The Role Players (27 page)

I knew that in the straight world some women took that Tammy Wynette song “Stand by Your Man” far too seriously and were willing to be doormats for the domineering assholes they thought of as “their” men, taking endless abuse and going back for more. But men were supposed to be different, more independent, and less tolerant of being pushed around. When I'd met Tait and Keith, I would never in a million years have thought that Tait looked on Keith as his slave, and it was even harder to believe that Keith went along with it.

Ah, well,
chaçun a son gout
.

Now, about Keith….

*

“Got the time, buddy?”

The voice startled me back to reality, and I realized it was Max. I hadn't seen him come up.

“All the time in the world, sailor,” I said. “What did you do, ditch your boyfriend? And mine, I note.”

Max grinned. “They had to stop into a store a few doors down. I've had about enough stores for the moment, so I told them I'd come see if you were out yet.”

“Been out forever,” I said.

He winced. “Pa-da-
pum
!”

I returned his grin. “I got a million of 'em,” I said.

“So how did it go with Tait?”

I sighed. “About what I expected.”

He shook his head in apparent empathy. “That bad, huh?”

Jonathan and Chris came out of the store, talking and laughing. When they saw us, they hurried their pace.

“Sorry, Dick,” Jonathan said as they joined Max and me. “I had to find a place that sold stamps so I could mail the postcards I bought the other day.”

“It's a little late for mailing postcards, don't you think? We'll be home before they get there. Why don't we just take them home with us and hand them out personally?”

“We can't do that!” he said. “Postcards don't count unless you
mail
them, so people can see the postmark and know you've really been there.”

I'd learned there is little point to challenging Jonathan-logic, so I let it drop.

*

We took the subway to Times Square and walked up to East 50th, stopping for lunch at the steakhouse where Jonathan and I had eaten the night we saw
Cats
, and by the time we got to Rockefeller Plaza it was well after one o'clock. Jonathan suggested we go straight to the Music Hall box office before they sold out. Chris and Max exchanged a smile, but didn't say anything. Our luck was with us and we got tickets in the lower mezzanine (Row B, seats 305

308—Jonathan saved the stubs so he could put them and our other theater stubs and programs in frames to hang in our hallway.)

We had plenty of time to walk down to the Plaza and look around. Jonathan was duly impressed by the statue of Prometheus, but said what I'm sure the rest of us were thinking—that it was a shame they always insisted on covering up the most interesting parts.

As we were walking back to the Music Hall, I had a thought.
You know, there's one thing you might want to check out…
.

I cut the thought off before it could go any further. Enough thinking. I just wanted to enjoy the day.

One thing really irritates me about thoughts. Trying to cut them off never works. I gave in.

What?

The bar Rod was probably at just before he was killed.

Before I could stop myself I heard me saying, “Max, do you know the name of the bar that the cops think Rod was in before he got killed?”

“You just don't give up, do you?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I guess not.”

“The Hole,” Chris said before Max could say anything else. “The cops asked if we knew if Rod frequented it. We told them we didn't know.”

“Sounds like a real nice place,” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” Max said. “It's been there for years. I went in there one night before I met Chris. Once was more than enough. If you like rough trade…and I do mean rough…that's the place to go.”

At that point, we found ourselves in a pretty sizeable crowd moving into the Music Hall. When we got to the lower mezzanine, Jonathan stared around the theater, eyes wide.

“This is fantastic!” he said. “You could seat everybody in Cranston just on the mezzanine! I wish we'd brought binoculars!”

I had to admit, the vastness of the auditorium was pretty darned impressive
.

The crowd coming in slowed to a trickle, and gradually the houselights dimmed.

*

There was no doubt that we got our money's worth in glamor and glitter, and Sandy Duncan was surprisingly good. Jonathan, of course, collected his usual armload of programs.

“Have you ever stopped to think where we're going to put all these things?” I asked. “We're going to have a hard enough time closing our suitcases as it is.”

“We'll manage,” he said.

We took a zigzag route back to Times Square, just to see some more of the city. A lot of it looked pretty much like downtown back home, only taller.

It was after five when we got back to the village, so we stopped at a fast food place for some fried chicken to eat at the apartment.

There was a message on the answering machine for me from Tait: “The gun is missing.”

CHAPTER 11

Oh-kay
…
Now what?

Luckily, the real box-office gun was safe in Max and Chris's apartment, so that wasn't the main issue here. Who took it was. Keith was the immediate first choice. He may have been eavesdropping and when he heard Tait and me discussing the gun, decided to remove it. If that was the case, then Keith was the killer no matter what Tait might think or say to the contrary.

Or Tait took it rather than risk giving it to the police. In that case, Tait was the killer.

Or the gun could easily have been removed between the time we switched guns and the time Tait went to put it in the safe. In that case, Gene Morrison was the most likely candidate.

Or Joe Kenyon. Or Cam. Or the woman in the box office. Or.... Damn!

But if Tait had taken it, why would he tell me it was missing? I'd be gone in two days and would never know if he had any real intention of going to the police. But maybe he was hedging his bet, just in case I might be nosy enough to follow through to see if he had or hadn't.

No, since I had the original gun, I'd take it to the police myself. That way I'd know they got it, and whatever happened from then on was out of my hands.

I asked to use the phone while Chris and Jonathan got the table set up, and dialed Tait's number. When Keith answered, I asked to speak with Tait.

“He's just getting ready to leave for dinner.”

“This will only take a second,” I said, and I heard the phone being put down.

