The Bar Watcher (5 page)

I felt kind of sorry for the guys who had been there that night, because I knew the police would be harassing the hell out of them. I'd go down and do some checking, of course, especially to find out how someone might get in without going through the lobby.

The other obvious thing was that if the murderer were unhappy with Rage's membership policies, it was probably because he didn't meet Comstock's standards. If that were the case, how would he have gotten in? Anybody less than a seven on a ten-scale for “Hot Face/Hot Body” would stand out like a sore thumb in there. Still…

*

I decided to go home and change into something a little more casual before going to Rage to see if the blond Adonis might be on duty, and maybe to nose around the place for a few minutes before the busy hours started around 9:30 or 10. Not that it was likely to be busy tonight, or for quite some time, until the chance of the police dropping in on “official business” subsided.

I waited until I got home to open the envelope and take a look at the check O'Banyon had included. It was more than enough to cover any expenses I might incur short of a trip to Hong Kong. I decided I liked working for rich people.

I'd showered that morning before going in to work but decided another wouldn't hurt. Besides, I tend to use showers like some people use Valium—and I do some of my best thinking in there. Chris used to say I should have been a fish; I spend so much time in the water.

After drying off, I rummaged through my clothes for something I hoped would help me look like just another one of Rage's regulars.

*

When I approached the bath, I decided to take a walk around the block to check out the immediate area. I noticed at once that Rage sided onto a relatively wide alley, and that two cars were parked close against the wall on the other side under “Private Parking” signs. About a third of the way down Rage's otherwise-solid brick wall was a door, with another, double door at the far end of the building. The second floor had a number of opaque windows, with another doorway opening onto a fire escape. It would be pretty hard to enter the building that way, even if the second-floor doorway leading to the fire escape could be opened from the outside. The suspended ladder was too high off the ground for anyone to reach, even by jumping at it; and if the killer had tried to leave that way, the ladder would have stayed down, and the police would certainly have seen it.

Walking down the alley, I noted that the first door was slightly recessed and appeared to be more of a private entrance than an emergency exit, as the double door at the rear obviously was. Directly across from the first door was another “Private Parking” sign with no car under it.

As I went to have a closer look at the first door, I glanced down at the ground and saw a key lying beside the stoop. Curious, I picked it up and, on a hunch, put it in the lock. It didn't fit. Still, something told me this was a clue, so I put it in my pocket and resumed my circle tour. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I spotted another key about ten feet from where I'd found the first, at the edge of a small puddle in the center of the alley. A new key, like the kind you'd get with a nice, new car.

I was definitely on to something but, as is so often the case, wasn't sure exactly what that something was.

I found nothing else of interest in the alley, and the rest of the block consisted of pretty standard commercial buildings with a number of gay-owned businesses—bookstore, vegetarian restaurant, clothing store, etc.

Which brought me back to the entrance to Rage. I opened the door and entered the lobby. Sure enough, the blond Adonis was on duty, every perfectly shaped muscle on prominent display beneath the Rage T-shirt.

As I approached the window, he stared at me then gave a nod toward the door, which buzzed to unlock as I reached for the handle. To the left was the door to Comstock's office, which was blocked by a sill-to-floor “X” of yellow “Police: Do Not Cross” tape; to the right, an open door to the registration area, where the blond stood by the counter, unsmiling.

“Hi,” I said, stepping inside the room. “I'm Dick Hardesty.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he said, noticeably unimpressed.

“And your name is…?” I asked, a little puzzled and mildly irked by his attitude.

“Troy,” he said, his face impassive.

“Well, Troy,” I said, “I'd like to ask you a few questions, and it looks like you're not overly busy at the moment.”

“I've got paperwork,” he said, sounding defensive.

“I'm sure you do,” I said, trying to ignore what I was beginning to see as a blooming case of Major Attitude. “But I also assume you've been instructed to cooperate with me. Am I right?”

He shrugged.

“Good,” I said.

I noticed a tall stool by the counter and pulled it to me, straddling it to sit down.

“Let's start with how long you've worked here.”

Troy leaned against the counter on one nicely muscled arm and crossed one ankle over the other.

“Since it opened,” he said.

I had one of my hunches and decided to follow up on it.

“How well did you know Barry Comstock?”

A brief look of anxiety crossed his cover-model face.

“He was my boss,” he said, but I got the definite feeling that wasn't exactly all.

“Just your boss, huh?”

Troy's face flushed, and he looked down at the floor.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said. “He was my boss. I told the police all this shit already.”

“Well,” I said, “I'm not the police.” Then, sensing maybe I was being a little hard on the kid, I tried another tack. “Come on, Troy. Barry Comstock was murdered. I know you thought I was the one who killed him, but I didn't have anything to do with it. He was gay, you're gay, I'm gay—this is a family thing, here. Help me out.”

He shifted his position slightly, uncrossing his ankles. Still looking at the floor, he gave another small shrug.

“Like how?” he asked.

“For starters, how did you happen to find Barry's body?”

Troy gave a huge, lung-emptying sigh. “He was here in the office with me, going over some receipts, and then he left to go back to his office. I had to run into the back for a minute, and a few seconds after I got back I heard Barry say something like ‘What the fuck?' and then a thud—probably him hitting the floor.

