The Bar Watcher (22 page)

Jared stared at Mario, moving his head back and forth very slowly as if he couldn't believe it. Mario looked at him and shrugged, then continued.

“That was most of the time,” he said. “Sometimes, if he was in a particularly playful mood, he'd keep the kid around for a few days—really do a number on him, tell him he was going to make him one of his top models, that sort of shit. Then he'd bring the kid to Faces for dinner to show him off, and have one of his ‘friends' join them. It was almost always the same guy.

“Now, there are older guys who can be overweight, or bald, or both and still be really nice guys. But D'Allesandro's buddy was old, fat, bald, and totally repulsive. He'd be all over the kid at dinner, and the kid would be miserable but not have a clue as to what he could do except look to his friend D'Allesandro to protect him. Big fucking mistake! At the end of dinner, D'Allesandro would get up and say to the kid, ‘I'm giving you to him now,' and walk out.”

“I'd have killed him,” Jared said calmly.

“Someone did,” Bob noted.

“Yeah, and why didn't
I
do something about it after I'd seen it a half-dozen times?” Mario asked—I had the impression he was addressing the question more to himself than to us. He took a drink of his coffee before answering himself. “Because Faces is a nice place, and it makes lots of money by catering to people who have lots of money. I could clear five hundred dollars a night in tips. And the rules of the house were you minded your own business or you were out.” He sighed. “Five hundred dollars a night is damned good money, but it's not good enough to have to watch that sort of thing going on.

“So I quit, and went to work at Venture. I don't make a tenth the money, but I can look myself in the mirror when I shave.”

*

On the drive home, after a record-setting ten-minute stopover at Jared's to take care of a mutual itch that needed scratching, I thought about what an unbelievable shit Carlo D'Allesandro had been. How could anyone have been so astonishingly, deliberately cruel? Of course, he had some pretty stiff competition in the other five dead guys—I found it hard to think of them as victims, although technically that's what they were.

I'd asked Mario, as we were leaving the restaurant, for the name of Faces' manager and any of the staff he knew who still might work there. I planned to stop by as soon as I could to see if perhaps D'Allesandro had had dinner there within a day or so before he was killed.

I got home, checked through my mail and was reading a letter from Chris, my ex, and his new lover Max when the phone rang. I recognized Toby's voice immediately.

“Dick, hi, it's Toby. I know it's short notice, and you probably have plans, but a guy at the gym gave me two tickets to ‘Boy Meets Boy' at the Regis for tomorrow night. I know you said you liked musicals, and…”

“That's great, Toby,” I said. “I'd love to go. Thanks for asking me. What time should we meet, and where?”

“How about meeting me at the theater about seven-thirty. The show starts at eight and I'll be at the gym until seven, but I should make it in time.”

“That sounds fine,” I said. “I'll see you there. And thanks again.”

“Good,” Toby said. “Well, I hate to make this short, but I've got to get downstairs to the laundry room to get my stuff out of the drier before somebody walks off with it.”

“No problem. I'll see you tomorrow night. Bye.”

*

One of my first tasks on getting to the office Wednesday morning was to read the paper carefully, looking for any stories on deaths—by any means other than illness or old age—of single men. Relieved not to find any, I did the crossword puzzle, drank the coffee I'd picked up from the café downstairs, and waited for O'Banyon's offices to open. I didn't expect to find him in, but the receptionist shunted me immediately to Donna, who said, “One moment, Mr. Hardesty.” And, a moment later, O'Banyon was on the line.

“Good morning, Dick,” he said. “Good news or bad news?” He must have been expecting my call.

“Let's say probably the negative side of neutral,” I said. “I picked up the phone logs from Kimmes's office and…do you want to go into this on the phone, or…?”

There was only a slight pause before he said, “I'll be going over briefs this morning until around eleven then have to get ready for court this afternoon. If you wanted to come by right away, we could have a few minutes to talk—though not more than that, I'm afraid.”

“I'm on my way,” I said. I hung up, picked up the log information, put it back in the envelope and headed for the door.

*

I was right—O'Banyon considered the news I had for him on the phone logs as
considerably
to the negative side of neutral. It was pretty hard to imagine a logical explanation for fifteen calls between Giacomino and Sharp—especially since Rage was primarily Comstock's concern. I felt sorry for O'Banyon—smart and business-savvy as he was—to find himself hooked up with a potential embezzler he'd considered a friend.

I did offer the opinion—the hunch, really—that it was unlikely Giacomino was behind Comstock's and Sharp's deaths. It still wasn't totally out of the question, of course, and had Comstock and Sharp been the only deaths involved, he'd definitely have been the prime suspect. But I was becoming more and more sure that a lot of the little lines connecting the guys in this case were coincidences rather than clues.

Someone once said you can link the entire population of the world through six people—who they knew, who those they knew knew, etc. I was beginning to believe it.

O'Banyon said he would have a talk with Giacomino, and I definitely agreed that was the best way to handle it. But, I told him, I was not ready quite yet to erase Giacomino's name from my possibilities list. He agreed. We left it at that.

*

Parking near the Regis was a bitch, and as I approached the theater, I saw that Toby was already there. And I suddenly realized where I'd seen him before—I was positive he had been the guy I'd cruised that night at Glitter, the one who had disappeared while I was distracted by Richie doing his little number on the dance floor. Talk about small worlds!

