The Angel Singers (14 page)

I was getting ready to go down to the diner in the lobby and pick up something for lunch when the phone rang. I hurried back to my desk and leaned across it to pick up.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Yeah,” a very butch-sounding voice said, “this is Jerry Granville. You wanted to talk to me?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Thanks for returning my call.”

“Well, it’s my lunch hour, and I’m on my way back to work. I haven’t got much time.”

“Could we get together sometime for a few minutes? Maybe after work?”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Grant Jefferson.”

“Oh, that prick. Did Crandall Booth hire you?’

“No,” I said, not going into further explanations.

“Well, I don’t know what I can tell you about him, but if you’d like to get together for a drink, I get off at four thirty.”

“That should work. Where would you like to meet?”

“There’s a place right near my work—Hughie’s. You know it?”

Well, well! Hughie’s!
I thought.

“Yeah, I know it,” I said. “It’s about two blocks from my office.”

“Small world,” he said.

“Great! I’ll see you at Hughie’s at a little after four thirty, then. You can ask Bud, the bartender, to point me out to you.”

He laughed. “I was going to say the same. Maybe we already know each other.”

“Possibly,” I said. “I think we met at Crandall Booth’s last get-together for the chorus.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention to anyone but that asshole Jefferson. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him then and there.”

As opposed to later?
I wondered.

We said our good-byes and hung up, and I immediately called Jonathan to tell him I might be a few minutes late getting home.

*

The nondescript black front of Hughie’s was almost lost among its equally nondescript neighbors except for the inevitable two or three hustlers lounging around on the sidewalk, hoping to catch a john before he made it into the competitive arena inside. I idly wondered how many times I’d walked into the place in the last several years.

Though Hughie’s was what most people would describe as a dive and you’d probably think a time or two before inviting most of the clientele to meet your grandmother, I liked it. It hadn’t one single shred of pretension. What it was, was what it was; and if you didn’t like it, you were welcome to go elsewhere.

And it never changed. Never. Governments rose and fell, planes crashed, wars were fought and either won or lost, the stock market went about its business, and so did Hughie’s.

I got there about four fifteen, before the place started to fill up with hustlers and their prospective quickie-after-work johns. There were six or seven guys in the place, with Bud holding sway behind the bar. As always, the minute he saw me walk in the door, he went to the cooler to get out a frosted mug, which he filled from the tap reserved for dark beer. It was waiting for me by the time I reached the bar.

“How’s it goin’, Bud?” It never occurred to me to say anything else. It had been a ritual greeting since my first time in the bar Lord knows how many years ago, and since I considered Hughie’s to exist in something of a time warp, I think part of me suspected that if I were to say anything else it might create a tear in the space-time continuum.

“Pretty good, Dick. You?” Bud dutifully responded, thereby assuring that all was well in the universal scheme of things.

“I’m supposed to meet a guy named Jerry Granville,” I said. “Can you give me a nod when he comes in?”

Taking the bill I handed him, he moved off to the till. He didn’t bother returning with the change, since it was another given that I wouldn’t want it.

One thing that can be said about Hughie’s—it’s sure a friendly place, and you are guaranteed someone will come over to inquire if you might be interested in a little companionship. Sure enough, a nice-looking kid who looked like he’d just come from a tryout for the role of Danny Zuko in
Grease
, down to the skin-tight black tee shirt with the sleeves rolled up, came sauntering over to stand next to me, leaning forward with his forearms on the edge of the bar, thus displaying a nice set of biceps. I pretended to be preoccupied with my beer, but I could feel his eyes on me until I turned toward him.

“How’s it goin’?” he asked—looking me up and down with all the subtlety of a lion eyeing a gazelle—as he slowly lifted his beer to his mouth. Amazing how some guys can make lifting a beer to their mouth almost like a sex act.

I noticed he had a small tattoo of a mouse on the inside of his right wrist.

“Fine, thanks,” I said trying to resist asking “You?” but it didn’t work. “You?”

“Better’n most,” he said, looking directly into my eyes. “I’m lookin’ for a little action. Interested?”

Oh, yes!
my crotch-voice said eagerly.
Definitely. Yep. You bet!

I wrestled it back into its cage and said, “Sorry, I’m meeting someone.”

He gave me a raised eyebrow. “You sure? You don’t know what you’re missin’.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, “but unfortunately…”

He shrugged. “Your loss,” he said. “See ya.” And he moved off toward the pool table where a newly arrived forty-something business type in a three-piece suit was leaning against the wall, trying to look inconspicuous.

A minute or so later, Bud gave me a heads-up, and I looked into the mirror behind the bar to see Jerry Granville entering. I recognized him from Booth’s get-together, though I hadn’t been sure I’d be able to. Nice looking in a rough-hewn sort of way, definitely butch. If he’d been dressed more casually, I could have mistaken him for one of the hustlers.

I waved to get his attention, and he came directly over.

“Sure,” he said as he came up. “I recognize you from Booth’s.”

We shook hands as Bud brought over a bottle of Miller’s and put it in front of him.

“Jerry.”

“Bud,” Jerry replied, taking out his billfold and extracting a five.

I grinned. “I see you’re not a stranger to the place.”

“You might say that. It’s close to work, and I’ve been coming in pretty regularly after work, now that I’m single again.”

I took a sip of my beer as Bud came back to lay Jerry’s change on the bar in front of him.

“Yeah,” I said as Bud moved off, “I was sorry to hear you and Tony broke up.”

