The Bottle Ghosts Page 7

  “Max wanted me to get him a list of A.A. meetings for when they’re in town.”

  Max? A.A.? Now that was a surprise. I had no idea.

  “Yeah,” Jonathan said just a little too casually. “I told him I had one, and that I’d go with him if he wanted.”

  ??? “Excuse me?”

  He looked directly at me. “Why do you suppose I don’t drink?”

  Fer Chrissakes, Jonathan, you’re twenty years old! How could you be an alcoholic? my mind demanded. And how the hell couldn’t I have known?

  He smiled and took another drink of his Coke. No belch this time.

  “Don’t be so surprised. I started drinking when I was thirteen because it was fun and grown-up. My brother Samuel used to buy us beer and then we’d get drunk and have sex. By the time I was fifteen, I was drinking a lot more but it wasn’t fun anymore. So I quit. I went to A.A. meetings from the time I was fifteen until I moved out here. I haven’t been to one since I met you, but I know where they are, and if I ever feel like I need to go, I’ll go. So if Max wants to go to a meeting while they’re here, I’ll be glad to go with him.”

  I just sat there like someone had hit me on the head with a frying pan.

  He looked at me again, and his face grew very serious. “You’re…you’re not mad at me, are you? For not telling you?”

  I set my Manhattan on the coffee table, took his Coke from his hand and put it next to the Manhattan, and pulled him to me in a hug so tight I was afraid I might hurt him.

  “Of course I’m not mad at you!” I released the hug and took his face in my hands. “I’m proud of you!”

  I can’t remember when I’ve seen anyone look so relieved. He leaned forward quickly and kissed me. “Thank you!”

  When my hands released his face, he reached forward for our drinks and handed me my Manhattan.

  “I was really a little worried. I mean, it was bad enough that I was hustling when you met me, but I thought if you knew I was an alcoholic, too, that you could never…”

  “…never love you?” I finished. “Well, I do.”

  He pulled his head quickly backward as if startled and gave me the cocked-head look of a curious parakeet. “You do? Well, that’s funny: so do I…love you, I mean.”

  I put my hand on his leg. “I know. What’s for dinner?”

  *

  As I said, I don’t know how these things happen, or why, but as I was lying in bed waiting for Jonathan to finish brushing his teeth, things started to come together. I really didn’t want to get Jonathan involved in my work. I’d done that once before and it had almost gotten him killed. But there were just too many serendipitous coincidences lying around in this case not to take advantage of them. There was absolutely no indication that there might be any actual danger involved. And I’d be there to protect him.

  The best way to find out what was going on with Qualicare’s counseling group, I realized, was to join it. Each couple included one alcoholic and one non-alcoholic. I’d never been to an A.A. meeting in my life; I didn’t know if I could possibly fake being an alcoholic. But Jonathan knew his way around A.A..

  After dinner he showed me his 12 Step book, which he’d kept hidden for fear I might not accept him. Like many alcoholics, he knew it by heart.

  And most serendipitous of all, Jonathan was already a member of Qualicare!

  When he came to bed, I talked to him about it and about the case I was working on and about the four missing men. I stressed to him that I had no idea where it all might lead, and that while the possibility of its being dangerous was only remote, it was still there.

  He of course was excited by the very idea and agreed immediately, leaving me once again to wonder if he really realized what he could be letting himself in for. I suggested he think about it until he was sure, but he said there wasn’t any need to wait, and that he would call Qualicare during his lunch hour the next day to see about joining the group. Of course I’d have preferred to do it myself, being me, but he was, after all, the Qualicare member.

  When we’d finished talking, he rolled over toward me and said: “Gee, Mr. Hardesty, I really appreciate your sharing your sleeping bag with me. I was really dumb to leave mine at home.”

  Playtime!

  “Why, that’s okay, Jonathan.” I found myself immediately taken in by the game. “Are you warm enough? It’s getting pretty cold.”

  He looked at me with an innocent smile, already totally into it, too. “Well, I am a little cold. Do you mind if I maybe got a little closer?”

