I wondered how he knew.
“Everything’s fine,” I said.
“You sure you’re okay?” Tim asked, with a note of real concern that made me feel just a little guilty. “You sound funny.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “I just had something in my throat.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Thank you and goodnight, Henny Youngman,” I said, glancing at Phil, who gave me a knowing grin. “So, what did you find out?”
“Now, look,” Tim said in a conspiratorial tone, “I’m at a public phone—it’s my coffee break, so I’ll have to talk fast. The…you got a pencil?”
I moved around to the back of my desk and dug through the top drawer for a pencil and notepad.
“Yeah,” I said, hooking the phone between my right ear and shoulder.
“Okay. Here goes. Victims, in order of discovery: Rogers—Alan Rogers, age thirty-three, twenty-seven Partridge Place, Apartment D as in dog. Identified by who I’ll bet was his lover, Gary Miller, who I’d love to spend a quiet night or two consoling. Rogers had two arrests, both for drunk driving. Family disown, apparently.
“Harriman, Gene, age twenty-nine,. seventy-nine-eighty-six Bellwether—that’s a residential area, so I assume it’s a house. Identified by his roommate Mike Sibalitch. One arrest, apparently an entrapment—the usual ‘lewd and lascivious conduct’ shit—two years ago. Two brothers, one living in Miami, the other in the navy overseas.
“Granger, Arthur, age forty, ten-four-thirty-eight Mercer Drive. Lived alone. The body was identified by a Martin Bell—the one I told you got hysterical and said too much. Bell lives in the Comstock Apartments; I don’t have the address. No police record on Granger. Family lives in Ohio.
“Barker, Cletus, went by the name of Clete. Age thirty-three, forty-four-twenty-seven West Avondale, apartment five-J. Identified by his roommate Bill Elers—the one I told you I’ve seen in the bars. No police record, no known family.
“Klein, Arnold, thirty-six. His dad’s the one who went into the ‘I have no son’ routine, even though he did deign to identify the body. Sixty-one-thirty Kessner. No record. Lived with two other guys, both of whom were out of town when it happened.
“Number six was your friend McDermott. No record, and you know all the other information.
“That’s about it. You get it all?”
“Yeah,” I said, dropping the pencil and shaking my wrist to get rid of a bad case of writer’s cramp I always develop when I try to write too fast and have to worry about making it legible at the same time. “Except for two things: where and when?”
“Oh, shit, Dick Tracy! Hold on.”
I heard the phone being put down and the shuffling of papers, accompanied by a string of muttered oaths. I picked up the pencil when I heard him pick up the phone.
“Here goes: All the victims except McDermott were found at home. Dates are…” Again the shuffling of papers “…Rogers, May seventeenth; Harriman, May twenty-third; Granger June tenth; Barker, June twelfth; Klein, June fifteenth—our friend must have had a busy week, assuming they weren’t all just your average, run-of-the-mill, kill-yourself-with-cyanide suicides.”
“And McDermott?”
“I thought you knew all about him.” Tim sounded puzzled. “He was found…ah…July sixth, room four-fourteen of the El Cordoba Hotel on Main.”
The mention of the El Cordoba Hotel gave me that old sinking sensation in my stomach, and a glance at the calendar verified that July 6th fell on a Wednesday. Bobby’s beer with Phil had probably been his last.
“Are you still there?” Tim asked, bringing me back to reality.
“I’m still here.”
“Good. Can I go back to work, now, Massah? I’ve got to tear up these damn notes and swallow them or do something to get rid of them before I go back to the office. Or maybe I can roll them up and shove them…”
“Ah-ah-ahhh!” I cautioned. “Let’s not get testy. I’ll give you a call at home tomorrow and see if there isn’t some way I can repay you for your able assistance. You’d make a great Number-one Son.”
“Fuck you, too, Charlie Chan,” Tim laughed, and hung up.
I quickly scanned my notes to make sure they were legible. They were, although just barely. I then turned my attention back to Phil.
“Phil, think hard about the last time you saw Bobby. Is there anything you can think of that you didn’t tell me? Anything else Bobby might have said about the guy he had the date with?”
He thought a minute, then shook his head.
