The Bar Watcher (6 page)

Chris, my ex, had one of those little magnetic key boxes, which he kept in the driver's side front wheel well. Comstock might have had one, too—I'd be sure to find out. “Hello?” I heard Troy say, and realized I'd been staring off into space again.

“Sorry. You said some guy had his membership yanked because he'd punched Comstock? Do you remember his name, by any chance?”

“Sure,” Troy said, leaning against the counter on one elbow. “A hunk like that isn't easy to forget. His name was Jared.”

“Jared Martinson?” I wasn't surprised—he had said his membership was revoked, and he'd made it clear he had no particular love for Comstock.

“Yeah. What a body! And hung! Jeezus, I've seen horses with smaller dicks!”

Let me count the ways,

“Do you know what happened? Why Jared punched him?” I had a pretty good idea but thought I'd better make sure.

Troy shook his head. “Barry wouldn't talk about it, but I can pretty well figure it out. As usual, he came out of his office just as Jared and I came into the hall. He asked Jared into his office, and Jared looked confused, but went in with him. A few minutes later, I heard shouting—I'm pretty sure it was Jared—but couldn't make out the words. And a second or two after that, there were a couple of thuds, and Jared comes steaming out of Barry's office looking really pissed, and storms out the door, and Barry's standing there with blood pouring out of his nose and his fly open. I guess you don't fuck with Jared.”

I'll try to remember that
.

“Two more things,” I said. “Can I have a list of everyone who was in Rage the night of the murder?”

“The cops took our registration book,” Troy said, “but I always make a copy of who comes in on any given day. I'd just set it aside when Barry came in to go over the receipts. I can get it for you. Not more than twenty guys in the place, though—it was still early.”

He opened a drawer and shuffled through some papers, coming up with a small notebook, which he handed to me.

“That's the members,” he said. “I'll have to check for sure on just which employees were on duty.”

“Great,” I said. “I can pick that up later.” Then, remembering the second loose key in my pocket, I said, “Do you have Comstock's address?”

“Eleven-oh-one Spruce,” Troy said without having to stop to think.

“House or apartment?”

“A house. Big old Victorian. We used it for a lot of the videos.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment; our eyes met and locked, and I was once more convinced that ESP lives. I was also aware it was suddenly very, very warm in that small office, and I decided I'd better get out while the getting was good.

“Well, thanks a lot for your time, Troy,” I heard myself say. “I appreciate it. I guess I'd better get going.” My feet, however, didn't make any attempt to move.

“Did you see the room?” Troy asked, his free hand moving to his crotch.

“Yeah, I saw it,” I said, staring at the growing bulge in his sprayed-on trousers.

“It's a slow night,” he said. “You wanna see it again?”

Shit, yes!
“You talked me into it.”

Chapter 3

I was able to pry myself out of bed the next morning in time to arrive at Central Imports when the service department opened at eight. I could tell the moment I walked in the door this wasn't Joe's Neighborhood Garage. There were a number of exorbitantly expensive cars scattered around the large shop in various states of repair, some on hoists, some hooked up to lots of expensive-looking machines that appeared as though they would be more comfortable in a hospital operating room. The floor was clean enough to eat off of.

I walked up to the service desk and asked the neatly uniformed man behind it for the manager. He smiled and disappeared behind a rack of boxed parts, to return within seconds.

“He'll be right with you.”

A moment later, a tall, very good-looking guy came from behind the rack, and I recognized him immediately as a guy I'd tricked with out of Ramón's several weeks earlier—though I'd be damned if I could remember his name.

Luckily, his starched, razor-crease uniform shirt had a nametag: “Sam.”

He smiled when he saw me and extended his hand across the desk; I had to move forward slightly to take it.

“Sam,” I said, “I didn't know you worked here.”

“Only for ten or twelve years.” He grinned. “What can I do for you?”

I got the definite impression he didn't remember my name, either, which made me feel a little less guilty.

“You have a car here belonging to Barry Comstock—brought in a couple days ago with four slashed tires and a slashed top?”

He nodded. “Yeah, it's in the other room. We haven't done anything with it yet—he was killed the night we brought it in, and we've been waiting for authorization from the insurance company or somebody representing his estate.”

“Well,” I said, “I'm not the guy on that one, but I've been asked by Comstock's attorney to check something out in the car. Would it be possible for me to take a quick look at it? I won't remove anything—just want to look.”

Sam frowned. “Gee, I don't know…buddy…we aren't supposed to let anybody other than the owners near the cars.”

“Well, this particular owner won't be around anytime soon,” I said, reaching into my wallet for O'Banyon's card. “But maybe this will help.”

Sam examined the card carefully and, apparently impressed, gave it back to me.

“Well, sure, I guess we could let you take a look,” he said.

He stepped out from behind the service desk and motioned for me to follow him, which I did.

The main shop was vast, and behind a large, closed roll-down door was another only slightly smaller service area. We entered through a smaller door beside it. It was in this area that major bodywork was done on cosmetically disadvantaged cars. In one corner sat—or rather, given the condition of its tires, squatted—a shiny, brand-new canary-yellow convertible with a badly slashed top.

I knelt in front of the driver's side front wheel well. Feeling along the inside of the fender, I found what I was looking for—a small magnetized metal box. I pulled it loose and slid it open. It was empty. I closed the lid and replaced the box under the fender.

