The Dirt Peddler (5 page)

*

Taking the bus to work really wasn't all that bad, and I probably would do it more often were it not for the fact of never knowing when I might need the car during the day for work. And since I paid monthly for a parking space in the lot across the street from my office building, it was foolish not to get my money's worth from it.

I did my usual morning things—sent out a couple of bills on completed cases, wrote a reminder letter to a client whose bill was long overdue, and generally puttered, awaiting the arrival of the mail.

Sure enough, there was an envelope (no return address) containing Tunderew's contract and a cashier's check for the retainer. I suppose he was being paranoid and didn't want to repeat his mistake with Larry Fletcher by writing out a check traceable to a known faggot. Instead, he had his name clearly written on a contract hiring one. What an idiot. But that was fine with me—at least I didn't have to worry about a money order clearing the bank.

So, like it or not, I was on the case. I put the contract in my file cabinet, returned to my desk, and got out the phone book, turning to the
F
s. There was an “L. Fletcher,” a “Laurence Fletcher,” and a “Lawrence C. Fletcher.” Since “Lawrence C. Fletcher”'s address was on Ash within two blocks of Beech (and therefore almost directly in the middle of The Central), I opted for him. I tried calling, but there was no answer and no machine. I decided I'd try to call when I got home, before Jonathan and Randy arrived.

*

Though I left work about half an hour early, anticipating a long wait at the bus stop, one pulled up just as I approached the corner, and it didn't take all that much longer to get home on the bus than it did with the car. I went immediately to the kitchen to turn the oven on to exactly three hundred fifty degrees and to say hello to Phil and Tim and the other fish (Jonathan had me brainwashed). I set the table in the dining area, which we very seldom used, figuring Jonathan would prefer that to the kitchen table. I then went to the phone to call Larry Fletcher, and had just started to dial when it occurred to me that perhaps the roast might cook faster if I took it out of the refrigerator and put it in the oven. (Hey, I can't be both devilishly handsome
and
smart at the same time!)

Returning to the phone, I dialed Fletcher's number.

“Hello?” a pleasant-sounding voice said after the second ring. Subtly but definitely gay, though. “Larry Fletcher?” I didn't know whether Fletcher might have a roommate and I didn't want to plunge ahead without being sure I had the right person.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Fletcher, my name is Dick Hardesty, and I'm a private investigator. I'd like to talk with you about Tony Tunderew.”

I could almost see his eyes narrowing in suspicion, which was more than evident in his voice.

“What about? I won't say anything bad about Tony, if that's what you're after. He's been very good to me, and…”

Well, that was certainly an interesting couple of sentences,
I thought, making a mental note to follow up on them the first chance I had.

“No, this is on a totally different matter. Would it be possible for us to meet in person to discuss it as soon as it might be convenient for you?”

There was a long pause, and then: “Well, I don't know. I suppose so. But I don't know when. I work Monday thru Friday, and…”

“How about tomorrow? Perhaps we could meet at my office sometime during the day—you name the time. It shouldn't take too long, really, and it is rather important.” I could have suggested that I go to his apartment, but thought he might feel a little less intimidated if he came to my office. It's easier to just get up and leave someone else's place than it is to try to get someone to leave yours.

I heard a long sigh. “All right. One o'clock? Where is your office?”

I told him, thanked him for his cooperation, said I was looking forward to seeing him, and we hung up.

*

I'd held off having my evening Manhattan, deciding to wait until Jonathan got home and to see if Randy might want something. I was pretty sure he drank, since Jonathan had picked up a bottle of wine for dinner. I was also quite curious about meeting Randy. I was sure he would provide me with a little insight into Jonathan's hustler past, although he'd really only hustled for a couple of months before we met.

I was in the kitchen checking on the roast when I heard the front door open, and Jonathan's voice calling, “We're here!” I hastily closed the oven door and went into the living room. Jonathan came quickly across the room to give me a hug, and then turned to the young man standing just inside the door.

