“From what I know, yeah. I’ve heard they’re fuck-buddies. Art tries to hide it, but I know he’d do anything for Pete.”
Interesting.
“You know anything more about Manners?” I asked.
“I know he comes from a lot of money, though he tries not to show it. I hear his old man is Richard Manners of Tri-State Industries.”
Tri-State Industries was one of the city’s largest employers.
We talked while he finished getting dressed, until a glance at my watch told me I had to get going if I was going to make it to Sandler’s in time to meet Marty.
“I’d better get going,” I said. “I appreciate your cooperation, Don, you’ve been a big help.”
“Any time,” he said. “And tell Jake I’m rooting for him.”
“Will do,” I replied, picking up my bag to leave. “Have a good time on Sunday.”
*
The first thing I noticed when Marty walked into the restaurant was how attractive he was. Coming so close as it did after my encounter with a naked Don Gleason, I determined that Jonathan and I—okay, especially I—needed a little quality fantasy playtime. Luckily, mindreading is not one of Marty’s abilities. He came over to the table I’d taken, we shook hands, and he sat down.
We talked a bit about what was going on in our private lives; Marty announced his wife was pregnant with their second child.
Lucky her!
a mind-voice—my crotch, obviously—observed.
Watch it, Hardesty!
the other voices cautioned—totally unnecessarily, I might add.
I told him about Joshua’s appendicitis, at which he expressed sympathy, and my week-long stint as watchdog, comfort giver, and toy picker-upper, at which he just smiled.
“At least you never had to do dirty-diaper duty,” he said. “Consider yourself blessed.”
As a matter of fact, I did.
After we’d ordered, I picked up the paper bag beside me.
“I brought you a few things,” I said. “A couple sets of fingerprints I’m almost positive won’t match those on the window ledge, since they were given voluntarily. I’ve got another five sets to collect. I really hope you don’t mind doing this for me.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I wouldn’t want the D.A. to know what we’re doing, but if you’re right and Jacobson didn’t shoot Hysong, we’d just have to do all this ourselves. You’re saving us some time, and the taxpayers some money.”
“Glad you see it that way,” I said.
Since Marty wasn’t privy to what new information the D.A.’s office might have on the case, we just concentrated on our lunch and casual conversation.
*
As soon as I returned to the office, I tried calling the guys on the meeting list again. I’d rather hoped I might catch Butch Reed on his day off but left a message on his machine asking him to call me.
Right after dinner that night, while Jonathan and Joshua watered the plants and fed the fish, I sat down with the phone and began redialing the numbers. I subconsciously put Manners and Spinoza at the bottom of the list, since I figured they were the most likely to give me a hard time and I wanted to put off any hard times as long as I could.
I tried Steve Morse first and was lucky enough to catch him in. When I explained what I wanted and why I wanted it, he seemed a bit hesitant.
“I don’t know, Dick,” he said. “While I want to help you, I’ve got pretty firm convictions about the right to privacy. Being fingerprinted is just one more erosion of that privacy.”
“I can appreciate your position, Steve,” I said, “but this involves a murder. I’m convinced the police will be expanding their investigation soon, and if we can show them the prints they have aren’t yours, it can save you them having to hassle you. Once they start looking into it, they might—however wrongly—take the refusal to give prints as an indication of possible guilt. If we can eliminate you right off the bat, why not do it?”
There was a rather long pause, then: “Well, I…”
Sensing he was reconsidering, I said, “Look, it will only take a few minutes. I can meet you on your lunch hour, or right after work, or whenever and wherever is convenient for you.”
Another pause, followed by a sigh. “Well, I usually take my lunch to work and eat in Barnes Park. I suppose if you want to meet me there between noon and one…”
“That’ll be great,” I said. “Any particular part of the park?”
He laughed. “Yeah, there are some benches within easy sight of the men’s room. I like the view.”
“A man of exquisite taste,” I said, also laughing. “I’ll see you there, then. And thanks.”