  I rolled over onto my side, facing him and lifted the blanket slightly. “Sure, Jonathan, come ahead.”

  He moved closer until we were belly to belly, chest to chest. Jonathan looked at me with a wide-eyed look of total innocence and said, “Gee, Mr. Hardesty, something’s pushing against my stomach! What is it?”

  “Why, I don’t know, Jonathan. Why don’t you move down there and see?”

  Let the games begin!

  *

  The next morning at the office, after I’d finished the crossword puzzle, I considered whether I should talk to Lieutenant Richman again before calling Marty Gresham. I didn’t want to get Gresham into any trouble by asking him to do me a favor, but by the same token I didn’t want to keep pestering Richman. I figured that if Gresham was willing to do it and he could verify my suspicion, I could then take it to Richman.

  I dialed City Annex and asked for the Missing Persons’ Records department, hoping Gresham would answer. I didn’t want to go through a lot of hassle explaining who I was or what I wanted.

  I was in luck.

  “Officer Gresham.”

  “Marty, this is Dick Hardesty. I wonder if you might be able to do me another favor.”

  “If I can.”

  “It appears you may have been right the other day…I think there’s a pretty good chance I might be on to something in the disappearance of those four guys. It’s too early to officially involve the police, but I think whatever is going on is linked, somehow, to Qualicare’s alcohol counseling program. I’ve got an idea how to try to find out for sure, but since I don’t know who or what might be involved, I don’t want to tip anyone off.

  “What I need is to know for sure if, as I suspect, Fred DeCarlo and Sam Roedel were also members of the group. I don’t know of any way of accessing the actual group member lists without giving away the fact that we’re looking into it, but if we can just determine that they or their partners belong to Qualicare, that would pretty much cinch it. I don’t think Qualicare would be willing to give out that information to a private investigator, but they probably would to the police. Could you put in a call for me, and let me know?”

  There was no hesitation. “Sure. I’ll have to wait until my lunch hour and call from outside the department, just to cover my ass, but…hey, I’ve always wanted to do a little actual detective work.”

  “Great! Thanks a lot. I’ll look forward to your call.”

  After we hung up, it occurred to me again that I probably could just as easily have called Qualicare myself and passed myself off as a police officer, but since I felt Gresham would be willing to cooperate, I didn’t want to risk someone asking for my badge number, or my department extension number at work, or…. And I didn’t want to risk my relationship with the department by impersonating a police officer.

  *

  Jonathan was the first to call, at 12:30. I’d just returned to the office with a BLT and a chocolate shake from the diner downstairs.

  “Hi, Dick!” His voice, as always, was full of enthusiasm. “I called Qualicare and they said they’d have a Mr. Oaks call me to talk to me about it and I gave them our home number if that’s okay.”

  “Sure. Thanks for doing all this.”

  “Oh, it’s fun! I hope he calls today!” There was a pause, then: “But I’ve got class tonight! I won’t be home if he calls!”

  “Well, we’ll work it out if he does call.”

  “Okay,” Jonathan said, apparentl
y satisfied. “I’ve got to get back to work, so I’ll see you at home later. Early dinner, remember.”

  “I remember.”

  *

  I’d finished my shake and sandwich, and was just writing up a draft of my first—and I realized, under the circumstances, perhaps my last—report to John Bradshaw, when Gresham called.

  “You were right. Sam Roedel and Greg Barnett, Fred DeCarlo’s…uh…‘other half’…belong to Qualicare. Roedel’s…partner’s name is Peter Warlum. While I was at it, I got the names of everyone in the group—told them we were looking into a minor hit-and-run that took place near the hospital at around nine-thirty Thursday night and asked if they might have had any group meetings letting out about that time. I didn’t even have to specify which group—she volunteered it. You want ’em?”

  “Sure!” I was impressed that he’d been able to get all the names without making it too obvious.

