The Bottle Ghosts (3 page)

Moxie, Pals, the Paradise, Griff's (that one was a surprise somehow, since it was a very nice, quiet piano bar), Sketches, and the Troc. A lot to cover in one night, but I wasn't intending on spending much time in any of them. Having a lover waiting cut down the temptation to stand around awhile and cruise. And tonic and lime only: even one beer in each place would have an effect by the time I'd reached the sixth.

Actually, since I probably wouldn't be able to hit them all in the two-and-a-half hours that Jonathan would be in class, I thought I'd put Griff's toward the bottom of the list. It was on the way between the college and home, and I figured Jonathan and I could stop in there for a few minutes and catch Griff's resident pianist, Guy Prentiss, do one set. Jonathan had never heard Guy, who had always been one of my favorite entertainers.

I kept glancing at Jonathan out of the corner of my eye as we drove to the community college, and he was obviously having difficulty just sitting still, his anticipation level was so high. He sat there with his new book bag in his lap reminding me of a little boy on his first day of school. This was, as I said, his first college class, and even though it was a basic course in plant identification and care—Introduction to Horticulture 104—and directly related to his work, it was still college and it was still a thrill for him. As we drove up to the former factory which housed the college, Jonathan reached over and took my hand without looking directly at me. We pulled up to the front entrance, and he squeezed my hand, then released it.

“You'll pick me up at nine-thirty, then?” he asked.

I smiled. “Count on it.”

He got out of the car and hesitated just a moment before shutting the door.

“Go get 'em, Tiger,” I said, and he grinned, closed the door and went into the building.

*

The college was fairly close to the river, on the west side. I decided that the Troc was actually the closest of the bars, and that I might as well get it out of the way first. I cut down to the Rivercross Bridge (whoever named that one obviously believed in callin' 'em as he sees 'em), then made a left on Riverside and up to the Troc.

The Troc was actually practically built into the bluff, which towered above it. It was the only building on the bluff side of the street for two blocks in either direction. To refer to it as a “dive” would be an insult to dives. The grimy windows were so dirty the neon “Beer” sign on the inside could barely be read. The original name of the place had been The Trocadero, but some act of God had broken off the last part of the sign who knows how many years ago and it had never been replaced.

There were only a few cars scattered along the curb—it was, after all, only a few minutes after seven. I locked the car, walked toward the open door, assaulted before I got within twenty feet of the place by the smell of stale beer and the maudlin twang of country-western music, and entered.

The usual coal-mine ambiance couldn't have been more perfect if they'd hired a set designer. It made Hughie's, the dingy hustler bar close to my office, look positively cheery. I hadn't been aware they made light bulbs as dim as the five or six imperceptible blobs of light hanging from the ceiling. Maybe they were just as dirty as the windows. There'd have been more light if they'd put a couple jars of fireflies around the place. The strongest single source of light in the room came from one of those ubiquitous beer signs on the wall…the one with what appeared to be little bouncing balls repeating the same bounce pattern every ten seconds unto eternity.

I stepped up to the bar, completely ignored by the seven or eight patrons, two of whom were seated at facing stools, eyes closed, leaning toward each other with their foreheads touching—probably to keep from falling over. Whether they were in love or asleep was hard to tell. The rest just sat there, facing the back bar, a few with cigarettes dangling precariously from their lips or smoldering in ashtrays. The woman bartender reluctantly broke off her conversation with one of the guys at the far end of the bar and came over to me, leaning slightly forward with both hands on her edge of the bar.

“What'll it be?” she asked, in a voice which gave me the clear impression that she really didn't care.

“Can I just get a Coke?”

Her upper lip registered just the ghost of a sneer. “No Coke. No mixed drinks. Just beer.”

“How about a beer?” I asked. “Millers.” I chose Millers only because the sign was a Millers sign.

As she pushed herself away from the bar, I got out my billfold and Jerry Shea's photo. I took out a ten and laid it on the bar. She came back with the bottle of beer and set it on the bar in front of me. Obviously this wasn't one of those highfalutin' pansy places where they bother with napkins. She took the ten, but before she had a chance to turn to the cash register, I pushed the photo toward her and said: “Do you know this guy?”

She squinted at it in the dim light and said: “I seen him around, yeah. Why?”

“Lately?” I allowed myself a small flush of hope.

She shook her head. “Not for a month or so. Why? What'd he do?”

I shook my head: “He didn't do anything that I know of. I just want to find him. Any idea where I might look?”

“How many bars in this town?”

“Hundred or so, I'd imagine,” I said, recognizing a rhetorical question when I heard one.

“Try any one of 'em.” She took the bill to the register and, not bothering to return with the change, went back to the end of the bar to resume her conversation.

I left.

*

I managed to hit Moxie and made it as far as Pals before running into a former trick just as I was heading out the door. Dan O'Dea, I think his name was. Dan wanted to catch up on old times and made it clear he would definitely like a rematch. My crotch, of course, was all for it, but I explained carefully to both of them that I was in a relationship now. Both expressed their disappointment, though the guy at least acted like he understood. My crotch, I'm afraid, still hadn't gotten the picture.

The bartender at Moxie recognized Shea, but said he didn't know him at all; he did remember that he drank Black Russians, and that he always came in and left alone. He said he never got the impression that the guy was drunk, which led me to believe that either he was good at covering it up, or that Moxie might be one of the first stops on his list. I realized that he and Bradshaw lived only about half a mile from Moxie and that it was, indeed, the closest bar to their apartment.

