The Dream Ender (9 page)

I really didn’t know what to say, so I just restated my condolences, thanked him for his time, and hung up, feeling like I had a bowling ball where my heart should be.

Chapter 8

Cal Hysong. It all came back to Cal Hysong.

And who else could it come back to?
my mind-voice in charge of logic asked…logically.
Who else have you even considered?

It had a point, of course. Cal Hysong was hardly the only ultra-butch guy out there. And not all of them were gay. What about some straight guy who somehow got infected—they were beginning to say it could be spread through blood transfusions, and some hospitals were refusing to allow gays to give blood. So, maybe it’s some straight guy out to get revenge on gays.

All evidence to the contrary, part of me simply could not accept the thought that one of our own people could do this.

Okay, so for whatever reason, Hysong was the only name I had. I promised myself I’d stay as objective as I possibly could and not close the door on any other possibilities. I’d continue to go with it until another came up.

From what I could tell, whoever it was never came right out and said he was giving his partner AIDS. Still, it didn’t take much of a stretch to realize what he meant by “a gift” or “leaving” them something. And all the incidents I’d heard of had happened at least a couple of months ago. AIDS was killing guys within a matter of weeks in some cases. Whoever said it could well be dead himself by now. Cal Hysong was, from all reports, as healthy as they come.

Val had mentioned Typhoid Mary. Maybe it was possible for someone to carry AIDS around with them and give it to others without being sick themselves. But then how would they know they had it if they weren’t sick? There was no test yet. Maybe it just progressed slower in some people than in others. Who knew?

Which was exactly one of the major problems. If anybody did know, they weren’t telling the rest of us.

One very interesting thing I remembered about both stories was that the guy insisted all the lights be turned off before having sex. Was that just one of his hangups, or might it have another meaning? And was there some tie-in to the turning off of the lights in the Male Call’s back room?

Cal Hysong yes or Cal Hysong no, I decided to check to see what Brewer knew about him.

*

“Brewer,” the voice on the other end of the line announced.

“Mr. Brewer,” I began—I always address a client formally unless and until asked to do otherwise, and Brewer thus far hadn’t—“it’s Dick Hardesty. I’ve got a couple of questions for you.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ve heard several references to a guy whose description I understand fits one of your regulars—Cal Hysong—and his name’s come up a couple of times. What can you tell me about him?”

“Cal? He’s why leather bars were invented. He’s one mean, tough sonofabitch and nobody messes with him, but he’s never been a real problem.” He paused. “You’re not saying Cal’s behind these rumors?”

“No…at least, not directly. I assume he used the back room while it was open?”

“Who didn’t?” Brewer answered.

“And I understand you had some problem with guys unscrewing the lights in there.”

“Yeah, and that really pissed me off. If the fire inspectors came in and caught that, they could have my license!”

“Did you ever hear any stories about what happened back there when the lights were out?”

“What do you mean? Same thing went on when the lights were out as when they were on, only maybe with a little more intensity, if that’s possible.”

“Nobody reported some guy screwing them and then telling them they were dead men?”

There was a long pause before a very unconvincing, “No.”

“Look, if I’m going to help you get to the bottom of this thing, you’re going to have to be honest with me.”

“Well, okay, yeah, one or two of the guys mentioned they’d heard something like that, but I didn’t believe it. Some of these guys have a strange sense of humor, and I figured it was probably just some bastard joking around. A lot of these guys like to play the intimidation game.”

“That’s a pretty sick joke,” I said.

“Yeah, I’ll admit telling somebody you’ve just fucked that he’s a dead man is pretty sick, but I can’t imagine anyone seriously meaning it—or anyone taking them seriously, for that matter. And if you’re thinking it might be Cal, all you have to do is take a look at him. Six-four, two-forty if he’s a pound, not an ounce of fat on him—solid muscle. He’s a steelworker on the Century Tower project, swinging I-beams into place all day. He’s as healthy as a horse.”

“You don’t have to look sick to be sick,” I pointed out.

“No, but…” A long pause, then, “No. Not possible. I can ask him what he’s heard about all this, but I don’t know what good it might do.”

“Well, I’d be curious as to his reaction to the question,” I said. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch. I can’t remember him ever saying anything positive about anything.”

“How about his friends?” I asked, though I remembered Jared telling me Cal didn’t have any.

“He’s got a little circle of guys he tolerates or rides with, but he doesn’t let anybody get too close. For the most part, he could be straight. He’s got nothing but contempt for ‘faggots.’”

“Is he into S and M?” I asked.

Brewer shrugged. “You’d sure might think so to look at him and listen to him talk, but his contempt extends to anybody putting labels on him.”

“So, what does he do in bed?” I wondered.

“Any damned thing he wants to.”

*

Every now and then I do something totally out of left field, and when I hung up from talking with Brewer I found myself doing it again.

I checked in the phone book for a listing for a Dr. Stan(ley?) Jacobson. There was none. Well, Jake had said his brother just got back into town after a year at the CDC, so I looked up the number of Mercy Memorial and called, asking to be transferred to Dr. Jacobson’s nurse.

“Dr. Jacobson’s office,” a pleasant female voice said.

I knew I didn’t stand the chance of a snowball in hell of actually talking to him right then, so I said, “Could I leave a message for Dr. Jacobson, please?”

“Of course.”

“Would you ask him if he could please call Dick Hardesty when he has a moment? I met him the other day while his brother was a patient.”

“Do you need to make an appointment?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “But it is rather important, and I would very much like to talk with him if I could. By phone would be fine.”