  “The membership is apparently pretty fluid, from what I could gather. They seem to keep track of only the past several weeks, as a matter of fact. But the names they have now, other than John Bradshaw and Jerry Shea, are Carl Sweeney, Jay Tabert, Andy Phillips, John Ellison, Keith Hooper, Victor LaVallee, Paul Carter and Frank Reese. When I asked if Roedel, Barnett, DeCarlo, and Warlum were members, she put me on hold while she checked farther back, then said they’d all dropped out some time ago. I can probably ask her to go back even farther, if you want.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary right now, but thanks for getting what you did.”

  “So what now?”

  Good question.

  “Now I think I’d better talk to Lieutenant Richman.”

  “Okay, but try to keep me in the loop, will you?”

  “It’s a promise. Talk to you soon. And thanks again.”

  Rather than ask Gresham to transfer me up to Richman, I hung up and re-dialed

  City Annex.

  “Lieutenant Richman.”

  “Lieutenant; it’s Dick again. I think we have something of a situation here that we should talk about as soon as you can.”

  “Gee, Dick Hardesty and a ‘situation.’ Now there’s a first.”

  Fortunately, I could tell he was being facetious.

  “It happens. But I do think this is something you should definitely be aware of even though I don’t think there’s anything you can really do about it right now.”

  He was silent only for a moment, then said: “Okay, how about meeting me for breakfast at Sandler’s tomorrow morning?”

  “At seven?” We’d met frequently enough at that particular restaurant at that particular time that I didn’t really even have to ask.

  “Right.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you there, then. And thanks.”

  *

  Even after writing, rewriting, and re-rewriting my report to Bradshaw, I realized it was a pretty pathetic piece of work. Shea was gone. Period. Not a trace. That so were three other guys only made it worse, but I didn’t want to open that can of worms by mentioning it in my report. That there was almost surely a link to Qualicare’s gay alcohol counseling group was far easier to accept in the mind than on paper. And if I embarked on this course of infiltrating the group, there were all sorts of built-in obstacles: how to try to find out anything concrete without having everyone involved with the group know I was investigating the case—and by direct implication, them? The group met only once a week. How many sessions would I have to attend before I could piece together any worthwhile information? Several, at least, I’d judge, even before I could get a sense of what might be a clue and what might not.

  Shit! I was used to cases where I started out on day one and worked like hell straight through to day however-many-it-took. From what I’d gathered, socializing between the couples in the group was not encouraged outside of the meetings. I might try to push that one a bit. But otherwise this was a case that would have to develop two hours at a time, one day a week.

  Did I mention: Shit!?

  Well, one thing I hadn’t faced up to until now, but realized I’d been pretty sure of almost from the time I heard Shea wasn’t the only missing man, was that time wasn’t a factor in the need to find them. My mind and my gut told me they were well beyond rescuing. The only thing I might be able to do, other than find out what happened to them and why, was to prevent another disappearance.

  I rewrote the report one more time, ending it with the comment that I did have a lead, but that he could not expect anything definite for some time to come. While my gut told me there was little doubt but that his lover was dead, I couldn’t just come out and say it without some sort of proof. But I didn’t want to lead him on with false hope, either. So I’d have to leave it up to him. If he wanted me to keep going on the investigation, that would be fine. But if he didn’t…well, four men had vanished and I knew it. And I knew me.

  *

  I got home about an hour early. With Chris and Max arriving the next day, I wanted to make sure the apartment looked as good as it could, even though they wouldn’t be staying with us. I was again infinitely grateful that Jonathan was as good about things as he was. He kept the place picked up and embarrassed me into not being quite the slob I was when I was living alone. But with him working a full-time job and now going to school on Wednesdays, I certainly couldn’t expect him to do all the work around the place.

  I got out the vacuum, went through about a can of furniture polish, and was mopping the bathroom floor when I heard Jonathan come in. When he saw me hard at work with a sponge and a mop bucket, he came over, scowling.

  “Who are you and what have you done with Dick?”

  Then he broke into his usual grin and hugged me. “I was going to do this,” he said, looking around at my handiwork.

