A Simple Suburban Murder (7 page)

"We need information, Neil," I said.

"I have that in abundance, but first tell me, dears, where have you been keeping yourselves?" He patted Scott's hand. "Have you been keeping this gorgeous hunk"—he flipped a wrist at me—"chained in some suburban mall? If the rest of us can't have him, you should at least share him."

Scott withdrew his hand and said nothing.

Neil turned to me. "And how is teaching? Do the little no-neck monsters still occupy your precious time?"

"Still."

He gave a dramatic sigh. "So what is it you dears want? You were terribly mysterious on the phone, Thomas."

I hate it when somebody calls me Thomas. It reminds me of my mother, and she only used it when I'd done something wrong.

"It's not like you to play cat and mouse. Of course, I know this isn't a simple social call. That would be too much to expect. You haven't called in ages."

"Your phone doesn't have a dial?" I asked. He hadn't called either.

Over the years we'd drifted apart, his charm getting less as his riches increased. His rarely veiled antagonism to Scott made it worse. Yet under it all, he was a good person. Plus he had information I wanted.

I told him about the murder and what I'd learned since. He listened shrewdly and attentively.

I ended, "What I need to know is where to start. If Phil's hustling, where to look. If he's working for an escort service, who to talk to. If possible, find out where he's staying."

"You don't want much do you?"

"I need to find the kid," I said flatly.

He gave his dramatic sigh. "Okay. You're not sure he's hustling?" "Right."

"Or even if he's gay?"

"Pretty positive about that."

"Or if he's in this city or several thousand miles away?"

"Yeah."

He shook his head. "I don't think you realize the size of the task ahead of you. We're not even talking needle-in-a-haystack here. We haven't even found the haystack. Why would the kid stay in cold Chicago if he could hustle in warm L.A.?"

"He promised his brother he'd come get him, and I'm not convinced he had the money to leave."

"Sugar daddies provide all kinds of benefits. If he's as good-looking as you say he could hitchhike easily. He could be anywhere."

"I've got to start somewhere."

"I remember you always were big on hopeless cases."

"That's why we're still friends, isn't it?" I smiled.

"You're lucky I still can't resist that sexy smile, but don't press your luck," he replied.

I returned to the issue at hand. "Do you know where he'd stay?"

"Anywhere. He could be with some sugar daddy and never be seen on the streets."

"Is there somebody in the gay community who specializes in helping runaways?"

"Not anymore. There used to be a few ad hoc volunteer groups, but they've gone by the wayside. Most gay men shy away from involvement with young people. They're afraid the cops would think they were in it only to get into the pants of jail bait."

"How about if he's working for a service?"

"That's a little more delicate. There are only a couple that deal in kids, and they tend to be very far underground."

Scott broke in, "Those pimps should be arrested and hanged. They're ruining kids' lives."

"And we're applying for sainthood?" Neil pointed his finger at Scott. "For many your very existence as a gay man makes you the equal of child molesters and kiddie peddlers. I can picture the self-righteous columnists—how can this man play baseball and be an example for kids when he sucks cock?" Neil looked disgusted. "Morality has little to do with it. Sick child molesters have been with us since we climbed out of the slime. They'll continue to be so. At any rate, moralizing isn't going to find the kid."

"I only meant—" Scott began.

Neil patted his hand again. "Be still, dear, you're awful cute, but we have work to do." He turned to me.

I saw Scott getting red with anger. He held it in. Neil made some demeaning crack every time he saw Scott. I began to protest. Neil stopped me. "Do you want information or not?"

Scott gave my leg a reassuring squeeze under the table to let me know it was all right to let it drop.

I swallowed my anger and nodded at Neil. "The escort services," I reminded him.

"Ah, yes, well, there're two that might employ him. I can discreetly check that for you. I'll probably get honest answers from them, although I can't guarantee it."

"Do you know anyplace a youngster might stay or hang out? I know the young hustler bar used to be the Dump on Lower Wacker Drive."

"Not anymore. The place to find a young hustler is the Womb."

