The Bar Watcher (30 page)

Oh, God, even I couldn't buy that one. But Toby as a murder suspect? No way. Anyway, Jared said he'd left by the time the tussle started. And how about Terry, while I was at it? What did I know of him? He could very well have been in every single one of those bars—maybe wearing a fright wig and a false nose. But Terry not being allowed into Rage? Or Toby? Hardly.

And exactly what was there about me that insisted I had to already know the killer? Umpteen gazillion gays in this town, and I personally know the murderer? More than a tad unlikely. How about O'Banyon? How about Bart Giacomino? How about Jared's pizza delivery boy? No, he wouldn't count—I didn't know him.

No
, I told myself,
the murderer is some sad, strange little man no one ever notices, standing quietly against the wall, in the shadows, watching and dreaming
.

Shit! I did feel sorry for the guy.

And even as I felt sorry for him, I knew that one night I would be in a bar, and some asshole would be honing his craft, and I would see the sad little man, see him watching, and I would follow him when he left the bar, and…

There are times—rare times—when I really don't like my job.

*

Tuesday morning, I did my now-dreaded going through the paper routine, hoping I wouldn't find anything and noting three new listings in the obituary column of young, single men dead much, much too soon of “complications” and “lengthy illness,” and not a single banner headline screaming: “Something's KILLING These Men!”

Just before leaving the office for lunch, I got a phone call from Lieutenant Richman. He'd had a long talk with Captain Offermans after I'd left (
Surprise!
), and Offermans had decided they'd let me continue on the case, on condition I did nothing to jeopardize the police investigation. I'd seen very little evidence that there
was
a police investigation, but I didn't bring that point up.

I, of course, agreed, having already done so when he and I had our first conversation. I also redundantly agreed to keep him posted on anything I found out.
Whew! Off the hook!
I thought as I hung up.

I next called Bob to ask him for Jimmy's home phone number. I wanted Jimmy, if he could, to give me the names of everyone he could remember having been in the bar Friday night at the time of the ruckus. I was determined to contact every single one of them to see if any of them might have noticed anyone acting strangely, or if they remembered anyone following Hinson's two friends out of the bar. While I was at it, I asked him to ask Mario if he could do the same thing for the night Lynn Barnseth did his little number with George at Venture.

Of course, I realized how difficult this would be. I was in Venture with Toby, standing about four feet from George, when that particular incident took place, and I couldn't remember anyone I knew being there. Other than Mario, of course…and Jared. I'd have to remember to ask Jared, too.

I don't know why I hadn't thought of this approach before. It would involve a hell of a lot of time and undoubtedly take me on four hundred wild goose chases, but by this point, I was willing to try anything, no matter how much effort it took.

*

That night, at around 9:00, I was home going over the list of names I'd picked up from Jimmy looking up phone numbers when the phone rang.

“Dick, hi!”

I recognized Toby's voice immediately and realized I'd forgotten completely he was going to call about the symphony tickets.

“I just got out of the gym and thought I'd give you a call before I headed home.”

“Glad you did, Toby. I was able to get two pretty good tickets for Saturday.”

“That's great!” He sounded genuinely pleased. “I'm really looking forward to it! I've been listening to my new records nearly every night since I got them.”

I was once more aware of what an odd mixture Toby was. On the one hand, he was Mr. Calm-and-Composed. On the other, he reminded me of a little boy who'd never lost his sense of the wonder at discovering new things.

“I'm glad,” I said. “I know you'll like the symphony. Why don't I pick you up at your place? There's no point in our taking two cars.”

There was a slight pause, and then a rather hesitant “Oh…uh…okay. That'd be fine, if you're sure it won't be a bother. I live at two-forty-seven Cloverland—do you think you can find it again?”

I remembered. It was in what used to be known as a working-class neighborhood, now in slow but irreversible decline. Tenements, flats, a few single-family houses holding on without much hope for gentrification or renewal.

“Yeah, I can find it easy enough,” I said. Then I had a spur of the moment thought my mind told me wasn't quite as spur of the moment as I imagined. “Tell you what. I know you don't like restaurants, but Warman Park's just a block away from the Civic Arts. What do you say we have a sort of picnic dinner before the performance? You can bring whatever you like, and I'll bring something for me, and a bottle of vintage cranberry juice for both of us. We can relax and have a chance to talk a little.”

Again a slight pause. Then: “Sure. Why not? It'll be fun. I like picnics.”

“Great! I'll pick you up about…six-fifteen? That should give us plenty of time.”

“Okay, that sounds good. I'll see you at six-fifteen Saturday, then.”

*

I spent most of the remainder of the week contacting everyone I could find who had been in either Venture or Ramón's on the nights of the incidents. When I ran out of them, I'd start on the Hilltop and Faces. I decided to concentrate on the smaller bars. Glitter would be next to impossible, given its size and the number of guys there at any one time, but I asked everyone I called if they might have been at Glitter the night Richie Smith threw his fit, just in case. I ran into four on the Ramón's list who had been at Venture the night Barnseth did his number, and two who had been at Glitter and Venture on the right nights, and one who'd been at Venture and the Hilltop. Nobody could tell me a thing I didn't already know.

By Saturday, I was ready for a break. I had a stenographer's notebook filled with names, and names the names had given me, and little arrows and scrawls and circles from one to the other, and…

I went to the store for the week's groceries and picked up stuff for a couple sandwiches plus a large bottle of cranberry juice and some fruit. By five o'clock, I was all ready to go and had everything in the cooler I'd dug out of the storeroom after having all but forgotten about it. I tried to time it so I wouldn't be too early but found myself turning down the 200 block of Cloverland at about 6:05.