  “I know, but I didn’t marry you so you could be a housewife.”

  “Well, thanks. I appreciate that.”

  While I was dumping out the mop pail into the toilet, Jonathan headed off to the kitchen to have his evening chat with Tim and Phil—the goldfish, not the people—and to start dinner. In Jonathan’s defense, I probably should point out that these chats consisted generally of asking them if they’d had a good day, telling them how nice they looked, chastising Tim for hogging all the fish food and admonishing Phil for letting Tim boss him around. While all this was going on, I took the opportunity to strip and take a quick shower.

  As I was drying off, I heard the phone ring and Jonathan call: “I’ll get it.”

  I heard him answer, listen for a minute, then say: “I’d better have you talk to Dick.”

  Seeing me come out of the bathroom, he held out the phone to me and said “It’s Mr. Oaks from Qualicare.”

  I hurried over to take the phone. “Mr. Oaks. Thank you for calling. Jonathan said he’d called Qualicare today.”

  The voice on the other end was masculine and…professional, by which I suppose I mean personable without being overly friendly.

  “Yes, they got me the message. I understand you and your partner are interested in joining our Gay Couple’s Alcohol Counseling group.”

  “Yes, we are. Very much.”

  “And only one of you is alcoholic, is that right?”

  “Yes. My partner Jonathan.”

  “Okay, I tell you what. The group meets on Thursday evenings from seven to nine-fifteen, but I’d need to have something of an interview with both of you first, to be sure the group could be of benefit to you. Would it be possible for you to come by my office at Qualicare at six o’clock tomorrow evening? We could have a brief talk and, if everything goes well, you could join the group the following Thursday.”

  Chris and Max! I reminded myself, and did some fast logistics-juggling. Qualicare at six, we’d be out by six-thirty, run home and change, arrange to pick Chris and Max up at the Montero at eight; cutting it razor thin but yeah, it’s doable.

  “That will be fine, Mr. Oaks. We appreciate it. Are you in the main building?”

  “No, I’m in Room 429 of th
e new Family Care Center, directly across from the main hospital on Saxon Boulevard.”

  “We’ll find it. And thank you again.”

  “See you tomorrow, then.”

  I replaced the receiver onto the cradle and turned to see Jonathan about two feet away, holding out my Manhattan. Startled me, somehow. Apparently I’d made an involuntary jerk.

  “Sorry. All set?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. You have your Manhattan while I run into the shower and get ready for class. Dinner’s in the oven.”

  I followed him into the bathroom as we discussed the logistics of Chris and Max’s arrival in light of the meeting with Oaks.

  *

  Jonathan insisted on taking the bus to school, though I’d offered to take him and pick him up (actually a bit impractical since I’d either have to find somewhere to wait for the two and a half hours he was in class or drive back home then practically turn right around and go back). So we compromised by my coming to pick him up when he got out. We’d discussed and agreed that he should get his drivers’ license as soon as possible, so he could take the car and drive himself back and forth on school nights.

  This was actually the first night since we’d been together that I’d been home by myself and—again, how quickly we become spoiled—I didn’t like it. I decided to leave the apartment around eight o’clock and swing by my favorite bar, Ramón’s, for a few minutes to see our good friend Bob Allen, who owned the place. I felt just a little guilty about going into a bar by myself other than in conjunction with my work, but…

  What a fucking wimp! my mind said contemptuously.

  My crotch leapt nobly to my defense: Now, now, the boy deserves a few minutes of rest and relaxation. Y’know, see what’s goin’ on out there….

  And of course that’s precisely why I felt mildly guilty in the first place: I knew exactly what it was up to.

  *

  Things were a little slow when I arrived. Jimmy, the bartender, threw up his hands when he saw me, tossing the bar towel he’d been holding into the air.

  “He’s alive, gang!” he called, causing the four or five patrons to look at me oddly.

  I walked over to the bar and pulled out a stool. “Oh, come on! It’s only been a week or so.”