The Dirt Peddler (12 page)

Despite being mildly annoyed at the thought of being Randy's limousine service again, I found Jonathan's all-too transparent efforts to try to appease me kind of sweet.

“Well, okay…” I tried to sound stern, “…but I'm going to be expecting more than just dinner out of this.”

I could almost see him grinning. “Anything you want, sir. Anything at all!”

“Remember that. See you at home.”

*

Randy was in the living room, watching TV, when I got home. His hair looked still wet from the shower, but for someone who had a big date with some rich guy lined up, he apparently hadn't gone to any extra trouble to dress any differently than he normally did.

We exchanged greetings and he accepted my offer for a Manhattan. Since he'd refused a drink the night before, when he was going out to hustle, I wondered what the difference was—obviously because he knew whoever he was seeing tonight and either knew a drink wouldn't bother the guy, or he didn't care. He got up and followed me into the kitchen. I could see into the guest bedroom and was favorably impressed to see that he'd carefully made the bed, on one corner of which, at the foot, was a large dopp kit—probably big enough for a change of underwear and maybe an extra tee shirt, but not much else. Again I found that odd, but then realized I had never fully understood how hustlers led their day-to-day lives.

He noticed me looking.

“I'll stash that in a locker at the bus station,” he said, indicating the dopp kit. “I'm not sure if I'll be needing it yet, and I never just carry it around with me.”

Hardesty, the Saver of Lost Souls, bobbed briefly to the surface, and I found myself feeling oddly sad to think how totally unpredictable Randy's life was. He couldn't even be sure enough to know if his big weekend plan would happen or not, or, probably, not even if his rich date would show up. What a way to live.

I fixed our Manhattans and we were just walking back into the living room when Jonathan came in, carrying a bag from the fast-food place about two blocks away. He came over for our usual hug, and gestured the bag toward Randy.

“I hope you don't mind, Randy, but since we've got to leave so early and Dick and I have to shower, I picked you up a couple burgers and some fries. We'll grab something later. Oh, and some coleslaw, too. And a chocolate shake.”

Randy smiled—something I realized he did not do very often.

“Thanks, Jonathan.”

Noticing our drinks, Jonathan said, “I'll just take this in the kitchen until you're ready for it. I'll put the shake and the slaw in the fridge, and we can pop the other stuff in the microwave if it gets cold.”

The TV was still on, and the news was just beginning, so Randy and I sat down to watch and drink our Manhattans. Jonathan came back from the kitchen just long enough to say, “I think I'll hop in the shower if that's okay.” Without waiting for a reply, he moved off toward the bathroom.

Randy took a couple sips of his Manhattan then said, “Do you mind if I eat now? I'm kind of hungry. I'll put the Manhattan in the fridge for later.”

“Sure. Grab a TV tray there alongside the refrigerator.”

He looked at me a little strangely. “It's okay if I eat in here?”

“Of course. We do it all the time.”

“Thanks,” he said, and went into the kitchen.

Though my eyes remained on the TV screen, my mind was elsewhere. I thought about how mildly uncomfortable I always felt when visiting other people's homes for any length of time—not knowing the hosts' routine, or if they had any little unspoken rules. This was how Randy lived his life: in other people's houses, in other people's worlds.

God!

I'd just about finished my Manhattan, and Randy's straw was making sucking sounds as it hit the bottom of the shake when Jonathan came back into the room, looking scrubbed and wholesome and sexy as all hell. He gave me a spread-armed-open-palmed “ta-da!” approval seeking gesture, and I grinned at him.

“Yes, you're gorgeous,” I said, then got out of my chair, gulping the last bit of my Manhattan as I rose. “My turn.”

*

Randy was supposed to meet his whatever/whoever-he-was at the bus station at seven fifteen. That would give us just enough time to get to New Eden, pick up his sneakers, and get to the station. He'd called during the day, as soon as he'd found his sneakers were missing, to see if they were still in his room. He talked to his roommate, who said they were there.

