Gumshoe Gorilla (24 page)

Unfortunately, the blond jumped into an elevator, and I wasn't able to catch it. I noted the floor it stopped on, 14, but that didn't narrow down her room number by much. I went to have a chat with the desk clerk. A fifty put him in a cooperative mood, but he'd only been on duty since midnight, and wasn't around when she checked in. So he didn't have a name to go with the dress.

Which left me free for the rest of the evening. Yahoo. I could actually go home and get some sleep, something that I hadn't done in around forty hours. The weird thing was that I didn't feel tired. If anything, I felt oddly alert, tuned in.

I caught a cab back to the office, and found my car in the parking lot I climbed in for the drive home. But I found myself sitting behind the wheel, not starting it, not going anywhere. I got out, and stood in the lot, listening to the night. Staring up at the dark part of the moon, trying to read the expression on its hidden face. A piece of paper, caught by the breeze, turned into a dove and flew away east. I started walking.

I'd been rushing around all day, trying to figure out this thing with Daniel and Vince. Rushing, rushing, rushing. And I still didn't know what it all meant.

So far, I'd managed to call eight of the ten boys that were in the files from Vince's apartment. None of them admitted to knowing a guy named Vince, but at least they were alive. So at least Daniel's new beau wasn't some sort of serial killer. I hoped.

Then there was the question of the Global Investigations letterhead on the reports. Was Vince an agent of theirs? It seemed unlikely. GI would have come up with a better cover identity for him. And there would definitely have been some electronic security on his apartment. Nah, Vince had probably just hired them to track down the guys in the files. But why? What was so special about these ten boys?

They had a lot in common: They all had the same birth date. They all had similar features. And they were all a part of that big wave of kids that hit the system after the blood test for the gay gene was introduced. It was a wave that had overwhelmed the orphanages, forcing the government to create emergency "group homes" --camps, to anybody who grew up in one. Oh, they were clean and safe. They were usually off in the country, because not many neighborhoods wanted a pack of gay kids running around. But very few of the children who wound up in them were ever adopted. Straight parent generally wanted to adopt straight kids, and gays were prohibited from adopting in many states.

From the reports, it looked as if Vince might have been trying to find a particular kid who went into the camps. But that was almost impossible to do. When the government opened the camps, a whole barrage of new privacy laws went into effect, and the records were all sealed to prevent anybody from linking a child back to his parents. After all, these were parents who most emphatically did not want their little bundle of joy to come track them down in twenty years or so. A gay child was shame enough. But it was also proof that they themselves carried at least one copy of the recessive gene.

Anyway, even if Vince did know a particular child's description and birth date, the pool of camp kids matching that would still be in the thousands. And besides, all of they guys in Vince's file were living in Atlanta. If he was looking for a particular kid, why limit his search to this one city? It didn't make any sense.

I rolled it all over in my head again. There was something about these ten guys that was interesting. Interesting enough that Vince would pay Global Investigations big bucks to compile a list of them. And interesting enough that he would approach Daniel and start dating him.

Wait... There was something odd in that last thought I tried to coax my sleepy brain in to finding it. Finally, it came to me.

He'd approached Daniel. Why? He hadn't talked to any of the other boys on the list that I'd called. So what was different about Daniel?

Suddenly, the problem flipped over in my head. All this time I'd been looking at it the wrong way around. The important question wasn't
Who is Vince, really?
The important question was
Who is Daniel, really? And why would someone be trying so hard to find him?"

I hit Piedmont and turned south. The white shapes of Dogwood trees morphed into swans, then bulls, then waves crashing on a beach of black asphalt.

I would have given all the dirt I had on every public official in this town to find out exactly what Vince had hired Global Investigation to find. But I couldn't very well just stroll up and ask them for their case files.

Or could I? After all, I'm Drew Parker, wonder investigator! I could just dress up like a UPS man, break into their offices, and help myself to whatever files I wanted, right? Who cares if they've got more creepy old KGB spy technology than the Kremlin? I'm sure that story about the poisoned umbrella was just a rumor.

OK. So I'm not James Bond. But I have got my own way of getting things done.

My feet had carried me to the front gate of an apartment complex on the corner of Piedmont and Eighth. Behind the fence, cheery yellow units faced out onto a courtyard where dogwood trees blossomed and a little fountain babbled. Not the sort of place you'd expect to find a major vice lord, but I guess the rent was reasonable and the neighbors were nice.

I turned on my throat mic, and had Sherwin look up the number for Daniel's escort service.

"Hello?" a woman's voice said.

"Yes. I'm trying to get in touch with Buddy."

For some reason, the owners of escort agencies are always named Buddy. I'm not sure where the tradition comes from.

"Well my name's Tuti, and I handle our bookings. What are you looking for?"

"Well..." I said, and swallowed hard.

There were several different ways that I could get in to see this guy. I could pick the lock on the gate and then break in through his front door, but that was unlikely to start a productive conversation. The more subtle approach would have been to lie about my age and ask to come in for a job interview. That would have gotten me in the front door, but only until Buddy got a good look at me and realized that I'm thirty-five. No, I was forced to admit that this was one of those weird situations when honesty really is the best policy.

"...my name is Drew Parker, and I'm a Private Detective. And I really need to talk to Buddy himself, if that's possible."