“Afraid not,” he said then added, “except he did say something about being surprised the guy would look him up after what happened.”
“After what happened?”
He shrugged.
“He didn’t say—must have crossed the guy somehow.”
“Is there anything else you can think of?” I urged.
“Nope.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Man,” he said, still sprawled with one arm dangling off the sofa and onto the floor, “You’re something else!” He wore a broad grin.
“I bet you say that to all your tricks,” I said, moving to the pile of clothes on the floor and reaching for my shorts.
He grinned. “Shit, no! I usually don’t even have to talk to them. It’s just that I never met a real, live detective before. It’s kind of exciting.”
He got up from the sofa and joined me, pawing through the piled clothes.
“And speaking of tricks,” he said, stepping into his briefs, “I’d best get out there and go to work.”
We finished dressing in silence, and when we were both fully clothed, he came over and extended his hand.
“Any time you want another rematch,” he said, “you just look me up. Compliments of the house.”
“And whenever you want something looked into, you know where to find me,” I said.
We exchanged grins and a bear hug, and with that he hiked up his jeans, plunked his hat at a sexy angle on the back of his head and went out the door.
*
By the time I’d straightened up the office, which consisted
mainly of emptying Phil’s ashtray and resisting the temptation to get a few drags out of the butts still salvageable, typing my notes to be sure I had everything straight, and checking the phone book for the numbers of the deceased and/or their friends/lovers Tim had mentioned, it was close to five o’clock. I went home, defrosted a steak and made a salad, then spent the rest of the night staring glassy-eyed at the boob tube.
I’d just gotten to bed, around eleven, when the phone rang.
“Mr. Hardesty?”
I’d have recognized Rholfing’s simper anywhere. So much for an unlisted phone number. I forced myself not to ask what the hell he wanted and how he’d gotten my number. After all, like it or not, he was my bread-and-butter for the moment.
The thought flashed through my head that Phil’s and my professions were not really all that different. We both had to get into bed—Phil literally, me figuratively—with people we’d just as soon not.
“Yes, Mr. Rholfing,” I said, assuming my most businesslike voice. “What can I do for you?”
As soon as I said it, I knew he was going to jump on it with both feet, and I could have bitten my tongue off. Sure enough, there was a girlish giggle, followed by the inevitable “What did you have in mind?”
Nothing, buddy, believe me—nothing!
When I made no reply there was a four- or five-second pause. His voice, when he resumed talking, was all business.
“I’m really sorry to trouble you at home, Mr. Hardesty.” He’d gotten the message on that, too, I was glad to see. “But I couldn’t find your phone number, though I was sure you’d given it to me.”
I hadn’t.
“You really should talk to those people at your answering service. Snip-
py
! Anyway, I have this dear friend at the phone company who managed to get it for me.”
I made a mental note to call the phone company in the morning and chew the asses off a couple of supervisors.
“So, how can I help you?”
Shit! I did it again!
Fortunately, he let this one drop.
“Well, I suppose it’s not really that important, but I rather expected to hear from you this evening to let me know what you’d found out. You know, when you’re all alone in the world like I am, without a soul except for old Ass-Face in Fort Worth, you’re naturally curious about who killed your lover. And I’d be more than happy to help you out in any way I can.”
I
’
ll just bet you would
, I thought.
“Well, that’s really nice of you, Mr. Rholfing,” I said, “but everything’s pretty much under control. I’ve got a few leads I’m following up on, but I really didn’t want to bother you until I have something solid to report.”
I got out of bed as I talked and, taking the phone with me (thank God for the fifteen-foot cord), went into the kitchen to get my billfold from the coffee bar.
“Well, if there is anything I can ever do…”
I fished the list out of the billfold and ironed it out on the counter with my hand.
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “while I’ve got you on the phone…I’ve come up with a few names I wonder if you might be familiar with.” I read him the list of victims and their lovers/friends, without mentioning their connection with the case. “Any of them ring a bell?”
After a short pause, during which I could picture him beetling his plucked little brows, he said, “Granger. Definitely Granger. What did you say his first name was?”
“Arthur.”
