The Bar Watcher (27 page)

Jared had a temper, sure, and he was big enough to do just about anything he set his mind to, physically. He'd had that run-in with Comstock—hell, so had I, although I'd stopped short of punching him. He'd been with me at Glitter the night before Richie Smith was found…

I don't like where this is going, Hardesty.

But I couldn't shut it off. He'd been at the Hilltop the night the queens went over the bluff. He was really pissed when he heard what D'Allesandro had done to John Peterson. And, shit! He was in Venture the night Lynn Barnseth had the fight with George. Last night, he'd been at Ramón's.

Relax, Hardesty, relax!
You're getting way too paranoid over all this
.

What were the chances the bar watcher would have been in that one particular bar on that one particular night? Pretty damned remote! Unless…

“Okay,” I said aloud, “drop it!”

Well, at least that “Bill character,” as Jimmy had called him, was still alive.

For the moment
, my mind said.

*

I didn't sleep all that well Saturday night, and was up by seven. The Sunday paper was outside the custodian's closet, as always, and I brought it in to read with my coffee. I cursed myself for not having it delivered every day, but I'd grown so accustomed to picking one up on my way in to the office…

Of course, that meant I usually missed Saturday's paper, and Saturday's was the one I most wanted to see. Press time, I knew, was two a.m., so there was an outside chance that if anything had happened late on Friday night, it might have happened too late to make Saturday's deadline. And by Sunday, whatever might have happed Friday night would be old news.

I hadn't even listened to the news on Saturday except in the car on my way home from Ramón's.
Stupid, Hardesty, stupid!

Not much chance of there being anything new, but I automatically turned to page three, where last-minute local news usually showed up. A domestic shooting, an apartment house fire, a bunch of teenagers injured when their van rolled on the way home from a beer party, a hit-and-run…

A hit-and-run?

“Police are investigating the hit-and-run death of William Hinson, 23, that occurred shortly after midnight Friday. The vehicle involved was found abandoned six blocks away…”

Chapter 12

Lots of Williams in this town,
I told myself, trying to stay calm
. Lots of Williams.
But I didn't buy it for a minute.

Nice try, Hardesty
.

I found myself reaching for the phone and dialing Jared's number without even stopping to think I might be getting him out of bed. Luckily, he answered on the second ring.

“Jared here.”

“Jared!” I said, hoping I sounded cheerfully casual. “How've you been? I haven't seen much of you lately.”

“You heard, obviously,” he said, and I felt a chill down my spine.

About…?” I asked, not knowing what else to say. If he referred to the hit-and-run…

“About my little run-in with that creep at Ramón's Friday night.”

Some relief, but I still felt uneasy.

“Yeah, that's why I called. Sorry I wasn't there to catch the show. Jimmy thinks he could have sold tickets.”

“Well, yeah,” Jared said. “That son of a bitch really pissed me off, treating that poor guy the way he did. He's just lucky I didn't break his neck right there.”

“So, who was the guy?” I asked, realizing Jared might know perfectly well what I was getting at. “Did you know him?”

If he caught it, he didn't let on, at least not at first.

“Never saw him before, and plan to keep it that way. His name's Bill, according to one of his buddies, but—” He suddenly broke off in mid-sentence, and I could almost hear the thoughts falling into place in his head. “Uh, Dick, are you telling me something here? You don't mean…?”

He knew.

“I'm not sure yet, but my gut tells me yes. There was a hit-and-run around midnight Friday night that killed a twenty-three-year old guy named William Hinson. I'm going to have to check it out, but…” I wasn't quite sure how to phrase what I had to say next, so I just plunged in. “I'm going to ask you something I don't want you to take the wrong way, but I hope you were out in public somewhere with lots of people around at about midnight.”

“Oh, shit! Shit!” he said, and I knew exactly what was going through his mind. “No! I left the bar right after that run in—I wasn't in any mood to stick around a noisy bar. I went straight home—alone, damn it! Nobody saw me from the time I left the bar.”

I decided we'd both better step back a pace or two.

“Let's not go jumping to conclusions just yet,” I said, hoping I sounded a lot more encouraging than I felt. “Let me check it out first. There are a lot of Williams out there.” It didn't sound any more convincing when I said it aloud. “But if I'm right that this William was your buddy Bill, I think you can expect a visit from the police.”

“Shit, Dick! What can I do? I don't have an alibi—who the hell ever thinks they're going to need one? And after what I said to the guy when I was throwing him out the door. Everybody in the fucking place heard me, I'm sure. I could be in deep shit.”

I suddenly realized I was walking on very thin ice here. While I could not believe Jared capable of murder, I'd been wrong about people in the past. If he was the bar watcher, should I be talking to him like this?

“Uh, Jared,” I said, deciding to go with my instincts, “it might get a lot worse.”

A pause. “What do you mean? How worse?”

I told him of my arrangement with Lieutenant Richman, and that he knew quite a bit about the other murders, and that I'd promised not to keep anything from him. There was no way, especially if they did question Jared, that I could not tell him about Jared's having witnessed many of the incidents that led to the deaths.

Jared was quiet again for a moment then sighed.

“Yeah, you're right, of course. Do what you have to do. But you know I didn't do it, don't you Dick?”

“Yeah, Jared, I know.” And I really, really wanted to believe it. “But we're way ahead of ourselves here. This hit-and-run could be anybody. Let's wait and see what happens, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” I echoed. “You just hang in there and don't worry about anything until it happens. Like I said, this could all be nothing. I'll see what I can find out, and get back to you as soon as I know anything.”