When we pulled through the open gates of New Eden, the first thing I noticed, to the left set atop a small rise and surrounded by obviously young trees, was what I assumed to be the Dinsmores' new home. Jonathan had been right. It was a very nice house, but hardly palatial.

I'd never been to New Eden, but was duly impressed. At the end of the road in the distance were several large barns, complete with silos, near a cluster of what appeared to be storage sheds and animal pens. Halfway down the road, on the right, was a neat white two-story building that looked like what I found out it was, an administration building. Beyond it, on both sides of the road, was a row of equally neat, southern colonial style buildings that reminded me very much of the dorms at my old college.

Randy directed me to the second building on the right, and we pulled up in front.

“Be right back.” He got out of the car and moved quickly to the front entrance.

“I'm impressed,” I told Jonathan. “This is really a nice place.”

Jonathan nodded. “Isn't it? Did you see the trees I helped plant, by the house?”

“I did. They look very nice.”

“I like trees,” Jonathan said, more to himself than to me.

Randy emerged empty-handed from the dorm and hurried to the car.

“Damn it!” he said as he got in. “She's got them up at the house! I sure as hell don't want to face her
or
her brother!”

“We can just go,” I said.

I looked into the rearview mirror to see Randy shaking his head vigorously. “No way! Those are
my
sneakers and I paid a lot of money for them, and they're
mine
!” I realized there were not many things in this world that Randy could say that about.

“I can go in and get them for you if you'd like.” I knew at once my offer was based far more on curiosity than on altruism. I saw Randy plop backwards into the seat.

“That'd be great!”

I turned up the narrow lane that led up to the house, and parked in the small parking area about fifty feet from the side. There were no other cars in the area, though a two-car garage with the doors closed was just to the rear of the house. A walkway led up to the middle of the house, then split off, one arm going toward the back door, the other toward the front. I chose the front.

I rang the bell and waited for perhaps fifteen seconds until the door opened and I found myself face to face with Barbara Dinsmore. A very attractive woman in her late thirties, medium-long light-brown hair, an understated but perfectly tailored cream-colored woman's business suit, subtle but perfectly applied makeup, and the hint of a very pleasant perfume. She was perhaps five feet five inches tall, but perfectly proportioned—what used to be called “petite.”

She looked me over calmly, politely. “Can I help you?” she asked with what I determined to be professional pleasantry. I caught a glimpse through the open door of a man crossing my field of vision at the far end of the room and wondered if it was Jeffrey Dinsmore or the brother.

“I've come to pick up a pair of sneakers Randy…”
Jeezus
,
I had to think!
“…Jacobs left in his room. I understand you have them here.”

There wasn't a quiver, a blink of reaction.

“You are…” a pause no longer than a heartbeat but wide enough to drive a truck through “…a friend of Randy's?” It was amazing how, without any stressing or emphasis, there was not the slightest doubt of what she meant by the word “friend.”

“Yes. As you know, he doesn't drive, so I told him I would come by to get them.”

I knew perfectly well that all she had to do was look out one of the windows overlooking the parking area to see Randy in the back seat. And I was quite sure she had done exactly that when we drove up. But I hadn't lied.

“Of course. Would you excuse me for a moment?” She closed the door, leaving me standing there. Less than a minute later, the door opened and she handed me a brown paper bag. “Here you are,” she said, again professionally pleasant.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dinsmore.”

She smiled warmly. “You're very welcome. Good day.” And she closed the door again.

Now, for a woman who recently found her husband being serviced by some kid who now wanted his shoes back,
I thought as I walked to the car,
that is one very
cool
lady!

*

We dropped Randy, who'd changed shoes on the way, off at the bus station at 7:12. It had started to rain, and I hoped he wouldn't have to stand outside in it too long. I was really tempted to stick around to see who picked him up, but realized that wouldn't be exactly ethical, somehow, so we just went on to dinner at Napoleon's.

Although Randy had only been with us a few days and, as I've said, never really got too much in the way, it was really nice that it was just to be the two of us. Dinner was, as always, very nice, with Jonathan insisting on splurging for a Chateaubriand. The meal probably took a big chunk out of his paycheck, but I set aside my “Me Tarzan! Tarzan pay!” tendency because I knew he wanted to do it and it was important for him.