“Dick,” Jonathan said, taking me by the hand and leading me over to Randy, “this is my friend, Randy.”

Randy extended his hand, looked me over from top to bottom, glanced at Jonathan with a slightly raised eyebrow, and said: “Hi.”

“Hi, Randy. I'm glad to meet you.”

As we shook hands, I looked him over, too—or as much as I could see from the short distance between us.

A very nice-looking guy, probably very close to Jonathan's age, though he looked older; about five-foot-ten, dirty-blond hair cut short, hazel eyes, with a small scar at the side of his nose just below his right cheekbone. And if I hadn't known that he was—or had been—a hustler, I could easily have guessed. He had that indefinable…what?…hard-edged?…look and body language I immediately see in most hustlers. Hustling is a hard life, and it takes its toll. In Randy, it showed in his eyes. His body language gave off almost an aura of cockiness, bravura, and guardedness. I inwardly shuddered to think that if Jonathan had stayed in that life, he would be very much the same as Randy was now.

As soon as we had disengaged our handshake, Jonathan said, “Come on, Randy, let me show you the apartment, and then I'll show you my fish!”

There really wasn't all that much to see in the apartment, of course, but Jonathan was very eager that his friend see everything, and made a point of showing Randy the small picture of a cat Jonathan had bought at an art fair, and which now hung in the hallway right outside our bedroom door. I left the tour before they got that far, and went back to the kitchen.

“I'm going to have a Manhattan,” I called out over my shoulder, loudly enough to be sure they could hear. “Would you like something, Randy?”

“Yeah,” he called back. “A Manhattan'd be good. Thanks.”

I had both Manhattans made and opened a Coke for Jonathan when they entered the kitchen, Jonathan leading Randy directly to the fish tank.

“That's Tim there,” Jonathan said, pointing, “and that one down there's Phil. They were my first two, so they're special.” Apparently concerned that he may have hurt the feelings of the others, he quickly bent forward and said, obviously addressing them, “Not that you're not all special.” As I've said before, Jonathan marched to his own drummer.

When the fish introductions were over, we all moved into the living room and sat down, Jonathan getting immediately back up again to go check the roast.

“Nice place,” Randy said, looking around. “Jonathan's lucky he found you.”

I grinned. “I'd say I was the lucky one.” He gave me a smile from somewhere beneath his hustler shell. It made me oddly sad, somehow.

“So how do you like New Eden?” I asked, to divert my thoughts.

Randy took a sip of his Manhattan and shrugged. “It's okay. I won't be there too much longer, though.”

“Oh?”

I was curious to learn just how the New Eden system worked. But I'd have to wait to find out.

“Yeah, I'll be getting my own place pretty soon. Maybe go back to school.”

“That's great. What do you want to study?”

Jonathan had come back into the room and sat beside me on the sofa, retrieving his Coke from the coffee table and taking a long swallow.

“I think I'd like to be a dental technician. Jonathan says they offer that at Grant, where he goes.”

“Randy got his G.E.D. through New Eden,” Jonathan said, obviously proud of his friend, and I was impressed not only by Randy's willingness to get it, but by the fact that New Eden helped to make it possible.

I really was increasingly curious about just how New Eden operated. I'd heard the kids who went there—and had a sudden realization that Randy was hardly a kid anymore; another source of curiosity—worked the farm in exchange for room and board, but obviously there must have been some way they could make money in order to be able to move on with their lives at some point, as Randy was apparently planning to do.

*

During dinner, I could sense subtle cracks developing in Randy's hustler shell as he allowed himself to relax ever so slightly. I knew, though, that the cracks were only temporary. He and Jonathan talked a lot about shared experiences and times and former fellow hustlers, of which and of whom I knew nothing, but I didn't feel left out. I was fascinated to watch Jonathan relate to his friend…his friend…and I was truly happy for him.