We left it there, and I'd just hung up when the phone rang.

“Dick Hardesty.”

“Hi, Dick. This is Toby.”

He didn't have to tell me.

“Toby! I'm glad you called. I wanted to call you last week, but I realized I don't have your number.”

He laughed: “That's probably because I don't have a phone. Long story,” he added, anticipating my puzzlement. “I'm just on my way to the gym and wanted to call. I saw in the paper the Chicago Symphony is coming to town and wondered if maybe you'd like to see it with me?”

Despite my concerns about Jared and the maybe-new-victim in the case, I felt myself lightening up considerably.

“That's exactly why I wanted to call you,” I said. “This one's on me, if you want to go.”

“I'd love to.” He sounded genuinely happy. “But I can buy my own ticket,” he said, as though he didn't want to impose on me.

“The hell you can,” I said. “Let me call tomorrow and see what's available. Can you call me tomorrow night after you get out of the gym?”

“Sure.” There was a slight pause, and then he said, “You know, I went out and bought every Tchaikovsky record we listened to at your house. I love him. Wouldn't it be great if the whole world were as beautiful as his music?”

“Spoken like a true romantic,” I said. “And I'm really glad you like him.” I glanced at my watch. “I'd better let you get to the gym. Have a good time, and I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“It's a deal. And thanks. A lot. Bye.”

As I hung up, I was aware once again of a very strange air of—what?—gentle sadness about Toby. He reminded me of a little kid who wanted desperately to have people like him but didn't know how to make it happen. I couldn't understand it, really. He was drop-dead gorgeous, sweet, gentle, kind. What could there possibly be not to like about him?

So, why did I sense this air of loneliness? I guess I just attract mysterious people. A gift? Or something else?

*

Ramón's didn't open until two on Sunday, but on the outside chance Jimmy might know any of the three guys involved in the incident Friday night, I called Bob for his phone number in hopes he might be home. Bob, however, wasn't. He was probably at Mario's, or they were out to brunch or something. I left a message on his machine, and decided to call Ramón's after two, in case either Bob or Jimmy was there.

The thought of brunch triggered one of my Hardesty spur of the moment urges, and I went into the bedroom to get my wallet. I found Terry's number and, although I was sure he wouldn't be home, dialed his number.

“Hello?” a totally unfamiliar voice said after the third ring.

Oh, shit!
I thought.
He's got a lover! Or maybe it's last night's trick.

“Uh, hi,” I said, resisting the momentary urge to hang up. “Is Terry around?”

“Sure,” the voice said, and there was a muffled, “Terry—phone.”

Are you ever going to learn?
my mind asked.
Think first, then act!
Well, it was too late now.

A moment later, I heard the sound of the receiver switching hands, then: “Hi, this is Terry.”

“Terry, hi,” I said, feeling pretty awkward. “This is Dick Hardesty. I hope I'm not taking you away from something…”

Smooth one, Hardesty!

“Not at all,” he said. “My roommate's just waiting for his lover to come over—he thought it was him calling when the phone rang.”

Whew!

“Ah,” I said, with my usual facile grasp of the language. “Well, I know this is really short notice, but I just had the urge to go out to brunch and wondered if you'd like to join me.”

“Great!” he said. “I was just toying with the idea of brunch a few minutes ago. Where and when?”

“Well, there's Rasputin's, or Calypso's, or…”

“I'll leave it up to you.”

“How about Calypso's? I'll call to see if we can get a table on the patio. And how about between one-fifteen and one-thirty?”

“Perfect. I'll see you there.”

As soon as we said our goodbyes I looked up Calypso's number, called and asked for a patio table. The first opening they had was at 1:45, but I took it. Then I hung up and headed for the shower.

*

I got to Calypso's at 1:05—a little late by my usual standards—and checked in with the maître d'. Of course, Terry wasn't there yet—I didn't expect him to be—but when he wasn't there by 1:30, I got a little concerned. At 20 till, the concern melted into becoming just a tad pissed. I thought of my college friend Alan who never, ever, in all the time I knew him, was on time. I think it was one of the factors in our losing touch with one another. I didn't want another Alan in my life.

At 1:45, the maître d' came over and said, “Your table's ready when you are,” and I was about to tell him to cancel it when I saw Terry's curly red hair approaching above the crowd of heads between me and the front door.

“Dick!” he said when he reached me, his face anxious. “I'm really sorry I'm late. I tried calling here to tell you, but they said there were too many people to take personal messages. I'm really sorry!”

The maître d' was waiting, menus in hand, looking impatient, so I just got off my bar stool, put my hand on Terry's elbow and said, “No problem…our table's ready.”

There was no time to say anything until we'd sat down and the waiter had taken our drink order. Then Terry said, “Right after I hung up from talking with you, I got a call from a friend of mine, Eric. He was telling me about having spent most of Saturday morning in the police station. The cops woke him up at six-thirty to tell him his car had been involved in a hit-and-run accident that had killed a guy. Eric didn't even know his car was gone!

“But then it turned out—and this I still can't quite believe—that the guy who got killed was the same guy Eric and some friend had been out with Friday night. When the cops found out Eric knew the victim—Bill Hanson or Hinson or something like that—they hauled him down to the station and questioned him for over two hours.

“But they finally let him go. He was terrified they were going to throw him in jail.”

I just sat there, staring at him without saying a word. He probably thought I was some sort of idiot or insensitive jerk.