I mentioned that to him as we took our seats in the small, comfortable little theater. He smiled.

“I know,” he said. “That's why I came up to you at Venture. I was wondering if you'd remember.”

I was oddly embarrassed and stumbled all over an apology, but Toby just smiled.

“Not to worry. We're here now, that's what matters.”

And he was right.

Boy Meets Boy
was an absolute delight—sweet, charming, funny and casually, openly gay, and it was a musical! Wonderful!

“Now, that's the way the world should be,” Toby commented as we left the theater.

“All singing, all dancing, all gay?” I asked.

He gave me another of those quiet smiles of his.

“Maybe,” he said.

Although it was a weeknight, and I knew he had to be at work the next day—as did I—I asked him if he'd like to join me for a quick nightcap. Faces was only two blocks away, and it would give me not only a chance to spend a little more time with him but to see if I could find out anything about D'Allesandro. Business and pleasure.

“Sure,” he said. “I don't usually go to bars with anyone. It'll be nice.”

I don't know why, but that struck me as a little…well, sad, somehow. I mean, here's a guy almost any other gay guy would kill to spend time with. I'd have thought he would be beating them off with a stick. But then, from the little I already knew of him, I realized he marched to a slightly different drummer.

“You've been to Faces before?” I asked as we walked, only because Faces didn't strike me as a place he would normally go.

He grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “I've been just about everywhere. Interesting place.”

Dinner hour was pretty much over when we arrived, but there were still a couple late diners—mostly older gentlemen with younger, very attractive companions. The bar was more active, with various older-younger pairings and some not-yet-connected singles. Toby was right—Faces was an interesting place.

We took a seat at the relatively empty far end of the bar and waited until the bartender, who had been filling an order for one of the waiters, noticed us and came over.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?”

I looked at Toby for unspoken confirmation, then said, “A cranberry juice and a bourbon and Seven.” The bartender looked at Toby, smiled, and headed for the refrigerator at the middle of the bar.

“So, how is your case going?” Toby asked.

I had to think a minute to remember what I may have told him about what I was working on. I don't like to go into too much detail with people I don't know all that well, and Toby, sweet a guy as he was and despite our having been to bed together, still fell into that category.

“More twists than a truck full of pretzels,” I said.

“Sounds like fun.”

“I wish,” I reached for my billfold as the bartender came up with our drinks. His name tag said “Kent.”

“Kent,” I said, fishing around for a bill larger than I needed to cover the drinks, “I understand Carlo D'Allesandro used to be a regular here.”

“I wouldn't call him a regular,” Kent said. “Maybe once or twice a month. A friend of yours?”

“Never met the guy,” I said. “But I was wondering if you could tell me if he was in here within a few days before he got killed.”

Kent didn't bat an eye.

“Couldn't tell you,” he said. “I was on vacation when it happened. You might ask Tod, though.” He nodded toward a waiter refilling coffee for two of the last diners. “Tod was D'Allesandro's favorite waiter.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll do that. Keep the change.”

He nodded his thanks and turned back to the other end of the bar.

Toby was looking at me, curiously.

“Carlo D'Allesandro?” he asked. “Is that the case you're working on?”

“Only peripherally,” I said as I put my billfold back in my pocket. “Did you know him?”

He shook his head firmly.

“I wouldn't want to,” he said. “I saw him a couple times. He…wasn't a very nice man.”

“The understatement of the year,” I said.

We made a silent, glass-click toast and sipped our drinks in silence for a moment.

“You know, I was just thinking,” I said. “I don't think you ever mentioned exactly where you're from. I get just the slightest hint of an accent, but I can't put my finger on it.”

Toby grinned. “Darn, and I've worked so hard to get rid of it.” He took another sip of his cranberry juice and set the glass down on the bar. “No, as I think I told you, I've only been in town less than a year. We didn't have places like these where I come from. I guess that's why I go out so much—making up for lost time.”

“Ah,” I said. “A small-town boy. They sure grow 'em nice in your part of the country.”

He grinned again. “Thanks.”

Before I could say anything else, the waiter the bartender had pointed out came over to the waiter's station a couple stools away from us with a drink order.

“Excuse me…Tod,” I said. “But could I see you for a second when you have a chance?”

He smiled and nodded, then gave his order to the bartender. While Kent was making the drinks, Tod came over.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Just a quick question. I understand you used to wait on Carlo D'Allesandro regularly, and I was wondering if he was in within a couple days of his death.”

“The night before,” he said. “He pulled another of his numbers, and I think the manager had about had it with him. I know I had. He was a good tipper, but I can do without that kind of money.”

Kent brought Tod's order to the waiter's station and gave a heads-up nod. Tod returned it, said “'Scuse me,” and left.

I turned back to Toby. “I'm sorry, Toby, I didn't drag you in here so I could do business. I just thought as long as I was here….”

He gave me one of those little smiles that made me feel like shit for some reason.

“Don't worry about it.”

“Well, I do.”

“I know,” he said. “But tell me, why do you care who killed that man?”

Actually, that was a pretty good question, and I wasn't sure I had a very good answer. I shrugged.

“Because it's my job, mainly” I said, and then hastened to add, “And as I said, D'Allesandro is only one part of what I'm working on.”

He nodded. “It must be hard,” he said, “always working with negative things and negative people.” He looked at me and smiled. “I mean, people don't hire you for positive things, do they? Like finding homes for a box full of kittens.”