It occurred to me as I hung up that I had no idea what he looked like. I’ve never understood why these things always come to me after I’ve hung up, but…I’d find him.
And again I thought about how kind of stupid it was to actually take fingerprints from someone willing to give them. The fact they were willing all but ruled them out as a suspect, as far as I was concerned. Still, I’d learned never to underestimate the power of a devious mind. So, far better safe than sorry.
I next tried Chuck Fells’ number and immediately recognized the butch-voice.
“Hello?”
“Chuck, this is Dick Hardesty,” I said, beginning my spiel. “I’m sorry to bother you, but something’s come up in the Hysong shooting and I need your help.”
Before he had a chance to object, I went on to explain about the gun being tied to Jake, Jake’s arrest, my certainty he was innocent, and the fingerprint evidence found at Jake’s. As I’d done with Morse, I went out of my way to try to phrase my comments to emphasize the “eliminating you as a possible suspect when the police expand their investigation” angle. The fact I had absolutely no real guarantee the police ever would do any such thing was beside the point. If the guys I talked to thought they would, that’s what mattered.
“I don’t like being hassled,” he said.
“I don’t blame you,” I assured him. “I don’t either. But with the fingerprints, it’s either a matter of me taking five minutes of your time to get them or you dealing with the police. All I want is your prints. They’d probably want to give you that whole ‘you’re a potential suspect’ routine, and I guarantee that’ll take up more time than I will.”
“Okay, okay!” he said. “I get off work at five. You can come over at five thirty. You’ve got five minutes, not six, got it?”
“Got it,” I said, holding my temper in check. I glanced at the address I had written on my notepad with his phone number. “Sixty-two sixty-three Cherry, right?”
“Right.”
“All right, I’ll see you at five thirty sharp. Thanks.” I hung up before he had a chance to.
Because I dreaded calling Manners and Spinoza—I’d had a hard enough time holding my temper with Morse—I took a break to join Jonathan and Joshua, who were on the floor. Joshua, with a number of toy soldiers, was bravely defending the Lincoln Log fort against a combined force of Indians and pirates—for whom he’d apparently suddenly developed quite a fascination, I noticed—represented by Jonathan with identical toy soldiers.
“How’s it going, guys?” I asked.
“Looks like Joshua’s got me on the run,” Jonathan said. “Of course, we’re playing by his rules, which are kind of flexible.”
I went into the kitchen for a glass of water then returned to the phone to try Art Manners.
He picked up on the third ring. I again went into my spiel but didn’t get very far. I did make it all the way to mentioning the prints found at Jake’s when he broke in.
“Look,” he said. “I can’t be bothered with all this shit. I didn’t do it, I’m not about to give anybody my fingerprints without a warrant, and if Jake didn’t do it he’ll be acquitted. I gotta go.”
And he hung up.
Charmer
, I thought, as I replaced the receiver onto the cradle.
Reluctantly, I dialed Spinoza’s number. No answer, but I left a message on his machine, knowing even as I did so it was probably an exercise in futility.
*
Barnes Park, located as it was about two blocks off Beech, the main commercial street of the gay community, had a reputation as being one of the cruisiest parks in the city at night, and had a large gay/lesbian contingent any time of day. A last-minute phone call from a prospective new client had delayed my departure from the office, so I didn’t arrive there until nearly twelve twenty. Fingerprint kit in hand, I headed in the direction of the public restrooms. As Morse had said, there were several benches within a hundred feet or so, and several of them were already occupied with people—mostly guys—eating lunch or reading. If any of them were there specifically to keep an eye on who entered or left the restrooms it certainly wasn’t obvious.
Having absolutely no idea which of the half-dozen or so guys might be Morse, I took a chance on just walking slowly by and trying to make a guess. This proved to be not the most scientific of approaches, and I still hadn’t a clue as I approached the last bench.
