The Hired Man (13 page)

Mr. Glick rose, we exchanged handshakes all around, and Mrs. Glick walked me to the entrance.

*

Just as I was finishing dinner, the phone rang. I was pleased to hear Phil's voice but immediately disturbed by its tone.

“Phil,” I said. “Is anything wrong? You sound strange.”

“I'm worried, Dick,” he said. “Billy's not home.”

My confusion must have sounded in my voice.

“I don't understand,” I said.

His voice was tense. “I mean he didn't come home last night.”

“Well,” I said, hoping I sounded reassuring, “he did have a date, didn't he?”

“Yes, but he hasn't been home all day, either. And he hasn't called. He always calls. Always—if for no other reason than to see if he has an assignment.”

“Well, why don't you give the guy he had the date with a call? He might know.”

There was a slight pause. “That's just it,” Phil said. “I don't know who he was going out with. We usually tell one another, but not always. I've checked with all our—and his—friends. I even just called the Glicks to see if he'd checked in with them. Nobody's heard from him.”

I was at something of a loss for words.

“I'm sure it's all right, Phil,” I said. “There could be a hundred reasons.”

“No,” he insisted. “This isn't like Billy. I've got a really bad feeling, and I don't know what to do about it.”

“Look,” I said, “it's still early. I'm sure he'll show up or call before long. If, by some chance he doesn't, give me a call in the morning, and I'll see what I can do, okay? I wish there were something I could do now, but…”

“I understand. I'm sorry to bother you.”

“Hey, don't ever say that! You could never be a bother, and I'll do anything I can to help. Just try to relax and see what happens, okay?”

Not sounding as though he meant it, Phil said, “Okay. Talk with you later. Thanks, Dick.”

“Take care, Phil.”

Maybe it was just a matter of emotions being contagious, but Phil's concern began to give me an all too familiar feeling in my stomach, and I didn't like it.

*

I was in the bathroom, about to step into the shower to get ready for work, when the phone rang. It was Phil.

“He's not home,” he said. “He's not home, and he hasn't called. Something's wrong, Dick. What can I do? I've called the hospitals; he's not there.” I could
feel
his anxiety.

“I'll be heading to the office soon,” I said. “When I get there, I'll make a few calls, okay? Did you get any sleep?”

“Not much. I kept waking up every time I heard a noise, thinking it was Billy coming home.”

“Let me see what I can find out,” I said, “and I'll give you a call the minute I know anything.”

“Thanks, Dick. I really mean it.”

“I know, Phil,” I said. “Now, go lie down for a while, hear?”

“I'll try. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I put the receiver back on its cradle and stepped into the shower.

*

The phone was ringing when I walked into the office, and I ran across the room to catch it.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick?”

I recognized the voice, but it wasn't Phil.

“Yes?”

“It's Tim. Are you sitting down?”

Oh, God!
I thought, and hastily moved around my desk to sit in the chair.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice sounding hollow.

“You remember the guys we met at the parade? Phil and Billy?”

“Yes.”

“Have you talked to them since the parade?”

“To Phil,” I said. “Billy…Billy hasn't been home.”
Oh, Jeezus!

“Billy's the one with a little mouse tattoo over his left nipple?”

No! No, no, no!

“Yes,” I said.

“Well…we have a body, with a little mouse tattoo over the left nipple…”

“Billy?” I asked. “Is it Billy?”

“We don't know.”

That didn't register at first.

“Where did they find him?” I asked, not even knowing where the question came from.

There was a pause.

“He was found in a Dumpster behind one of the bars on Arnwood.”

I was totally numb by this time but heard my voice saying, “Well, maybe it's not Billy. You met him. I'm sure you'd recognize him.”

“I'm afraid not,” Tim said, his voice heavy with what he was trying to tell me.

“Why?” I asked. “Why not?”

“Because all we have is a body. The head and hands are missing.”

Chapter 6

I must have finished the conversation with Tim somehow, because suddenly I was aware I was sitting there with the phone still in my hand, listening to a dial tone, afraid to move for fear I would throw up. Slowly, I eased the receiver back onto the cradle and leaned forward with my elbows on my desk, cupping my hands over my nose and mouth, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths.

I had to tell Phil, but I couldn't do it by phone. When the nausea had subsided, I let my motor responses take over. They got me out of the chair, walked me to the door, made sure it was locked behind me then walked me to the elevator. By the time I reached my car, I was sufficiently pulled together to let my mind, which had been spinning wildly out of control, shift into gear.

How was I going to tell Phil? What could I say? I didn't even know Billy's last name, which meant Phil was going to have to go with me to the coroner's office to try to identify the body. But how do you identify a body with no hands and no head?

The tattoo? Lots of guys have little mouse tattoos on their left pec.

Maybe it wasn't Billy at all.

Having sex with a guy doesn't make you best friends, and I'd only met Billy a handful of times. Still, what I knew of him I liked. A lot. He was funny and sexy as all hell, and sweet and young, and beautiful and full of life and some son of a bitch had taken all that away from him and I still thought I might throw up.

A blaring horn from the car behind me made me realize the light had turned green, and I moved along.

