The Hired Man (11 page)

“We're still working on that one,” he said. “We're pretty sure he had to have gone through the parking garage, but the attendant claims he saw only one person leave on foot, and that was somebody he knew.”

Aha!

“Well, two things there,” I said. “First, as you probably know, the attendant had…stomach problems…that night and was back and forth to the bathroom, leaving the entire garage unobserved several times. The Russian Army could have marched through the place, and he wouldn't have known it if he was busy on the toilet.

“That one unaccounted-for car entry was during one of those times, as you also know. And as for the guy he saw leaving…”

I proceeded to tell him what I knew of Anderson's running habits, and the scenario I'd patched together as to how the killer had left, including the fact of his not wearing running shoes.

Richman looked at me impassively except for one eyebrow just slightly raised.

“Hmmm,” he said, followed by a long pause. “Interesting theory.”

I'd learned that the police, as a group, tend to hold their cards extremely close to the vest, but with Richman there were ways to take a peek at their hand.

“So,” I said, “anything in there you didn't already know?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug.

“A little,” he said. “Thanks.”

Realizing I might be walking on thin ice, I decided to risk it.

“Is there anything you can tell me about the murder without compromising the investigation?”

“Such as?”

“Was he robbed?”

“There was no money found in his wallet or anywhere else in the room. He still had all his credit cards.”

Not surprising, I thought. Even if the motive wasn't robbery, the killer probably would have taken the money just to make it appear a possible motive.

“Were any prints found in Anderson's rental car? Especially on the passenger side?”

“There were some partial prints taken, yes,” Richman said. “But nothing conclusive.”

“Any in the room?”

“Again, nothing conclusive. We think he did a pretty good job cleaning up, under the circumstances.”

I decided to take one more tentative step.

“I know you can't be specific,” I said, “but can you at least tell me if you have any solid leads?

“Not many,” he said, which to me meant “No.” It was fairly obvious that, if they'd had any, Richman wouldn't have been sitting here talking with me now.

He stared at me for a moment, then said, “Now, let me ask you a question.”

Oh, oh, here it comes,
I thought.

“Sure.”

“Just what is your interest in this case? Did someone hire you to investigate it? If so, I'd like very much to know who…and why.”

I'd been anticipating that, and fortunately, I was able to give a straightforward, if not totally all-inclusive, answer.

“I'm curious because Anderson was my client and because it's pretty likely his death involves the gay community. No one has hired me to investigate it.”

That part was true. The Glicks had hired me to run interference for ModelMen, not specifically to find who killed Anderson.

“And have you found out anything you're not telling me?” he persisted.

“No,” I said honestly. “I just want to keep the lines of communication open between us. I appreciate what you've done for me and the community in the past, and I think I might be able to be of help to you on this case, too. But in order to do it, I need as much information as you can give me without jeopardizing the official investigation.”

Richman gave a small smile. “I'm afraid that's not going to be very much.”

I shrugged. “I'll take what I can get,” I said.

*

The weekend finally arrived, with relatively little accomplished. I was able to tentatively assure the Glicks after my meeting with Richman that the police were apparently unaware of Anderson's association with ModelMen. Given the level of discretion on both sides of the client/escort arrangement, it was unlikely there would be any obvious links. I was glad Richman was not officially a member of the homicide division, though, because if anyone in the department might make a connection between Anderson's apparent taste in hustlers and the existence of ModelMen, it would be him.

I did make the rounds of several of the bars and restaurants where more upscale hustlers could occasionally be found, showing Anderson's picture to waiters and bartenders, but with no luck at all.

Which brought me reluctantly back to ModelMen and the obvious possibilities there. From what I'd been able to gather, everything passed through Iris or Arnold Glick, and direct contact between the individual escorts and the clients was strictly prohibited. It would be unlikely one of the escorts, unless he were truly stupid—which none of the ones I'd met thus far appeared to be—would risk losing a very lucrative job to make a few extra bucks on the side.

I'd have to remember to ask the Glicks, though, if they had ever had to fire an escort for trying to moonlight their clients. I was tempted to call on Saturday, but I forced myself to observe my weekends-off rule and instead paid my extremely reluctant obeisance to the gods of domesticity—laundry, shopping, dishes, etc.

However, a little of the Happy Homemaker routine goes a very long way with me, and when 6:00 rolled around, I was feeling pretty…what's the word?…antsy? That feeling you get that isn't quite boredom but an odd mix of wanting to do something and not wanting to do something and not knowing what you'd want to do if you did want to do something.

I don't like feeling antsy. I missed the Saturday-night-dinner tradition Chris and I had upheld for the five years we were together. Hell—I missed Chris.

Poooooor Baby!

I made my evening Manhattan, broiled a steak and fixed a salad then sat down in front of the boob tube. By accident, I stumbled into the opening credits of San Francisco, one of my favorite movies of all time—Clark Gable, Jeanette MacDonald, Spencer Tracy, and the greatest earthquake sequence ever put on film. I'd seen it about three dozen times, but every time Jeanette gets up there at the Chicken's Ball and belts out “San Francisco” followed by that deep rumble…

By the time Jeanette and Clark and Spencer and 8,000 or so extras marched over the crest of that hill to look down on what was left of the city, my antsies were gone and I didn't even think of going out. Unusual for me, I know, but the next day was Jared and Tim and about 100,000 or so of my closest friends at the Gay Pride Parade. I could spare one night.