He shrugged. “Nothing lasts forever,” he said, and I immediately thought of myself and Jonathan and fervently hoped he was wrong. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

“Exactly why were you so pissed at Grant Jefferson? From what I understand, he made passes at everybody.”

“I don’t care who he made a pass at…as long as it wasn’t Tony.”

“How did you find out about it?”

He took a long swig of his beer and wiped the corner of his mouth with a crooked index finger. “Tony told me,” he said. “I told him to tell Grant to knock it off, or I’d do it myself, but Grant kept it up.”

I was puzzled and said so. “But why take it out on Tony by breaking up with him? It doesn’t sound like he did anything wrong.”

“Yeah? Well, that one Tuesday I went to the M.C.C. near the end of the rehearsal to pick Tony up, and as I was going into the building, I saw him going into the bathroom with Grant right behind. I gave them a minute then walked in and there they were at the urinal and Grant was all over Tony. I went over and grabbed Grant and was about to slug him when Tony grabbed my arm to keep me from it, and while I was distracted, Grant took off. That’s when I went upstairs and the fight almost started.”

“But you don’t know that Tony had anything to do with Grant’s being ‘all over him.’ Did Tony look like he was enjoying it?”

He paused a second then said, “No, not exactly. But the thing is, he let Grant do it!”

Well, I could see Jerry wasn’t the kind of guy to let logic stand in the way of a knee-jerk reaction.

“And less than a week later, Grant was dead,” I pointed out.

He had his beer halfway to his mouth, and he froze there for an instant, staring at me.

“So, you’re saying you think I killed that bastard?” he asked.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m merely pointing out the facts.”

“Well, if I’d had a chance to get to him that night, I very well might have. But if I was going to kill him, it wouldn’t have been with a fucking bomb.” He was still looking at me, as if trying to guess my reaction. Taking the delayed swig of his beer, he put the bottle on the bar and said, “Look, I know I’ve got a little problem with my temper every now and then. But it’s always like a firecracker going off—
bam!
and that’s it. I’d cooled down by the time we got home.”

“But you still broke up with Tony,” I observed.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Actually, it was the other way around. It was Tony who broke up with me. He said he’d had it with my temper, and that my embarrassing him in front of the chorus was the last straw.”

“Any chance of your getting back together?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see. Tony says he won’t even consider it unless I take an anger management class.”

“And will you?”

Another shrug. “I’m thinking about it. Like I said, we’ll see.”

I glanced at my watch and saw it was getting close to time for me to head for home. But I had one more question. “Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to see Grant dead badly enough to actually do it?”

He drained his beer, then said, “No, not really. I never had all that much to do with the chorus or the guys who belong to it, and all I know is what Tony’d tell me. Other than that, I don’t know anything at all about that creep’s life. But I’m glad someone had the guts to give him what he deserved.”

So much for love thy neighbor
, I thought.

I finished my beer, thanked him for his time and left. I was curious to see whether Marty had found evidence that Jerry’s temper might have ever gotten him into trouble with the law.

*

I actually made it home shortly before Jonathan and Joshua and had just fixed my evening Manhattan when I heard Jonathan’s key in the lock. I quickly got a Coke, and a small jelly glass for Joshua into which I put a couple ice cubes and poured part of the soda. Juggling the can and two glasses, I went into the living room to quickly set everything down for our ritual group hug.

Jonathan looked a little tired, so I volunteered Joshua and myself to make dinner. I wasn’t being noble; just knew we were having knackwurst—“fat hot dogs,” as Joshua called them—and sauerkraut, neither of which relied too heavily on culinary skills. Joshua loved hot dogs in any form, but I was a little surprised the first time we had sauerkraut and found he loved that, too. Actually, we were very lucky in that there were very few things he
didn’t
like, liver and mushrooms being the notable exceptions. But since I couldn’t stand them either, it wasn’t much of a problem. Jonathan, who loved them both, was outnumbered two to one and had to settle for ordering them when we went out to eat.

I mentioned during dinner that I wanted to try to reach Bernie Niles at home as soon after we finished eating as possible.

“That’s fine,” Jonathan said. “Joshua and I’ll make the dessert while you’re doing that.”

Having no idea what he was talking about, I asked, “What dessert?”

“Uncle Jonathan said we could make fruit whip!” Joshua answered happily. “I like fruit whip!”

I did, too, actually, though we’d not had it in a while. It was simplicity itself—a can of fruit cocktail with the syrup drained off, then mixed with a small tub of Cool Whip.

So, while they set out on their dessert adventures, which I rightly suspected would not be without its perils—few things involving an enthusiastic five-year-old boy are—I went into the living room to call Bernie Niles.

The phone was picked up on the third ring by a young and pleasant-sounding male voice.

“Niles residence.”

“Is Bernie Niles in?”

“I’ll get him for you.” I heard the rustle as the mouthpiece was covered by a hand, followed by a muffled, “Bernie, it’s for you.” A moment later, the hand came off the receiver and there was some sort of exchange I didn’t catch. Then, “Hello?”

“Mr. Niles, this is Dick Hardesty calling. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, I’ve been too busy to return the call.” The tone was not saying the same thing as the words.

I ignored it. “I understand.”

“What do you want?” Not exactly hostile, but several steps from warm and friendly.

“I wanted to talk to you about Grant Jefferson,” I said.

There was not a moment’s pause before, “I suspected that was why you were calling. I assume he’s gotten himself into some sort of trouble, but my interest in Grant ceased the instant he left Atlanta and there is absolutely nothing I can tell you.”

“I take it you aren’t aware he’s dead.” Maybe I could have eased into it better, but…

There was a definite pause this time. Then, “I’m sorry to hear that.”