The Bottle Ghosts (11 page)

“Sure. I understand. So you're going to pretend you're an alcoholic? You think you can pull it off around guys who
are
alcoholic?”

“Not me. Jonathan.”

That
really
got a reaction. “Jeezus, that'll never work. Jonathan's only 20 years old!”

“And he was an alcoholic when he was 13.” I knew it would never go any farther. “He hasn't had a drink since he was 15, but alcoholism isn't something that you get over, and he's smart enough to know it.”

Bob just looked at me, head pulled back, moving it slowly back and forth. “Jeezus,” he said again.

I took a long drink of my bourbon and Seven. “So is there anything else you can tell me about Brian Oaks; anything that might help?”

Bob pursed his lips in thought. “Not really. Brian's a really nice guy; very intense about what he does, and I'm sure very good at it. He's a little…I don't know what word to use…different?…in some ways. God knows he's got a right to be. Apparently just about every male member of his family was an alcoholic; his dad used to beat the crap out of Brian, his brothers, and his mother until Brian—he was the oldest kid—got big enough to stop him. Brian's had to work like hell for everything he has. He worked a full time job and two part-time jobs to pay his way through college. I don't know how he did it, but he did. After college we sort of lost track, but I managed to keep tabs on him through his brother Ben, who lives here in town—you might know him: he was a regular at the Ebony Room before the fire.”

Now, that's interesting,
I thought. “Brian Oaks' brother is gay, too?”

Bob shrugged. “To be honest with you, I don't really know. I didn't even know he was Brian's brother until I realized they look enough alike to be twins, and I asked him if his last name might be Oaks. He lived in that apartment complex right across the street, and while we talked quite a bit, I don't remember it being about anything gay. Maybe he just came in because he lived so close. When we reopened after the fire, I never saw him again. Probably moved away. One thing I did gather from talking with him was that he and Brian aren't exactly close. He did tell me once, though, that he'd heard Brian's first lover had died—I assume a suicide, though Ben was pretty cryptic about it.”

He shook his head reflexively. “How Brian's managed to hold it together is really beyond me. But he's like a rock and I'll wager he is one hell of a psychologist. If anybody can understand the shit people have to go through, it's him.”

*

We talked a bit more while I finished my drink. It was about time for me to go get Jonathan, so I got up, folded the chair, and put it back against the wall while we reaffirmed our tentative plans for the weekend. He didn't know if Mario, who was a bartender at Venture, would be able to get Saturday night off, but they'd talk it over and we'd hook up somehow by phone to see what was going on.

I was afraid I was going to be late picking Jonathan up but of course I was early. Luckily, I found a parking spot from which I could see the front entrance. It was a nice night, so I got out of the car and leaned up against the fender, staring at nothing in particular, thinking of the case, of Jonathan, of Chris, and of tomorrow.

Chapter 5

Thursday turned out to be pretty much what I call a “blur-day”—so much going on and so fast that it was nearly impossible to pin down exactly where it went.

I got up at 5:30 to make sure I would be at Sandler's by 7, showered, shaved, dressed, woke Jonathan up before I left the apartment to be sure he wouldn't oversleep, and was at Sandler's by 10 'til.

The waiter had just filled my coffee cup when I looked up to see Lieutenant Richman come in. Even though I had resigned myself to the fact that he was irredeemably straight, I still felt he'd have been a great asset to the gay world.

He came over, we shook hands, and he took the seat opposite me.

“It's been a while,” he said as the waiter came back with a fresh carafe of coffee and two menus.

I smiled. “I figured you needed a break.”

The waiter asked if we were ready to order and, without having to look at the menu, Richman ordered his usual eggs over easy, ham, toast, large orange juice, and a side of pancakes, and I chose the ham and cheese omelet.

When the waiter left, Richman sat back in his chair, watching me as he always did. Finally, he said: “So what's the story on these missing men?”

I told him everything I knew, and how I'd arrived at whatever point it was that I was now.

“I'm certainly not faulting the police, and this has nothing at all to do with treating the gay community any differently than any other segment of the population. I'm sure they did everything they could, given the man-hours they could logically be expected to expend on four individual cases with no apparent evidence of a connection or of there being anything wrong. Without Gresham's having done his research, they might have stayed that way: individual cases.”

The waiter brought our breakfasts and we began to eat—well, Richman did because I was still mostly talking.

“But now we're once again in a situation, like it or not, that without my involvement, we might well never find out what happened to these men. I'd bet the farm that the police would never be willing to expend the time and money it would take to do so, given the complete lack of any solid evidence of a crime. And even if they were willing, these are gay men who are all linked to a gay counseling group and there's no way the police could do what I can do. For the police to move in officially, even if they wanted to, would be putting a very big bull in a very small china shop. The only chance I can see of finding what happened to these guys—and my gut tells me all four of them are dead—without letting whoever is responsible know anyone's looking for him, is to have me infiltrate the group.”

Richman, who had been busy using his last forkful of pancake to mop up the remaining syrup on his plate, looked up when he perceived I'd finally finished talking.

“You said this was a couples' group. Who are you going to get to play your other half?”

I told him about Jonathan, whom he had met on the earlier case I'd mentioned that had almost gotten Jonathan killed.

He smiled. “Well, congratulations!” he said with a sincere smile. “He's a really nice kid, and it's about time you settled down.”

We were quiet for a moment until Richman said: “And from us you would like…?”