Several times Randy hinted at his prospects for a very bright and prosperous future, and there seemed to be something other than idle bravado in it, though I couldn't pin it down and certainly couldn't ask directly. Well, normally I might have, but I realized I was being on my best behavior for Jonathan's sake.

We drove Randy back to New Eden around eleven thirty. I'd suggested that Jonathan could take Randy back by himself, to give them a little more time alone together, but Jonathan insisted I go along.

As we got back on the highway leading into town, Jonathan said: “That was nice, wasn't it?” and I agreed.

“Did you like him?”

“Yes, I did. And mostly because he's your friend.”

Jonathan sighed and looked out the window for a long time without speaking. Finally he said, almost to himself and without looking at me, “It's so different.”

“What is?” I asked, though I think I knew.

“Me then and me now.”

He turned to me and put his hand on my leg.

“Can you imagine where I'd be if I hadn't met you?”

I didn't even want to think about that, so I turned to him and smiled.

“Well, the important thing is that we did meet. And I'm very glad that we did.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, then turned to look out the window again.

*

I usually try very hard not to work at all on weekends, but since I was eager to get this case going, I figured I'd better catch Larry Fletcher as soon as I could, even if it was on a Saturday. Jonathan had been carefully nurturing a bunch of plants he wanted to take over to give to the residents at Haven House.

“A lot of these kids have never had anything of their own that depended on them,” he'd said. “Plants need attention, and they're almost as good as pets.” Then, with typical Jonathan logic, he added, “Except you don't have to walk them.”

We agreed that he could drive me to the office, since it was almost on the way to Haven House, go deliver the plants, then come back and pick me up. I didn't think it would take too long with Fletcher.

I got to the office at about quarter to one. Though the building was open until five, it was nearly deserted. The diner and newsstand were closed, no one was in sight, and the sound of my footsteps echoed through the lobby. I made a pot of coffee more out of habit than need, figuring maybe Fletcher would like a cup.

Well, that was fun,
my mind-voice said as I flipped the On switch on the coffee maker.
Now what will we do?
I didn't have a Saturday paper for the crossword puzzle, and there was little point in trying to start any sort of project. And it was all so damned quiet.

I finally settled for opening the middle drawer of my desk, which hadn't been cleaned out in decades, and started rummaging idly through it, finding enough pencils—a couple with points—to build a small log cabin, and more pens than I could ever use, most of them without ink.

I heard the elevator doors open and footsteps approaching. Not a moment too soon. I slid the drawer closed and got up to go to the door.

Larry Fletcher turned out to be…well…average, and “average” is a pretty hard thing to describe. Hot guys are usually easy to describe—just let your fantasies run wild. Singularly unattractive people usually have some distinctive features that make them so. But “average”…well (again), average-looking people look pretty much like everyone else. Fletcher was one of them—early twenties, average height, average build, longish brown hair, glasses. Walk down a busy street and eight guys out of ten you pass could be Larry Fletcher. But he certainly was not, at first glance, the flaming faggot that Tunderew had led me to expect.

If I could think of one word to describe my first impression of him, it would be “meek.”

We shook hands, and I noticed that while his grip wasn't limp by any means, it wasn't exactly the confidence-filled handshake of a motivational speaker. After an exchange of greetings, I gestured him to a chair near the desk as I closed the door behind him.

“Coffee?”

“No, thanks.” He looked and sounded a bit nervous.

I sat down behind my desk and waited while Fletcher's eyes reflected his discomfort by slowly circling around the room in smaller and smaller sweeps—like water draining from a sink—to finally meet my own, briefly.

“Why, exactly, did you want to see me? I told you on the phone I won't say anything against Tony.”
Tony, eh? Interesting.

“What makes you think I'd want you to say anything against Mr. Tunderew?”

“That's what the lawyers from Craylaw and Collier wanted. They threatened to sue me, but I just told them to go ahead and try. I thought you were working for them until I saw you just now.”

????
“I'm sorry?” My face probably reflected my confusion.