The Bottle Ghosts (2 page)

“Does this fit the three-month pattern?”

Bradshaw shook his head. “No, and that's another thing that tells me something's wrong—well, more wrong than usual. It's been less than a month since his last binge. And I didn't really see this one coming.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Four years next month.”

There are some questions that cannot really be asked diplomatically, so I've learned just to ask them and hope for the best.

“Can I ask if…well, is your relationship monogamous?”

Bradshaw's smile defined the word ‘rueful.'

“It is on my part, I know. And as far as I know, Jerry is, too—when he's sober. When he's on one of his binges, all bets are off.”

He looked at me sadly and shook his head. “I have to wear a rubber when we have sex. I hate that. But I've told him that while I love him more than anything in the world, I won't die for him.”

Well,
that
told me a little bit more about penguins than I cared to know,
I thought. But I could empathize with him.

He moved slightly forward in his chair again.

“And to make things even worse, if that were possible, I've got to leave town in the morning for an eight-day business trip that I can't get out of. I'm not out at work, and there is no way I could explain this. I won't be home if Jerry comes back, or calls, or…” I could see him getting more distraught, and again I could empathize with him completely. “He knows I have to leave tomorrow—the trip has been scheduled for weeks. I can't comprehend how he could do this.”

“Do you have an answering machine at home?”

“No. Our old one broke and we never replaced it.”

“Well, I suggest you pick one up today. Record a simple message: ‘Jerry, please call Dick Hardesty at…' I'll give you my numbers before you leave. And leave a note for him inside the apartment to the same effect.”

“You will help me find him, then?” His voice reflected his relief.

“I'll do my best.”

I couldn't hear him sigh, but I saw it in his body language. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Here are some recent photos, a list of the places he always goes when he's drinking, and the addresses and phone numbers of our friends, though as I say I've already checked with them all.”

I took the envelope from him, lifted the flap, and quickly glanced through its contents. There was a photo of Bradshaw with his arm around a slightly shorter, stocky man with reddish-blond hair and a big smile; another photo of the same guy, close up, grinning into the camera, and a piece of paper with a list of bars and the names, addresses, and phone numbers of six or seven people. A lot more information than most new clients have with them on their first appointment. I replaced everything into the envelope and set it beside the phone.

“Could you tell me Jerry's last name, and where he works?”

“Shea…Jerry Shea,” Bradshaw said, then sighed again. “He's not working right now. He's a waiter, and a damned good one. He'd worked two years at the Imperator until they fired him for coming to work drunk during his last binge. He'd never done that before! He was very conscientious about his job. And of course he was devastated when he got fired. I don't know; that might have had something to do with his disappearing.”

Jeezus,
I thought.
How could he be so stupid?
But then I realized that was a stupid thought in itself. The Imperator is one of the, if not
the
, most exclusive restaurants in the city. I'd imagine a good waiter there—and a place like that wouldn't hire any but the best—could make a fortune in tips. How could he blow it like that?

“Did he have any friends there he might contact?”

Bradshaw shook his head slowly. “He was friendly with a couple of the other waiters, but I don't remember their names, and they never really socialized outside of work. And I'm sure he'd be too embarrassed and ashamed to ever try to contact them. But again, when he's drinking…who knows?”

“Was he doing anything about his problem? A.A. or anything like that?”

Bradshaw edged forward in his seat again. “Oh, yes, he goes to meetings a couple times a week. St. Agnes, the Gay/Lesbian Community Center, the M.C.C.. And we belong to a gay couple's therapy group at Qualicare that meets every Thursday.”

Qualicare was the city's largest and fastest-growing HMO, which had bought out the old St. Anthony's Hospital complex and embarked on a huge expansion program. I'd heard it offered a wide range of mental as well as physical health programs. I guess alcoholism qualified in both categories, and I was pleased to know they made a specific outreach to gays.

I told him my rates and gave him a contract, which he signed. While I was Xeroxing a copy for him, he reached into the same pocket from which he'd taken the envelope and brought out his checkbook. While all this was going on, I took the opportunity to ask him a few more questions.

“What kind of car does he drive—and do you have the license plate number?”

Bradshaw looked up from writing the retainer check. “He doesn't drive. He lost his license right after we met and I wouldn't let him even try to get it back. It's a real sore spot between us, I'm afraid. I'm pretty sure he had a spare key made for my car—he denies it, of course—and uses it when I'm out of town on business. I've gotten so I check the odometer when I leave and when I get back and he knows it. I was gone on business during his last drinking binge, and I know damned well he had the car. We had a real blow-up over that one, and I brought it up in the group one meeting. I guess some of the others have had the same problem. Anyway, to answer your question, either I take him where he needs to go, or he takes the bus.”

Pretty inconvenient, but logical, I guess.

He tore the check out of the checkbook and handed it to me, then put the checkbook back into his pocket, and exchanged it for his wallet, from which he extracted a business card. He wrote a number on the back, and handed it to me. “This is my home phone; I'll be there around six tonight, but I have to leave for the airport by seven o'clock tomorrow morning.”

Bradshaw glanced at his watch. “I have a meeting at ten-forty-five across town, so I'd better get going.”

I wrote my home phone number on the back of my business card, which he slipped into his shirt pocket. Finally, he opened his briefcase and took out another sheet of paper. “Here's the itinerary for my trip. If you find anything…anything at all…please call and leave a message for me.”