I parked about half a block from Phil's apartment and idly thought I should have brought the photo Billy had lent me of Phil and Anderson and Glen O'Banyon and whoever else in hell it was in there with them. I walked down the hallway to Billy's…no, to
Phil's
…apartment and knocked on the door. A full minute went by, and I was about to knock again when it opened.

Phil took one look at my face, and all the color drained from his. His eyes riveted onto mine as though he thought they might help keep him from falling down.

“What is it, Dick?” he asked, although I think he knew.

“It's Billy,” I managed to say. “He…”

“Is he hurt?” he asked. “Is he in the hospital?”

I shook my head.

Phil looked at me and duplicated my head shake, in slow motion. He started to say “No,” but couldn't make it. I moved forward and grabbed him as he sagged against me and started crying like the very little boy who lives somewhere deep inside us all.

*

Sometime later, when the immediate tidal wave of grief had ebbed away to be replaced by a numb state of semi-shock, Phil was able to tell me Billy's last name: Steiner. I asked if I could use his phone, and he motioned toward the kitchen. I got up and called Tim, gave him the information, and told him Phil's address and phone number. Then I returned to the living room.

I had a thousand questions, but they could wait. We just sat there without saying anything.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. While Phil stayed on the sofa, staring off into space, I answered the door to find two plainclothes policemen.

“Mr. Stark?” the shorter of the two asked.

“No,” I said, “I'm a friend.”

“And your name is…?”

“Hardesty. Dick Hardesty.”

I stood back to let the two officers enter then closed the door behind them. Phil looked up but said nothing.

The taller man turned to me and said, “Mr. Hardesty, we'd like to speak to Mr. Stark in private, so if you wouldn't mind…”

Like shit I wouldn't mind
.

But before I could say anything, Phil did.

“No. I want him to stay.”

The two men exchanged glances that made it clear they would have preferred to be alone with Phil but apparently couldn't legally tell me to leave. Instead, they simply ignored me and walked over to stand in front of him.

“Mr. Stark,” the shorter one said, “I'm Detective Carpenter, and this is Detective Couch.” They did not extend their hands, and Phil just looked from one to the other without speaking.

“May we ask your relationship to Mr. Steiner?” Couch asked.

“My roommate,” Phil said, his voice flat, then added, “My friend.”

The two detectives exchanged glances.

“I see,” Couch said.

What the fuck is
that
supposed to mean?
I thought, but I said nothing. I folded my arms and leaned against the door.

“Do you mind if we sit?” they asked, and Phil nodded. Carpenter sat in the chair facing the sofa, and Couch pulled another chair up to sit beside him. Couch took out a notepad and pencil while Carpenter leaned forward on the edge of his chair, elbows on knees, hands folded between his legs.

They proceeded to ask Phil the usual questions. When had he last seen Billy? Did he know where Billy had gone—or with whom—the night he disappeared? Had he noticed anything unusual in Billy's behavior lately? Did he have any known enemies?

Then they began to zero in on Billy's relationship to Phil—how long they'd known one another, how they'd met, what they each did for a living. When Phil said they were both models, the two officers again exchanged glances and immediately asked if Billy was a homosexual.

Yeah, you assholes,
I thought.
Everybody knows if you're a male model you've got to be a fucking faggot!

When Phil nodded, they went off on a long string of questions they probably had to ask, but their tone made it pretty clear what they thought about homosexuals. Did he bring a lot of guys home? How promiscuous was he? (Not
whether
he was promiscuous, of course—all faggots are promiscuous—but
how
promiscuous was he?) Did he use drugs? Was he into S&M? What bars did he frequent? What kind of crowd did he hang around with? Did he hustle tricks?

All phrased with the firm assumption that Billy was obviously a slut.

To the question of whether Billy hustled tricks, Phil answered “No,” which was technically—and semantically—true.

I was glad I was there, not only because the cops' questions skirted some I had but because my presence might rein in an open display of the homophobia only implied in their phrasing and tone. Phil wasn't in much of a condition to protect himself against being pressured. I wasn't about to let them even try.

Carpenter reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a photograph and handed it to Phil. Phil looked at it, and what little color he had regained in his face drained away again.

“Do you recognize that tattoo?” Couch asked.

Phil's head moved almost imperceptibly up and down, very slowly. He handed the photo back to Couch, who returned it to his jacket pocket. As he was putting it away, I saw it was a close-up shot of a little mouse tattoo.

They then asked if he had any photos of Billy. When he got up to go into Billy's room, they turned their attention to me.

“Were you a friend of Mr. Steiner's?” Carpenter asked.

“I'm afraid I didn't know him all that well,” I said. “Mr. Stark and I have been friends for some time now.”

“What do you know about Mr. Steiner's sexual habits?” Couch asked, completely out of left field.

“No more than you know of Detective Carpenter's, I'm sure,” I said, as calmly as possible.

Couch's face flushed in anger, but before he could say anything, Phil returned with a framed photo of himself and Billy at the beach, arms on each other's shoulders. Even from my distance across the room, I could see Billy's tattoo clearly. It was, I knew with a sick feeling, the same as in the police photo.

Phil handed it to Detective Carpenter, who said, “We'd like to keep this for awhile, but we'll get it back to you as soon as possible.”

Phil merely nodded.

Looking at his notebook, Carpenter then asked for the name and phone number of Billy's employer, and the names and addresses of Billy's family, which Phil provided.