The Dream Ender (19 page)

“I’ll be calling Jake and Jared for the names of everybody who was at that meeting of guys from the Male Call.” I paused. “They did tell you about that, didn’t they?”

He nodded.

“Chances are it was one of them who stole the gun,” I continued. “And whoever stole it probably is the one who used it.”

I paid the bill, and we left the restaurant, exchanged a quick handshake on the sidewalk in front and went on our separate ways.

*

It being Jonathan’s class night, we decided to grab dinner out, and Joshua announced he wanted to go to “see the fish.” So, even though we’d just had seafood the Friday before, we headed to our local Cap’n Rooney’s Fish Shack, where Joshua endeared himself to the management by asking loudly, “Where’s the lobsters?”

As usual when we went out for dinner on a class night, we brought both cars, and after Jonathan left for class, it was still sufficiently light for Joshua and I to go to a nearby kids’ park for a while. Watching him racing from the swings to the slide to the teeter-totter to the monkey bars made me wish I were five again.

As soon as we got home, I called Jake. Jared got on the other line as I asked for the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the Male Call regulars who had come over to talk about Hysong before Jake realized his gun was missing. I figured, again, that they were the most likely suspects.

None of us mentioned Glen’s having hired me. It was just mutually understood, and spared me from going into the issue of me being paid for something I would gladly have done for nothing. I knew they knew that. It was just easier for all of us not to even mention it.

There had been six guys there other than Jared and Jake, none of whom I knew—Don Gleason, Chuck Fells, Steve Morse, Butch Reed, Tom Spinoza, and Art Manners. Apparently, only Jared, Art Manners, and Don Gleason had not had sex with Hysong. The rest—with, I hated to think, perhaps the exception of Jake—showed no visible signs of infection.

Gleason had lost a younger brother to AIDS after the brother had had sex with Hysong, one of Manners’s close friends had just died, and Morse and Fells had friends who were currently in and out of the hospital. They all knew at least some of the Male Call’s dead.

“And they never zeroed in on Hysong as the source?” I asked.

“Not really,” Jake said. “Most of the guys who go to the Male Call are pretty active and don’t keep track of who they sleep with and when. So, when AIDS really started sweeping through the community, no one was sure where they got it. Then the rumors started concentrating on Cal, and Carl eighty-sixed him, and everybody started putting two and two together.”

“Can you tell me anything at all about any of them that might make them stand out in any way as a possible suspect?”

I heard a sigh, then Jake’s voice, “Look, Dick, we really don’t feel comfortable pointing the finger at any of these guys and—”

I interrupted to say, “I understand. But somebody killed Hysong, and if anyone is going to go to trial for it, I’d just as soon it not be you. We’ve got to take a close look at everybody, like it or not.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Jared agreed. “But the fact is, we’re really not all that close with any of these guys. Our contacts have been almost exclusively limited to talking with them at the Male Call or running into them somewhere else and having been to a couple of parties with some of them. As to their personal lives, I don’t think we know anything at all except the basics. Right, Jake?”

“Right,” Jake verified.

“But you do have their phone numbers, right?” I asked.

“Phone numbers, yeah,” Jake said. “Hold on a second while I get them for you.”

I heard the sound of one of the receivers being set down. Neither Jared nor I said anything in the interim and a minute later, Jake was back.

“Got a pencil?” he asked.

When I said yes, he read off the names of the six guys and their numbers.

“Many thanks,” I said. “So, given that all of them had reason to hate Hysong, did any one of them feel particularly strong about it?”

There was a moment of silence while they thought, then Jake said, “I can’t imagine anyone could have a stronger reason to hate Cal than Don Gleason. His brother’s death really devastated him. As a matter of fact, Don didn’t even show up at the Male Call for at least three months after his brother died. He started coming back just about the time the rumors about Cal started circulating.”

“Did he ever confront Cal about it?”

“No. Nobody ever confronted Cal about anything, except my boy, here, of course. Don just kept it all inside, but I could tell from the way he looked at Cal that he wanted to.”

“He wasn’t the only one,” Jared added. “Art Manners did confront Cal once a couple years ago. Art likes to think of himself as a tough guy—and he is—but the one time he tried standing up to Cal, Cal beat the crap out of him. Art never tried it again. He never forgot it, though, and he’s been bad-mouthing Cal behind his back ever since.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ll have a talk with him…with all of them. Do you know if any of these guys might be home during the day?”

“Butch Reed’s a fireman,” Jared said. “He works three on and one off, but I don’t know his exact schedule. And Don Gleason is an artist—metal sculptures. I think he has a studio in his home. I’m not sure about the rest of them. You, Jake?”

“No. Just nine-to-fives, I think.”

“I’ll just try calling until I get them,” I said. “Thanks for your help. And if you think of anything at all, please let me know right away.”

“You know we will,” Jake said. “So, give Joshua a hug from both of us and give Jonathan a nice slow grope and tell him it’s from me.”

“He’ll love that,” I said, grinning. “I can just see him blushing now. We’ll talk again soon. Take care.”

“You, too,” they said in unison, and we hung up.

*

That Jake and Jared had numbers for all six of the guys who came to the meeting saved me quite a bit of hassle with the phone book, and I started calling them first thing Thursday morning after my coffee/newspaper/crossword ritual. Not knowing what days Reed might have off, I tried his number first and got a machine. I then moved on to Manners, Fells, Morse, and Spinoza. I didn’t expect them to be home, and they weren’t. Fells and Spinoza also had answering machines, on which I left messages, including both my office and home numbers. With both Morse and Manners, I let their phones ring at least eight times before I hung up. I’d try them from home that evening.

