The Bar Watcher (12 page)

Chapter 6

The morning news and the local morning papers centered on the D'Allesandro shooting, of course. Apparently, he had been shot on the front steps of his mansion at around eight o'clock as he was leaving for some social function. His male “personal assistant” (uh-huh) had gone to bring the car around and heard a single shot as he entered the garage. He'd run immediately to the front of the house to find D'Allesandro dead, but had seen no one, although attempted robbery was not ruled out as a motive.

Just as I was unlocking the door to my office, the phone began to ring. I ran across the room and picked it up on the third one.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick, this is Glen O'Banyon. I wonder if you might be able to join me for a quick lunch today? I've got to be in court in a few minutes, but if you could meet me at Etheridge's around twelve-fifteen, we can talk.”

From the background noises, he apparently was calling from a pay phone and didn't want to go into specifics over the phone, but I had little doubt as to the purpose of the call.

“Of course,” I said.

“Just ask them for my usual table. And please excuse me if I'm a few minutes late.”

“No problem, I'll see you there.”

*

Etheridge's is sort of a local landmark. Located directly across the street from the City Building, it's a combination of a very upscale coffee shop (no counter) and a limited-hours restaurant, in that it serves a complete and elaborate lunch menu but closes at 6:00. It caters almost exclusively to workers from the City Building, including the lawyers, judges, and staffers from the various courts.

I got there about fifteen minutes early and killed some time walking up one side of the block and down the other, sending out little mental sonar waves…and picking up some decided blips from interesting-looking business types coming and going from the City Building.

Entering Etheridge's at exactly noon, I asked for Mr. O'Banyon's table and was shown, without the slightest question being asked, to a booth at the far back of the restaurant. The high-backed booths guaranteed a maximum of privacy and were obviously designed for just that purpose. I asked for coffee, which the waiter brought immediately with two menus.

It was about ten minutes after when O'Banyon appeared, exuding efficiency, confidence and control. I half rose to accept his handshake, and he slid onto the thickly padded bench opposite me, carefully placing his briefcase on the seat, against the wall.

“I'm glad you could meet me,” he said. “You know why I called.”

“Carlo D'Allesandro,” I said. “I assume you got the message I left with your office.”

He looked puzzled.

“No,” he said. “I normally check in first thing, but I was running late this morning and came directly from home to court. I called you from a payphone in the hall.”

I nodded.

“I was out of town yesterday,” he went on, removing his napkin from the table and placing it on his lap, “and didn't get back until late. I heard the news about D'Allesandro in the car on the way from the airport just as I was thumbing through a copy of
Rainbow Flag
my driver had picked up. When I read the piece on D'Allesandro's having fired John Peterson, I put two and two together.”

The waiter appeared, and O'Banyon smiled at him and said, “We'll need just a minute or two more, Alex, if you would.”

The waiter smiled back, and disappeared as we picked up our menus.

“Well,” I said, noting to my delight that they featured a Monte Carlo sandwich, “it looks like we don't have any choice but to go to the police now—even though we still don't have a single actual piece of evidence unless, as I strongly suspect, the bullet in the tire matches the bullet that killed D'Allesandro.”

There was a brief pause as O'Banyon glanced at the menu then set it aside.

“You're right, of course,” he said. “But I'm afraid I'm walking on pretty thin ice here. As you know, I prefer to keep my involvement in all this as low-key as possible. I obviously can't afford to alienate the too-many homophobes still in positions of authority in the police department by giving them any reason to be less cooperative in my future dealings with them than they already are. They'd love nothing better than to think I've been going behind their backs on Comstock's death.”

I thought a moment. “Were you able to talk to Lieutenant Richman?”

O'Banyon shook his head. “I'm sorry, I fully intended to call him as I told you I would, but I got tied up in some other business, and…”

“Maybe it's just as well you didn't, with D'Allesandro's death making a complicated case even more complicated.” I said. “Perhaps I could just approach him on my own and lay out the basics of my suspicions. I won't even mention Comstock if I can avoid it.

“As far as he knows, I was a friend of Richie Smith, and I'll just tell him that I followed a hunch with the two queens and found the bullet, and that he might want to follow up on it in light of D'Allesandro's shooting. Once they have the bullet from the tire, I can't imagine it won't be linked to D'Allesandro's death.”

“You're that sure the two bullets will match?”

“I'd bet on it.”

The waiter reappeared, refilled my coffee and poured some for O'Banyon then took our order and left.

“All right, then,” O'Banyon said. “If for some reason Richman won't hear you out, let me know. Otherwise, I'll let you handle it and stay as far out of it as I can. But do keep me posted.”

“I'll do that.”

*

Since the two dead queens had been at Venture before heading off on their fatal trip to the Hilltop, I thought maybe I should talk to Mario, on the outside chance he might have noticed something or someone he hadn't mentioned when telling Bob and me about the night he'd 86ed them. I could, of course, have just called Bob to ask for Mario's phone number and called him at home, but thought I might as well combine a little business and pleasure and go directly to Venture.

I called Bob to verify Mario was working that night and asked if he'd like to join me. He had some work to do at Ramón's but said he would try to meet me at Venture around 11:00.

I arrived at Venture at around 10:00. It was fairly busy for a weeknight, and Mario pretty much had his hands full waiting on customers. He smiled and waved when he saw me walk in the door, and I took a stool at the far end of the bar and waited until he had the time to come take my order.

“Hi, Dick!” he said as he came up. “What can I get you? A Manhattan?”

