The Hired Man (5 page)

“Your clients are all gay, aren't they?” As was usual when we talked, he never took his eyes off me.

Whoa, there, Charlie!

“That's hardly a fair question, Lieutenant,” I said. “
Most
of my clients are gay, of course, but I don't make sexual orientation a qualification for accepting a client. Mr. Anderson is married and has three children.”

A smile as quick and as subtle as far-off summer lightning flashed across his face.

“Well, then,” he said, and I realized that not only was he not stupid but that I certainly sounded as if I were.

“So,” I continued, hoping we'd both forget that oh, he can't be gay subterfuge, “exactly why am I here?”

Richman sat back in his chair.

“Because your client, Mr. Anderson, is dead.”

Jeezus H. Kryst!

I felt as though someone had just tossed me a forty-pound medicine ball and I'd caught it with my stomach. My total confusion must have been written all over my face.

“What happened?” I asked.

Richman gave me a moment to calm down.

“He was found in the bathroom of his hotel room at around nine-fifteen. The contractor working on his new stores had a nine a.m. appointment with him. When Anderson didn't answer his knock, and in light of your earlier visit, hotel security went in to check. “

“What happened?” I repeated. “Heart attack? Fall?”

Richman shook his head. “Murder. He was hacked to death, apparently in the shower.”

“Good God!” I said. “Do you have any idea who…”

And suddenly my already queasy stomach dropped down to my toes.
Phil!
Do they know about Phil?
Could Phil possibly…

Don't be stupid, you idiot, that's totally ridiculous.

Richman was quiet again for a moment, never taking his eyes off me.

“So, Anderson was not gay?”

I shook my head, more to clear it than anything else.

“Lieutenant,” I said, choosing my words as carefully as I could under the circumstances, “as I've told you, I never ask my clients their sexual orientation. When someone mentions having a wife and children, the assumption is that they're straight.”

“And how did you come to Mr. Anderson's attention?”

“He told me he'd been referred to me by a business acquaintance,” I said, hastening to add “but he never said who it was. However, part of the reason he wanted me to do the checking was because he wanted to give all the applicants an equal chance. He thought that if any of them happened to be gay, a straight investigator might let his prejudices influence his report.”

“And were they?” he asked.

“Were they what?” I asked. “Gay? Not that I could determine.”

Richman made a small, dismissive wave with one hand.

“Sorry,” he said. “A stupid question, and it has no bearing on anything. I guess I've found out everything I need to know for now.”

The “for now” wasn't lost on me.

He rose from his chair, and I followed suit. We shook hands again.

“Thanks for coming over,” he said.

“Nice to see you, Lieutenant,” I replied. I was greatly relieved that I might be pretty much off their official shit list. He was sitting back down as I turned and left.

*

Jeezus, Hardesty!
I chastised myself as I walked back to my car.
Why in hell didn't you tell Richman Anderson was gay? Well, okay, bi.

Because it wasn't my place,
I answered defensively.
Anderson had a family; they don't need to have their noses rubbed in the fact he wasn't the man they thought they knew.

Like that's going to make a difference now?
My God, the man was hacked to death—not stabbed, you'll note, but ‘hacked'—and probably by some wacked-out hustler you might have stopped by letting the cops know where they could start looking.
Shit! Shit!

The first thing I wanted to do was to check with Phil. I knew he couldn't possibly be involved in any way with what happened to Anderson, but I had to be absolutely sure. And he might possibly know something about Anderson's sexual interests outside of ModelMen.

When I walked into the office, I didn't even sit down before picking up the phone and dialing his number.

“Hello?”

“Billy, hi. This is Dick Hardesty, Is Phil by any chance around?”

“No, he's not. He hasn't come home yet. He had an all-nighter with a client.”

Oh, Jeezus!

“Do you know who he was with?” I asked, hoping my anxiety wasn't too obvious. “It's really, really important!”

There was a long pause, then: “Well, yeah, I know, but I'm afraid I can't tell you, Dick. We're never allowed to talk about our clients. Not to anybody.”

“Billy,” I said, “I can appreciate that, but you have no idea how important this is.” Then I had an idea. “If I give you a name, can you at least tell me if I'm wrong? That way you won't be violating any rules.”

“Tell you if you're wrong?” I could picture him thinking that one out. “Yeah, I guess I could do that. But don't tell anybody, okay?”

“I won't, I promise,” I said. Then I took a deep breath. “Stuart Anderson.”

Another pause. “No.”

Damn! “No? No, I'm right? Or no, I'm wrong, and it wasn't Anderson.”

Billy laughed, obviously having no idea what I was trying to find out.

“No, you're wrong. It wasn't Stuart Anderson.”

I let my breath out in a great, long sigh.

“Thank you, Billy.”
And thank you, God!

“Sure,” Billy said. “Are you okay? You sound kind of funny.”

“Well, I feel better now,” I said, “but please have Phil call me the minute he gets home, will you? I've really got to talk with him right away.”

“Sure. Is there anything else?”

“Not now, I don't think,” I replied. “Oh, my home phone number—I don't know if he has it. I'll be here at the office until four-thirty and home after five.”

“Let me get a pencil,” Billy said, and I heard the phone being put down. A moment later, he came back on, and I gave him the number.

“Got it,” he said.

“Thanks again, Billy. I owe you.”

“I'll remember that,” he said cheerily. “See you, then.”

“Bye,” I said as we both hung up.