“I ran over, and there he was, on his back on the floor with that letter opener sticking out of his chest.”

“And no sign of anybody around?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

I pondered that bit of information for a moment, then said, “So, tell me a little more about your relationship with Barry Comstock.”

He sighed again and reached for a matching stool behind a file cabinet.

“Well,” he said, some of the attitude missing from his voice, “I work here for Barry, and I was sort of his assistant in his other business.”

“The videos?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I was in some of them when we first started, but then Barry made me his assistant.”

I leaned forward. “And what did you do as assistant?” Troy shrugged, not looking directly at me.

“Lots of things,” he said. “Helping the cameraman, setting up props, working with the lighting, recruiting…”

I caught that one in mid-air. “Recruiting?” I asked. “From Rage's membership?”

He nodded.

“How did that work?”

His gaze swept idly around the room, meeting my eyes for only a moment then moving on, casually.

“I get hit on a lot,” he said, in what I'm sure was an understatement of classic proportions. “A guy comes in, we like each other, we talk a couple minutes, I call one of the attendants up front to watch the desk, and I take the guy to a room right next to Barry's office. I buzz Barry as I'm on my way to the room, and he watches through a two-way mirror he's got hidden behind a picture on his wall.

“If he thinks the guy has talent, he comes out of his office just as me and the guy are leaving the room and invites the guy in for a talk. Then he holds his own audition, and if the guy passes and is willing to do porn, he gets a job.” I found myself oddly envious of Comstock. What a neat racket!

“And if the guy doesn't go along?” I asked.

Troy sat back, rotating his shoulders as if to relieve tension.

“No problem,” he said. “The guy's not interested, he's not interested. Although Barry could get a little…well, aggressive at times.”

“Meaning?”

Troy hesitated, as if he didn't want to speak ill of his departed employer, then apparently realized Comstock wouldn't be filing any objections and continued.

“Meaning one guy punched him out one time.”

“And how did Barry respond to that?”

“He yanked the guy's membership.”

At this point, the front door opened, and two USDA Choice specimens came into the lobby. Troy got up and moved to the window to greet them, check their membership cards and have them sign in. That completed, he reached under the counter for the buzzer, and the two guys passed by the open doorway on their way to the locker room. We exchanged smiles and nods.

They paused for a moment seeing the yellow-taped X then moved on without a word.

When they'd gone, I got up from the stool.

“Thanks, Troy,” I said, extending my hand, which he took, and for the first time, he gave me a smile.

“Sorry if I was a little…whatever,” he said. “Barry was really pretty damned good to me, and the last time I saw you, he was yelling at you…and then he was dead.”

“I understand,” I said, and I did. “If you don't mind, I think I'd like to look around the place for awhile.”

“Sure,” he said, then gave me another quick smile. “Too bad you're not a member,” he said, and ran a spread-fingered hand across his chest…slowly.

“I just might join one of these days,” I said as I turned toward the door. “I'll see you a little later.”

“I'll be here.”

*

Noting that the police tape was loosely attached to the bottom of each side of the doorframe, I easily detached one end to enable me to open the door and stoop/squeeze past the rest of the tape. Once inside, I closed the door and went immediately to the large painting of the nude torso. Moving it slightly to one side, I found the two-way mirror looking into a small room with a single bed, and a nightstand upon which was an assortment of lubricants, a bottle of poppers and a small bowl filled with condoms. There was a wooden chair in the corner with a stack of towels on the seat.

Putting the picture back in place, I opened the door beside it and entered the room. For so small a space, there were three doors—the one I'd just entered through and one at each end of the room. The one to my right undoubtedly led to the hallway; the one to the left was the doorway to the alley. It was my guess the parking space directly across the alley was where Comstock parked, and that he came and went through this side door. I suspected, from the keys I'd found outside the door, so had the killer. Without being seen by anyone.

There was a deadbolt lock, but I noted it wasn't engaged.

Just as I was reaffixing the tape to the bottom of the doorframe after leaving Comstock's office, I was passed by another club member who'd just entered. He was built like a Clydesdale and, from what I could see, hung like one, too. I really did have to reconsider joining… The door to the registration office was closed, and I thought it advisable to knock rather than just barge in. Troy opened the door a crack then, seeing it was me, opened it fully to let me enter.

“That was fast,” he said.

I nodded. “Yeah, I think I saw what I needed to. Tell me, is that door to the alley always locked?”

“The police asked the same thing. I told them it was.”

“And deadbolted?”

“No, the deadbolt's broken. Barry was going to see about getting a new one, but he never did.”

“Who else had a key to that door?”

“Nobody,” Troy said. “Barry was the only one who ever used it.” He was silent a moment, brows slightly knitted in thought. “But I know he had a spare set of keys somewhere—in his car, I think.”

“His car?”

Troy looked at his reflection in the reception window and smoothed back a wayward lock of hair above his left ear with one hand. “One time he thought he lost his keys after an audition with one of the members, and he had to go somewhere. I guess the car was the only place the spare keys could have been.”

Of course! “And where's the car now?” I asked.

“Still at the dealership, I guess. He had me call them right after that asshole slit his tires and top, and they came and got it to fix it.”

“Do you remember which dealership?”

Troy furrowed his brows briefly.

“Central Imports,” he said.

I made a mental note to stop by the dealership in the morning.