The Dream Ender (22 page)

Okay, so Fells and Morse were definite suspects. Add Reed and Gleason, who had their own solid motives. I’d probably find out, when I talked to Spinoza and Manners, that they did, too. And if Carl Brewer did have the Male Call up for sale, he’d be right there with them. All of them were aware Jake had the gun, and any one of them could have stolen and used it.

Momentarily distracted by a TV commercial featuring a shirtless hunk demonstrating a new 32-blade shaver—“For the closest shave ever!”—that got even Jonathan’s attention, my mind again sank back into speculation. Why did I always seem to get cases with multiple suspects? Two is fine. Maybe even three. But this one had at least seven that I knew of—and how many others that I didn’t?

Then, there was the element of motive. This case wasn’t about greed or power or secrets. This, except perhaps for Carl Brewer losing his business, was totally about emotions. All these men had lost or were losing something that can’t be assigned a price tag. Who can possibly accurately determine which human being’s emotions are stronger than another’s?

I noticed Jonathan had closed his book and was staring at me.

“Figure it out yet?” he asked.

I shook my head and laid one hand on his thigh. “Nope,” I said. “Too many suspects.”

He grinned. “Can I be one?” he asked.

“Sure, why not?” I said. “But why would you want to be?”

“Well, I was thinking we might play a game of The Tough P.I. and the Stubborn Suspect. You know, maybe rough him up a little bit. Maybe even a full-body search…”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, getting up. Reaching to pull him up with me, I led him toward the bedroom.

*

No messages on my office answering machine when I got in Friday. I waited until after my morning ritual before trying to reach Manners and Spinoza. Again no answer on either phone, and I left another message for Spinoza, telling him it was important I talk to him and again leaving both my office and home phone numbers.

I then dialed Carl Brewer’s home number to try to set up an appointment to talk with him in person. I wanted to know if the rumor about his selling the Male Call was true, and I preferred to do it face to face so I could better gauge his reactions.

The phone rang twice before I heard the receiver being lifted. “Brewer.”

“Mr. Brewer, this is Dick Hardesty. I was wondering if you’d have a couple of minutes today to talk to me.”

“About what? Didn’t you get my check?”

“Yes, I got it, and thanks. But I had a couple of questions about Cal Hysong’s death.”

“That book’s closed as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “The bastard’s dead. Good riddance. End of story.”

“Well, not quite,” I said. “That’s why I’d like to talk to you in person.”

There was a rather long pause, which clearly conveyed the idea he’d just as soon not be bothered.

“Today’s not a good day. I’ve got some business to take care of, and I have to go in to work early to do some paperwork.”

“Could I come by the bar for a few minutes when you first get there? I won’t take up much of your time.”

His sigh underscored his earlier pause. “I suppose. We open at four.”

I’d been hoping to talk to him alone, not only because of the nature of my questions but to avoid the distractions of other people being nearby. But I didn’t want to push it.

“Thanks,” I said. “I really appreciate it. See you then.”

I called Jonathan’s work to leave a message I might be a few minutes late getting home.

*

I arrived at the Male Call shortly after four and immediately saw I needn’t have worried about distractions. The place was empty—no sign of a customer or of Carl Brewer. It was so quiet I could have heard a cockroach belch.

I walked to the bar and sat down. After what was probably a minute but seemed much longer, I called out, “Hello?”

The door to Brewer’s office opened, and he emerged carrying a case of beer, which he brought up to the bar without a word and began to unpack into a slide-top cooler.

“On time again,” he said, glancing at me for the first time. When he’d put the last of the bottles into the cooler, he set the empty box on the ledge behind him and turned to me. “What’ll it be?”

“A Bud,” I said, and he reached into another cooler and plunged his hand into a mound of ice to retrieve a bottle, which he uncapped and set in front of me.

I reached into my pocket for my wallet, but he waved me off.

“On the house.”

“Thanks,” I said and took a long swig.

By this time it had dawned on me that, though the bar was officially open, there was no bartender, and the lack of any other customers clearly explained why.

“So, what did you need to know?” he asked, idly running a damp rag over the highly polished rail on his side of the counter.

“I’ve heard you’ve got the Male Call up for sale,” I said and saw the muscles in his jaw clench, though he kept his face impassive.

“Yeah, I do. It’s time. I’ve been thinking about it for a couple of years, now. And then when I do decide, the roof falls in. Talk about lousy timing. First those fucking AIDS rumors, and now everbody’s assuming there’s a murderer running around here.”

“You put a hell of a lot of work into this place,” I said.

“Twenty years. But everything’s got to end sometime.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the bar.

“Any offers yet?” I asked, though I knew it wasn’t any of my damned business and I expected him to tell me so.

“Pete Reardon made a half-assed offer on it,” he said casually, “though the Spike’s just hanging on by a thread itself. It’s been doing better since guys stopped coming here, but I know he couldn’t afford it even if I’d consider selling to him. And he knows I’d burn the place to the ground before that happened.”

Reardon wanted it? That was an interesting bit of news.

“He’s already got the Spike. Why would he want the Male Call, too?”

Brewer looked at me. “Because it’s mine. He’s been out to destroy me ever since the Dog Collar fire.”

“I’m curious,” I said, after taking another swig of beer. “If this Hysong thing hadn’t come along, would you still be selling?”

“Like I said, I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he repeated, and I didn’t believe him. “Cal was just the final push.”

“It must be really tough to give up something that’s been so big a part of your life for all this time. And it must have been hard to see your business drop off so sharply.”

He shook his head. “I don’t blame the guys for staying away when those AIDS rumors started. They were scared—and they had every reason to be.” He paused a minute, then said, “So, what’s your interest in all this?”

“I’ve been hired to try to find out who killed Hysong,” I said.