I hadn't heard of the place. "Where's that?" I asked.

"It's on Clark Street south of Diversy, across from the post office."

I'd been past the corner but never noticed the bar. "I think we'll head down there and ask around," I said.

He gave me a pitying look. "Do you think anyone in such a bar would answer questions? After you ask the first one the bar will probably clear out. They'll assume you're cops. And if you're thinking of waiting for Phil to show up, forget it. Your chances of being there simultaneously are minimal."

"We have to start somewhere," I said.

"Good luck," he said doubtfully.

"How soon can you check those services?" I asked.

"I'll call you tomorrow, Sunday at the latest."

I said a brief thanks and we left. It was nearly eleven-thirty. It was less than a mile to the bar. We decided to walk. I could tell Scott was angry. After a few blocks I said, "There was no call for him to talk to you that way."

He shrugged his shoulders and said, "It's not important."

The Womb was in the basement of a crumbling building. The color scheme could most kindly be described as hideous. The lighting, what little there was, revolved and twirled slowly. It managed to pick up the most lurid tints, generally suggesting walls spray-painted with vomit. The entertainment consisted of a gargantuan woman, three-hundred pounds at least, leather clad from toe to crown, slowly doing a striptease on top of the bar. While we were there, in a unique twist, after taking it all off, she put it back on, then off, then on. Perhaps it was an eternal statement. She moved, you couldn't call it dancing, and stripped, out of time to the music, which in itself redefined the word loud.

People jammed the room. In dim corners men kissed and groped each other. I only looked long enough to ascertain if Phil was so engaged. As far as I could see he wasn't. As we squeezed to the bar, two stools emptied in front of us. We grabbed them.

Across from where we sat was the exception to the lighting. There, in an area hidden from the door, light bathed a wall in blinding whiteness for the space of about fifteen feet. In this space were men. Most were young, all were good-looking, some were beautiful. They were tight jeaned, leather clad, preppie, or any style a customer might want. They stared vacantly ahead. Sporadically one of the posing men strolled casually into the dimness. Men exchanged desires, struck deals, and left. On the wall next to the exit door was a condom machine vending several well-known brands.

None of the men in the light was Phil Evans.

The bartender was flat stomached, heavily muscled, and ruggedly handsome. I guessed him to be around twenty-five. He wore no shirt. A gold earring topped with a tiny diamond pierced his left nipple. A silver ring with a cluster of feathers clinging to it pierced the right one. His jeans clung tighter than cellophane and clearly showed the placement of his dick and balls. He smiled at us. "What'll you guys have?" I barely heard his shout.

I ordered a diet soda and Scott a light beer.

The bartender returned with our drinks. "Anything else I can get for you?" His smile was now a leer. I felt Scott move closer to me, his knee pressing tightly against mine.

I shook my head no to the bartender. He winked and left.

Resting his lips on my ear, Scott yelled as gently as possible, "What the hell do we do?" Even that close it was hard to hear him.

I pulled his head over to yell back. We carried on the conversation in this odd manner, mouth to ear, throughout. "We wait," I yelled, then asked, "are you nervous about being in here?"

He smiled faintly and shook his head. He said, "I don't believe I'm in such a place. No one else would believe I was either." We were both aware that if there was a police raid both of our careers could be in trouble. If they decided to raid a gay bar, this would be the one.

For a painful three hours we stuck it out. Phil never came in. By three o'clock the place cleared out a little. The bartender was unbusy for the first time that night. I decided to try a few questions. I motioned him over. "We're looking for someone," I said.

"Isn't everybody?" he responded.

"A specific kid."

He eyed me carefully then smiled. "It takes all types. I wouldn't think it of you. Forget kids. What you want is a man." He flexed his muscles, dropped his voice, and moved closer. He spoke so only I could hear. "Why don't you ditch your friend here and stick around? I get off soon. You don't need to buy one of these creeps. Hell, you could be on the wall and make a fortune yourself. And you can have me for free."

