The Bar Watcher (2 page)

“This came in the mail, addressed to me.”

He pushed it across the desk, and I leaned forward to take it. The box had no marking of any kind, and I lifted the lid to find it stuffed with tissue paper. Moving that aside, I found a 3x5 card on which someone had pasted a panel from what I assume was a comic book. It was a picture of a fireball over which was the word “BOOM!”

On the other side, words cut from various sources, in assorted sizes and typefaces, said, “Last chance. Everyone plays or YOU pay.” Kind of melodramatic, I thought, but it made its point.

I put the card back, closed the lid and pushed the box across the desk.

“Did you save the wrapper it came in?”

“What the fuck for? I've got enough garbage around here as it is.”

If he was too stupid to entertain the idea that a return address or postmark might have come in handy, I wasn't about to spell it out for him.

“It's probably just somebody with a grudge and an active imagination,” I said. “But you never know—this guy could be serious. I guess you didn't consider contacting the police?”

Comstock shook his head scornfully. “Are you out of your fucking mind? I let the cops come in here scaring off the customers, and I might as well shut the place down. I told you it's fucking blackmail. And I told you I don't pay blackmail.”

Yeah, I heard you the first time, and I wasn't impressed then, either.

Though I didn't say anything, it struck me that for anyone out to settle a grievance, real or imagined, with Rage, it would only take a couple of “concerned citizen” or “they're selling drugs” calls to the cops to effectively shut the place down. The police would love any excuse for a raid, and no gay man in his right mind would willingly put himself in a gay bathhouse that was subject to frequent raids. Obviously, something else was going on here.

“Exactly who determines who gets in and who doesn't?” I asked.

Comstock leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk, one hand wrapped around the other lightly clenched fist.

“I'm the boss. I decide. The deskmen are told in no uncertain terms who gets in and who doesn't. They do the sorting out,” he said. “If there's any doubt, they buzz me. But usually, it's pretty cut-and-dried. Ugly's ugly, fat's fat, old's old.”

“And how do they handle it when an undesirable comes in?” I used the word
undesirable
deliberately.

“The ones we want as members are given membership cards to fill out. The others are told memberships are closed.”

“And if somebody is filling out a membership card when an undesirable comes in?” I asked. “Or worse, if somebody's getting the ‘closed membership' spiel and somebody worthy of belonging comes in?”

“Same thing. They get the message pretty fast. And you can cut the fucking sarcasm. I'm running a business here, not a bleeding hearts social club. There are lots of other baths around. Let the creeps go there.”

That's it, Comstock
.
You're definitely off my Christmas card list.

He stared at me. “Well, do you want the job or not?”

“I can certainly try,” I said, “but you realize there aren't any guarantees.”

I told him my rates, and he leaned quickly back in his chair as if a cobra had suddenly appeared on his desk.

“That's pretty damned steep for no guarantees,” he said. “I'll tell you what I'll do, though. You do a little preliminary checking around first—you know, in exchange for a year's membership, say—then we can talk about officially hiring you when you have a better idea of whether you think you can find the guy.”

Now it was my turn to see the imaginary cobra, but I didn't move a muscle. I wanted to tell this sorry excuse for a cheap bastard what he could do with his year's membership, but I managed to keep my cool.

“Sorry, my rates aren't negotiable. Why don't you think this over for a day or so,” I said, getting up from my chair, “and if you decide to hire me, give me a call.”

I wondered whether I should offer to shake hands with this walking prick or not. I was surprised when he also got up and extended his hand.

“I'll let you know,” he said as we shook hands.

Then he sat back down in his chair, and I turned and left the room.

“Rage” was a good name for the place, I decided.

*

On my way back to the office, although I tried to concentrate on other things, my mind kept going back to Comstock and Rage. There's a definite difference between having a big prick and being one, but in Comstock's case, he qualified on both. Rage's membership policy was, without a doubt, reprehensible and insulting to anyone who didn't meet his standards of what was or was not “hot.” I could well imagine the humiliation and…well, yes, rage…anyone so blatantly refused entry to the bath might feel. Perhaps whoever sent the letter and the box was overreacting just a little, but then again, if it had happened to me….

But, hey, I'm okay. I got offered a full year's membership! Big fucking deal. I wondered whether it ever occurred to the guys who got in how the guys who didn't must feel?

Okay, Hardesty,
take your heart off your sleeve and put it back in your chest, now.

*

On my way home after work, I stopped in at Bob Allen's bar, Ramón's, for their happy hour, to see if I could talk to Bob. I wanted to find out a little more about Barry Comstock and his “partners,” and Bob was in as good a position to know as anyone.

I didn't see him around, but Jimmy the bartender was at the far end of the bar signing for a beer delivery from a guy whose talents were definitely wasted pushing handtrucks full of beer all over town. He stood about 6′3″ and wore a short-sleeved uniform shirt. I've seen oak trees with trunks smaller around than that guy's biceps. And when he turned in my direction, I saw that the rest of him matched. Short-cropped hair, a nice, square jaw, a huge expanse of chest with perfectly curved pecs the shirt couldn't hide, a V-shaped torso and a bulge down the left leg of his pants that ran halfway to his knees. Definitely my kind of guy.

Normally, I'd have taken the first stool I came to, but something—care to guess what?—drew me to the far end of the bar. The deliveryman looked up at me as I was about halfway there, and when our eyes met, I felt like what that 3x5 card in the box at Rage said—“BOOM”.

“Hi, Jimmy,” I said, taking a stool next to where the deliveryman stood.

