The Dream Ender (7 page)

I nodded. “Well, could you do me a real favor and try to remember any specific names you might hear? I’m trying to track down the source of these rumors and to find out if there’s any truth to them.”

“Sure,” he said. “It does seem that I hear the Male Call come up more often than any other bar, though. Rumor has it a lot of guys from there have it.”

“Has Hughie’s lost any yet?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Only one that I know of. But it’s hard to tell. This place is pretty much a revolving door. Hustling’s a high-turnover and competitive business. Most of these guys are loners…I don’t know where they came from before they got here or where they go after they leave. It’s none of my business. I just serve beer.”

A thirty-something guy in a business suit walked in, and Bud left to take his order as one of the hustlers picked up his own beer and sidled over toward the newcomer.

Let the games begin!

I finished my beer, put another bill on the bar for Bud and left.

*

That evening, having talked with Jonathan and called Craig to verify that he’d be available Friday night—he and Bill were going to a dance for gay and lesbian teens at the MCC’s Haven House on Saturday—I called Jared in Carrington. Luckily, he was home.

We talked for a minute or two before I got to the main reason for my call.

“Carl Brewer’s hired me to check into all these rumors about someone from the Male Call spreading AIDS.” I’m not normally that open about discussing my business, not even with Jonathan, but I knew I could talk to Jared, especially about something which by extension involved both him and Jake. “He wants to find out if there’s any validity to them,” I continued, “and if there is, who might be responsible.”

“I sure as hell hope it’s only rumor,” Jared said. “I can’t comprehend anyone spreading this thing knowingly!”

“Well, one thing I’m going to try to do is track your friend Mike’s sexual partners.”

“Good luck on that one!” Jared said.

“I know,” I agreed, “but I’m going to do the best I can. Do you know of any of the guys Mike had sex with before he got sick?”

There was a pause. “Other than me and Jake, you mean?”

“Yeah. Did he ever mention any names to you?”

Another pause. “Not that I can think of,” he said. “But…I do remember him bragging at a party that he’d finally landed Cal Hysong. That was maybe six weeks before he…found out.”

“Who’s Cal Hysong?” I asked.

“Well, Cal’s sort of the alpha butch at the Male Call. As you know, a lot of the guys who go there do it for the fantasy. They put on being butch like they put on their leather. But not Cal. He’s the real article, and to land Cal is like landing a Great White. I’ve seen him just snap his fingers and have guys drop down and lick his boots.”

Actually, I’d bet there were a lot of guys who’d be more than willing to lick Jared’s boots if he wanted them to, but I set my fantasies aside to let him continue.

“He doesn’t like to take no for an answer, and I’ve had a couple of run-ins with him in the past. Remember when you had to bail me out of jail after that row at the Male Call awhile back?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it was Cal I got into it with. He’s a first-class prick. We nearly got into it again last time we were in there.”

“What happened this time?”

“Pretty much a carbon copy of the first time. Cal was hitting on some guy who was way out of his league playing butch. Cal wanted to take him into the back room and the guy didn’t want to go. I finally stepped in and told Cal that if he didn’t back off, I’d kick the shit out of him…again. We would have gotten into it right then if the owner hadn’t stepped in.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen him, but I can’t picture him off-hand.”

“Well, you don’t go to the Male Call that often. Like most predators he has his own territory, and the Male Call’s it for him. Every now and then he’ll go out to the ‘faggot bars’ and ‘troll for fucks,’ as he puts it. That fishing analogy’s his, by the way. He doesn’t have any friends that I know of. He’s a biker, but while he’ll go on a run with some other guys every now and then he still stays aloof. But I guess the king doesn’t need friends as long as he’s got people intimidated.”

“I gather he’s not your type?” I said. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

“Nope,” Jared said. “He’s just a little too serious about it all for my taste. Sex should be fun and I don’t think fun is a word I’d associate with Cal. Jake’s always thought he was hot, though.”

