Chapter 7

I was getting ready to go down to the diner in the lobby and pick up something for lunch when the phone rang. I hurried back to my desk and leaned across it to pick up.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Yeah,” a very butch-sounding voice said, “this is Jerry Granville. You wanted to talk to me?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Thanks for returning my call.”

“Well, it’s my lunch hour, and I’m on my way back to work. I haven’t got much time.”

“Could we get together sometime for a few minutes? Maybe after work?”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Grant Jefferson.”

“Oh, that prick. Did Crandall Booth hire you?’

“No,” I said, not going into further explanations.

“Well, I don’t know what I can tell you about him, but if you’d like to get together for a drink, I get off at four thirty.”

“That should work. Where would you like to meet?”

“There’s a place right near my work—Hughie’s. You know it?”

Well, well! Hughie’s! I thought.

“Yeah, I know it,” I said. “It’s about two blocks from my office.”

“Small world,” he said.

“Great! I’ll see you at Hughie’s at a little after four thirty, then. You can ask Bud, the bartender, to point me out to you.”

He laughed. “I was going to say the same. Maybe we already know each other.”

“Possibly,” I said. “I think we met at Crandall Booth’s last get-together for the chorus.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention to anyone but that asshole Jefferson. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him then and there.”

As opposed to later? I wondered.

We said our good-byes and hung up, and I immediately called Jonathan to tell him I might be a few minutes late getting home.

*

The nondescript black front of Hughie’s was almost lost among its equally nondescript neighbors except for the inevitable two or three hustlers lounging around on the sidewalk, hoping to catch a john before he made it into the competitive arena inside. I idly wondered how many times I’d walked into the place in the last several years.

Though Hughie’s was what most people would describe as a dive and you’d probably think a time or two before inviting most of the clientele to meet your grandmother, I liked it. It hadn’t one single shred of pretension. What it was, was what it was; and if you didn’t like it, you were welcome to go elsewhere.

And it never changed. Never. Governments rose and fell, planes crashed, wars were fought and either won or lost, the stock market went about its business, and so did Hughie’s.

I got there about four fifteen, before the place started to fill up with hustlers and their prospective quickie-after-work johns. There were six or seven guys in the place, with Bud holding sway behind the bar. As always, the minute he saw me walk in the door, he went to the cooler to get out a frosted mug, which he filled from the tap reserved for dark beer. It was waiting for me by the time I reached the bar.

“How’s it goin’, Bud?” It never occurred to me to say anything else. It had been a ritual greeting since my first time in the bar Lord knows how many years ago, and since I considered Hughie’s to exist in something of a time warp, I think part of me suspected that if I were to say anything else it might create a tear in the space-time continuum.

“Pretty good, Dick. You?” Bud dutifully responded, thereby assuring that all was well in the universal scheme of things.

“I’m supposed to meet a guy named Jerry Granville,” I said. “Can you give me a nod when he comes in?”

Taking the bill I handed him, he moved off to the till. He didn’t bother returning with the change, since it was another given that I wouldn’t want it.

One thing that can be said about Hughie’s—it’s sure a friendly place, and you are guaranteed someone will come over to inquire if you might be interested in a little companionship. Sure enough, a nice-looking kid who looked like he’d just come from a tryout for the role of Danny Zuko in Grease, down to the skin-tight black tee shirt with the sleeves rolled up, came sauntering over to stand next to me, leaning forward with his forearms on the edge of the bar, thus displaying a nice set of biceps. I pretended to be preoccupied with my beer, but I could feel his eyes on me until I turned toward him.

“How’s it goin’?” he asked—looking me up and down with all the subtlety of a lion eyeing a gazelle—as he slowly lifted his beer to his mouth. Amazing how some guys can make lifting a beer to their mouth almost like a sex act.

I noticed he had a small tattoo of a mouse on the inside of his right wrist.

“Fine, thanks,” I said trying to resist asking “You?” but it didn’t work. “You?”

“Better’n most,” he said, looking directly into my eyes. “I’m lookin’ for a little action. Interested?”

Oh, yes! my crotch-voice said eagerly. Definitely. Yep. You bet!

I wrestled it back into its cage and said, “Sorry, I’m meeting someone.”

