The Bottle Ghosts (20 page)

I reached over with my free arm and pulled him to me, being careful not to spill either his Coke or my drink, and gave him a one-arm hug. “Any time you want.”

Just before we sat down to dinner, I tried calling John Ellison. Again, no answer.

Around 8:30, as Jonathan was in his usual cross-legged pose in the middle of the living room floor with his textbook open in front of him, I tried Ellison one more time and then, after still no answer, called Ben Oaks.

The phone was picked up on the first ring.

“Yeah?” a man's voice said.

“Mr. Oaks? My name's Dick Hardesty. I'm a private investigator and I wondered if I could talk to you for a few minutes about your brother Brian.”

“I haven't seen Brian in…what?…four, five months. What's the problem?”

“Nothing serious,” I said, once again lying through my teeth. Jonathan looked up at me casually, then returned to his book. “I'm working on a case and I'm just trying to get some background information on some of the people who might have some information about it. Would you mind answering a few questions for me?”

“Now?” he asked, throwing me slightly off guard for some reason.

“Well, if…” I started to say, but he interrupted me.

“Tell you what. I've got to work tomorrow: time and a half, I can't pass it up. I get off work at five, and I usually stop in at Jesse's Place for a quick beer. You want to meet me there, say five-thirty, we could talk a few minutes.”

“That'll be fine. I'll see you there. And thanks.”

We didn't mention how we'd be able to identify one another, but if Ben looked as much like Brian as Bob Allen had said…and Jesse's Place was the kind of bar where a new face—mine—would be hard to miss. It was a typical, totally straight working-class neighborhood bar with, as I recall from having been in there once on a case for Glen O'Banyon, a dart board, a pool table, and about four TV sets all tuned to the Big Game of the moment. The clientele tended to the natural, authentic born-butch heterosexual. They were to most gay-bar butches the way leather is to Naugahyde. The conversation centered on the sport du jour, the job, the kids, and the wife. I don't think there was a Harley, an arm band, or a sling set among them. In short, the kind of place I
really
felt uncomfortable.

Luckily, I didn't think it would likely be too busy at 5:30 on a Saturday afternoon.

*

We'd arranged to have dinner Saturday night with Tim and Phil (the people, not the goldfish) at Napoleon at eight o'clock, and I was pretty sure we could juggle things so as not to be late. The day was filled with Saturday things, including a stop at Reef Dwellers so Jonathan could pick up more fish food (those two little buggers could
eat!
) and some plastic grass for the bottom of the aquarium, since Jonathan thought they might be getting bored and decided it would be nice to give them somewhere to play tag and hide-and-go-seek. We also stopped to get some leaf polish—not for the ficus, which now was actually beginning to look like a ficus; there were now too many leaves to even think about trying to polish each one—but for the small jungle of elephant-ears and ivies and philodendron we were accumulating from rejected or too-sick-to-sell plants Jonathan insisted on bringing home. He did have a green thumb, and was happy as a clam when he was working with them. And, of course, he named them all.

When we got home, I tried John Ellison's number again and this time got through.

“Hello?” Eagerness was clearly evident in his voice. I suppose he was hoping it might be Andy, or someone with news of him.

“John, hi…this is Dick. Hardesty. From the Qualicare Thursday night group.”

His eager tone changed to slight puzzlement. “Dick. Oh, hi. This is a surprise.”

“I just called to see how you're doing,” I said. I didn't even bother to make a pretense of asking if he'd heard from Andy. I knew he hadn't.

There was a slight pause, then: “Fine, I guess. I sure do wish Andy would at least call, though. It's been way too long, and he's never done this before.”

Again, I resisted coming out with some sort of automatic reassuring response like “Oh, I'm sure he'll be back soon.” That might have made him feel better, but I couldn't lead him on that way.

“John, there are some things I need to talk with you about. About Andy; is there some way we could get together for a few minutes, maybe Monday? Or even tomorrow? We could meet somewhere.”

Again, hesitation and then puzzlement. “I…I don't know, Dick. You know Brian doesn't like members of the group to meet outside the group.”

“Well, that's another reason I need to talk to you. Jonathan and I are leaving the group, and…well, it will be easier to explain in person.”

“Uh…well, I go to the M.C.C.'s eleven o'clock service. Maybe I could meet you right after?” There was another pause, then a tone that conveyed suspicion. “You
and
Jonathan, right?”

I suddenly realized that he might have thought I was coming on to him!

“Yeah,” I said immediately, “me
and
Jonathan.”

“Okay, sure. I'll see you after church.”

We exchanged our goodbyes and hung up.

*

I arrived at Jesse's Place at around 5:25. The fact that I was able to find a parking spot just a few doors down from the bar reassured me that the place was probably fairly empty. I was right.

Jesse's Place was clean, pretty well lit for a bar, and smelled very strongly of cigarette smoke. There was, in fact, a light blue haze from the fact that four of the five guys seated at the bar, and the two playing darts, were all smoking.

I didn't see anyone who resembled Brian Oaks as I walked to the bar and ordered a draft. The bartender brought it, asked how I was doing, took my money, and went to the register. A couple of minutes later, the door opened and Ben Oaks came in. Bob had been right; there was no mistaking the family resemblance to Brian. He exchanged greetings with most of the guys in the place as he walked directly up to me.

“Dick Hardesty, right?” he said as he took the stool next to me.

“Right.” I extended my hand.

The bartender, without asking what he wanted, reached into the cooler for a Millers, popped it open, and set it on the bar in front of him, then moved off down the bar to another customer.

Oaks took a long swig of beer, and said “ahhhhhhhhhh!” as he put it back on the bar. “So what can I do for you, Dick?”