Knowing that Jake and Jared had a very open relationship and that they sometimes didn’t see each other for a week or so, I wondered if Jake had ever had the chance to act on his attraction. But that was for more my erotic fantasy than it was my business, so of course, I didn’t ask.

“Who was at the party where Mike said he’d been with Hysong? Can you remember? Did Mike have sex that night with anyone there?”

“Well, okay, so it was more of an orgy than a regular party. I think just about everybody was with just about everybody else at some point in the evening. I saw Mike with Jim Prescott and Ted Wills and Monty…” He paused to think “…Sherman. Oh, yeah and Brad Scott. And Jake and me.”

“Sounds like some party,” I said.

“Oh, yeah.” He was quiet for a long minute before he said, “When I think that Mike might have had it even then, and that he might have passed it on to some of the guys there that night…Jesus, that’s scary!”

“Do you know if any of the guys you mentioned have…had any problems?”

“Not that I know of. We’ve seen most of them—I can’t remember which ones, exactly—at the Male Call at one time or another since then, and they all seemed to be fine.”

I’d reached for a pencil and written down the names Jared had mentioned. I’d try to check on them. “You got phone numbers on any of these guys?”

“Some of them,” he said. “I’ll check my book and get them to you. And maybe Jake’s got some I don’t have.”

We made plans for brunch on Sunday—Jared was coming in to spend the weekend with Jake.

“He’s working his ass off again,” he said, exasperation clear in his voice. “I should stay up here this weekend to get some things done, but I know he’d be working Saturday if I didn’t come down there and keep him from it. These bullheaded Norwegians never learn.”

Chapter 7

Wednesday morning was spent roughly plotting out Friday night’s bar tour and who I hoped to talk to at each stop. There were a couple of places I did not want to take Jonathan—the Male Call and the Spike among them. Okay, I know we just went through that “I’m overprotective” thing, but, damn it, I don’t want to expose him to any situation that could lead to problems.

Actually, I realized, a lot of it had to do with the fact that I didn’t trust myself not to slip into my possessive “Me Tarzan. Him Boy. Boy mine!” Scorpio mode if some pseudo-butch number made a pass at him. I’m not particularly proud of it, but it’s there and I have to live with it.

We couldn’t really hit very many bars in one night, anyway. Most started filling up around ten, so I figured we could make it more of an “us two” night out by going to dinner first, which would still let us get to at least one or two of the bars before the bartenders and/or owners got too busy. We’d hit Daddy-O’s, a nice little neighborhood bar where Brewer said DeVose, one of his fired bartenders, worked, then go to Venture—I made a note to call Mario to be sure Ray Croft would be on duty—and move on to Bob Allen’s bar, Ramon’s, to talk to Jimmy, Bob’s primary bartender. Jimmy could be waiting on a customer at one end of the bar and not miss a word of a conversation going on at the other end. Then we’d wrap up the evening at Griff’s, which I saved for last because it was our favorite piano bar.

After I got back from lunch—I just ran downstairs to the diner in the lobby for a grilled ham and cheese, fries, and coffee—I pulled out the list I’d made of the Male Call dead and ill. There are times in this job that I wished to hell I didn’t have to do something, and this was right up there at the top of them.

Luckily, I’d separated the two groups, and while it was the ill who were most likely to give me the information I needed, I hated the idea of having to pry into how they got the disease they knew would undoubtedly kill them and probably soon.

So, I decided to start with those already dead to see if their friends or partners could give me any information at all on how they might have contracted it.

I’ll spare you the details of each and every call. As a matter of fact, I was only able to make three before I had to give up simply because I couldn’t deal with having my guts ripped out by the grief of those the dead left behind. But as for useful information, there were some interesting comments.

Though I knew they were all patrons of the Male Call, I asked if they were regulars at any other bars, or if they had any indication where and how they had contracted it. Three were directly traceable to the Male Call’s back room, and, most telling of all, two mentioned the name of the bar’s “alpha butch,” as Jared had called him—Cal Hysong. Each of the two had considered being screwed by Hysong something of a feather in their cap. Actually, it might have been a nail in their coffin.