He gave a short snort of disgust. “Why bother? Who cares who killed him?”

“Well, the guy they arrested for it, for one.”

“Oh, right—Jake Jacobson. I was surprised to hear it, but I’ll buy him a beer next time I see him, by way of thanks.”

“Yeah, well, Jake didn’t do it.”

Brewer just shrugged.

The front door opened, and two guys came in. Brewer pushed away from the bar.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve gotta get to work.”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks for the beer.”

Already walking toward the two guys, now seated at the far end of the bar, he merely gave a wave over his shoulder in response.

*

I pulled into the apartment garage just as Jonathan and Joshua turned into the driveway. I opened his garage door for him and waited until they got out of the car and joined me.

“Piggyback!” Joshua demanded, running up to me, and I obligingly knelt down so he could climb on. If I had any doubts of the rate of his growth, carrying him up a flight of stairs resolved it.

The minute we finished dinner, I went to the phone to call Tom Spinoza and Art Manners. I’d already left two messages on Spinoza’s answering machine in as many days without a reply. It was possible he was out of town or for some reason didn’t get them. It was also possible he got them and chose to ignore them, which is why I called him first.

The phone rang three times before I heard it being picked up, followed by “Yeah?”

Whatever happened to Hello, I wondered.

“This is Dick Hardesty calling,” I said. “I left a couple of messages on your machine.”

“I know. I got them.”

That’s it? He got them? And…?

“I was hoping to hear from you,” I said.

“I been busy,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I’m trying to find out who killed Cal Hysong,” I said.

“I heard they arrested Jake Jacobson for it,” he said. “I think they should pin a medal on him.”

“I understand you had sex with Hysong after he knew he had AIDS. You must have been really pissed when you found out.”

“Pissed?” he said. “Pissed?” His voice dripped with sarcasm dipped in hatred. “Yeah, you might say that!”

“But you’re okay?”

“Sure, I’m fine. For now. You ever have a fucking hand grenade shoved up your ass and you don’t know whether the pin’s been pulled or not? Yeah, I’m pissed. I wish that sonofabitch would come back to life just long enough so I could have a chance at killing him again.”

Again?
I thought. An interesting choice of words.

“I was wondering if we could get together for a few minutes to talk about who might have stolen Jake’s gun—it was the one that killed Hysong, and you were at Jake’s with a bunch of other guys just before Cal was killed. Maybe you could give me an idea of who to look at.”

“No, we can’t get together. I’m not going to waste one more second thinking of that bastard. He’s dead. I don’t know who killed him, and I don’t give a shit. All that matters is that he’s dead, and I hope he rots in hell!” There was a very brief pause, then, “I’ve got work to do.”

And with that there was the click of the receiver being hung up.

Well, if Spinoza had killed Hysong, it certainly hadn’t brought him much closure.

Again I thought of how hatred was undoubtedly the primary motive in Hysong’s death. The problem remained in trying to determine whose hatred was strong enough to pull the trigger of Jake’s gun.

Without setting the phone back on the cradle, I dialed Art Manners’ number, hoping both that he would be home and also a bit more cooperative than Tom Spinoza.

I was pleasantly surprised when the phone was picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Art Manners?” I asked, not sure he might not have a roommate.

“Yeah?”

Assured I had the right guy, I went into my by-now-standard introduction, reason for calling, etc.

The entire conversation followed the usual pattern. As Jared had told me, Manners had lost a close friend to AIDS within months after the guy’s having had sex with Hysong in the back room of the Male Call. Except for the possible lingering grudge against Hysong for having beaten him up in a fight, I didn’t get any indication his hatred for Hysong was any greater than anyone else’s who’d been at the meeting at Jake’s. I was glad when he agreed to meet with me after he got off work Monday night and suggested Happy Hour at the Nightingale, which I gathered was close by for him. I was somewhat relieved he hadn’t mentioned either the Spike or the Male Call.

When we’d hung up, I glanced over at Jonathan, on the couch with Joshua lying with his head in his lap. Joshua had been uncharacteristically quiet ever since I got home. He’d complained of a stomach ache during dinner and hadn’t eaten much. Jonathan motioned me over with a jerk of his head.

“Feel Joshua’s forehead,” he said. “I think he’s got a fever.”

I knelt down in front of Jonathan’s legs and put my hand on Joshua’s forehead. It felt warm to me.

“Let me get the thermometer,” I said, getting up to go into the bathroom.

“My stomach hurts,” Joshua declared as I brought the thermometer to him and had him sit up as I put it in his mouth, instructing him to put it under his tongue.

Sure enough, he had a temperature of just above 100.

“Tell you what, Joshua,” I said, “why don’t we go get you ready for bed and then we’ll have time to read an extra story.”

“It’s not time to go to bed,” he complained. “I wanna stay up!”

Since it was still fairly early, we agreed he could stay up until the end of the TV show he and Jonathan were watching, and he lay back down with his head in Jonathan’s lap. My mother always used to say she could tell how I was feeling from my eyes, and I realized she was right. I could tell from Joshua’s expression he was not feeling good.

After a couple of minutes, he sat up and said, “I think I’m gonna throw up!”

I scooped him off the couch and carried him to the bathroom, where we made it to the toilet just in time. Jonathan came in with us and held his head.

Having a kid around isn’t always fun, and we had to stand around helplessly until he was reduced to the dry heaves. We cleaned him up and took him into the bedroom to change into his pajamas. His stomach pains seemed to be getting worse.

“Maybe we should take him to the E.R.,” Jonathan said, concern all over his face. A quick glance in the mirror showed I wasn’t exactly a picture of calm myself.

“Let’s wait for about half an hour,” I said. “If he’s not feeling any better then, we’ll go.”

*

Half an hour passed. He wasn’t and we did.