“Well, I'm working on a case involving a group Brian works with at Qualicare, and I'm trying to find out as much about everyone in it as I can. I understand that there was an incident in Brian's past that he might be reluctant to talk about, and I was wondering if you could fill me in. And I'd very much appreciate it if you didn't mention to Brian that I've been in contact with you.”

Oaks shrugged. “Like I said on the phone, Brian and me aren't too close.”

“It happens. What I'm wondering about is the death of his partner several years ago. What can you tell me about it?”

We both took a drink of our beers, and Oaks turned slightly to put both his forearms on the edge of the bar and hunched forward, holding his glass with both hands.

“I don't know too much. I knew they were having problems. Kent, Brian's other half, was a drinker, and it was getting worse. They'd bought a twenty-acre parcel of land in the woods near where they lived and were planning to build a house there on a hill overlooking the forest. Brian sent me a picture of it. Anyway, one day they had a big fight over Kent's drinking, and Kent disappeared. One minute he was there, the next minute he wasn't. A week later some kids out playing in the woods found Kent's body at the top of the hill. He'd been shot. They found the gun about twenty feet from the body. The first thing the cops assumed was that Brian had done it: he'd told them all about the argument and the problems they'd been having when he filed the missing person's report. They hauled Brian in and questioned him for several hours. Then the tests on the gun came in, and apparently the only fingerprints on it were Kent's. So they finally ruled it a suicide and that some animal had dragged the body from where it had happened to where it was found.”

Jeezus!

He drained his beer and set the empty bottle on the far edge of the bar to attract the bartender's attention. “Brian was cleared, of course, but it was a relatively small town and gossip just wouldn't let it go. Brian's practice fell off, and he finally moved back here.”

“Where was this? And when?”

Oaks thought a moment, idly scraping the label off his beer bottle with his thumb. “Freeport, Illinois. Three, maybe four years ago.”

“Brian sure as hell has had rotten luck with alcoholics,” I immediately felt a flush of embarrassment realizing that I was quite probably talking to another one at the moment.

Oaks grinned and shook his head. “Not luck: Brian's a savior. He
looks
for people he thinks he can save from themselves. And the sad thing is he hasn't got a clue that's what he's doing. He hates drunks, but he's bound and determined to ‘save' them. Strange duck, my brother.”

He turned his head to look at me. “Anything else you want to know?”

Good question. “Uh, and his current partner? Chad?”

Oaks shrugged. “Same song, different verse. And what he just doesn't get is that some people don't
want
to be saved.” He picked up his beer and tilted it in my direction with a nod and a raised eyebrow.

*

Damn, damn, damn!
Dinner with Tim and Phil was fun, as always, but would have been a lot more fun if I'd been able to stop thinking about this damned case for two minutes. I hoped my being distracted wasn't too apparent to the others, who all seemed to be having a great time. Phil's contract as official underwear model for Spartan Briefs had just been renewed, and he was being recognized on the street because of the latest Spartan campaign which featured Phil's considerable talents on the sides of city buses. He'd been doing some traveling for the company, which he didn't much care for since it took him away from Tim more than either of them would have preferred. Tim was busy as always at his job at the coroner's office. He'd been taking a couple of courses in forensics, which really fascinated him, and hoped to turn his career in that direction.

Jonathan, of course, wanted to know how all their fish were doing, and dropped another hint in my direction that Tim and Phil (the fish, not the people) would really like to have a much larger aquarium so they could have more room to roam around, and we could maybe get them a couple more fish to play with. Jonathan was big on subtlety.

I filled Tim and Phil (the pe…well, I guess you can figure it out) in, as best I could, on the case which was taking up far, far too much of my life, and they were, as always, supportive and confident that I'd have it solved in no time.

After dinner we ran out to Griff's to hear Guy Prentice do a couple of sets, and then home to bed. Jonathan suggested we might fill up the bathtub and play the Scuba Diver and the Merman in honor of our trip to Reef Dwellers, but I convinced him we should hold off until we had a little more time to figure out how to keep the apartment from flooding, and settled instead for a gentle, loving…well, ‘exchange of affection.'

*

As a card-carrying agnostic, I'm not too strong on organized religion, and the more fundamental the religion the more uncomfortable I tend to be with it. But the M.C.C. was really relatively non-denominational and attracted gays and lesbians of all faiths who felt their regular churches did not exactly want “their kind.”

But Jonathan liked to go, occasionally, so we did. And I really liked Tony Mason, the pastor of the church. Every time we'd go, Jonathan would find an excuse to run next door to Haven House, the shelter for gay and lesbian throwaway kids. Jonathan had spent a little time there when I first met him, and although the kids who had been there at the time had moved on, he enjoyed just going over and talking with whoever was there. Actually, I was glad he did; he was something of a role model to show them that there was light at the end of the tunnel for those willing to work to get there.

We left the apartment about an hour early so we could drive to an industrial area of town where there were lots of huge parking areas. Since it was Sunday, they were all empty, and I figured it would be a good place to let Jonathan practice his driving. He intended to get his license as soon as he could, but he hadn't driven in over a year, and had never driven an automatic, so I wanted to make sure he had a little practice before just plopping into a car with an examiner at the DMV. I needn't have worried; he did fine, though a couple of times he instinctively moved his left foot to find the clutch that wasn't there.

We entered the church just before the service started, and I looked around to see if I could spot John. Jonathan saw me looking and nudged me, pointing to the third row from the front, where I saw him. We took a seat near the rear; when the service ended we moved against the wall and waited for John to come up the aisle.