After dinner we drove out to Ramón's for a drink. Our friend Bob Allen, the owner, was there, but his partner, Mario, was working at another bar, Venture, where he'd recently become manager. It was a fairly busy night, so we only had a chance to exchange a few words between customers, but it was good to see him. Jimmy, the other bartender, made a special point, as he always did, of flirting shamelessly with Jonathan, but I knew it was just a game he played because Jonathan always got so flustered by it.

On the way home, we stopped at Griff's to hear Guy Prentiss do a set, then called it a night.

*

Jonathan was up first on Saturday morning, and though I woke up when he did, I just lay there making the slow transition from sleeping to waking, and enjoying an odd sense of mild decadence.

I heard him in the kitchen, starting the coffee, then the sound of the TV in the living room. Comfortable sounds.

You're a lucky man, Hardesty,
my mind-voice said.

I was just agreeing when Jonathan called, “Dick! You better come in here! Quick!”

I threw aside the covers and hurried into the living room, naked.

On the TV screen, the camera moved from a police car with strobes flashing to a reporter standing in the night rain with a microphone, to a broken guardrail, then over the edge to the bottom of a ravine where lay the mangled remains of a car, upside down with its wheels in the air and its front end submerged in a rushing stream.

It took a second for my mind to process what the reporter was saying, and when I did, I heard “…identified as best-selling author Tony T. Tunderew. The identity of the passenger has not yet been released.”

*

By switching back and forth between channels through the morning, we were able to determine that the accident had taken place on a winding stretch of the foothills on the road to Neeleyville, about twenty miles north of the city, at around eight or eight thirty Friday night. I assumed he must have been on his way back to his cabin after his meeting with Glen O'Banyon. From what Catherine Tunderew had said about her ex-husband's various conquests, his passenger was probably going to be the latest notch on his bedpost.

I felt a little guilty that one of my first thoughts was that the bill I'd sent him would not be paid. Of course I always weep for the fallen sparrow, but I really couldn't dredge up very much sympathy for Tony T. Tunderew as a human being. Being sorry anyone had to die was about as far as I could take it.

I made a mental note to call Glen O'Banyon on Monday to express my regret over his losing a client, but I suspected his reaction to Tunderew's passing would be pretty much what mine was.

We then got on with our day.

Apparently Randy's big date had worked out, since he hadn't come back or called, but he had pretty much indicated it would be a weekend-long thing.

We were just getting ready to go to the laundry and do the week's grocery shopping when the phone rang.

“I got it,” Jonathan said and hurried over to pick it up.

I was busy tossing clothes into the laundry bag, but I heard him say “Yes, it is.” A very long pause and then: “No, he's just staying with us for a few days.” He had my full attention at this point. Another pause then, “No, I don't.” Followed by the longest pause of all, and finally a little boy's voice saying, “Thank you.”

The sound of that “Thank you” was like a bucket of ice water being thrown on the back of my neck. I hurried into the living room to see Jonathan staring down at the phone, which he'd put back on the cradle. “You know who was in the car with Mr. Tunderew?”

I knew.

Chapter 6

Jeezus!

My first concern was Jonathan. His face was ashen and he looked as though he were in shock—which I suppose he was. I hurried over to him and put my arms around him, and he just stood there, his arms at his side, like some softer version of a department store manikin. He didn't cry, and that, knowing that Jonathan could cry over just about anything sad, really got to me. I led him over to the couch and sat him down.

“What was Randy…” he started to ask, looking at the coffee table, then stopped. I'm sure he started to ask what Randy was doing in a car with Tony Tunderew, but he knew why. That's what hustlers do; they get in cars with people. But this wasn't just a street corner pickup. Randy had gone to meet someone specific, and it was obvious to me, at least, that it had to have been Tony Tunderew he was meeting. The blackmail threats had a solid base—Tony T. Tunderew, world-class homophobe, liked guys. Ironic as all hell that he should be found dead in a car with a hustler.