Pals, which is about two blocks farther down Beech but on the other side of the street, was a slightly different story. The bartender on duty did not remember ever having seen Shea, but another one of the bartenders, who was just there as a customer, looked at the photo and identified him. He remembered him primarily because Shea drank Black Russians followed by a shot of Peppermint Schnapps. A combination like that would be a little hard for anybody to forget. He said Shea was usually pretty high when he came in, and a lot higher when he left. He recalled Shea leaving with someone once or twice—apparently a different guy each time. Well, I didn't have to mention that part in my report to Bradshaw.

I had just enough time for a quick stop at Sketches before having to head back to pick Jonathan up at the college. Unlike Moxie or Pals, which were in The Central, Sketches was the last bar on the far end of a four-block stretch of Arnwood that contained about seven gay bars, and it was only the concentration of bars that kept all of Arnwood from being considered Skid Row.

The bartender on duty at Sketches was a really cute number who obviously spent all his spare time in the gym. His pecs were so big they could cast shadows, and he had arms to match. But he'd just started working there and had never seen Shea. Apparently there'd been some sort of management shakeup, and all the bartenders who had worked there the last time Shea would most likely have been in had been fired. The bartender said he'd been working from opening at four p.m. until close at two a.m. for the past week.

Well, that left me with just the Paradise to check out, but I wouldn't be able to do it tonight. I knew Jonathan had to be at work in the morning—well, so did I, but—so I didn't want to stay out too late. I did want to stop in at Griff's. Maybe I'd hit the Paradise right after work.

*

About fifty people—students, I assumed—were milling around in front of the college entrance and several cars were lined up at the curb taking on passengers. Luckily, I saw Jonathan dart out from the sidewalk and hurry to open the passenger side door before the guy in the car behind me got too impatient.

“How did it go?” I asked as we inched forward in the traffic stream.

“It was great!” he said enthusiastically. “We're going to learn all about all different kinds of trees and bushes and which ones grow best where and the kind of light and soil they need, and…I think I'm really going to like it! I thought I knew a lot about this stuff before, but there sure is a lot to learn!”

I reached over, grinning, and laid my hand on his leg. He grabbed it and moved it up to his crotch. “I like it better there,” he said, and it wasn't meant as a come-on—he just liked it better there. So did I.

“I've got one more stop to make. It's one of my favorite places, and I think you'll like it. We won't stay too long.”

Jonathan gave me a big grin. “Sure! I like going different places. Especially with you.”

Jonathan Quinlan: Master Violinist. Dick Hardesty: Fiddle.
The thought was accompanied by an oddly pleasurable flush of warmth.

We found a parking place just a little way down from Griff's and took our time walking the short distance to the bar. It was a really nice night, warm and quiet.

Though it was just a little past 9:45, there were quite a few people in the bar. There was a soft spotlight on the piano, but no Guy sitting there playing, and then I remembered he didn't start his first set until ten. As I looked around the room, I was surprised to see Mollie Marino, a former client who was also my contact at the Clerk of Courts office, and her lover, Barb, seated at one of the tiny tables close to the piano. They smiled and waved, and I led Jonathan over to say hello and introduce him.

After we'd exchanged greetings, they invited us to take the table beside them. While Jonathan sat down, I excused myself to go to the bar and get our drinks. I asked Mollie and Barb if they were ready for another, but they declined with thanks.

As I stepped to the bar, I noticed Guy Prentiss come out of the office area and start making his customary table-stop tour, greeting and talking with all the patrons. It was a nice tradition, and he talked briefly with everyone, whether he'd ever seen them before or not.

I took the opportunity, after ordering a bourbon and Seven for me and a Coke for Jonathan, to show Shea's photo to the bartender. Again, Shea was recognized, but again apparently hadn't been in for several months. He couldn't provide any other pertinent information, either. Shea just came in occasionally, had several Black Russians (no side shots), never said much, and left, alone.

Ah, well, it was worth the try.

When I returned to the table, Jonathan was telling the women all about his first night of school, and they appeared to have fallen under his charm. We small-talked for a couple of minutes until Guy appeared at our tables, which were his last stop before he sat down to play.

I hadn't seen him since…
don't go there, Hardesty,
my mind said, so I didn't…for a long time. We exchanged greetings and, since he already apparently knew Barb and Mollie, I introduced him to Jonathan. He asked, as always, about Chris, since he remembered him from when Chris and I were a couple, and I told him that Chris and Max were coming for a visit.

“Bring them in! It would be great to see Chris again. It'll be like Old Home Week.”

I looked a little puzzled, and he grinned. “You remember Teddy Wilson? Better known as Tondelaya O'Tool, World's Best Drag Queen? Moved to New Orleans a while back after Bacchus' Lair shut down?”

Of course I remembered T/T—a huge black drag queen with a talent even bigger than he/she was, who never lip-synched and could belt out a song like nobody else.

“Of course! Is he back in town?”

Guy nodded. “He's flying in next Saturday, I hear. That new place on Beech, Steamroller Junction, is having its grand opening next weekend, and Teddy's one of the headliners for the opening show.”

“That's great! We'll have to try to go while Chris and Max are here.”

“Do that. And be sure to stop by here, too.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, time for the first set.”

I stopped him before he had a chance to walk away, taking out Shea's photo. “Do you by any chance know this guy?” He took the photo and looked at it closely.

“Yeah. His name's…” he paused for only a second or so “…Jerry. Never says much. Sits over there at the end of the bar. Always waits until the end of a set to leave. I get the impression he's a pretty lonely guy.”

In light of the fact that Shea had a lover, I found that a little strange. But then I realized that being lonely goes a lot deeper than whether or not people are around.

Guy handed the photo back to me and turned to Jonathan. “Anything you'd like to hear, Jonathan?”