“Dick Hardesty?” the man on it asked. Morse, obviously, though I would never have picked him out unless he’d said something. He was wearing a dress shirt and tie, with his suit coat folded neatly beside him, on which sat a brown paper bag apparently containing his lunch. He’d been reading a book, which he set down next to the bag.
“Yeah,” I said, walking over as though I’d known it was him all along. “Sorry I’m late.”
We shook hands, and I sat down beside him, on the side opposite his coat, lunch, and book.
“I figured it was you when I saw the kit. It’s obviously not a lunch box,” he said, grinning.
“I really appreciate you meeting me.”
“Not a problem.”
“Don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” I said, noting he’d set a half-eaten sandwich aside when I’d approached.
“Thanks,” he said, picking it up.
We talked in generalities for a few minutes while he ate. A nice guy, I determined. He mentioned he was an actuary for a large insurance company nearby, and I found it a little hard envisioning him as a leather bar regular—which just goes to prove…what?
I asked him, as casually as I could, what he knew about the other guys from the meeting.
“Not all that much, really,” he said.
“Are you and Art Manners close?” I asked, remembering it was he who had reported Manners’ saying the Male Call was for sale.
He crumpled up his sandwich wrapper and replaced it in the bag, taking out a large peach.
“Not really,” he said, taking a large onomatopoetic—love that word—bite. “We talk quite a bit when we run into one another at the Spike or the Male Call, but we don’t hang out together other than there. He’s into bikes big time, and I don’t have one.”
“I understand he’s pretty close to Pete Reardon,” I said.
Morse grinned. “Yeah, you could say that. They both try to keep it quiet—they don’t want to tarnish their butch image—but everybody knows they’ve got something going on.”
A thought popped into my head, which I immediately latched on to and put it in my “mull it over later” file.
Finishing his peach, he glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to be getting back in a few minutes,” he said. “You want to do this fingerprint thing now?”
“Sure,” I said, scooting a bit farther from him to put the kit down on the bench between us. I took his prints as surreptitiously as possible, though we did get quite a pause-and-stare from a hunky guy passing on his way to the restroom.
While I put everything back into the kit and closed it, Morse wiped the ink from his hands then got up to leave.
“Good luck in finding who did it,” he said, extending his right hand while holding his empty lunch bag in his left.
“Thanks,” I said. “And I really appreciate your cooperation.”
He smiled, nodded, and moved off in one direction as I headed in the other.
*
Since Jonathan had to leave for chorus practice by six thirty, I’d told him he and Joshua should just go ahead and eat, and I’d eat when I got home. No messages on my machine when I returned to the office, so I spent the rest of the afternoon puttering, organizing my notes for Glen, and going over yet again everything I’d learned thus far.
There was something Morse had said that had rung a bell, about Reardon and Manners having something going on. Was it possible, I wondered, that Manners might have decided to settle his grudge against Hysong and help his buddy get even with Carl Brewer by forcing him to sell the Male Call? The bar’s business was already sliding because of the AIDS rumors, and killing Hysong would finish the job. Plus, Manners had ample reasons of his own to want to see Hysong dead—having “the crap beat out of him” by Hysong, as Jake had related, must have been humiliating.
But first, I’d have to prove he stole Jake’s gun, and I couldn’t do that without getting his prints, which he wasn’t about to give me.
If worse came to worst, I figured, I could try going over to his place and rooting through his garbage for something with his prints on it. Definitely a last-resort move, but I’d do it if I had to. I’d probably end up with the same option with Spinoza, since I was pretty sure he’d also refuse to give his prints voluntarily.
Oh, well.
Chapter 21
Fells’ apartment was in a large old apartment building not far from the river. I rang the bell to Apartment 503 at exactly five thirty and was buzzed in. Fells let me in without either a smile or the offer of a handshake. He proved to be tall, lanky to the point of being skeletal, with his hair cropped almost to his skull. His apartment, from what I saw of it, was in no danger of being visited by photographers from
House Beautiful
anytime soon. Utilitarian would probably describe it best and most charitably. It made Jonathan’s and my place almost palatial by comparison.