The Bar Watcher (3 page)

“Anyway, I tried to pretend I wasn't paying attention, but I heard Comstock say to the good-looking guy that he was welcome to join, but his friend couldn't. The friend didn't say a word, but the good-looking one wanted to know why. ‘We have strict standards,' this Comstock bastard says.

“Jesus, you should have seen the look on that poor kid. It was like someone had spit in his face! I think if Comstock had been in the lobby rather than behind the glass, the good-looking one would have decked him. Hell,
I
would have decked him!

“But instead, the humper just turned around, grabbed his friend by the arm, and they left. If I hadn't already paid my money, I'd have walked out, too. And this Comstock bastard just walks away, unconcerned as all shit. What a fucking asshole!”

We'd about finished our drinks by then, and Jimmy came by to see if we wanted a refill. We shook our heads in unison, and looked at each other.

“You ready for a little action?” Jared asked.

Oh, yeah!
We paid our tab and left.

*

Jimmy had not been exaggerating when he talked about Jared's physical attributes. It was a real challenge, but I love a challenge, and it was more than worth it. And Jared had a few special techniques of his own that he amply demonstrated, to my delight and ultimate total exhaustion.

“Not bad,” he said as he plumped up his pillow and put it behind his head.

“Ditto,” I observed.

We just sort of lay there for a few minutes, until Jared said, staring at the ceiling,

“You need any help?”

I turned to look at him. “Well, after this, I might need a little assistance in standing up.” He grinned. “Not that kind of help. I mean, like, in your work. You know, finding out stuff, getting information—that kind of thing. I like keeping my mind active, and I'm in just about every bar in town, and I always keep my ears open. I hear a lot of stuff—I never repeat it, but I hear it. And I'm pretty friendly with most of the bartenders. And I…uh…get around a lot, too.”

“That's really nice of you, Jared,” I said. “But I'm not in a position right now to…”

He looked at me and shook his head. “I wasn't talking about money. I just think it would be kind of fun. Give me something to do while I'm hauling those beer cases around.”

“That would be great!” I said, although I wasn't quite sure how I might be able to use his services. “But I'd have to have some way of repaying you.”

“Hell, no,” he said. “I'd have to be most of those places anyway. Maybe I could just take it out in trade.” He grinned.

“Now there's a deal,” I said, and meant it. I thought for a second, then said, “You know, I could use another pair of ears when it comes to Rage. I'd appreciate knowing more about Comstock. And particularly anything anyone might be saying about their membership policies.”

“You mean other than that they suck? Sure.”

We were quiet for another moment, then he said, “Maybe I shouldn't even bring this up, but I hope we might be running into one another more often, and I think I should tell you right off that I'm not looking for a relationship—not that I thought you were, but….”

I reached out and laid my hand on his washboard stomach. “Not to worry,” I said. “I'm not exactly out baiting the traps yet. Besides, I'm having too much fun right now; I'm like a kid at Halloween, and it's trick-or-treat time.”

“Ready for another treat?” he asked with a wicked grin.

I looked at him in amazement.

“You wouldn't happen to be a Scorpio, would you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “How'd you know?”

“Figures.”

*

The phone was ringing when I walked into the office the next morning. I ran across the room to grab it.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“I've drawn up a contract for you,” the voice said, not bothering to identify himself. Fortunately, I recognized it as Barry Comstock. “How soon can you be here?”

“I've got a client coming in about ten minutes,” I lied, but I wasn't about to start jumping through Comstock's hoop. “I can probably be there by eleven.”

“The sooner the better,” he said, and hung up

*

I timed it so I arrived at Rage at exactly 11 o'clock. The same blond was behind the lobby window, and he must have recognized me, because he nodded toward the door and pushed the buzzer before I had a chance to say anything.

I knocked on Comstock's office door, and heard him say—well, it was more of a bark, “Come on in.”

He wasn't seated behind the desk this time. He was pacing between the desk and the worktable, obviously agitated. He didn't wait for me to say anything.

“The fucking bastard!” he almost yelled. “He's screwing with the wrong guy! I'm going to have his balls in a jar!”

I just stood there until he finally shut up.

“Mind telling me what's going on?” I asked.

His face was flushed with anger, and he forced himself to march to his desk and plop down in the chair.

“My brand-new, forty-nine-thousand-dollar, just-off-the-fucking-showroom-floor convertible is what's the matter!” he spewed. “That motherfucking bastard slashed the top and all four tires!”

“And you think it's the guy behind the threats?”

He hadn't offered me a seat, and I deliberately remained standing. He obviously didn't care.

“Think?” he fumed, pushing a piece of paper across the desk at me. “He left this on the front seat.”

It contained two words, cut from newspaper headlines: “You Lose!” I looked at the paper, then at Comstock.

“Are you sure you don't want to take this to the police? This guy may really mean business.”

Comstock leaned forward in his chair, waving his finger back and forth like a windshield wiper.

“God damn it, I told you no! No police. Are you a fucking detective or not?”

Some of his anger was rubbing off on me.

“Yes, I'm a detective. But I'm also not stupid. I know when it's time to bring the police in.”

“No,” he said emphatically. “No police. Now do you want the fucking job or don't you?”

“Well, I…”

He picked up a thick envelope and pushed it across the desk with such force I caught it just as it flew off the edge and started its fall to the floor.

“Here's the contract,” he said.

It was sealed, and I started to slip my finger under the end to open it. Comstock shook his head in disgust and picked up his letter opener.

“Here, use this” he said, and tossed it to me.