He gave me a raised eyebrow. “You sure? You don’t know what you’re missin’.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, “but unfortunately…”

He shrugged. “Your loss,” he said. “See ya.” And he moved off toward the pool table where a newly arrived forty-something business type in a three-piece suit was leaning against the wall, trying to look inconspicuous.

A minute or so later, Bud gave me a heads-up, and I looked into the mirror behind the bar to see Jerry Granville entering. I recognized him from Booth’s get-together, though I hadn’t been sure I’d be able to. Nice looking in a rough-hewn sort of way, definitely butch. If he’d been dressed more casually, I could have mistaken him for one of the hustlers.

I waved to get his attention, and he came directly over.

“Sure,” he said as he came up. “I recognize you from Booth’s.”

We shook hands as Bud brought over a bottle of Miller’s and put it in front of him.

“Jerry.”

“Bud,” Jerry replied, taking out his billfold and extracting a five.

I grinned. “I see you’re not a stranger to the place.”

“You might say that. It’s close to work, and I’ve been coming in pretty regularly after work, now that I’m single again.”

I took a sip of my beer as Bud came back to lay Jerry’s change on the bar in front of him.

“Yeah,” I said as Bud moved off, “I was sorry to hear you and Tony broke up.”

He shrugged. “Nothing lasts forever,” he said, and I immediately thought of myself and Jonathan and fervently hoped he was wrong. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

“Exactly why were you so pissed at Grant Jefferson? From what I understand, he made passes at everybody.”

“I don’t care who he made a pass at…as long as it wasn’t Tony.”

“How did you find out about it?”

He took a long swig of his beer and wiped the corner of his mouth with a crooked index finger. “Tony told me,” he said. “I told him to tell Grant to knock it off, or I’d do it myself, but Grant kept it up.”

I was puzzled and said so. “But why take it out on Tony by breaking up with him? It doesn’t sound like he did anything wrong.”

“Yeah? Well, that one Tuesday I went to the M.C.C. near the end of the rehearsal to pick Tony up, and as I was going into the building, I saw him going into the bathroom with Grant right behind. I gave them a minute then walked in and there they were at the urinal and Grant was all over Tony. I went over and grabbed Grant and was about to slug him when Tony grabbed my arm to keep me from it, and while I was distracted, Grant took off. That’s when I went upstairs and the fight almost started.”

“But you don’t know that Tony had anything to do with Grant’s being ‘all over him.’ Did Tony look like he was enjoying it?”

He paused a second then said, “No, not exactly. But the thing is, he let Grant do it!”

Well, I could see Jerry wasn’t the kind of guy to let logic stand in the way of a knee-jerk reaction.

“And less than a week later, Grant was dead,” I pointed out.

He had his beer halfway to his mouth, and he froze there for an instant, staring at me.

“So, you’re saying you think I killed that bastard?” he asked.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m merely pointing out the facts.”

“Well, if I’d had a chance to get to him that night, I very well might have. But if I was going to kill him, it wouldn’t have been with a fucking bomb.” He was still looking at me, as if trying to guess my reaction. Taking the delayed swig of his beer, he put the bottle on the bar and said, “Look, I know I’ve got a little problem with my temper every now and then. But it’s always like a firecracker going off—bam! and that’s it. I’d cooled down by the time we got home.”

“But you still broke up with Tony,” I observed.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Actually, it was the other way around. It was Tony who broke up with me. He said he’d had it with my temper, and that my embarrassing him in front of the chorus was the last straw.”

“Any chance of your getting back together?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see. Tony says he won’t even consider it unless I take an anger management class.”

“And will you?”

Another shrug. “I’m thinking about it. Like I said, we’ll see.”

I glanced at my watch and saw it was getting close to time for me to head for home. But I had one more question. “Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to see Grant dead badly enough to actually do it?”

He drained his beer, then said, “No, not really. I never had all that much to do with the chorus or the guys who belong to it, and all I know is what Tony’d tell me. Other than that, I don’t know anything at all about that creep’s life. But I’m glad someone had the guts to give him what he deserved.”

So much for love thy neighbor, I thought.

I finished my beer, thanked him for his time and left. I was curious to see whether Marty had found evidence that Jerry’s temper might have ever gotten him into trouble with the law.

*

I actually made it home shortly before Jonathan and Joshua and had just fixed my evening Manhattan when I heard Jonathan’s key in the lock. I quickly got a Coke, and a small jelly glass for Joshua into which I put a couple ice cubes and poured part of the soda. Juggling the can and two glasses, I went into the living room to quickly set everything down for our ritual group hug.

