The Bar Watcher (17 page)

He shook his head as if mentally scolding himself, but I wasn't fooled for a minute. I did notice his eyes never left me. When he didn't see whatever reaction he apparently expected, he continued.

“But I'm sure that, since you're working for us, it would be considered privileged information. Glen handled it, and it was settled out of court. It was a scam, of course, but Barry did not like being scammed.”

I sat back in my chair and crossed my legs.

“Could you sketch in the details, now that it's been mentioned?”

I had the distinct impression Bart Giacomino had his own agenda in all this, though of course I had no idea what it might be. Whatever it was, he was probably trying to cover his own ass by applying the old “Oh, look over there!” routine.

“It was about two years ago,” he said. “A cameraman who'd done some work on Barry's videos brought him two incredibly hot identical twins, blonds—farm boys just in from Nebraska. The cameraman and the kids swore up and down they were eighteen—they had fake IDs, and they could easily have passed for it.

“Barry always had this special thing for blonds, so of course he had to “audition” them personally. The next day the kids' irate father showed up screaming that Barry had raped his two innocent sixteen-year-old babies and threatening to sue him for every penny he had. It was, as I say, all an extortion set-up, but Barry was uncharacteristically stupid enough to fall for it, and he settled, just about the time Rage opened. Even I don't know how much was involved, but I know it was a big chunk of change. And I do know that Barry was not happy about it.”

From what I knew about Barry Comstock and his reluctance to part with money, I could imagine just how not happy he must have been. Might he have decided to use a little of Rage's money to restock his coffers?

“As partners, I assume all three of you have access to Rage's books?”

There was what I found to be a rather significant pause before he responded.

“Well, yes, of course. But the accountants are doing all that now. They're responsible for looking after the money. We get quarterly reports.”

In the back of my mind, I could swear I heard the quiet sound of tap-dancing.

I saw him subtly push one sleeve of his jacket up with an index finger to reveal his Rolex. He looked at it rather pointedly.

“I think I've taken up about enough of your time,” I said, getting the hint, but hastening to add “For now. But I do have one more question.”

His expression did not change, but I was sure there was an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes as he said, “Of course.”

“I understand you were one of the founders of Glitter,” I said.

He nodded. “One of my many successful business ventures,” he said.

I gave an “I see” return nod.

“And I'd heard you recently sold your interest in it.”

He again—this time with no subtlety whatsoever—pushed up his sleeve to look at his watch.

“I'm sorry, Dick, but I have another interview waiting. Maybe we can talk again when I get back from Molokai. Bob Redford called yesterday to ask me to set up a charity function with him and Liz Taylor in New York on the nineteenth, so I know I'll be back before then.”

Uh-huh,
I thought, but only said, “I'd appreciate that,” and echoed his getting-up motion to lean forward across the desk and take his extended hand. He escorted me to the outer lobby, where a clone of the gym manager I'd seen when I came in was standing at the registration window talking with Troy. From the obvious bulge in his pants, I gathered it had been an interesting conversation.

Giacomino and I shook hands again, and he turned to the hunk at the window, who was clearly aware of his awkward condition. It was not lost on Giacomino, either, I could tell.

“Chuck Roth?” Giacomino said, holding the door open with his elbow. “Come on in to my office.”

Roth managed an embarrassed smile as we passed one another, and I winked at Troy, who stood behind the window with a huge, shit-eating grin.

“I like this job,” he mouthed.

“Gee,” I said, “who'dda thunk?” I was tempted to go over and talk with him more, but the outside door opened and a member walked in, so I just gave him a wave and left.

*

It's one thing to be able to draw a nice, clean straight line between any two points and something quite different when you start connecting every point to every other point. The whole thing starts to look like an indistinguishable squiggle.

Obviously Giacomino was hiding something when it came to Rage's books.
Why
, I wondered,
had he sold his interest in Glitter
? It was, from everything I could tell, a cash cow, and the obvious conclusion to be drawn from his having given up his place at the udder was that he needed money.

And if even half of his “Bob and Liz and the crown prince and villas and beachfronts” routine was true, that must involve one hell of a large and continuous outlay of cash. I made a mental note to call O'Banyon Monday morning to see if he knew more about Giacomino's financial situation.

*

Since once I start a case I feel compelled to work nonstop until it's solved, I'd determined some time ago I had to make a conscious effort to make my weekends my own. It wasn't easy, especially in a convoluted case like this, but I really had to try to shut my mind off and step away from it. I hadn't had much actual practice at it, but was determined to try.

I tried to force myself to sleep in Saturday morning, which of course didn't work, so got up and, after dragging out my coffee/breakfast routine for as long as I could stand it, and telling myself yet again that I should have the paper home-delivered every day instead of just on Sunday so I'd have a Saturday crossword puzzle to work on, I studiously applied myself to doing really fun things like dishes and laundry and cleaning the oven.

The day went relatively fast, and before I knew it, it was time to think about getting ready to go to Venture to meet Toby—assuming he would be there.
Well, his loss if he's not
, I told myself. I just wish another little voice in there hadn't snickered.

*

I arrived at Venture around 9:30 and noted they had two bartenders on duty—well, it
was
Saturday night. I was glad to see that Mario was one of them. I made my way to the end of the bar closest to him; he smiled and, both hands occupied with making a drink, gave me a nod hello. No sign of Toby yet, but we weren't supposed to meet until 10:00, so I wasn't concerned.