I instinctively grabbed for it and was vastly relieved to catch it by the handle rather than by the blade.
What an asshole
.

I opened the envelope, very carefully laid the opener back on the desk, and read the contract while Comstock sat staring at me. “This says half my regular fee, the other half to be paid if I catch the guy,” I noted.

“More than fair,” Comstock said. “I'm not paying full price with no guarantees. If you find the guy, you'll get the rest. If you don't, then I've just thrown good money out the window.”

I carefully replaced the contract inside the envelope and slid it back across the desk.

“Then I think you'd better find yourself a detective who'll be willing to agree to this. I won't.”

“Fucking loser!” Comstock spat. “You turn this down, I'll ruin you.”

I literally bit my lower lip to keep from saying what I wanted to. Instead, I just turned and left his office, not closing the door behind me.

As I entered the lobby, the blond Adonis stood there, eyes moving from me to the office, from which Comstock's voice yelled out, “Fucking loser!”

*

Needless to say, I didn't get much done for the rest of the day. I did some paperwork, made a few phone calls, then headed for home. But my anger was still there, and I decided to stop in at Ramón's for happy hour. If anybody needed a happy hour, it was me.

I was downing my fourth Old Fashioned and was pretty well on my way to being blotzed when Bob Allen came in. Jimmy went to talk to him, and they both looked at me. Bob nodded and came over.

“How's it going, Dick?”

“Like shit, thanks,” I said.

“Oh-oh,” Bob said, grinning. “Why don't you and I go get something to eat, and we can talk about it?”

Now, I don't usually let things get to me, but Comstock had somehow managed to push all the right buttons, and I was as pissed at myself for allowing it to happen as I was at him for causing it. I also tend to keep my private problems private. But Bob was a good friend, and we'd been through some pretty rough times together. Him I could talk to.

So, I did.

After a couple cups of black coffee at the bar, we went down the street to a little Armenian restaurant run by some friends of Bob's. We sat around talking for a good three hours. I kept telling him he had a business to run, and he should get back to it, but he just shrugged it off, and it was nearly ten-thirty when I walked him back to Ramón's and went on home.

I'd just gotten to sleep when there was a knock at my door. I put on my robe and went to see who it was. When I looked through the peephole, I saw a police badge. I opened it, wondering what the hell was going on. Two plainclothes detectives and a uniformed cop were standing in the hall directly in front of my apartment. I wondered how they'd gotten into the building without ringing.

“Dick Hardesty?” the one with the badge said.

“Yeah?”

I saw the uniformed cop reach for his handcuffs.

“Dick Hardesty, you are under arrest for the murder of Barry Comstock. Anything you say…”

Chapter 2

Ever been arrested for murder? I don't recommend it. I was able to determine, between the time the handcuffs were put on (I was allowed to get dressed first, at least) and the point after booking that Barry Comstock had been murdered in his office at approximately 9:20 p.m. He had—you guessed it—been stabbed with his letter opener, which of course had my fingerprints all over it. The real killer was obviously smart enough to wear gloves. The blond Adonis clerk, who was working a double shift that day, had found Comstock's body and, of course, reported our falling out. They were able to trace my fingerprints quickly because they were on record as part of the paperwork for my private investigator's license.

When I was allowed to make my one phone call, at just about 1:45 a.m., I of course called Ramón's, where Bob was still doing the office work he'd not been able to do while sobering me up and having dinner with me. Never, ever underestimate the value of friendship! Bob came immediately to the station, verified my alibi, providing the home phone of the restaurant's owners for extra confirmation of my whereabouts at the time of the murder. I was released on bond, which Bob put up, pending a court hearing.

Barry Comstock had been a first-class jerk, but murder is not an acceptable solution to any problem under any circumstances. It was pretty clear to me, if not to the police, to whom I had explained my brief dealings with him, that it was the guy behind the threats—and, by some convoluted extension, Rage's membership policy—that had led to his death. I wasn't paranoid enough to think someone had tried to set me up—my prints on the letter opener were pure chance, and any killer with an ounce of brains would have made sure
his
weren't on it. Which of course, led to the obvious conclusion this hadn't been a spontaneous act.

Under normal circumstances, I probably would have felt obligated to look more deeply into the murder on my own, since I was, however peripherally, involved. But Comstock was a bastard, and I didn't have the financial luxury of running around working on cases without any money coming in. Besides, this particular case had gone beyond private investigator stage and was now firmly in the hands of the police, where it belonged.

But, being me, I knew once I want to know something, a little thing like its being none of my business wouldn't stand in my way. And while I told myself that if Barry Comstock were still alive I wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire, I couldn't help but be intrigued as to what was going on.

I was therefore more than a little surprised when, on going to my office the morning after my arrest and release, my answering service told me I'd had a call from Glen O'Banyon's office. O'Banyon was one of the city's most successful, wealthy and, therefore, most powerful lawyers. He was also well known to be gay, though he played the closet game quite well. He traveled in the upper circles of the city's social elite, always accompanied at straight functions by one beautiful woman or another, and at gay functions by some incredibly hot guy. I found it interesting that he was so rich the young men he had with him were never referred to as, or thought to be, hustlers—just ambitious young men who enjoyed the reflected celebrity.

I returned the call immediately, pretty much at a loss as to why he might have called, other than the extremely unlikely possibility that perhaps he wanted to represent me in this murder thing. When I identified myself to whoever answered the phone, I was told he was with a client but would return my call as soon as he was free. I thanked her and hung up.