Jonathan looked a little tired, so I volunteered Joshua and myself to make dinner. I wasn’t being noble; just knew we were having knackwurst—“fat hot dogs,” as Joshua called them—and sauerkraut, neither of which relied too heavily on culinary skills. Joshua loved hot dogs in any form, but I was a little surprised the first time we had sauerkraut and found he loved that, too. Actually, we were very lucky in that there were very few things he didn’t like, liver and mushrooms being the notable exceptions. But since I couldn’t stand them either, it wasn’t much of a problem. Jonathan, who loved them both, was outnumbered two to one and had to settle for ordering them when we went out to eat.

I mentioned during dinner that I wanted to try to reach Bernie Niles at home as soon after we finished eating as possible.

“That’s fine,” Jonathan said. “Joshua and I’ll make the dessert while you’re doing that.”

Having no idea what he was talking about, I asked, “What dessert?”

“Uncle Jonathan said we could make fruit whip!” Joshua answered happily. “I like fruit whip!”

I did, too, actually, though we’d not had it in a while. It was simplicity itself—a can of fruit cocktail with the syrup drained off, then mixed with a small tub of Cool Whip.

So, while they set out on their dessert adventures, which I rightly suspected would not be without its perils—few things involving an enthusiastic five-year-old boy are—I went into the living room to call Bernie Niles.

The phone was picked up on the third ring by a young and pleasant-sounding male voice.

“Niles residence.”

“Is Bernie Niles in?”

“I’ll get him for you.” I heard the rustle as the mouthpiece was covered by a hand, followed by a muffled, “Bernie, it’s for you.” A moment later, the hand came off the receiver and there was some sort of exchange I didn’t catch. Then, “Hello?”

“Mr. Niles, this is Dick Hardesty calling. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, I’ve been too busy to return the call.” The tone was not saying the same thing as the words.

I ignored it. “I understand.”

“What do you want?” Not exactly hostile, but several steps from warm and friendly.

“I wanted to talk to you about Grant Jefferson,” I said.

There was not a moment’s pause before, “I suspected that was why you were calling. I assume he’s gotten himself into some sort of trouble, but my interest in Grant ceased the instant he left Atlanta and there is absolutely nothing I can tell you.”

“I take it you aren’t aware he’s dead.” Maybe I could have eased into it better, but…

There was a definite pause this time. Then, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

That’s it? a mind-voice asked. You’re “sorry to hear that?”

I waited a moment for him to add something more, and when he didn’t, I said, “Yes. He was murdered.”

“Crandall Booth, I assume?”

A natural assumption, I suppose, but…

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “I’m calling you for any information you may have on the man Grant was with before you came to his rescue—Robert Smith.”

“Robert Smith?”

“The man you sent to jail after Grant tipped you off that he was a con man,” I said, wondering if everyone automatically assumed I was an idiot.

“Oh. Yes. What about him?”

I could tell from the tone of his voice that he’d thrown his guard up.

“Has he contacted you to ask about Grant?”

“No. Why should he?”

I decided the fact that he didn’t point out Smith was in jail indicated pretty strongly that he knew he wasn’t.

“It seemed only logical that Smith might be holding something of a grudge against both you and Grant—though probably more against Grant for alerting you to the scam—and that he might have contacted you to find out where Grant was.”

“No, he did not,” he said in a tone which I clearly read as, “Yes, he did.”

I deliberately paused before saying, “Ah…okay. That’s good to know, because I work closely with the police and mentioned that I was going to be calling you. If they were to question you directly and find out otherwise, you could be charged with abetting a murderer.”

I wasn’t sure that was true but counted on his not knowing if it were, either.

“You would report me to the police?” he asked, coldly but with a tinge of anxiety.

“Well, this is primarily a police murder investigation,” I said, “I’m merely conducting a parallel investigation and if I was curious enough to want to call you, it would be surprising if the police might not consider it also. However, if you were honest with me, I might be able to convince them it wouldn’t be necessary.”

There was a deep sigh. “All right, so Smith did call me, demanding to talk to Grant. When I told him Grant had moved, he didn’t believe me and in effect threatened my life if I didn’t tell him where Grant was. So I did. I didn’t have Grant’s address, just Crandall’s business address. What he intended to do with the information, or if he did anything at all, I have no way of knowing. “

“Well, I’d say Grant’s ending up dead might be a clue.”

