The Bar Watcher (23 page)

I had to grin. “You're right,” I said, “though, to be honest with you, I'd never actually thought of it like that before. I guess I just concentrate on solving the puzzle, and don't let myself think too much about the negatives. And if I'm lucky, the end result is usually positive.”

Toby took another drink of his cranberry juice.

“I guess,” he said.

“So tell me, Toby, what do you do for fun?” I asked.

He gave me a wicked-little-boy grin.

“You mean other than…that?”

“Yeah.”

“I work out. I guess that's fun, in a way. And tonight was fun. I never had a chance to go to plays much. And I'm just kind of discovering classical music—something else we don't have much of back home.”

“Any particular favorites?”

He thought a moment. “
Swan Lake
,” he said. “I found the classical station on the radio on my way to work one day, and they were playing that. I listen to that station all the time now. I'm just beginning to learn what the songs are and who wrote them.” Then he looked at me and blushed. “Boy, I do sound like a real hayseed, don't I?”

No
, I thought,
you sound like a really nice kid.

“Not at all,” I said. “And I'm really glad you like Tchaikovsky. I've got recordings of just about everything he ever wrote.”

“Wow,” Toby said. “I'm impressed. I'd like to hear them sometime.”

“How about Saturday night?” I asked.
Jumping right in there, aren't you, Hardesty?
I thought as soon as the words left my mouth.

“Sure,” he said.

“Would you like to try for dinner?” I asked. “I could fix something vegetarian.”

He shook his head. “No, that's okay. I don't want to put you out. Why don't I just come over after dinner sometime?”

I wasn't about to push it.

“Great,” I said. “Whatever time you want—I'll be home.”

We finished our drinks and got up to leave. I took out a couple bills from my billfold, left one on the bar for Kent and, as we walked past Tod, I handed him the other.

“Thanks for the info, Tod,” I said.

He took the bill without looking at it, put it in his apron pocket in one practiced movement, and smiled.

“Any time,” he said, and went about his business.

Toby and I walked back toward the Regis and said our goodnights at the corner; his car was about a block down in one direction and mine a couple blocks down another.

“Thanks again, Toby,” I said as we shook hands. “I really enjoyed it.”

“Me, too,” he said. “I'll see you Saturday night.”

“Great,” I said, and meant it.

*

I'd made it a habit to check the paper carefully every morning, looking for anything that might be connected to the case. On Friday morning, on page 13, there was a brief article about a 26-year-old single man, Ronald Baker, found hanged in the bathroom of his home. His father, it noted, was pastor of the Second Pentecostal Church, and Ronald had been active in the church's youth programs. I wrote the name down and made a mental note to call Jared's house as soon as I'd gone all the way through the paper, leaving a message for him to call me. I'd have him check out Ronald Baker's name with the bartenders on his rounds. If Ronald had been gay, I wanted to know more about him. If he was one of those characters who periodically stood outside gay bars carrying homophobic banners and harassing patrons, he just might be another of those I was beginning to think of as “the bar watcher's” targets.

The Giacomino side of the case was more or less on hold until I heard from O'Banyon as to what more, if anything, he wanted me to do about it. I wondered if they'd had a chance to talk, or if Giacomino had already left town for his latest jaunt. In any event, I was pretty well convinced the chance of Giacomino's being the killer was negligible.

I also pondered the idea of getting out to the bars even more frequently than I already did, and hitting several every night, in hopes I might witness an incident—and more important, if I did, to make a careful note of who else was in the bar at the time. It was all a process of elimination.

However, I realized that was rather like running out into the back yard every night in hopes of seeing a falling star. You might, but chances are you wouldn't.

It was when I reached the obituary section that my day really went down the toilet. About halfway down the long list of Mary Smiths, age 87, and Clarence Joneses, age 103, there was a very small announcement that said, Robert John Peterson, 28.

“Robert John Peterson, 28, died Wednesday in St. Anthony's hospital of complications from pneumonia. A former leading fashion model…”

Chapter 11

I called Jared as soon as I got home and caught him just as he was getting ready to leave for class. When I told him of John Peterson's death, he didn't reply for a moment, then said, “I'm afraid he won't be the last.” Then he sighed and added: “Well, one thing's for sure…where he is now, he won't be running into Carlo D'Allesandro.”

When I asked him if he could check around to see if any of the bartenders he dealt with might know anything about a Ronald Baker, he promised he would. Then there was another pause and he said, “Ronald Baker? The guy who hanged himself?”

“That's him,” I said. “What do you know about him?”

“Marv, the bartender at the In Touch, was telling me today that one of his regulars, a guy named Ronnie, had hanged himself. He'd seen it in the paper.”

“I'm kind of surprised that didn't ring a bell with you.”

“Oh, it did,” he said. “But from what I understand from Marv, this guy was a real nice, quiet sort, really shy, never any problem. He did tell Marv once that he wasn't out to his family, and it sounded to Marv like he was apparently terrified they might find out. It looks like maybe they did.” He paused again. “What a fucking shame! What kind of parents make their children so ashamed of who they are they'd kill themselves?”

In the case of Ronald Baker, I think I could make a wild guess.

“Well,” I said, “regardless of what Dr. Pangloss says, this is not the best of all possible worlds.”

Jared sighed. “Maybe someday.”

“Yeah.” I glanced at my watch. “Well, I'd better let you get to class.”