I nodded.

He snapped his briefcase shut and stood up. “I'll be back in town a week from Friday,” he said, then just stood there for a second, looking lost. “God, what a mess!”

I didn't say so, but I certainly agreed.

I rose and shook hands, and walked him to the door.

*

I had to finish my report on a just-completed case, so typed it up before going back to the envelope and business card I'd put by the phone. The front of the card said “John Bradshaw, Investment Counselor, Peabody & Dean Investments.” The address was in the same building as Glen O'Banyon's law offices, and I'd done enough work with and for O'Banyon to recognize that any company with offices in that building had to be doing pretty well for itself.

I noted that the bars on the list covered a pretty broad spectrum, but tended toward the more sleazy end of the scale, including the Troc, which was a beer bar on Riverside Drive at the foot of the bluffs on the east side of the river. The Troc was about as sleazy as bars get, and I would imagine would be just the place an alcoholic might end up after he'd run through or been thrown out of the others. I usually avoided the place like the plague but, since Jonathan had just enrolled in a night class at the local community college and the first class was that same night, I thought I'd take advantage of that fact to make a quick tour of the bars on the list to see what I could find while Jonathan was in class.

*

Jonathan usually got home earlier than I did, which worked out nicely on several levels. For one thing, he was one hell of a lot more domestic than I was, and he not only actually enjoyed cooking, but was a really good cook. I'd usually get home to find him puttering around in the kitchen, talking to Tim and Phil, the two goldfish he kept in a small aquarium on one of the kitchen counters. Jonathan liked to talk, and whereas in most people it might be a really annoying trait, I got a kick out of it in him. He had managed, as so few people do, to keep the childlike (as opposed to childish) wonder and enthusiasm that so many lose as they “grow up.” And the fact that he talked to goldfish was no more unnatural than my conversations with my crotch—though I didn't do my talking aloud.

I got home to find Jonathan just coming out of the kitchen, my evening Manhattan in one hand and a Coke in the other. I walked over to hug him and take the drink.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise.” He followed me to the sofa and we sat down.

When we'd first gotten together, I'd felt a little awkward about drinking around him, since he did not drink at all, but he assured me it didn't bother him in the least, so it had remained a part of our little ritual.

Shortly after we got together, Jonathan got a job at a small nursery, thanks to the recommendation of our friends Bob and Mario who'd been landscaping the yard of their new house. Jonathan's love of and fascination with plants had impressed his boss, who had suggested Jonathan go to a local technical college offering an Associate's Degree in Horticulture Technology, and Jonathan
thought it was a great idea. I could tell he was really excited about starting class—his first college experience—and I was proud of him for deciding to go.

“You got a phone call just a while ago,” he said, taking a swallow of his Coke.

“Yeah? Who.”

“Chris, your ex,” he said with a smile. “He called from New York and we talked for quite a while. He sounds like a really nice guy.”

I nodded. “That he is.”

“And he said he was glad that we had gotten together and told me I should watch out for you. I'm not sure what he meant by that but I don't think it was bad. Anyway, he and his lover Max are coming into town for a couple days at the end of next week. I didn't know he used to work for Marston's or that he was a window designer. That must be a really great job! But he's got a meeting here and Max decided to come along because he's never been here and Chris can show him around. He wants to spend some time with you—well, he said with ‘us' which I thought was nice of him. He wants you to call him back.”

Chris! Now that was a surprise, and a very nice one. Chris and I had been each other's first relationship and we were together for five years until we made the transition from lovers to friends and he moved to New York what now seemed like centuries ago. I hadn't seen him since, but we'd kept in regular contact, with letters and phone calls at least every couple of weeks. It would be good—really good—to see him again.

I suddenly realized that Jonathan was staring at me with a soft smile and I was rather embarrassed to realize I'd sort of wandered off.

“Sorry.”

The soft smile became a grin, and he patted my leg with his free hand. “No problem,” he said, then glanced toward the kitchen.

“I started dinner already, since I've got class tonight. I hope you don't mind eating earlier on class night.”

I shook my head. “Not at all. I've got to do some checking on a new case tonight, anyway. I can take you to school and pick you up after class so you won't have to worry about the bus.”

“Thanks,” he said, laying a hand on my leg, then pushing himself up off the couch to go into the kitchen.

“Need help?” I asked with the confidence of knowing the answer would be “no.”

“Huh-uh,” he replied over his shoulder. “You want to call Chris back?”

“Good idea.” I got up and moved toward the phone.

*

I reached Chris and talked with him for a while. He pretty much just verified what Jonathan had already told me. They'd be arriving early Thursday in time for a Thursday afternoon meeting at Marston's, then an all day meeting on Friday, and returning to New York on a late flight Sunday. I invited them to stay with us, but Chris' work had reserved a room for him at the Montero. I was really excited about seeing him again after what seemed like such a much longer time than it actually was, and he sounded the same. He said they'd call me at the office when they got in, and we could make plans from there, hoping to be able to spend as much time together as we could manage. I was anxious, too, to finally meet Max and I could tell Chris was very curious about Jonathan, as well.

I finished my drink as we talked and when I hung up, Jonathan announced that dinner was ready.

*

As Jonathan was getting ready to go to class—the new shirt I'd bought him, his best pair of black pants: all he needed was an apple for the teacher—I took out the list of the bars John Bradshaw had given me and made a rough mental map of which order to hit them in.