"Thanks, but no thanks," I said. "We're looking for a specific kid, a runaway. His name is Phil Evans. Do you know him?" I regretted not bringing a picture.

The bartender drew away immediately. He gave us a suspicious look. "What is this? Are you guys cops?"

I assured him we weren't but his eyes remained doubtful. He was called away to fix some drinks and didn't return.

It was Friday night and the bar would be open to four
A.M.
I didn't see any point in hanging around until closing. I also didn't see any use in randomly picking customers to question without a picture. Tomorrow I'd try talking to some of the people against the wall.

We spent the night in Scott's Lake Shore Drive penthouse. Saturday we awoke at eleven. I hadn't brought any clothes so I put on a pair of Scott's jockey shorts, socks, jeans, and one of his old University of Arizona sweatshirts.

Over coffee Scott asked, "What's on the schedule today?"

"I want to stop by my place and get a picture of Phil. I want to talk with the former social worker. We've had a new one every year for the last three. I've got an old faculty phone list somewhere at home. I'll call Frank Murphy as soon as we're done with breakfast. Plus I hope Neil calls so we can check on the escort services today. Then tonight I think we should try to get to the bar earlier."

"How early?"

"Maybe around nine. I doubt if it gets busy much before that."

He glanced at his calendar on the refrigerator. "I've got a speaking engagement tonight. It's a kids' hospital benefit. I don't want to miss it."

"That's okay. I can go early by myself and wait for you there."

"I'd rather we go together later."

I thought his worries about me were groundless. "Scott, there's been no further attack since Wednesday. After a while it's going to get impossible for us to always be together."

"For now though I think there's still danger."

"All right." I gave in.

He went into the utility room and came back with four shoe boxes, each overflowing with autographed baseballs.

"Why don't we stop by the police station instead of calling. I could deliver these to Robertson in person."

I pointed at the stuffed boxes. "I remember you saying he asked for one. We aren't thinking of bribery here?"

"Well"—he grinned at me—"we'll call it a gift."

"I didn't know you kept a supply of those around."

"I bring a few with me to speaking engagements. You get all kinds of requests to autograph stuff—menus, napkins, autograph books, people's casts, stuff like that. You can't give a baseball to each of them, but a lot of times there's a special program or a special kid they're honoring. Like the Little League batting champ, or a kid who's sick, or somebody gets a father of the year award, like that. I like to give them something special. They get a big kick out of it. It costs me a little extra, but you should see their faces light up."

I watched him rummaging through the boxes. "Don't use all those on the cops."

"I wasn't going to. A few should do it."

I ran my eyes over his body as he crossed the kitchen to return the boxes to the storage room. He reappeared in the doorway, came back to the table, saw me watching him.

He smiled. "And what are you looking at?"

"The way your pants cling to the curves of your ass then around the front to the tight folds around your zipper that outline your—"

He leaned down, kissed me, gave a sex growl, lifted me from the chair.

* * *

First we stopped at the police station. It was a two-story faded yellow brick building. The dirt on the windows didn't look as if it had been cleaned since they put it up forty years ago.

Inside it was like old home week. Every cop in the place shook Scott's hand.

Frank Murphy drew me aside. In his office he gave me a wry look. "You're fortunate your buddy Carpenter has impressed everyone, especially Robertson." "Everyone except you?"

"I'm impressed, sort of. I think you can be of valuable help in this. I've worked with you. The problem we might have with you is you care too much. That might lead you to do something foolish. If you find something out, Tom, I need to hear it."

I nodded. "I'll be careful. About learning anything—" I paused.

He said, "Did you know somebody broke into the Evans house Wednesday, probably around noon?"

"No. Do you think it's connected to the break-in at my classroom?"

"Maybe." He looked thoughtful, then said, "Phil wasn't at the funeral this morning." He gave me a keen glance. "He seems to be missing."

I was about to tell him everything when the door burst open with a crash.

Scott entered with an arm draped around Robertson's shoulder. The cop held two autographed baseballs in his hand. "Look at these, Frank, this guy's great, like a regular guy."

Frank smiled indulgently.