The Bottle Ghosts (7 page)

“Yeah, that's right. Are you on to something?” There more than a trace of suspicion in his voice.

“Way too early to tell,” I said honestly, though my gut told me differently. “But could you do me a favor?”

“What do you need?”

“Could you give me the name and address of Martinez's partner? His first name is Ted, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Yeah, it is. Ted Kemper. How did you know his first name?”

“Long story.”

“You
are
on to something, aren't you?”

“There's an outside chance. Like I said, it's way too early to tell. But I promise I'll keep you posted if you'd like. I won't try to get you to compromise your position with the department in any way, I promise.”

There was yet another long pause while he thought it over. “Well…I guess it would be okay. I'd have to look up Kemper's exact address, but I know it's on Ash and he's in the book.”

“Thanks. You don't have to bother looking it up, then. I'll check it out.”

Actually, I had another favor to ask, but figured I'd better hold off until I had a chance to talk with Ted Kemper first. I didn't want to put Gresham on any kind of spot, and I didn't want to get the police any more involved in things than I absolutely had to.

“I really appreciate your help, Marty. And I'll figure out a way to make it up to you.”

“Oh, no you don't!” he replied, laughing. “I've heard all about you guys.”

“And every word of it true, I'll bet.” It was good to know he felt comfortable enough with me—and the subject of homosexuality—to joke about it.

“Well, just remember to let me know what's going on.”

“I will. And thanks again.”

As we hung up, I reached for the phone book.

*

I found Kemper's number and, while I was sure he'd be at work, I called anyway. There was no answer and no machine, so I hung up and wrote the number on a piece of paper and put it in my shirt pocket for when I got home.

I also decided that, on my way home, I'd swing by Rage and the Six-Ten. I wondered idly whether Troy still worked at Rage. Unlikely, but it would be nice to run into him again.

Yeah, wouldn't it?
my crotch asked innocently.

Troy worked the reception window when I was dropping in at Rage regularly during that case I'd mentioned earlier, and he'd been kind enough to give me several guided tours of a lot more than just the premises. Though I tried not to let my crotch know, I was a little concerned about how it might react if I were to run into Troy again. It had pretty well run my life over the past several years, and getting it to behave itself wasn't exactly easy.

As if to confirm the existence of E.S.P., the phone rang, and it was Jonathan, who seldom called me at work. I was pleasantly surprised and feeling mildly as though I'd just been caught at something.

“Hi, Tiger. What's up?”

“I didn't want to bother you, but I was wondering if you could stop at the store and pick up some milk and Cokes? My boss gave me a really great ficus—you'll love it, and it'll go great by the window right there beside the octagon table…anyway, I can't take it on the bus so Kyle's giving me a ride home in his pick-up truck and I wondered if you'd mind stopping at the store?”

“Sure. But I might be a few minutes late getting home. I have to make a few stops first.”

“More bars?”

“No, I have to stop at Rage and the Six-Ten.”

There was a moment of silence, then a rather shocked: “Those are
baths
!
You're not going to go
in
are you? I mean…I'm sorry…I…”

I laughed. “I know what you mean and you don't have to be sorry and no, I'm certainly not going to go in any farther than the lobby.”

Not even if Troy's there?
my crotch asked.

Shut up!
I told it.

“I'll stop at the store. And I won't be that long.”

“Okay,” he said, obviously relieved.

*

Rage looked exactly the same as the last time I'd been there: the same blue canopy with the white script “Rage,” the same bright blue door. But beside the door there was now another small sign which said “Health Spa for Men.” I'm sure that made all the difference in the world.

When I opened the door and stepped into the small, familiar lobby, I had a momentary flashback to the earlier case, and I thought of the small room beside the manager's office where Troy and I had gone for our intense but wordless little conversations.

But no one was in the room behind the large glass reception window, and part of me breathed a sigh of relief. But not for long, because the door from the reception area to the hallway beside it opened, and in walked the familiar blond Adonis spectacular-ness of Troy, in his how-in-hell-could-he-get-that-thing-on Rage tee shirt. I'm sure that if he'd had a pimple on his chest, I could have seen it outlined by the shirt. But of course, Troy didn't have pimples.

We get your point, Hardesty,
my mind said with mild disgust.

He saw me and burst into a huge grin as he came to the window.

“Dick! How the hell are you? I thought you'd moved to Mongolia or somewhere.”

“Great to see you, Troy,” my crotch and I said in unison. I was glad there was a window and a wall between us, or I know we'd have exchanged a hug, and to feel that hot…

We
get
it, Hardesty!
Move along!

“What brings you here, anyway? Another case?”

I nodded. “Yeah, actually.” I reached in my pocket for Jerry Shea's photo, which I stepped forward to slide through the slot cut in the bottom of the glass. “Ever seen this guy?”

Troy picked it up with one hand, unconsciously rubbing his other hand, spread-fingered, over his chest. He furrowed his brow and moved his lower lip and jaw forward in thought, then slowly shook his head and slipped the photo back through the slot.

“Sorry, Dick. Never seen him. Want me to check our member list to be sure?”

“Could you? I'd appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he said reaching under the counter for a large ringed binder. “What's his name?”

“Shea. Jerry Shea.”

He flipped expertly through the pages, backed up a page or two, studied something carefully, then closed the book.

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Well thanks for checking.”

