The Hired Man (9 page)

There was a moment of silence in which I could almost hear the crackle of electricity, until he said: “I was just thinking of taking a shower. Care to join me?”

I looked up into his absolutely beautiful face and his wide no-doubt-what-it-meant grin. I took the picture from him and laid it carefully on the chair next to me then grabbed him by the hips with both hands and started to slide his gym shorts toward the floor.

“How about a tongue bath instead?” I asked, pulling him forward.

*

Remember when you were a senior in high school, and there was that little blond your gut ached for every time you saw him, but you for one reason or another never got to do anything about and always kicked yourself because you hadn't? Well, that guy, whoever he may have been, grew up to be Billy, and he fulfilled the fantasy in spades!

He didn't have to say a word, but his every action made it clear you were the one in control, and that was exactly what he wanted you to be, and that he'd be more than glad to follow your lead wherever you wanted to go. Think about it. That was Billy.

I did end up joining him in the shower—by that time, we both needed one. God, he was an incredible mixture of sweetness and sex, and I'm sure he brought out the Me-Tarzan side of every guy lucky enough to go to bed with him. As I'd thought about Phil, the Glicks had found a gold mine when they found Billy. If Phil's specialty was “whatever you want” and Aaron's was “down and dirty,” Billy's was definitely ego fluffing.

*

I took Phil's photo to a local quick-service photo place a block from my office, had them enlarge it to a 4x6, then headed back for the Montero. I drove around the block looking for the entrance to their parking garage and, upon finding it on the street flanking the hotel, was interested to note the sign above the ramp said “Guest Parking Only.”

I found a place to park about a block away then walked around to the side of the hotel and down the ramp to the garage. Both the entrance and exit lanes were blocked by those retractable railroad-crossing-type barriers, but about six feet inside was a small attendant's booth between the two lanes. No one was in the booth or in evidence in the garage itself. I noted that entry was gained by punching numbers into a small keypad on a box on a pole about ten feet from the barricade, the one on the exit side must have triggered automatically when a car approached.

I circled the barricade and checked the attendant's booth. There were no signs of recent occupation, and it occurred to me they might not have a regular attendant.

I continued through the main part of the relatively small garage, which had been added during the recent renovation as a convenience for guests. Visitors and those attending social functions at the hotel probably used the large public garage across the street and a few doors down.

I reached the far wall at the end where there were two doors, one an elevator, the other a stairway. Instead of a button for the elevator door there was another keypad. The elevator could only be summoned by punching in some numbers, probably the same ones that provided access to the garage. So it would be difficult for anyone to gain access to the guest floors without having the keypad combination or being with someone who did, but not at all difficult to leave the hotel via the garage without being seen.

I took the stairway and found myself, not surprisingly, in the lobby. Out of curiosity, I stopped at the registration desk to ask about the garage attendant. I was told they had one on duty between 10:00 p.m. and 7:00 a.m., largely to keep an eye on the visitors' cars against late-night vandalism. I made a note to return after 10:00 to check whether he'd noticed anything unusual Sunday night.

On my way back to the office, I stopped at the photo place to pick up Anderson's photo.

*

I stayed at the office a little later than usual, planning to catch the tail end of the happy hour—if they had one—at Faces. I wanted to be there before the dinner rush really started but when I could be pretty sure all the waiters and bartenders would be on duty.

Faces, as I've mentioned, was several steps above the usual hustler bars—considerably more discreet. The hustlers tended to be generally better-looking, better-groomed, and subtler than the guys, say, at Hughie's, the hustler bar closest to my office. There was some crossover traffic, of course, but not much. The guys at Faces might deign to check Hughies out on a really slow night, but most of Hughie's hustler clientele didn't want to bother with the little games—like getting dressed up—hustling at Faces pretty much required. The hustlers at Faces seldom drank beer.

Finally, at Faces, generally you wouldn't be moved in on without your giving some indication of interest first.

While I was hardly a regular there, I had been in often enough either for dinner—they had a fantastic French onion soup—or on other cases to casually know some of the staff. I'd tricked with one of the maître d's a couple years before when he worked at another restaurant, and the turnover among the waiters and bartenders tended to be lower at Faces because of the money that could be made on tips from the wealthy businessmen comprising the other half of the clientele.

I got there at around seven, just at the end of the cocktail hour when the early diners started to arrive. I was happy to see that the bartender I'd spoken most often with—Kent—was on duty, and so was one of the waiters…Tod? I'd gotten info from before. That would make it a lot easier. And of course, I always made sure to fulfill my part of the
quid pro quo
with a sizable contribution to their personal charities.

As usual, there were a number of USDA Prime specimens seated at the bar, although it was a little early for most of the…um, what to call them? Johns was what they were, just as hustlers were what the guys waiting for them were, but somehow, they were a cut or two above the Hughie's brand of either.

And once again I wondered where in hell all these good-looking guys had come from, and how they'd gotten into hustling, and where they'd be in ten years.

Yeah, yeah…and do they like puppies, and do they pay their rent on time, and…yawn,
my mind said, neatly bringing me back to reality.

I took a seat at the bar, noticing a few casual glances from other customers probably wondering which category I fit into—buyer or seller.

Kent came over immediately.

“What'll it be tonight, Dick? Old Fashioned?” Two marks of a good bartender—remembering names and remembering drinks.

“You talked me into it,” I said.