I was pleased he'd remembered what I'd been drinking the night we had dinner, but then, that's what good bartenders do.

“I think I'll go for an Old Fashioned, whiskey, sweet.”

He grinned. “Always keep 'em guessing,” he said.

“Oh, and when you've got a second, could I ask you a couple quick questions about those two queens you were telling us about at dinner?”

“Sure,” he said. “Let me get your drink first.” He moved off to make it.

Between frequent interruptions while he attended to thirsty customers, I was able to determine, as I expected, that other than his direct involvement in the incident between Billy and the two queens, and the fact they had pretty well pissed off most of the other guys in the bar by their behavior, Mario couldn't think of any one customer who might have been displaying particular interest in or antagonism toward the queens.

“Sorry, Dick,” he said. “It was a busy night, as I said.”

“That's okay, Mario,” I said. “It was worth a shot. I'll let you get back to work.”

Picking up my drink, I got up from the stool and walked to an empty spot along the wall opposite the pool table. There were maybe a handful of guys against the wall, most of them leaning against the small elbow-level shelf where you could set your drink. I took my time looking around, spotting a couple I knew and exchanging nods when our eyes met.

Standing closest to me, about five feet down to my left, was a very tall, very skinny kid who looked like he couldn't possibly be more than fifteen—though he must have been older, because they check IDs pretty carefully in this town. He still had a serious case of acne, and he exuded a sense of awkwardness. It wasn't hard to figure out he was brand new to the game.

I continued looking around, and the next time I glanced to my left, the kid had moved about two feet closer to me. I didn't look directly at him, but I could see out of the corner of my eye he was looking at me every time he thought I wasn't aware of it. I wanted to smile but didn't. He somehow reminded me of a puppy—or more honestly, of myself at that age.

Someone walking past smiled and said, “Hi, Dick.” I recognized him as a guy who worked down the hall from my office, and said “Hi, Chad.” The next time I glanced to my left, the kid was practically at my elbow. I turned to him and said “Hi.”

Dark as the bar was, I could see him blush.

“Hi,” he said, only meeting my eyes for a fleeting second then looking down at his drink.

I didn't say anything else and pretended to stare at something in front of me. Although he didn't move his head, I could feel his eyes darting back and forth from his drink to me.

I really felt sorry for the kid—he was excruciatingly uncomfortable, but the need was there. He just hadn't been playing the game long enough to know how to express it.

Finally, he turned to me and blurted out: “Wouldyougohomewithme?”

I turned to him and smiled.

“My name's Dick,” I said. “What's yours?”

The kid looked like he was going to fall over.

“Devon,” he said. “My name's Devon.”

“Well, Devon,” I said, “I'm really flattered that you would ask me, but I'm waiting for a friend.”

He looked as though he'd been slapped. His eyes dropped again to his glass.

“Oh.” he said, his voice flat. “Okay. That's what everybody says.”

I kept looking at him until his eyes came back up to meet mine.

“Well,” I said, smiling again, “I really
mean
it. But don't ever let it bother you if people turn you down—most of the time it has nothing to do with you. Maybe, like me, they really are waiting for a friend. There'll be a lot of guys who will jump at the chance—you just wait. You've got all the time in the world.”

Devon smiled. “Thanks,” he said.

We talked for a few minutes, and I learned, to no surprise, that he had just turned twenty-one and this was only his third time in a gay bar. He'd known he was gay since before puberty but had never gotten up the courage to act on it. And because he had always been taller than the other kids his age, and skinny, he'd had a rough time of it.

As a result, he was firmly convinced he was ugly. The gay world was totally new to him, and totally frightening. Like a lot of kids coming out, he automatically assumed there was a set of rules to follow, rules everyone knew but him. I did my best to assure him there wasn't, and that the best thing he could do was to simply be himself.

We were quiet for a minute, and then Devon said, “Well, I'd better go get another drink. Thanks again for talking with me. Maybe we'll see each other again sometime?”

I offered him my hand, and we shook. He had a nice, firm grasp.

“I'll look forward to it,” I said. “Good luck.”

He smiled again, nodded, and headed off toward the bar.

“You did that very well,” someone said, startling me. I turned to my right to see an incredibly hot-looking blond I instantly recognized—though I had no idea from where. A wet dream, maybe? He wasn't an ex-trick, that's for sure. I'd never have forgotten a face and body like that.

“Thanks,” I managed to say. “He's a nice kid.”

The blond kept staring at me, smiling. “And are you?”

I was puzzled. “Am I what? A nice kid?”

“Waiting for someone.”

“Oh…yeah. I am, actually,” I said. “A friend,” I hastened to add, hoping he believed me. “He's dating the bartender.”

“Ah,” the blond said.

I extended my hand. “I'm Dick,” I said, as he took it.

“I heard,” he said. “I'm Toby.”

“Nice to meet you, Toby,” I said, and wondered if he had any idea how much I meant it. There was something about his voice…the tone? The inflection? His body practically yelled “Butch” but his voice was…what…soft? Gentle? Not what I'd consider effeminate, but it somehow didn't quite go with his body. It was…gay, if that makes any sense.

At that moment, Bob came in the door and went directly to the bar as Mario smiled and waved a greeting.

“Speak of the devil,” I said, as Bob looked around the room, spotted me and waved.

Toby grinned. “Well, you'd better get over there, then,” he said. “Besides, we wouldn't want Devon to think you'd turned down his pass and then accepted mine.”
This is a pass?
I thought.
There is a God!