A good question. I wasn't really sure what I expected him or the police to do at this point.

The waiter returned to refill our coffee, and Richman waited until he left to speak.

“You're right about our having done just about everything we could have done on these cases, and since as you say there isn't one iota of hard evidence of any crime, I can't see what more we might be able to do until something shows up that we can hang a case on.” He stirred about a quarter-cup of sugar into his coffee, tasted it, put in more sugar, and tasted it again. Apparently satisfied, he replaced the cup on its saucer and continued while I took the opportunity to get a couple bites from my omelet.

“Of course, under the circumstances, that doesn't mean we might not be able to offer you a little assistance from time to time, if you really need it.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate that.” I meant it wholeheartedly.

We exchanged small talk for awhile, Richman telling me about his three kids and especially about the oldest, Craig, who Richman was firmly convinced was gay.

“I just wish he'd feel comfortable enough to talk to me about it,” he said. “I've thought about bringing it up myself several times, but figure it's not up to me. He'll tell me when he's ready. I think he's getting there.”

“Well, I think you're handling it just fine. Coming out to the family is always a really big step, but he's damned lucky to have a dad like you. I'm sure he knows you'll understand and accept him for who he is.”

He sighed. “I hope so.” Suddenly, he glanced at his watch, then at my only half-finished plate.

“Uh…”

“That's okay,” I said. “I know you've got to get going. You go ahead; I'll get the check.”

“You sure?” he asked, already starting to get up.

“I'm sure,” I said as I put down my fork to shake hands. “It's the least I can do.”

Richman paused, then said: “And I assume we don't have to go through our little ritual of me making you promise you'll let me know what's going on, and that you'll recognize when it's time for us to step in?”

“Goes without saying.”

He stared at me for a second to be sure I'd gotten the message.

“Okay. So, thanks for breakfast, and we'll talk later.”

With that he left, leaving me to finish my breakfast.

*

I guess I was even more excited about seeing Chris again than I'd thought, because I can't really remember much of anything about the period between my leaving Sandler's and Chris's call from the airport at 12:30. The plane had been about 45 minutes late and they had to hurry into town so that Chris could make his 1:30 meeting. I quickly told him I had an appointment dealing with a case at 6:00, but that we would pick them up at the Montero as close to 8:00 as we could make it. He said that would be fine, and we hung up.

As I replaced the receiver onto its cradle, I thought back to the last time I'd seen Chris, walking from the car into the airport terminal to catch his flight for New York, officially closing the door on our five-year relationship as partners, and opening new doors for both of us. I also realized with a shock that I hadn't even been a P.I. the last time I saw him! Good God, where does time go?

*

Because we had to meet Brian Oaks at Qualicare at 6:00, I'd arranged to pick Jonathan up from work to save a few minutes. We had just enough time to run home, do a quick joint shower (no time for soap-dropping), get dressed, and head out to Qualicare, which was almost all the way across town. Jonathan, who had eaten his lunch about half an hour early, was starving, so we made a quick swing through a fast-food drive-up lane to get him a chocolate shake to tide him over until dinner. I got one too, but only because I didn't want him to feel bad about drinking one in front of me.

Jeez, you're noble, Hardesty,
my mind said admiringly.
Full of bullshit, but noble.

We approached the Qualicare complex at about quarter to six, but it turned out to be barely in time. I'd mentioned that Qualicare had taken over the old St. Anthony's Hospital a couple years earlier, and then started buying up every bit of property it could get within a radius of two blocks in every direction. They had been on a massive expansion program ever since. The whole area was one gigantic construction site. Old buildings coming down, new buildings going up, new parking structures popping up like mushrooms.

We managed to locate the Family Care Center but had to drive around for five minutes or so to find a parking place. Obviously brand new, the building even smelled new: of wallboard, plaster, paint and new carpeting, though the halls were tiled.

As we walked to the elevator, I noted from the spacing of the doors that apparently the first floor was mostly larger rooms—probably meeting and conference areas. This was confirmed when we got off the elevator on four, where the doors were much more closely spaced to indicate this was an office floor. We located Room 429 and knocked.

“Come in,” a pleasantly masculine voice called in response, and we did.

Brian Oaks got up from his desk to greet us. A very handsome man in his mid-forties with a full head of hair that was in the salt-and-pepper stage of making the transition from black to grey. On him it looked good. We walked over and introduced ourselves, shook hands, and took the seats he indicated for us as he took his own.

We were all silent for a moment, Jonathan and I because we weren't quite sure what to say, and Oaks because he was looking at us carefully with a calm but somehow bemused expression. Finally, having either found or not found whatever it was he may have been looking for, he leaned quickly back in his chair.

“Tell me your story.”

I glanced over at Jonathan and sensed him slipping into his “Let's Pretend…” persona.

“I don't want to lose Dick,” Jonathan said, his voice low and very sincere, “and I'm afraid that unless we do something, I'm going to. He just doesn't understand…”

“You're right there,” I said, following Jonathan's lead, “I don't understand how you can say you want to stop drinking one minute and then be pouring it down the next. I thought I could handle this, but I just don't know. I get so damned frustrated and angry and that sure doesn't help.”

“How long have you been together?”

“About a year now.” I was exaggerating by several months.

Oaks' face remained impassive as he looked back and forth between Jonathan and me. “And since you're here, I understand that to mean that both of you agree you want to stay together?”

“Oh, yes!” Jonathan said, reaching over to take my hand.