*

I was still torn about calling Richman and letting him in on the fact that Anderson was bi and frequented hustlers. But if I did that, a background check might well bring Phil into it. I decided I'd wait until after I talked with him to see how likely it might be that ModelMen would be dragged into the situation.

If a street hustler had killed Anderson—and I suspected that was a pretty good bet—that was one thing, but to bring Phil and ModelMen into it unless it was absolutely necessary wouldn't do anyone any good.

I was just getting ready to leave the office when the phone rang.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick…Phil. Billy said you wanted to talk to me. What's up?”

“We've got to talk—someplace private. I know you just got home, but can you come over here? Or to my place?”

“Gee, Dick, I don't know. I'm really, really beat, and the Glicks said that Stuart called last night when he got in and wanted me to come over. When they told him I was on an assignment, he asked for tonight. So I've got to grab a few hours of sleep and then get over to his hotel.”

Definite change of plans, Phil!
I thought. But I still didn't want to say anything on the phone.

“Phil, can I come over there? Right away? It's important, believe me.”

There was only a slight pause, then: “Sure, I guess. If we can make it kind of short. I don't mean to put you off, Dick, but…”

“I understand, Phil,” I said. “Give me your address, and I'll leave the office the minute we hang up.”

“Billy's here, of course,” Phil said. “It's okay if he stays?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Okay, it's 1933 Partridge, Apartment 4—you know where it is? About six blocks east of Barnes Park?”

“I'll find it,” I said. “And I'll be there in about fifteen minutes. Bye.”

*

Nineteen-thirty-three Partridge was in an area of solid older apartment buildings, mostly three-story, mostly well kept up. I rang the buzzer for Apartment 4 (“P. Stark/W. Hooper”) and the outer door immediately clicked open. Apartment 4 was on the ground floor, in the rear. I was just raising my hand to knock when Billy opened the door.

“Hi, Dick, come on in.” he said, stepping aside as I entered then closing the door behind me. I was favorably impressed—a lot cleaner than my place; comfortable-looking furniture, including an obviously new couch; nice prints on the walls; a few plants on the window ledges. Absolutely no evidence of Phil's “Tex” persona.

“You want some coffee, Dick?” Phil called from what I assumed, being the astute detective that I am, was the kitchen.

“Yeah, please,” I said, loudly enough to carry the distance. “Black.”

“Have a seat,” Billy said, and I did. He seemed hesitant to sit himself, looking toward the kitchen where Phil was emerging with a coffee cup in each hand. He started to give one to Billy, but he shook his head.

“I'll go get it,” he said, and headed toward the kitchen, discreetly leaving Phil and me alone.

Phil handed me my coffee then sat on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, elbows on knees, both hands on his coffee cup.

“So, tell,” he said, and I did.

The color drained from his face, and he quickly slid sideways to put his coffee cup on the table lamp beside the couch. He started to say something then merely shook his head and put one hand over his mouth.

“Billy!” he finally managed to call, and Billy returned, looking mildly puzzled.

“Yeah?”

“Tell him, Dick,” Phil said softly, and I repeated what I'd told him.

Billy's eyes grew wide, and he plopped down on the couch next to Phil, nearly sloshing the coffee out of his cup.

“Holy shit!” he said.

We were all quiet for a moment until I said, “When you couldn't go over Sunday night, did ModelMen send someone else?”

Phil shook his head: “I don't think so,” he said. “I'd have to check with the Glicks to be sure.”

“Did Anderson go for street hustlers, do you know?” I asked.

Again a head-shake. “I don't think so. He said a couple times that he liked the discretion of ModelMen—a lot safer all around. But who knows?”

“Did he have any…uh…special interests in guys?” I asked.

Phil thought a moment. “Not really. He was pretty vanilla; nothing at all kinky, at least not with me. He did seem to like darker-haired guys over blonds, but other than that…”

There were a million questions I wanted to ask, but I decided that now was not the time and this was not my case. The main thing was that Phil had an alibi if he really needed one.

“Well,” I said, taking a drink of coffee, “If the police find any links between you and Anderson or ModelMen, you and the Glicks had better be prepared for a pretty rough time.”

“Jesus!” Phil said.

We finished our coffee in silence, and I decided it was time I left so Phil could get some sleep. I got out of the chair and looked around for something to do with my empty coffee cup. Billy got up and took it from me then picked up Phil's cup from the lamp table and headed into the kitchen.

“I'd better get going,” I said. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up about all this. And I'm really sorry about Anderson; he sure as hell didn't deserve this. There are just too damned many sick people in this world.”

“Both hustlers
and
johns,” Phil said. “It's pretty damned dangerous out there for hustlers, too, but not many people think about that, or care. Which is one of the reasons both of us went with ModelMen. Our clients are pre-screened, and we don't have to worry about any deadly surprises.”

He was quiet for a minute, his eyes on mine. Then he sighed and said, “Stuart was a nice guy. You're right…he didn't deserve this.” He moved forward to give me a hug. “Thanks, Dick. I appreciate your concern.”

“Call it a vested interest,” I said, smiling as we released from the hug.

Billy came back, and the three of us moved to the door. I shook hands with both of them.

“Watch yourselves,” I said as Billy opened the door and I went out into the hall.

*

I'd been home all of ten minutes and was just thinking about what to have for dinner when the phone rang. I figured it was probably Jared, or maybe Tim Jackson returning my Sunday message.