He grinned and moved a few feet down the bar to put it all together. I watched as he emptied the last from a bottle of bourbon then expertly snapped the neck off the bottle on a little device kept just below the bar. I'd always wondered why they did that until I realized it was to guarantee the customers the bottles couldn't be refilled with cheaper stuff.

While he was doing that, I reached inside my shirt for Stuart Anderson's photograph. When he returned with my drink, I set the photo on the bar in front of him.

“Would you happen to know this guy?” I asked.

He picked up the photo, looked at it carefully then handed it back to me, shaking his head.

“Sorry, Dick, never seen the guy before.” He went back down the bar to attend to a customer.

I sat nursing my drink, idly looking around. At a table not too far from me, I noticed a double-take-hot guy about thirty seated with a rather attractive man in his early fifties. They looked like two successful executives, and I wondered idly if they were just business associates here for dinner or if the younger guy was part of the menu. I tried not to stare, but my attention kept wandering back to the younger guy. If he wasn't ModelMen material, I didn't know who was.

At one point, he caught me looking at him. He gave me a quick, warm smile and a wink then returned his attention to his companion.

I engaged in some healthy erotic fantasy until Tod, the waiter, came over to the service area of the bar to place a drink order. He saw me, smiled, and nodded. I returned both the smile and the nod then waited while he gave Kent his order. When Kent turned away to make the drinks, I took advantage of the momentary lull to call Tod over.

With an eye on Kent so as not to keep his customers waiting one second longer than necessary, he crossed the four or five steps from the service area.

“Can I help you, Dick?” he asked. Good waiters and good bartenders share a lot of traits; remembering names is one of them.

I slid Anderson's picture along the bar so it was in front of him.

“Would you happen to remember seeing this guy around here? Especially last Sunday night?” I asked.

Glancing in Kent's direction to check his progress, Tod picked the photo up and studied it closely, as Kent had done.

“Well, I was working Sunday, and he wasn't here then,” he said. “I recognize him, though. He's been in a couple times, but not for a long while, now—maybe two, three months.”

Well, that was a mixed bag of news.

“Do you remember anything special about him?”

“He was a damned good tipper,” Tod said with a quick grin. “But other than that, no.”

“He usually pick someone up?”

Tod pursed his lips.

“Usually, yeah. Guys like him don't just come in for the food, you know.” He grinned again then noticed Kent setting the drinks on his tray at the waiter's station. “Gotta go,” he said and hurried to pick up the tray and head off toward a group of four guys at one of the farther tables.

Okay,
I thought
,
so we've established Anderson wasn't a total stranger to town
. That he hadn't been in lately might have been linked to when he started seeing Phil. I'd have to remember to ask the Glicks when Anderson had become a client. I'd also have to take his photo down to Hughie's. ModelMen was the top of the hired-man ladder, Faces just a couple rungs below. I wondered just how far down the ladder Anderson had climbed.

I had a couple more questions for Tod, so I sat nursing my drink until he returned with an order from another table. I picked up my glass and moved a couple stools closer to where he stood waiting.

“A couple more things, Tod, if you don't mind,” I said.

He smiled. “Sure.”

“Do you happen to remember anyone the guy in the photo I showed you went home with? I know it's been a long time, but…”

Tod chewed the corner of his lower lip for a moment then looked toward the far end of the bar where most of the…younger gentlemen…were sprinkled.

“Paul,” he said. “The one in the tan jacket and white shirt.” He gave an almost imperceptible nod to indicate a very nice-looking guy about two-thirds of the way down the bar. “I know he left with Paul one night. The others…I'm not sure about.”

At that point, Kent set the drinks on his tray.

“Thanks again, Tod,” I said. He just smiled, picked up his tray, and left.

I fixed my eyes on the guy Tod had pointed out and stared at him until I caught his eye. He glanced at me, looked away then brought his eyes back. His face broke into a small but definite grin, and he nodded an acknowledgment. The universal language of cruising.

I had to take a moment to explain carefully to my crotch that
I
was going to be in control of the situation this time, not it. I smiled at Paul, who got up off his stool and came down to take a seat beside me.

“Hi,” he said, as though we'd known each other for years. “What's up?”

“You're Paul, right?”

He looked at me with just the slightest trace of suspicion on his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “Do we know each other?”

“I'm sorry to say we don't,” I told him sincerely.

Up close, he was pretty typical of Faces' younger clientele, which is to say pretty damned attractive. Dark-brown hair, eyes so dark brown they were nearly black, just the hint of freckles—Irish heritage, I guessed.

I reached into my shirt pocket and took out my business card and Anderson's photo, giving him my card first. He looked at it then up at me with a raised eyebrow.

“And…?”

I laid Anderson's photo in front of him.

“I understand you went home with this guy a couple months ago,” I said, “and I'd just like to see if I can find out a little more about him.”

Paul shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said, “I don't talk about people I meet.”

“That's commendable,” I said, “but I'm not out to get anybody into any trouble. Just the opposite—I'm trying to maybe save somebody's life.”

He looked mildly reassured but still skeptical.

“His?”

I shrugged. “I'm afraid it's too late for that,” I said. “He was killed Sunday night.”

Paul looked truly shocked.

“Killed? You mean somebody…?” Then a look of realization spread across his face. “The guy at the Montero?”

I nodded.

“I…” he started then just shook his head. “What can I tell you?”