“A clue, yes, but not proof. It’s quite a leap from one to the other.”

He was right.

“What can you tell me about Smith?” I asked.

“I suppose I should have spotted him for what he was when I first saw him. In retrospect, he was the perfect image of a con man. Well-groomed, well-mannered, well-spoken. An air of authority and confidence—the kind of man who could blend in anywhere.”

“Exactly how did you meet him?” I asked.

“I was in New York for a meeting of east coast Porsche dealers at the Waldorf. One day when I had some free time I attended an art auction and bid on a few pieces, though I didn’t get them. That evening, upon returning to the hotel, I stopped in at Sir Harry’s for a drink. The next thing I knew, Grant was sitting beside me.

“One hardly thinks of the Waldorf as a pick-up spot, so, other than noticing he was a very attractive young man and obviously gay, I didn’t think much about it. Then he asked if he hadn’t seen me earlier at the Doyles’ auction. I said yes, and we got into a conversation. I asked why he’d been there, and he said his employer was an art dealer, etc. He mentioned the dealer specialized in exactly the type of pieces I’d bid on, which got my interest. I should have realized I was being set up even then.

“I invited Grant to my room to talk further…”

Riiight, I thought.

“…and he suggested I meet his employer. Well, I took the bait and the rest, as they say, is history.

“When they came down to Atlanta to show me a couple of pieces Smith thought I’d be interested in, Grant called me from their hotel, sounding really distraught. When I asked him what was wrong he blurted out that Smith was a fraud and was out to scam me. He then went on to give me a long story of abuse at Smith’s hands and said he wanted desperately to get away from him but had nowhere to go.

“I told him he was welcome to stay with me—it was the least I could do for his having saved me a great deal of money—and immediately called the police. Smith was arrested that same evening and subsequently went to jail. Grant was my house guest until Crandall Booth came to town.”

House guest, huh? I could practically see him frantically thumbing through his copy of The Big Book of Euphemisms.

“And you haven’t heard from Smith since you told him where Grant was?” I asked.

“No, and I am hoping I never do.”

“Do you remember exactly when he called?”

There was a pause before, “I can’t recall the exact date, but approximately three weeks ago.”

“Around the twentieth of the month?” I asked.

“Somewhere around there, yes, but I honestly don’t recall if it was before or after. Why does it matter?”

“Because,” I said, “Grant was killed on the twentieth, and I wanted to know if Smith could have been here in town when it happened.”

Another pause, then, “I’m sorry, I really can’t recall. As I say, I’m sure it was around that time, but…”

“Well, if you do remember, I’d appreciate your giving me a call.”

“I’ll do that,” he said, lying through his teeth. “And can I now assume I don’t have to expect a call from the police?”

“I’ll tell them what you told me,” I said. “But while I can hope they’ll find the information sufficient, I have no way of guaranteeing it.”

“So, in other words, I’ve wasted my time here,” he said, obviously displeased.

“I’d certainly hope not,” I said. “I know they’re investigating several other leads and perhaps one of them will lead to something. I’d imagine the only reason they may have to contact you would be in regard to the timing of Smith’s call to you.”

Niles sighed deeply. “If I can’t remember for you, I won’t be able to remember for them.”

“I understand,” I said, “and I really hope it won’t be necessary. Which is why, if you do recall something, I’d appreciate your contacting me.”

“Very well. Now, I really have things to do, so…”

I started to say, “Thank you for your time,” but he hung up before I reached your.

When I returned to the kitchen, I found our “simple dessert” had turned into a major project. Joshua was seated at the table in front of a small plate with more than a dozen maraschino cherry stems neatly circled around the inner edge.

“Joshua thought there weren’t enough cherries in the mixed fruit,” Jonathan explained. “He thought it would be a good idea to add some of your Manhattan cherries.” Indicating the plate of stems, he added, “He volunteered to remove the stems. I think two or three of the cherries actually made their way into the dessert. The rest of them mysteriously disappeared while I wasn’t looking.”

“Well,” I said in Joshua’s defense, “I suspect the Cherry Fairy ate them.”

Joshua snickered and nodded.

*

Friday came and went quickly, marked only by a call to Marty to fill him in on my conversation with Bernie Niles.