As soon as he was able, Mario came over to take my order.

“How's it going, Dick?” he asked as he put a napkin in front of me.

“Pretty good,” I said. “Don't you ever get a night off?”

He grinned. “I've got two days starting tomorrow,” he said. “Bob and I are going to drive out to Tilton to a gay bed and breakfast.”

“Ah,” I said, “a romantic getaway.”

He just grinned wider.

“I'm glad for you.” I said. “You both need a little time to relax.”

“If I'm lucky, I don't think there'll be too much relaxing,” he said. “What can I get you?”

“Whiskey Old Fashioned—”

“Sweet,” Mario finished.

“You are good,” I said.

“So I've been told,” he said and reached for a glass.

*

I took my drink and went to my usual spot along the wall. Shortly before 10:00, I glanced at the door to see Toby coming in. He went directly to the bar without looking around, said a few words to Mario and, still without any indication he was looking for me, came directly over to where I was standing. I noticed he was carrying two drinks—one of them a Whiskey Old Fashioned.

“Hi, stranger,” he said, looking directly at me for the first time and putting the Old Fashioned on the ledge by my side.

“Hi yourself,” I said. “Glad you made it.”

He gave me a little smile. “Like you thought I wouldn't? I always do what I say I will.”

“Nice to know. And if the Old Fashioned is for me, thanks.”

He nodded a “you're welcome.”

Not recognizing what was in his glass, I said: “What are you drinking?” I obviously hadn't been paying attention the night we met.

“Cranberry juice. I don't drink.”

Interesting
.

We idle-chatted with the usual mild clumsiness of a first conversation, dropping in little bits of personal information as we went. Toby, I discovered, was relatively new to town. He'd first worked as an orderly at a local hospital, which may have had something to do with his being a health fanatic. No alcohol, no caffeine. Strict vegetarian (so much for the fantasy of quiet dinners of home-cooked burnt-crispy pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy for two); three hours a day, every day, at the gym, which I might have expected—nobody has a body like that without a lot of effort. He'd left the orderly job to work for a construction company, which in effect boosted his per-day exercise regimen to eleven hours.

It showed. He was wearing a white Polo shirt that set off both his tan and his muscles to full advantage, but I didn't get the impression of the wildly overt narcissism too often present in guys who live at the gym. Nor did I envision him standing for hours in front of a mirror looking for the perfect combination of clothes for the evening. His tan was dark but natural, unlike Giacomino's. And where Giacomino wore about a dozen gold chains around his neck, Toby had the same single, simple thin silver chain I'd noticed the first night I met him.

And all the time I was looking at that beautiful face and body and counting the minutes until I could get him into bed, there was…something else. For some reason, I got the impression again of there being two people in there. The hard-muscled hunk on the outside and something…I couldn't find the word…inside. For some reason it brought out the—well, the big brother instinct in me.

Oh, great!
So now you're into incest?

But my primary impression of Toby was also the same as the night I'd first seen him—that he was a genuinely nice, warm guy. I, of course, did not bring up his having left the bar with Devon. I sensed he hadn't taken Devon home because he felt sorry for him but because he wanted to help the kid feel better about himself, and that was a pretty damned nice thing for him to do. Granted, he might just like tall, skinny young kids—but if that were the case he'd hardly be standing here talking with me.

As I was returning from the bar with another round of drinks, I noticed Jared come in with somebody who had obviously been yanked out of the pages of
Wet Dream Weekly
.
How in hell does he do that?
I wondered. He saw me, smiled and waved, and I, hands full, merely smiled and nodded.

When I got back to Toby, I noticed a guy I knew from my days with Chris standing about two spots down the wall from us. George…Atkins, I think. Another really nice guy who had finally found a lover after looking unsuccessfully for several years. Unfortunately, the guy he took up with was a real asshole—possessive, bitchy, demanding. Most of George's friends at the time—including Chris and me—had drifted away from them, or more accurately, been driven away by the new lover. I'd asked George one time why he put up with all the abuse the guy was giving him, and he just shrugged and said something to the effect of “Better the devil you know,” which I read to mean “Better to be miserable with someone than to be alone.” I was relieved to see him alone, though, and assumed he'd finally gotten wise and kicked the guy out.

I gave him a big smile and said, “Hi, George, great to see you” as I passed him. I didn't want him to think I was ignoring him, but I was, after all, with Toby, and this was really our first time together.

About ten minutes later, my conversation with Toby was interrupted by a loud “There you are, you fucking son of a bitch! I knew I'd find you here! How dare you walk out on me when I'm talking to you!”

Startled, Toby and I both turned to see a prissy skinny queen I recognized immediately as George's lover. So, he hadn't dumped him. Jeezus!

George, obviously embarrassed, made a
“shhhhhh”
sound and said quietly, “Don't make a scene, Lynn.”

Wrong thing to say. Lynn upped the volume about five notches.

“Don't you tell me not to make a scene, you limp-pricked bastard!” And he slapped George across the face—hard.

The sound was like a guillotine, cutting off every bit of conversation in the bar, leaving only the sound of the jukebox to fill the large room. I instinctively made a move toward the fucker, but Toby reached out calmly and held me back. All this was in the space of five seconds, and it didn't slow Lynn down for as much as one of them.

“I'll make a goddamned scene any goddamned time I fucking well feel like it, and there's not a goddamned motherfucking thing you can do about it!” he yelled. “Now put that drink down and get out of here!”