To my surprise, Toby was standing on the sidewalk by the curb, like a kid waiting for the school bus. He had a sport jacket over one arm, and a brown paper bag in the other hand. Whatever he had in the bag could not been one-tenth as delicious as he looked. God, he was beautiful!

I pulled up to the curb, and he got in.

“I would have come in for you,” I said.

He smiled and turned to put his paper bag and sport jacket in the back seat next to the cooler.

“I know,” he said, “but parking can be a problem, and I didn't want to put you to any extra trouble.” He was wearing a white shirt open at the collar, showing off his tan to full advantage, and his little silver chain only added to the overall effect. “I wasn't quite sure what to wear to a symphony. I've got a tie in my jacket if I need it.”

“You look fine just the way you are,” I said, and meant it.

*

We parked in the public garage under the west side of Warman Park and took our bag and cooler up to the surface, emerging about 300 feet from the central fountain. There were quite a few people who'd obviously had the same idea, but it wasn't crowded by a long shot, and we easily found a picnic table.

Toby, it seemed, took most of his meals in liquid form. He had two small thermoses of I-couldn't-guess what, a small plastic bag of some sort of cracker, a banana, a peach, and an apple. Oh, and a small bottle of assorted pills and capsules he washed down with the contents of one of the thermoses.

I'd made two bologna/summer sausage/American cheese sandwiches (lots of mayo and mustard) and had brought a couple apples, oranges, and the bottle of cranberry juice, which had barely fit in the cooler. Luckily, I did not forget the paper cups.

It was a beautiful afternoon with relatively little traffic on the surrounding streets. We were close enough to the fountain to be able to appreciate the soothing sounds of falling water. The sky was a crisp, sharp, no-nonsense blue with only an occasional cumulus cloud drifting lazily overhead, trolling its shadow lightly across the ground.

“You know, Toby,” I said when I felt the time was right, “it occurred to me the other day we've seen each quite a few times now, and I don't even know your last name.”

He gave me one of those Toby smiles.

“Brown,” he said. “Toby Brown. Did you know Brown is the most common last name in America?”

No, I didn't, and I shook my head. When he didn't volunteer any more information I pushed ahead, hoping I didn't come across as actually pushing.

“And I don't know very much about you. Where you're from, your family, stuff like that.”

He smiled again.

“Does it matter?” he asked, calmly.

I felt my face flushing slightly and hoped it was all on the inside.

“No,” I stammered, “not really. I didn't mean to pry.”

Still smiling, he reached across the table and took my hand.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I just try not to think about my past very much, if I can avoid it. I'm a farm boy, as I think I told you once. My family was about as poor as you can get and still make do. My dad and mom worked like dogs trying to make a living off the farm, but they never quite did. And then when they…” He paused for only a heartbeat, but it could have been a full minute. “…died, I picked up and left. They were the only thing that held me there.”

I sensed again that the topic of his family was a painful one for him, so I thought it best to change the subject.

“So, how do you like city life, now that you've been here awhile?”

“I'm not sure I like it,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I've been thinking of leaving. I've got some business back home I've got to take care of, and then…I don't know.”

I was both surprised and sorry to hear him say he was thinking of moving—I'd just gotten to know him and automatically assumed he'd become a part of my life.

Before I could say anything, he continued talking.

“But I'm glad I moved here. I've learned a lot about people, and about being gay. And if I hadn't moved here, I wouldn't be here now, going to the Chicago Symphony with a very nice man I want very much to be my friend.”

I don't know why, but I was oddly…well, okay—moved. Being a diehard romantic does that to me, I guess.

“Thanks, Toby,” I said. “And I am your friend.” Then, although I tried not to, I found myself asking, “Why hasn't someone grabbed you up a long time ago?”

His smile changed, subtly but surely.

“Because I'm not ready to be grabbed up,” he said. Immediately, he stopped smiling, and his grip on my hand tightened. “Oh, Dick, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…”

I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring grin.

“Hey, no,” I said. “I was asking as a friend.”
Uh-huh
, my mind whispered.

I could see him relax and the smile came back.

“I'm glad,” he said. “I know if I was looking for someone to be more than a friend right now, I'd be standing on your doorstep in a heartbeat. But I've got to take the time to be me before I'm ready to become anyone's us. I don't have any real friends…” Again there was that flicker of a pause that could have been an eternity “…anymore. And I can't tell you how much I enjoy spending time with you.”

“Ditto,” I said, feeling that all that needed to be said on that subject had been. I decided a subject change might be in order. “Jared mentioned he saw you at Ramón's the other night. Did you catch the action? I understand it was quite a production.”

His face lost the smile completely.

“Yes,” he said. “I was there. Your friend Jared's the big one, right? I've never officially met him, but he was very nice to do what he did. That guy he threw out of the bar was despicable. How can gays treat each other like that? Don't we get enough of that from straights?”

“No argument there,” I said. “Did you know the guy who caused the trouble was killed later that night? A hit-and-run.”

“Really?” His tone implied complete disinterest. “I guess some people do get what they deserve.”

I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was nearly 7:25.

“Wow,” I said, “we'd better get going—we have to run this stuff back to the car.”

We picked up all our garbage, and Toby took it over to a nearby trash receptacle while I put his thermoses back into his paper bag and closed the lid on my cooler. We vectored in on the parking garage entrance, found the car and locked everything in the trunk, then headed for the Civic Arts Center.