“Most interesting,” Marty said. “If Smith was in town at the time of Jefferson’s death, I’d say he might be worth talking to.”

“If he was in town, if he still is, and if you can find him,” I said.

“True,” he replied. “But we’ll definitely keep our eyes and ears open. And we should probably give Niles a call, too, to see if we can jog his memory on exactly when Smith called him. That’s the key.”

“I agree,” I said, “but I really think if he remembered he’d have told me.”

“Doesn’t hurt to check,” Marty said.

“Good luck!”

*

The weekend went by equally fast, though without the pressures of trying to figure out who blew up Grant Jefferson. Our friends Bob and Mario called inviting us to an impromptu barbecue at their place on Sunday afternoon, and the whole gang was able to get together, which is always a pleasure. Everyone was doing well, and while nothing was said about the status of Jake’s AIDS, he appeared to be healthy as a horse.

Joshua always loved getting together with all his “uncles” because of the fuss they always made over him, though in a “big boy” way, which delighted him.

*

Jonathan was a little later than usual getting home from practice the following Tuesday, and I was beginning to wonder where he was when I heard the key in the lock.

“Sorry,” he said quietly so as not to wake Joshua.

I got up from the couch as he came across the room for a hug.

“A bunch of us got to talking after the rehearsal. The rumors are still so thick you can walk on them.”

I sighed, taking his hand and sitting down beside him on the couch. “I’d hoped they’d be dying down by now. Anything special?”

“Not really. Everybody’s still trying to figure out who killed Grant. Some guys are still sure it was someone from the chorus, and wondering if the guy next to you might be a murderer doesn’t do much for morale. But the consensus seems to be that it was Mr. Booth, and that he’ll be arrested and then he’ll go to jail for murder and won’t be able to support the chorus and the Chicago trip will be cancelled and the chorus will have to break up and…”

“Nothing like jumping on your horse and galloping off in all directions,” I said.

He sighed and squeezed my hand. “You’re right. I think everybody had assumed that, with Grant dead, everything would get back to normal. But it hasn’t, and now with all these rumors and speculations, it’s really hard to concentrate on the music. And we’ve got to be good for the concert.”

He shifted his body to turn to look at me. “So, that’s why you have to find out who killed Grant soon, even if it is Mr. Booth. At least then, what’s going to happen to the chorus will happen and we can all get on with our lives. But this way…”

“I understand,” I said, “and no one wants me to find who killed Grant more than me. I’m doing the best I can.”

He smiled. “I know you are. And you’ll find him, I know.”

*

Wednesday morning I got a call from Marty.

“Got some news for you on the Jefferson case,” he said. “Two things, actually. First, I checked on that guy Jerry Granville. No record. Second, we found out some more background on your Robert Smith. His real name is Clarence Farnsworth—no wonder he turned to a life of crime. Anyway, it turns out he has quite a rap sheet in New York. In addition to a string of arrests for various scams he’s had two arrests for assault—both dropped when the victims withdrew the charges. Definitely a real con artist with a mean streak. They extradited him to New York after his arrest in Atlanta, but he was released from jail a month ago.”

“But no word on whether he might have come here after his release?”

“Nope. Nobody has any idea where he is. He showed up for his first appointment with his parole officer after he got out, then that was it. Nobody’s seen or heard from him since, other than that call to Niles.”

“Thanks, Marty. As always, I appreciate your keeping me in the loop.”

“Works both ways,” he said.

With promises to keep in touch and try to get together for lunch one day soon, we hung up.

*

And suddenly the chorus’ concert was less than two weeks away, and the tension over Grant’s disruptions and death were gradually being replaced by the tension of the approaching performance. Jonathan remained outwardly calm, but I could sense his excitement and was truly happy for him.

As for finding out who killed Grant—well, lots of wheel-spinning but not much progress. Nothing had been heard of or from Smith. I must have contacted at least forty of the fifty members of the chorus, following every rumor-dipped lead to its inevitable dead end or brick wall. Grant supposedly had a little clique of sycophants, but I’d certainly never know it from talking to them. While quite a few were, at best, neutral toward him, there were more who had some real or imagined grudge against him, and the more stories I heard about his arrogance the more I wished Jerry Granville had at least managed to land a few punches before he was ordered out.

But as for anything I truly could consider as being a lead to a specific motive or an individual who might actually have killed him, there was nothing.