I gave her both my office and home numbers. I felt a little guilty about bothering him, considering how busy he had to be dealing with an increasing number of AIDS patients, and didn’t hold much realistic hope he’d call, but I had a couple of questions about AIDS he would be uniquely qualified to answer—if there were any answers. To date, answers to questions about the disease were in agonizingly short supply. But, I rationalized, he might be able to help me do at least a little something to stem the tide.

After hanging up, I agonized again about calling the numbers on my “ill” list. What in the hell could I possibly say to them? “Hey, I was wondering if you might know who killed you?” These poor guys had enough to worry about: I couldn’t see adding to their anguish. I knew I probably would have to do it eventually. Just not now.

I did pull out the list of the nine—nine!—Male Call patrons who’d already died. I’d already talked to friends/roommates/lovers of three of them, and tried to look up the phone numbers of the other six. I found five. The first two I called were disconnected—including Mike Brisco, Jared and Jake’s friend. On two others I got answering machines, but at least that meant someone would get my message and, I hoped, reply. I left both my work and home numbers.

I was able to only actually talk with one roommate of the dead, who had not been a roommate long and who had little of significance to report, other than to verify that the man had, indeed, been a Male Call regular, which I already knew. One did say, however, that his roommate seldom went to any other bar.

*

Joshua had just finished saying his prayers and hugged his parents’ framed photograph and climbed into bed for Story Time when the phone rang. I told Jonathan to start without me and hurried into the living room to answer it.

“Dick? This is Stan Jacobson. I got your message. What can I do for you?”

“I really appreciate your calling, Doctor—”

“Stan,” he corrected.

“Stan. I’ll get right to the point. There are rumors going around the gay community of someone deliberately spreading AIDS, and I’ve been hired to track them down to see if there’s any validity to them.”

“Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said.

“From what I’ve heard and those cases I know of, the time between becoming aware of being infected and death is pretty short. But I know of someone who might have been deliberately spreading it for several months and is still alive and apparently healthy.”

He sighed. “Yes, that’s possible. There’s so much we don’t know yet, and until we can test for it reliably—and we’re very close now—we can’t really be sure of anything. As you said, the time between infection and death can be a matter of months, if that. But apparently some people are carriers without knowing it or becoming ill, or somehow manage to hold the symptoms at bay. I have a patient right now who has had Karposi’s sarcoma for at least four months without its spreading, or without falling prey to the other opportunistic diseases so common in AIDS patients.

“You have no idea how frustrating this is for everyone in the medical establishment. The only thing we’re certain of is that we can’t be certain of anything. We’re learning, but about all we can do is work as hard as we can to deal with each opportunistic disease as it arises then wait for the next one to show up and deal with that one.”

I wanted to ask him about Jake but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe if we just ignored it, it would go away.

Suddenly, I found myself thinking of a link between the stories the now-dead Bart and Jesse had told—the guy’s insistence on the lights being out before they had sex. And the lights being turned out at the Male Call. Of course!

“Stan, I know you can’t give out any information on your patients, but I have one question I hope to God you can answer for me. The guy with Karposi’s—can I ask what part of his body is involved?”

There was a long pause. “That’s an odd question. Why would you ask it?”

“Because the guy I was telling you about won’t let his partners see him without a towel around his waist and always insists on having the lights out during sex. If you don’t want to be specific, could you at least tell me if I’d be right in guessing that it’s somewhere on his lower torso or upper legs?”

“I don’t know, Dick. I…”

“Look, Stan, I understand your situation. I do. But if I’m right, maybe we can find a way to keep him from giving AIDS to anybody else. It would sure as hell make your job easier.”

He sighed again. “Well, I”m afraid getting one carrier off the streets is like trying to lower a lake by taking out a cup of water. But the answer to your question is yes.”

“Thank you!” I said, and I’d never meant anything more sincerely.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “I wish you luck. Oh, and I’d just as soon you didn’t mention this call to Jake.”

“Of course,” I replied, though the fact he had said it sent a chill up my spine.

Chapter 9

I woke up Friday morning thinking. I hate that, especially when I hadn’t slept all that well, probably because I’d been trying to sleep and think at the same time. Not easy.

I was still thinking as I waited for Jonathan to get out of the shower. Okay. Dilemma time. I was now as certain as I could be without pulling his pants down for a visual check that Cal Hysong had Karposi’s. Maybe I could sneak up behind him…

Jeezus, Hardesty!
a mind-voice snapped.
How can you joke about something like that? Hysong may be a total asshole, but he’s still a human being!

It was right, of course. But I’d just gotten out of bed and somehow found it difficult to feel charitable toward someone who was deliberately trying to kill guys.

Anyway, back to the dilemma. Since Carl Brewer had paid me to find out if there was any truth to the rumors, I was obliged to tell him what I had discovered. It wasn’t a comfortable position to be in. And there was still the outside chance it wasn’t Hysong. I’ve fallen flat on my face more than once jumping to conclusions. I didn’t want to do it again, especially when the stakes were so high.

I decided I’d just lay it all out for Brewer and leave it to him. I remember him saying that if he ever found out someone from the Male Call was deliberately infecting others, he’d kill the guy himself. I’m sure it was just a heat-of-the-moment comment, but it still gave me pause.

I decided I’d put off talking with him until Monday, which would give me a few more days to see if anything else might come up to make me consider someone other than Hysong.

*

Craig’s dad drove him over around six thirty Friday evening. We’d already fed Joshua—chicken potpie, a close runner-up to hot dogs and macaroni and cheese on his list of gourmet foods—and I was just putting him into his pajamas when Craig arrived. We’d told Joshua that if he promised not to give Craig an argument when it came time to go to bed he could help Craig make popcorn later. Of course, Joshua considered Craig his best buddy and was almost always on his best behavior around him.