Standing, I reached into my pocket for the newer of the two keys I'd found in the alley and opened the driver's door. Sliding into the seat, which was a hell of a lot more comfortable than any recliner I've ever sat in, I put the key in the ignition. It turned easily, and the car murmured to life. I quickly turned the engine off and got out of the car.

“Thanks a lot, Sam,” I said.

“Find what you needed?”

“Yep. I owe you one,” I said.

He grinned. “I might just hold you to that.”

We walked back into the main service area and, with another handshake, I left Sam at the service desk

*

My next stop was 1101 Spruce, which was in a gay-gentrified area not too far from downtown. The area had been on a sharp decline for years until gays and lesbians began moving in and restoring the large old homes to their former elegance. What could be bought for a song ten years ago would now require a full-scale opera.

Comstock's house was a marvelous old gingerbread confection with scalloped fish-scale molding under the eaves, painted in crimson and cream. There was a small iron-fenced and iron-gated front yard.

Hoping no one would be home, I pushed open the gate and walked to the small front porch enclosed with delicate filigree railings. Hardly the kind of house I would have associated with Barry Comstock, but one never knows everything about someone.

To play it safe, I rang the bell, and when there was no response, I took the other key from my pocket and put it in the lock. It worked. Quickly relocking the door without opening it, I went back across the porch, down the short sidewalk, through the iron gate and into the street, closing the gate behind me.

*

Things were at least starting to fall into place. Comstock's killer had been watching him enough to know where he parked his car and how he got into Rage. I wasn't sure how he'd found the magnetic keybox, but they were hardly rare. He'd removed all the keys, since he didn't know for sure which one opened the side door at Rage. He'd probably just dropped the first one when it didn't work and thrown the second aside. There must have been a third key—missing—that had worked. It was just luck no “auditions” were being held in the small room when he entered.

Actually, it took a lot of balls to take all those risks. The guy must have been pretty determined.

As to why the cops hadn't found the keys, it was pretty obvious they hadn't bothered much to look. They were going on the assumption the killer had come in through the main entrance, since all the other entrances were locked. Even if they'd decided the killer had left through that side door, they probably wouldn't have felt a need to give it more than a cursory look. The murder weapon certainly didn't have to be looked for.

I stopped back at Rage to get the addresses and phone numbers of the members on the list Troy had given me—and to accompany him on another quick guided tour of the small room—then returned to my office to start calling the guys on the list. The few I was able to find at home were, at first, understandably reluctant to talk to anyone about that night—the cops had given them a hard enough time—but when I identified myself as a private investigator and one of the family, they were more cooperative.

I asked each one what time he'd arrived, and if he'd happened to come through or pass by the alley. A few said they had passed the alley on their way to the entrance, but no one had paid attention to who might or might not have been in it or hanging around it. In short, I didn't learn anything at all that might be of help. And of course, no one had seen anyone suspicious. I hadn't expected they would have. If the killer were either an average Joe or mildly unattractive, most of these guys wouldn't have noticed him if they'd tripped over him.

I also asked each one if he had heard anything negative said about Rage's membership policy, and if so, what was said and under what circumstances. More than half hadn't even been aware that Rage discriminated so blatantly. Probably not really that surprising, since
they
had gotten in with no hassle.

The rest had just heard general grumbling in the community, but nothing so specific as to warrant further investigation. And three had been approached by Comstock at one time or another to join his little porno enterprise; only one had taken him up on it.

I knew Jared didn't get off work until around 4:30, and that he probably wouldn't be home much before five, assuming he didn't stop off for a couple rolls in the hay along the way. However, he had given me his home number, and I had an urge to call him, for a couple of reasons other than the obvious.

I'd not talked to him since Comstock's murder, and I had been thinking about Troy's version of how Jared lost his Rage membership. I wanted to see if Jared's version differed in any significant detail. Plus, I was curious to know if he might have heard anything in the course of his deliveries and/or bar visits that might be useful.

I took a chance that, though he'd not be home yet, he might have an answering machine. He did.

“Jared, this is Dick Hardesty. Can you give me a call at home? I should be there by five-thirty. Thanks. Bye.”

The phone was ringing when I walked in the door. I caught it just before my answering machine did.

“Hi, Dick, it's Jared. What's up?”

“Jared, hi. I was wondering when we might be able to get together. I've got a couple of questions for you, and wondered if you've heard anything of interest—”

“About Comstock's getting killed?” he asked, anticipating the rest of my sentence. “Couldn't have happened to a more deserving guy. Everybody's talking about it, of course.”

“Well, would you like to get together to talk for a while?”

“Tonight? And just to talk?”

“Well, that last part is certainly open for negotiation, but yeah, if you could.”

“Sure,” he said. “What time and where?”

“How's eight? We could grab a bite to eat, if you'd like.”

“Sure. I hate cooking. And maybe afterwards, we could stop by Glitter for a few minutes. I've got a buddy who's subbing for the regular DJ tonight, and I told him I'd come by if I could.”

Glitter was the city's leading disco, and it attracted much of the same type of guy who went to Rage, although Glitter had a far more relaxed policy regarding who could get in. I almost never went there because I tend to avoid “in” places—too crowded, too noisy, too much narcissism. Still, I was willing to give it a shot, especially with Jared.

“Sure,” I said. “Why don't we meet at Rasputin's around eight?”

“Deal. See you there.”

I got undressed to head for the shower.

*