“Yeah, it's about that time. Oh, before I forget, I'm getting into one of my leather moods and was thinking of maybe going to the Male Call Saturday night. Want to come along? You might see what you've been missing all these years.”

“Uh, thanks, but I think I'll pass this time. You just be sure you steer clear of Mitch.”

Jared laughed. “Oh, I think he'll be the one doing the steering clear,” he said. “You're sure you don't want to change your mind?”

“Actually, I'm going to be tied up…uh, let me rephrase that,” I amended quickly. “I've got plans for Saturday. Toby's coming over.”

“Emphasis on the ‘coming,' I hope,” he said with a laugh.

“I'll do my best.”

“I have no doubt,” he said. “Well, I'd better head out. I'll be talking with you soon—oh, and I am putting the word out. I've talked to about ten of my regular bartenders, and they've all agreed to keep me posted.”

“Great! And thanks, Jared. Again, I owe you.”

“Don't worry. I'm running a tab. Later.”

“See ya.”

*

Just as I was finishing dinner, the phone rang again.

“Dick Hardesty.”

“Dick, this is Mark Richman,” the by-now-familiar voice said. “Sorry to bother you at home, but I've got a quick question.”

“Sure.”

“Did you read about that single guy who hanged himself?”

“Ronald Baker,” I said. “Yes, I read it in today's paper.”

“Is it something we should be concerned about?” he asked.

I was once again struck by the fact Lieutenant Richman was a pretty sharp cookie. Obviously, he'd been doing the same thing I had in looking out for suspicious deaths of single men.

“From what I know, Lieutenant, it pretty likely was a suicide—the guy doesn't come near fitting the profile of the others. And you know who his father is, so I don't think I have to draw you a picture. If anybody at all were to be a potential target, I'd put my money on the good reverend.”

“I see what you mean,” he said. “The Reverend Baker was one of Chief Rourke's buddies, by the way. It was always hard to tell which one was the bigger homophobe.” He was quiet a moment. “His own kid, huh? I guess they're right—what goes around comes around. Too bad it's always the kids who have to pay.”

“I couldn't agree more,” I said.

There was another pause.

“Well, thanks for the input. I had a suspicion that's what the story was but wanted to check with you. Do you have anything new on any of the other deaths?”

“I only wish I did,” I said, “but right now, it's still just ideas and intuition. Did you have any luck at all with the bullet?” I was pretty sure there wouldn't be—our killer wasn't your average criminal.

“No. Other than that they came from the same gun—and there are a lot of guns out there.”

“Looks like we're both at something of a standstill,” I said. “But I don't intend to give up—it's just a matter of time until it all comes together. I'll keep you posted as soon as something solid comes along.”

“Good,” Richman said. “Let's hope it's soon. Good night.”

*

Friday night I set out on what I realized even before I left would be a futile random bar-hop on the outside chance of being present when something happened. I made it to the third bar before I made eye contact with a really hot guy I'd seen several times before but never talked to. Eye contact led to talk, which led to my crotch running away with my head again, which led to going over to his place, and that neatly took care of Friday night. My head was really pissed at me the next morning, but my crotch was very happy.

*

Saturday, while doing grocery shopping for the week, I made a point to stock up on cranberry juice. I gave the apartment a cursory cleaning (what it really needed would require a steam shovel and fire hose) changed the bed, did laundry, wrote Chris and Max a letter, talked to Bob Allen and a couple friends on the phone—you know the routine.

Had an early dinner and went through my collection of Tchaikovsky's music, picking out some I thought Toby would particularly like—
Swan Lake
, of course, and some of the other better-known stuff like
Romeo & Juliet
, the
First Piano Concerto
and
1812 Overture
, plus some he might not have heard too often, like the
Pathetique
and
Francisca de Rimini
. That was about twelve hours of solid music, but I'm nothing if not an optimist.

At about eight-thirty, the doorbell rang. I quickly put the
Pathetique
on, adjusted the volume and rang the buzzer to let Toby in. When I opened the door a moment later, he was standing there with one hand behind his back.

“Hi there, Toby,” I said, genuinely glad to see him. “Come on in.”

He came in, grinning, and brought his hand out from behind his back.

“I got this for you,” he said, reminding me very much of a small boy with a gift for his teacher. “I thought you'd like it.”

I could see from the shape of the neatly wrapped package it was a record. I was both delighted and a little embarrassed—I'm not used to getting presents.

“Thank you, Toby,” I said, sincerely touched.

“Open it,” he said, still grinning.

I tore off the wrapping as carefully as I could and saw it was an original cast recording of
Boy Meets Boy
. Being careful not to drop it, I moved forward and gave him a big hug, which he returned.

“Thanks,” I said again.

“You're welcome. You think we should close the door now?”

“Good idea.” I released him and moved past him to push the door closed. “Come on in,” I said, and led him to one of the chairs by the fireplace.

“Why don't we sit here?” he said, indicating the couch.

We sat down side by side, and Toby tilted his head toward the stereo.

“What's playing?” he asked. “I like it.”

*

It was one of the pleasantest, most relaxing evenings I'd had in a long, long time. We did very little talking. Toby was absolutely enthralled by the music, and it's hard to describe what a delight it was to watch his reactions to it, and to know this was, for him, something of a voyage of discovery. He knew the more popular themes, of course, but the rest was new to him.