“Hi, Dick,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah, hi, Dick,” the deliveryman said, giving me a first-class cruise smile. Then, eyes still on me, he half-turned toward Jimmy and said, in a tone that didn't leave much doubt as to who he was really talking to, “Yeah, Jimmy, like I was saying, this is my last stop for the day, so I'm not sure what I'll be doing after I take the truck back.” Again the grin.

“Open for suggestions?” I heard myself ask.

“Got one?” he asked.

Oh, I had one, all right! I had a suggestion, too, as a matter of fact.

“Earth to Dick,” I heard Jimmy say, snapping his fingers. “Earth to Dick—order, please.”

I pulled my eyes away from the deliveryman long enough to glance at Jimmy. “Give me a Whiskey Old Fashioned—sweet.”
And a bucket of ice water to pour over my head.

“Can I buy you one?” I asked the deliveryman.

“Thanks,” he said, “but not until I get off work. Will the offer still be good then?”

“Sure,” I said. “About how long?”

If he'd said “About eleven inches” I think I'd have fallen off my stool. Luckily, he didn't.

“Maybe twenty minutes,” he said. “You still be here?”

Silly question. “Count on it.”

Without another word, he got his truck, waved at Jimmy, who waved back, and left through the rear door.

Jimmy brought my drink, going through his standard flourish routine with the napkin.

“Thank God he's gone,” Jimmy said, shaking his head, face serious.

“Why?” I asked, a little startled.

“I was afraid I was going to have to turn the fire hose on you two. I know Jared works fast, but this set an all-time record, even for him.”

“His name's Jared?” I asked, realizing he hadn't mentioned it.

Jimmy nodded. “Jared Martinson. And, honey, I don't know what you're going to do with that boy!”

“What do you mean?” Jimmy looked up and down the bar for anyone needing immediate service and, seeing no one who did, leaned across the bar toward me.

“I went home with him right after he started delivering here,” he said, his voice lowered though there was no one within two stools of us in either direction.

“And…?” I prompted.

Jimmy stood back and spread his two hands apart like a fisherman demonstrating the size of the one that got away. Impressive, to say the least.

“Lordy,” he said, “all I could do was throw my arms around it and cry! Actually, I kind of feel sorry for him—not one guy in ten I know could accommodate that ramrod!”

Someone at the far end of the bar signaled for another drink. Jimmy said, “'Scuse me,” and moved toward the waiting customer.

Jared Martinson, eh? He sounded like a real challenge, in more ways than one. I was about halfway through my second Old Fashioned, having learned Bob had said he wouldn't be in at all that night, when I felt a strong hand on my shoulder. I turned to look up into the incredibly handsome face of Jared Martinson.

“Offer still good?” he asked, smiling.

“One among many,” I replied, signaling to Jimmy, who waved and nodded.

“That was quick,” I said as Jared took the stool next to me. He'd changed into a short-sleeved polo shirt that outlined every curve, indent and nipple.

“I don't waste time when I'm after something,” he said. I hoped he meant me.

Without Jared's having ordered, Jimmy brought a drink and set it in front of him with a wink. Apparently he knew quite a bit about Jared Martinson.

“So, how long have you been driving delivery trucks?” I asked after we'd done a silent glass-click toast.

Jared took a slow drink before answering.

“Since I got into town, about six months ago,” he said. “I like it. Gives me plenty of time to think, and helps keep the muscles in shape.”

“So I noticed. You always been in this line of work?”

He smiled and shook his head.

“No. I taught for a while.”

“Really? What level? What subject?”

“College,” he said casually. “Russian literature.”

“You're shitting me.”

He shook his head and smiled again.

“Nope. I've got a Masters in it. Working on my Ph.D. now.”

“Why did you quit teaching?” I asked, really curious.

“Because I wasn't much older than my students, and some of them were just too damned tempting. So, I set it aside for a while to work on my Ph.D. By the time I finish, I'll be ready to go back. And I really like what I'm doing now. No pressure.”

I was really impressed, and it probably showed.

“How about you?” he asked. “What do you do for a living?”

“Nothing quite so exotic as teaching Russian literature, I'm afraid. I'm a private investigator.”

“No shit?” He grinned. “Working on anything interesting?”

“Not at the moment. I might have one coming up, but I'm not sure yet.”

We each took a sip of our drinks, and I said: “You ever go to Rage?”
Hey, that was subtle.

Jared smiled. “Not anymore. I sort of lost my membership.”

“How'd that happen?”

“A long story—I'll tell you about it sometime.”

I was curious, but let it drop for now.

“You know the owner?” I asked, trying another tack.

Jared nodded. “Oh, yeah. A lot more than I want to, I'm sorry to say. He's an arrogant asshole who thinks the word ‘no' doesn't apply to him. He rubbed me the wrong way from the night I joined.”

“How so?”

He turned toward me, his knee bumping against my thigh. I instinctively moved my leg out of the way, but he reached down and pulled it back against his knee.

“It wasn't too long after I moved here…maybe four or five months ago,” he said, giving me a smile and continuing to move his knee slowly back and forth against my thigh, subtly but definitely. “I'd just filled out this membership card they give you, paid my membership fee, and was waiting for my official entry card when these two guys came in. One was a real humper; his friend was average looking but kind of overweight, looked like a nice guy.

“They went up to the window and said they wanted to join. The clerk looked really confused and stammered something I couldn't hear. Then he picked up a phone, and a minute later, this Comstock guy comes into the room behind the glass—I recognized him from some old porn movies I have.