“Oh.” He sounded definitely let down. “No, I must have been thinking of Stewart Granger. I just loved him in
King Solomon’s Mines
, didn’t you? But there is someone else—a Rogers?”
If he came up with “Ginger,” I swore I’d hang up.
“Alan Rogers.”
“Alan Rogers…Alan Rogers…yes, I definitely know that name. And Barker—Festus, was it?”
“Cletus…Clete.”
“Clete Barker! Yes, that one, too. As a matter of fact, they all sound familiar, but I’m absolutely horrible with names. I just call everybody ‘Darling’—it makes it so much easier.
“But let me think… Of course! Of course! I recognize them now. The police asked me if Bobby knew them…or most of them, I think. I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly in my best form that day. Still, some of them do ring a bell, if only I could remember.
“Who are these people, anyway? Some of Bobby’s tricks?” He let out a small, dramatic gasp. “Do you suppose they could be suspects?”
“I doubt that very much,” I said honestly. “As to whether any of them were Bobby’s tricks, I couldn’t say, but I’ll be sure to check that out. I just thought you might know some of them.”
“I really do wish I could help you, but as I say, I’m just terrible at remembering names. I remember…shall we say, other things?” He giggled—just a tad hysterically, I thought.
“Well,” I said, in an effort to cut off the giggles if nothing else, “try to remember if you can, and call me at the office” (I hoped he got that, but doubted it) “as soon as you do. It might be important.”
“Oh, I will. I will! Just as soon as I can think of it. I’ve really enjoyed talking with you, Mr. Hardesty. It’s so nice to have someone you can really talk to, don’t you think?”
“Yes, that’s what my lover always says.”
“Oh…yes…I’d forgotten you were married. Well, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything…” This time it was a snigger.
“Not at all,” I assured him. “We were just getting ready for bed.” I don’t like lying, but having an imaginary lover was going to be a necessity as long as Rholfing was on the prowl.
“Well, goodnight, then. And you will be sure to keep in touch?” Again the seductive tone.
“Of course. And you be sure to call my office whenever you remember anything. If I’m not there, just leave a message with the service, and I’ll get back to you. Goodnight.” I hung up before he could drag the conversation out any longer.
I turned out the light, went back to bed, and mentally smoked a cigarette. Imagining you’re smoking a cigarette is sort of like masturbation—it’s better than nothing, but not much.
There was, I was sure now, some definite connection between Bobby McDermott and the other victims, something other than their being gay. And if there was a link, that pretty much ruled out a random serial killer, which might make finding out who did it a little easier.
It still meant that I was, by trying to find out who killed Bobby McDermott, in effect out to solve six murders. That disturbing hunch I was getting into something a lot more than I’d bargained for returned, and I was now more than sure I wasn’t too happy about it.
I could have spent the rest of the night pondering the possibilities but decided to take a tip from Rhett Butler’s girlfriend and worry about it tomorrow. Having made that decision, I tossed and turned for all of ten seconds before falling into a deep and Technicolor dream sleep.
*
The alarm clock in my head went off at exactly six-
thirty, as
usual. I lay in bed for a few minutes while my thoughts and various parts of my consciousness wandered in from wherever they’d been overnight and took their places in my mind. When most of them were present and accounted for, I got up, showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, and went through all the exciting rituals that make up a morning. I’d remembered to set the timer on the coffee maker before I’d gone to bed, so there was a hot pot waiting for me when I finally staggered into the kitchen.
The first order of business, once I was fairly certain I could talk coherently, was to try to reach the numbers of the roommates/lovers Tim had given me. It was about 8:10, and I might have a chance to catch some of them before they left for work.
There were three Gary Millers in the phone book, but only one on Partridge Place. Gary Miller was the one Tim had been so taken with, and when the phone was answered on the first ring, I could understand why. The voice was the stuff of which wet dreams are made.
“Good morning. Gary Miller here.”
“Mr. Miller,” I responded, hoping my voice sounded one-tenth as intriguing as his. “Good morning. My name is Dick Hardesty, and I’m a private investigator. I’d like to talk to you about your friend Alan Rogers.”
“Alan is dead.”
“I know, and I’m sorry for your loss. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”