I’d been toying with the idea of getting a separate phone at home for business calls but had hesitated about incurring the extra expense. Now, though, with Joshua getting to the age where we frequently had to race him to the phone when it rang, I figured it might be time to reconsider.

Don Gleason was the one I most wanted to talk to, so I saved him for last. Jared had said he was a metal sculptor with a studio in his home, so chances were good I’d be able to catch him. Sure enough, after hearing three rings, I heard a deep-voiced “Hello?”

“Don Gleason?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I introduced myself and told him the purpose of my call.

“I heard Jake had been arrested,” he said. “He should get a medal. If you’re collecting for his defense fund, I’ll be glad to contribute.”

“No,” I corrected, “I’m calling because I’d like to talk to you about the meeting you attended at Jake’s house shortly before Hysong was killed.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Well, that’s the joy of being a detective,” I said. “I was hired to prove they arrested the wrong guy and find out who really did it. I’ve been checking on guys who might have had a special reason to want to see Hysong dead. Jake and Jared are friends of mine, and when I heard about the meeting, I realized everyone there qualified. Do you suppose we might meet in person for a talk? I know you’re busy, but it really might help me figure out who to zero in on.”

“Like me, for example?”

“That’s my point—I don’t have any idea. Right now, everybody’s a potential suspect, but it will help if I can start eliminating some of them.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Sure. You want to come over now?”

“I can do that,” I said. “You’d better give me your address, though.”

He did, we said our good-byes, and I headed out the door to meet him.

*

The address was in one of the older and more rundown commercial areas of town, dotted with warehouses and closed factories. Gleason’s building had, apparently, in its heyday, around 1920, been a combination garage and gas station, set just far enough back off of the street to allow a car to pull in front of the pumps without blocking the large garage door. It was of concrete block and two stories high—I assumed Gleason lived on the second floor.

I found a parking place easily enough and walked back. Closed Venetian blinds, mottled with dust and age, covered the large window and there was no indication that anyone was in the place. I went up to the front door and peered in. I could see a car and a motorcycle parked just inside the garage doors. The building was quite deep, and a single hanging fluorescent light fixture in the back provided the only interior illumination. That and the small, searingly bright blue flame of an acetylene torch sending out occasional sprays of sparks.

The entire place was filled with hard-to-discern shapes, some of them reaching to the ceiling. I assumed they were Gleason’s sculptures.

I knocked loudly on the door, not sure if he would be able to hear me or not. He did, for the torch went out, and a moment later I saw someone walking toward me. He opened the door, his welder’s visor pushed back atop his head.

“That was quick,” he said, standing back to let me enter. Then he grinned. “Or it could be that I just lost track of time again. I do that a lot.”

He removed his helmet and set it on an old desk under the front window, then undid his protective apron, slid it over his head and laid it on the back of the desk chair. As he did so, I realized he looked familiar, though I couldn’t place where I might have seen him—in the bars, probably.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he said, pointing to a plain wooden stairway along the side wall closest to the desk.

I followed him up, and he opened a door off the landing at the top to lead me into his living quarters. Unlike the downstairs, which was murky and cluttered, bright light from the curtainless windows illuminated a neat and surprisingly comfortable apartment. With no surrounding residences, I guess he figured curtains and blinds weren’t necessary to protect his privacy.

“Have a seat,” he said, and I did, choosing a high-backed padded armchair. He sat in a wooden rocker opposite me and leaned back, staring at me. After a moment, he broke into a grin.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

I felt a flush of embarrassment. So, I did know him. I frantically searched my mind and drew a blank. I shook my head slowly.

“I do recognize you,” I said, “but I’ll be damned if I can remember where from.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “My hair’s shorter now, and I’ve been working out.”

And then the light came on.

“Of course!” I said. “We met one night at the Easy Pickin’s. But that place has been closed for a couple of years now. You’ve got a great memory, and I apologize for not having made the connection immediately.”

We’d picked each other up just before closing one night—long before I met Jonathan—and had gone to my place.

“You’re not an easy guy to forget,” he said, still smiling, rocking the chair slowly.

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that one. I also remembered why we hadn’t had a rematch. He was pretty good sex, but then he wanted to get into an area I’ve never been comfortable with. I went along with it, but when I realized how much he was into it, I knew it was going to have to be a one-night stand.

“Well, again, I apologize,” I said. “You’re looking great.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I was always sort of hoping we’d run into one another again.”

Dodge ball time, I thought. “Yeah, it has been a long time. I’ve got a partner now; we’ve been together a couple years already. It sure goes by fast!”

Obviously, he got the message. “I’m glad for you,” he said. “Monogamous?”

“Yep,” I said then decided to segue right to the subject that had brought me to him in the first place. “We figure, in today’s climate, it’s the safest way to go.” I paused only for a second before saying, “I was very sorry to hear about your brother, by the way.”

He stopped rocking, and it was as though an invisible cloud had swept across his face, though I could clearly see its reflection in his eyes.

He sighed then said, “Thanks.”

“You think Hysong gave it to him?”

“I know damned well he did,” he said bitterly.

“Can I ask how you can be so sure?”

He leaned forward, both hands on the arms of his chair.

“You had to know Paul. He was eight years younger than me, and I was his Big Brother. He always wanted to be just like me, do everything I did. I turned out to be a sculptor, but Paul’s big dream was to be an architect, and he would have been a terrific one.

“He moved out here from Duluth a year and a half ago to go to Greer, which is one of the best architectural design schools in the country. Naturally, I said he could live with me while he went to school. When he found out I was into leather, he wanted to do it, too. I tried to explain to him that it wasn’t that simple, that for me it wasn’t just a game. It’s part of who I am.