I was counting on the curiosity factor. Hopefully, they'd at least want to find out why I was calling.

"Uh... just a second."

A moment later a man's voice came on.

"Hey, this is Buddy. What did you say your name was?"

"Drew Parker."

"And what's this all about?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'd be a lot happier talking about it in person. Would it be all right if I came over? I can be there in five minutes."

"Uh... You know where we're located?"

"Hey, I wouldn't be much of a detective if I couldn't track down a simple unlisted business, now would I?"

"Well... I guess you may as well come on over then."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

I sat down outside the gate, listening to the fountain, watching the silhouettes of trees dance against the sky. I'd given Buddy five minutes so that he could run my name through a search engine and find the web site for my business. Maybe even make a couple phone calls to check up on me. Once he figured out that I really was a PI, and one who specialized in serving the gay community, he might be a little more comfortable talking to me.

When the five minutes were up, I called Buddy back.

"Hey, it's Parker. I'm at your front gate."

"Fine, I'll buzz you in."

The gate opened, and I walked across the courtyard to unit #7. The business had been run out of that apartment for years. A tribute to the agency's ability to keep a low profile and stay out of legal trouble. I wondered if the neighbors knew. I mean, what did they think about all the young guys traipsing in here all night to drop off cash?

I knocked once. A teenage girl in a blue karate gi answered the door. She was talking into a headset as she beckoned me in.

"Yeah, we can do that. Now do you have your own football uniform, or do you want them to bring one?"

I stepped inside. The girl returned to her workstation, a big desk with a keyboard and a monitor. I caught a glimpse of a naked Hispanic guy on the screen. An employee by the look of him. I didn't have a chance to read the text that went with his picture.

A man came in from the bedroom. Mid thirties, dark hair, blue eyes, obviously spent some time in the gym. Buddy, I assumed. He walked up to me and started to introduce himself.

And then stopped.

He looked at me funny. There was something familiar about him, and I could tell by the expression on his face that he recognized me, too. But neither of us could quite place the other.

Given the context of our meeting, you'd think that we'd have figured it out pretty quickly. But then, we'd been twenty years younger the last time we met. It hit us both at the same time.

"What was your name again?" he asked.

"Drew. But you probably knew me as 'Kevin'. And you're...?"

"TJ. At least, that's what I was going by in those days."

Buddy-TJ relaxed visibly, and turned to the girl in the karate outfit.

"It's OK. You can turn off the fail safe. He's not a cop."

"Well, not anymore," I thought. But I didn't need to get into that story with him.

The girl touched something on the keyboard, and then put down a switch she'd been holding.

"Data security?" I guessed.

"Hey, you can't be too careful. Last thing I want is the cops storming in and getting my files."

"I can appreciate that."

"Yeah. You want a drink or something?"

"Uh,... sure. I'll take a cup of coffee, if you got it."

"No problem."

I followed him into the kitchen, where he started brewing a pot. He leaned against the stove and looked me over.

"Wow. This is weird," he said. "You look like you're holding together pretty well, though."

"Thanks. You too. So are you still ...?"

"Nah, I moved into management a few years back. Old Buddy was getting tired of running the agency, so I started picking up some of the slack. He finally decided to retire a couple of years ago, and let me have it."

"And that's when you became Buddy?"

"You know it."

He was still staring at me. I felt myself blushing. "TJ" and I had done a couple of jobs together back in the old days. As I recalled, he was pretty good at his work.

"So whatever happened to you, Drew? As I remember, you were only around for a few months. Then you just sort of disappeared off the scene."

"Yeah, well..."

I paused, trying to figure out how to cut a long story down to size. I had worked for the agency back when I first came to Atlanta, after my father had thrown me out of the house. There aren't a lot of things a fifteen year old can do to earn money for rent.

That first year on my own, I used to lie awake nights, wondering why my parents decided to have me tested. The procedure had already been out for two years when it finally caught up with me. I tried to figure out what I had done to make them doubt me, what signals I had sent that gave me a away. Later, I found out that it was the school. All the Baptists high schools had started requiring blood tests of incoming students, to stop the "perverts" from corrupting the rest of their students. Buddy was staring at me, waiting for an answer.

"I found a way out," I finally said.

He wrinkled his forehead, not sure how to take that.

Great. I hadn't meant to insult the agency. Really. It had given me a way to make money when I desperately needed it. A way to make a lot of money, in fact. And it's not like the sex was a problem. I was a fifteen year old boy with an active libido and an even more active imagination. Once I got past my initial inhibitions, sex with strangers had not been a problem.

No, the problem had been the illusion of affection. The guys who said they loved me, and honestly believed that they meant it. And then expected me to feel the same way. Some people can fake that and be OK with it, but I just didn't have the knack. After a while, it started to eat me up inside.

"So what did you want to see me about?" Buddy asked.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I need some help. I've got a friend who works for you, and... well, I can't get into it. But some information came my way that he may be in trouble."

"One of my boys? Which one?"

"His real name is Daniel Boone. I don't know what name he uses when he works."

"Oh, that would be 'Daniel'. He likes to keep it simple. So what kind of trouble is he in?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "But I know that he was involved in a fight late last night over on Renaissance Parkway. Nothing serious, but he did get cut."