners for a drop-off and pick-up, and it was time to head off to Rage.

I found a parking space just up the street, and as I passed the alley, I noticed a gleaming black Jaguar parked across from the side door. Troy was on duty, and I stood on the lobby side of the registration window and shot the shit with him for a while. With Giacomino using the office for interviews, neither Troy nor I mentioned taking advantage of the little room, though when I asked him if they'd taken out the two-way mirror, he said no. Maybe they were just waiting for the new manager to take over. Or maybe the new guy would decide that a fine old tradition like voyeurism deserved to be maintained.

I did mention to him—without naming John Peterson specifically—that there might be a health problem he should be aware of, and guard against.

A few members came and went, and finally the inner door opened and a nice-looking guy with pecs the size of Butterball turkeys and biceps only slightly smaller around than his waist came out. I recognized him as the manager of one of the local gyms—Jim Hicks, I think his name was—and, since he wasn't carrying a gym bag, I assumed he had been Giacomino's interview.

A minute later, the inner door opened about halfway, held by a large…well…odd-looking man. He reminded me instantly of a painting of a very handsome man done by a third-rate artist—either something was there that shouldn't have been, or something wasn't there that should have been. Hard to explain, but…

I first thought he was African-American until I realized he just had one of the darkest tans I have ever seen. His hair was so black it would make tar look like a pastel. He wore a suit the cost of which I could only imagine. A white silk shirt open at the collar revealed about six gold chains over a mat of curly, solid-black glistening, chest hair and, on the hand holding the door, one of the largest and most garishly ugly gold-and-diamond pinkie rings I've ever seen.

“Dick Hardesty?” he asked, and I smiled and walked to meet him.

He smiled broadly in return, revealing a mouthful of perfectly capped teeth, and held the door open with his elbow while he shook my hand.

“Come on in to my office.”

That one didn't get past me, you can be sure.
Your office, huh?

He closed the door, motioned me to a chair and walked behind the desk to sit in Comstock's chair.

“Glen tells me you want to talk with me,” he said casually.

“Yes, I did.” I hoped I sounded equally casual. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me—I know you've been busy.”

He gave a casual flip of his pinkie-ringed hand.

“Busy isn't the word. I just got back from my villa in Cannes last week, and next week I have to be at my beachfront place in Molokai for a dinner for the governor. But business before pleasure.”

Uh-huh.

“I understand you were in Europe when Barry Comstock was killed.”

Giacomino leaned back in his chair and sighed.

“Yeah, I was skiing with the crown prince at Luftsenhagen when I got the word. I was devastated, of course. Barry was one of my best American friends.”

Okay, Charlie, I get the picture. You can knock it off, now!

“Exactly what is your involvement with Rage?” I asked, as though crown princes and Luftsenhagen cropped up a lot in normal conversation. “Other than being a financial backer.”

He pursed—no, make that puckered—his lips, which made him look very much like a chimpanzee, and furrowed his brow—a very disconcerting combination, I have to admit.

“Mostly financial,” he said, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and placing his hands under his chin, spread wide with fingertips touching, as though he were holding an imaginary basketball. “I'm so seldom in the country, of course. At first I'd intended to be a lot more involved, but Barry wanted to run the whole show, more or less, until Glen talked him into turning the books over to…ah…”

“Kimmes Associates,” I provided.

“Yeah, them. I could have done it, of course, if I had the time. I'm very good with bookkeeping. But I simply don't
have
the time.”

“What do you make of the apparent…irregularities…Kimmes found?”

Giacomino shook his head.

“No idea at all. I'm sure it's just a minor error somewhere. To even think that Barry might have been…no, it's impossible. Of course, he did live pretty high on the hog for a former porn star. But, no, he would never have…”

I had to give the guy credit—he could bob-and-weave with the best of them.

“Did Barry have any…” I started to say “enemies,” but I knew the answer to that one before I even asked it, so I switched track in mid-sentence, especially since it was obvious Giacomino wouldn't be adverse to putting the finger on Comstock. “…recent financial problems or setbacks you were aware of?”

That puckered-lip, furrowed-brow thing again. Creepy.

“No, not at all. Barry was always very good with money. Of course, that house of his was something of a bottomless money pit, and I'm sure he rued the day he bought it. As a matter of fact, he tried to sue the realtor who sold it to him, as I recall. Oh, and then there was that lawsuit…” He suddenly raised his eyebrows in patently fake surprise. “Oh, but you didn't know about that, did you? No one did, and I was sworn to secrecy.”