But even though Hysong might, indeed, be infected and while it might indicate that the rumors about someone spreading AIDS from the Male Call could have some validity, there was no proof it was being done deliberately. A very fine and weak line in the end result, but a major one in the difference between the unwitting and the morally criminal. Even so, I made a note to call Brewer and alert him of the possibility in case he wanted to have a talk with the man or take some sort of action.

Talking to the friends of the dead was draining, and a thought occurred to me as I sat staring at my notes. Mario had said something about one of his regulars at Venture telling him about a best friend who claimed he’d gotten it from a “really butch” guy who told him, “I’ve got gay cancer—welcome to the club.”

Jeezus! Why hadn’t I picked up on that sooner? I cursed myself for being so dense. I’m supposed to be a detective, fer chrissakes, and I let the possibility it might very well have been Cal Hysong go right over my head. Outside chance, but still, I should have followed up on it.

I wondered where all this had taken place. The description of the setting all but ruled out the Male Call’s back room. Maybe the baths? If it was Hysong, it could well have been during one of his “trolling for faggots” outings.

I immediately dialed Mario and Bob’s number. After four rings, I got their machine and left a message asking Mario to give me a call as soon as he could.

Of course, it was way too early to start zeroing in on Hysong, and I had to be careful not to let myself try to put a square peg in a round hole. Everything I knew at that point did indicate Hysong, but I actually knew very little right then. If it did turn out to be Hysong, the tie-in to the Male Call would be established.

I was still mulling all this over when the phone rang.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick. Mario. Sorry to have missed your call—we’re out working on the coach house. I just came in to get some iced tea. What’s up?”

I asked him if he remembered anything else about the “gay cancer” story he’d reported at brunch.

“I’m afraid not. To be honest with you, I didn’t give it much credit at the time—the rumors were just starting at that point. But I can probably put you in touch with the guy I heard it from.”

“That’d be great,” I said.

“His name’s Allen, and he comes in for Happy Hour several times a week and usually on the weekend. I don’t remember his last name, but the minute I see him I’ll try to get his number and give it to you, or give him yours and ask him to call you.”

“Either way’s fine,” I said. “I’d really appreciate it.”

“No problem. Oh, and on the rumors. No specific names or details, just the typical grapevine stuff—‘the friend of a friend’ or ‘these guys were talking and….’ You know the kind. But I’m keeping my ears open.”

“I owe you,” I said. “But now I’d better let you get to your iced tea.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve got to go in tonight around five to break in a new bartender.”

I had one more thought. “Oh, before you go. Jonathan and I are planning to stop at Venture Friday night. Will Ray be working? I’d really like to talk to him for a minute.”

“Yep, he’s on. Nice that you two are actually getting out for a change.”

I felt a slight pang of guilt to realize how right he was.

We exchanged good-byes and the usual “give my best tos” and hung up.

I know I should have started calling those on the Male Call’s “ill” list next, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, to rub their noses in something of which they were excruciatingly aware every single moment—that someone had given them a fatal disease. I wasn’t infected—please, God!—but the very thought of what that knowledge could do to those who were was almost more than I could bear. So, while it may have violated every rule in the Good Detective’s Handbook and possibly delay my getting to the bottom of the matter, I determined that I’d call the ill only as a last resort.

I remembered Brewer had told me that one of his fired bartenders—Val, I think his name was, I’d check my notes—now worked days at the Spike. I’d only been there once, with Jared. It was a watered-down version of the Male Call, spartanly butch. Its focal point was a raised, cordoned-off platform against the wall at one end of the bar on which, perched under a spotlight, was a gleaming classic blue 1956 Harley-Davidson Double-Glide Panhead, the pride and joy of the bar’s owner, Pete Reardon. He drove it in every Gay Pride parade, at the head of a pack of gay bikers. The wall behind it was covered with photos of bikers on their bikes, individually and in groups.