A moment later, Tait's voice, “Yes, Dick—I'm afraid I'm running late and won't really be able to talk right now.”

“Just a quick question. What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

“My plane leaves at ten. Why?”

“Would it be possible to speak with you…and Keith… before you leave?”

There was a slight pause, then, “Well, I'm going to be pretty rushed in the morning. But Keith will be driving me to the airport. If you want, you can ride along.”

“That will be perfect,” I said. “What time shall I be at your place?”

“Eight fifteen?” he said.

“Fine. I'll see you at eight fifteen then. And thank you.”

“No problem,” he said. “And now I've really got to go. Good-bye.” And he hung up.

So I'd finally have the chance to talk to Tait and Keith together on the way to the airport, and to Keith alone on the way back.

But first I wanted to stop by The Hole to see if I might be able to find out anything the police hadn't.

I explained my plans while we were eating.

“Uh, are you sure you want to go to The Hole?” Max asked.

“I'm sure.”

“I don't want you to go alone,” Jonathan said. “I'll go with you.”

I smiled at him. “Thanks, Babe, I really appreciate it. But I'm not about to throw you into a shark tank.”

“I can take care of myself,” he said defensively.

“I know you can,” I said, not smiling, “but I just want to concentrate on getting in there, finding out what I can, and getting back out.”

Jonathan was not convinced. “I still…” he started to say, but I cut him off.

“Tell you what; we'll take a cab and you can wait while I'm in there. If there's any trouble, you'll know about it.”

“I'll go along to keep you company,” Chris said to Jonathan. Max gave him a quick, disapproving look, but didn't say anything.

“When did you want to go, Dick?” Jonathan asked.

“Well, I'd like to get it out of the way, so tonight. And I want to get there early before the place fills up. We can leave around seven.” I turned to Max. “Do you have an old pair of jeans I can borrow?” I asked. “I didn't bring any along, and I think we're about the same size.”

“Sure,” Max said.

“Great...and maybe an old tank top?”

“Sure. How about shoes? What size are you?”

“Ten,” I said.

He smiled. “Good. I've got an old pair of boots you can borrow, too.”

“Gee,” Chris said. “It'll be just like Halloween.”

“But no tricks,” Jonathan added sternly.

*

“Pretty butch,” Chris commented as I came out of the bedroom after changing. “Didn't I see you in
Grease
?”

“Very funny,” I said. “Are we about ready to go?” Max had left shortly before, after giving me the bar's address.

Chris called a cab, and we all went downstairs to wait for it.

When we got in and I told the driver the address, he gave me a quick look in the rearview mirror, then turned his attention to his driving.

The Hole was in a run-down section on the border between Little Italy and the East Village—a little out of the way if Rod had been going home from the Whitman. It was in a nondescript building surrounded by pawnshops, a mom-and-pop grocery, and some seedy-looking stores. Most of them were already closed, their windows and doorways protected by pull-down metal shutters or telescoping metal gates.

The driver pulled up in front of The Hole.

“Can you wait?” I asked. “I won't be too long, and these guys aren't coming in.”

“No way I'm going to just sit here, Mac,” the driver said. “This ain't a sit-here kind of neighborhood.”

“Okay. Then just drive around a couple of blocks until I come out.”

“But…” Jonathan began.

“I'll see you in a few minutes,” I told him, “but you'd better give me twenty just in case. Don't come in!” I got out of the cab, closed the door, and walked toward the dirty, white windowless door with the words The Hole written at an angle in black paint. The cab drove off.

It wasn't quite as bad as I'd expected. Sort of reminded me of Hughie's, the hustler bar near my office back home, only a lot grimier. There were maybe eight customers in the place, none of whom I would particularly care to run into in a dark alley. Four of them were gathered around a pool table nearly lost in a fog of cigarette smoke. I was rather surprised to see there were two bartenders, one black, one white and each one of them built like Bluto from the Popeye cartoons. They undoubtedly also served as bouncers, so having two was probably a good idea.

“What'll it be?” the black bartender asked as I walked up to the bar.

“A Bud,” I said, and he leaned down to the cooler directly in front of him under the bar and almost without looking pulled one out and popped off the cap.

“Two bucks,” he said, setting it on the bar in front of me. No napkin, of course…not that I expected one. He stood there, looking at me.

“What do you want?” he asked, taking me a little by surprise.

“What do I want?” I said.

“I know a cop when I see one,” he said, face expressionless.

I took a swig of my beer.

“You're pretty good,” I said, pulling out my wallet and opening it to show I had no badge. “But not a cop…a private investigator.”

He shrugged. “So like I said: What do you want?”

“A guy got killed around here two weeks ago tomorrow…the cops think he was in here before he got shot. I'm pretty sure they came by to ask questions.”

“The cops are
always
in here asking questions,” he said. “I heard about it but I was off that night. Vince”—he gave a head nod toward the other bartender, who was washing glasses at the far end of the bar—“was on.”

I took a twenty dollar bill out of my front pants pocket and handed it to him for the beer. “Keep the change if you think Vince will be willing to talk to me,” I said.

He took the money and turned toward the register. “Hey, Vince,” he called, motioning him over and pointing at me. He opened the register, made change, pocketed it, then walked away. Though there was a pretty wide aisle behind the bar, the two bartenders had to swing their shoulders sideways as they passed one another in order to keep from bumping into one another.

“Yeah?” Vince said, putting his two huge hands on the bar to support himself as he leaned slightly forward, his boxer's face not three feet from mine.