*

The three of us had arranged to meet at Napoleon at 11:15 for a couple pre-brunch Bloody Marys, but just as I was leaving the apartment, the phone rang. It was Chris calling from New York. He knew it was the day for the parade, and he was waxing nostalgic about the fun we'd always had going together every year.

We talked a lot longer than we probably should have, given my compulsion to never be late, but it was good talking with him…and his new lover Max, whom I'd never met but who seemed like a pretty nice guy. Hard to imagine they'd been together almost two years already. So, I didn't get to Napoleon until about 11:20. I should have known parking would be impossible, and it was. The parade didn't start until one, but gays and lesbians were already pouring into the Central from all over the city and all over the state.

The first thing I saw when I walked in the door, other than that it was crowded, was the back of Jared's massive 6′3″ football-player's frame standing a little way back from the bar engrossed in somebody sitting in front of him. I didn't see Tim until I got closer to Jared and noticed that was whom Jared was engrossed in. Why was I not surprised?

They had found each other with no help from me, and they were talking and laughing like old friends. Considering they had never met, that might have struck some as a ‘small world' coincidence, but I knew Jared and I knew Tim, and I was obviously right in thinking they'd hit it off.

Tim saw me first and gave me a heads-up acknowledgment. Jared turned around and grinned.

“Hi, Dick,” Tim said. “I don't think you've met my new husband.”

“Jeezus,” I said. “I can't turn my back on you for ten minutes before you're off picking up sailors.”

“I thought you'd gotten lost,” Jared said, his left leg trapped firmly between Tim's knees. “It's not like you to be late.”

I signaled the bartender and ordered then said, “Sorry—got a phone call from Chris just as I was leaving. Glad to see you two managed to find one another. I guess you didn't need the name tags after all.”

They exchanged grins.

“We managed,” Jared said.

“Yeah,” Tim agreed. “Jared was just telling me all about your adventures in Leatherland. I didn't realize you were so…versatile.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe if you're a very good little boy, Jared might ask you over to play on his slingset.”

Jared grinned again. “That offer's already been extended,” he said.

The bartender brought my Bloody Mary and took the bill I'd reached past Tim to lay on the bar.

“My God,” I said, “I was only five minutes late. You two have been busy, haven't you?”

Tim laughed. “Yeah, but you're usually fifteen minutes early, so both of us figured we'd come early, too. Pure kismet.”

Uh-huh,
I thought.

*

Brunch was great. We got seated exactly on time, all ordered what proved to be world-class Eggs Benedict, and we had a really nice, easygoing conversation. I was delighted to see that Jared and Tim were instant old friends, and while the sexual undercurrent was clearly there, I was rather surprised and pleased to see that it wasn't all just between the two of them.

We found a spot on the corner of Beech and Evans, about halfway down the parade route and on a slight rise. We could look down Beech in either direction and see an almost solid wall of people on both sides of the street. Tens upon tens of thousands of us, and it never failed to give me an indescribable sense of wonder and empowerment to know that here, now,
we
were the majority,
we
were the norm.

The parade itself, when it finally got moving, was a lot of fun. Some pretty impressive floats, lots of as-naked-as-they-could-get-away-with flesh, some local politicians who were beginning to realize the gay vote could be crucial at election time; the banners, the flags, the marching groups, the local gay-and-lesbian chorus on a huge flatbed hauled by a rainbow-flag bedecked semi. People who have never been in a minority simply have no idea what a gay pride parade means to the gay community.

As was traditional, when the last float passed by, the crowd spilled into the street and became part of the parade, heading to the end of the route and the annual Gay Pride Carnival in Barnes Park. Tim, Jared, and I joined the throng, our arms around each others' waists.

I heard a voice from behind us call out “Dick!” and I turned to see Phil and Billy in full shirtless splendor, wending their way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. When they caught up with us, I introduced everyone. All seemed mutually impressed, as well they should have been.

The crowd was so large we realized, while still about two blocks from Barnes Park, that we'd never be able to move in the crush of people trying to get into the carnival.

“You guys all want to come over to my place?” Jared asked. “I'm not all that far away. We can relax for a while then maybe come back early tonight when the crowd dies down.”

Phil and Billy looked at each other then shook their heads.

“We'd love to,” Phil said, “but I've got an assignment around six, and Billy's got an actual, non-work-related date.”

“Ah,” I said. “Who's the lucky guy?”

Billy gave me a wicked grin. “A gentleman never fucks and tells.”

“Maybe next time,” Jared said.

Phil looked at his watch. “Wow! I didn't realize it was this late. We'd better head for home—it's going to take forever to fight our way back.”

We all shook hands, Phil and Billy and I exchanged hugs, and they turned and disappeared into the mob.

“How about you two?” Jared asked.

“I'm game,” Tim said.

“Sure,” I agreed.

Feeling not unlike salmon swimming upstream against the rapids, we made our way back to Napoleon. Tim's car was closest, but he drove a little two-seater sports car with a minuscule back bench. It would have been a tight fit for an average-sized Munchkin, but I'm no Munchkin, and Jared sure as hell wasn't. So, we walked the extra block to Jared's car and rode together to his place.

We sat around drinking beer and shooting the shit, and the conversation inexorably got around to the universal favorite male topic—sex. Tim and I were seated on the couch with Jared in a large overstuffed armchair directly across from us. He was sitting back, relaxed, with his legs unselfconsciously spread apart, which pulled the fabric of his pants tight against his crotch. Tim's eyes zeroed in on the unmistakable bulge. Jared caught him looking and grinned. Tim blushed but looked away only for a moment, then returned to staring.