He replaced the book under the counter, then looked at me, his lips curling into a very sexy grin. “You know, that little room's been turned into a storeroom, but there's still a cot in there. You got a minute to go take a look at it?”

Yes, we do! Yes!
panted my crotch.

Luckily, though, I heard myself saying: “I really wish I could, Troy, but I've got a partner now, and…”

“Hey, that's great! Congratulations! So you don't play around anymore?”

I shook my head. “Afraid not. It ain't easy, but…”

“I understand. Some guys can, some guys can't. I admire your conviction. But if you ever change your mind, you know where I am.”

“Oh, I'll remember.” I replaced Shea's photo in my pocket, gave Troy a wave and a grin—there wasn't enough room to reach through the slot to even shake hands—and turned and left. While my crotch was thoroughly disgusted, the rest of me was pretty proud of myself.

*

The Six-Ten was another story altogether. It squatted glumly on a side street off Arnwood, but a good three blocks to the closest bar, surrounded on all sides by vacant lots overgrown with weeds, old tires, and a variety of clumps and mounds and piles of things best not looked at too closely. I was fortunate that it was still daylight when I got there, but I recall that at night there was one sixty-watt light bulb above and to the right of the door, over the black-painted number “610”. Which was perfectly all right, since it was highly unlikely anyone in their right mind might ever wander into the place by accident. Since it was the only occupied building for a block on either side, you only had to look at the number of cars parked on the street to know how many patrons were in the place at any given time. This night, I noted, there were all of four. Well, it was early.

Taking a deep breath, I forced open the front door and entered. The 10-foot-by-10-foot room also doubled as an X-rated bookstore and sex-toy boutique. One wall was lined with plastic-covered magazines; across from it was a long glass-topped display case showing off a fine selection of dildos, harnesses, and various lubricants, and a smaller section of little glass bottles of whatever it was that had been substituted for amyl nitrate after it had mysteriously disappeared to be replaced by a far inferior product that cost as much but did not provide anywhere near the same wallop.

Hanging from the ceiling in one corner of the room over the dildo-and-harness section was a plastic inflatable sheep.

The back wall had another rack of magazines and paperback books, a door marked “Members Only,” and a large open window—well, actually it was more of a hole than a window—extending from about 3 feet off the floor to just below the ceiling, and which apparently had been cut out of the wall with a chain saw. Behind this opening sat a gentleman who looked like someone off a recruiting poster for Atilla the Hippie's army, reading a recent copy of Guns & Ammo.

He looked up disinterestedly as I walked in, then immediately dropped his eyes back to his magazine. I looked around for a moment, then walked over to the whatever it was supposed to be…a counter?…it was, as I said, only about 3 feet off the floor…in front of him.

“Ten bucks,” he said, laying his magazine on the floor beside him and standing up.

“Ten bucks?” I assumed he was referring to entrance to the “bath” portion of the building, though from what I'd seen the word “bath” would be an oxymoron.

“Ten bucks one time membership fee. Five bucks return visits.”

Yeah, like
that
was going to happen,
I thought.

“I think I'll pass on the membership.” I reached into my pocket for Shea's photo. “I was wondering if you know this guy?”

I extended the photo toward him, but he made no move to take it.

“Still ten bucks.”

I put the photo into my other hand, reached for my wallet and, balancing both photo and wallet, extracted a ten. I put my wallet back in my pocket before offering both the ten and the photo. He reached out one tattooed hand on the end of a solidly-tattooed arm, took both the money and the picture, looked at the photo almost dismissively, and handed it back to me, wadding up the ten and shoving it into the front pocket of his Levi's knock-offs.

“Yeah, he comes in.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Ten bucks.”

The fun was rapidly going out of this little game, I decided. I reached back into my wallet and took out a five and handed it to him.

“Return visit,” I said.

He looked at me and for a moment there I thought he was actually going to smile—a prospect I wasn't particularly looking forward to. Instead he reached out and took the five, shoving it into the same pocket with the ten.

“Month. Five weeks, maybe. Anything more you want to know?”

Not at these prices,
I thought.

“That should do it. Thanks.”

I turned and left.

*

On the way home, I took stock of what I knew—or more accurately, what I didn't know. The one thing I was almost certain of at this point was: Jerry Shea was gone, and something told me he wasn't coming back.

I'd turned down the alley leading to the garage at my apartment building when I remembered the milk and Coke. I could have just parked the car and walked to the store—it was only about two blocks away—but I figured I was late enough in getting home, so I kept on driving. I got the milk, the Coke, and a box of chocolate-covered donuts—you know the kind; the ones with so many preservatives the little date stamp on the box says: “Best if eaten before: June 30, 2416”—as a peace offering. Jonathan loved them. (Okay, so did I.)

Though the garages were behind the building, the back entrance required a key I'd lost several months before, so I always just walked all the way around the building to get in. As I came through the courtyard toward the front entrance, I glanced up at our apartment to see what appeared to be a very large tumbleweed in the window. Funny, I thought ficuses were green.

Jonathan greeted me at the door and gave me a huge hug that forced most of the air out of my lungs.

“I'm glad you're home! Come look at our new ficus! Isn't it beautiful?”

I let him lead me, still carrying the bag of groceries, over to the tumbleweed. I could see, when we got up to it, that it had maybe six leaves.

“Uh, I don't know much about plants, babe, but isn't it supposed to have a couple more leaves than that?”