The Hired Man (6 page)

I answered with my usual “Dick Hardesty,” even though I didn't get many business calls at home and friends hardly needed to be told my last name. Habits are odd.

“Mr. Hardesty,” an unfamiliar voice said. “My name is Arnold Glick. I'm sorry to bother you at home, but it's extremely important that I speak with you privately, and as soon as possible.”

Arnold Glick of ModelMen. Phil hadn't wasted any time getting in touch with him, obviously.

“Of course, Mr. Glick,” I said. “When and where?”

“Could it possibly be this evening?” he asked, and although his tone was casual, I could sense a definite urgency. “At my home, perhaps?”

I looked at my watch; it was 7:25.

“Well,” I said, “I was just about to have dinner, but I could come by around nine or nine-thirty, if you'd like.”

“Excellent.” Glick sounded relieved. “I do appreciate it. Let me give you my address, and the phone number, in case you are delayed.”

I reached for the pencil and pad I always try to keep by the phone and was pleasantly surprised they both were there; I invariably walk off with the pencil and leave it God-knows where.

I took down his number and address, told him again that I'd see him between 9:00 and 9:30, exchanged goodbyes, and hung up.

*

Glick's address, I recognized, was in the Briarwood area, which wasn't exactly subsidized housing. Part of it sided the golf course of the Birchwood Country Club, the most exclusive country club in the city. It was rumored that the lobby of the main building had a large model of the Mayflower, since so many of the club's members claimed…rightly or wrongly…direct lineage from its passenger list.

It would take me at least half an hour to get there and since I hadn't even started dinner, I decided to grab something on the way. I changed my shirt, made a quick inspection to see if I needed a shave or not—I could pass—and headed out the door.

*

I pulled into the circular drive of 6811 Edgemont Court at exactly 9:00, after having driven up and down several nearby streets killing time. I didn't see a single house that didn't look like it cost more than the gross national product of Guatemala.
Where in hell does all this money
come
from,
I wondered,
and why in hell don't I have any of it?

The Glick residence made its neighbors look like squatters' shacks by comparison. “Quiet ostentation” would pretty much describe it, if you took away the “quiet.” I decided immediately that however much money ModelMen pulled in, it wasn't nearly enough to finance a place like this.

I parked in a mini-mall-sized parking area on one side of the house, found my way to the front door, and rang the bell.

Chapter 3

There was about a thirty-second wait, and the left side of the massive double doors swung open to reveal a tall, rather striking woman in her early-to-mid forties with jet-black hair almost to her waist and eyeliner that reminded me of Cleopatra. She wore a gold lame tank top and toreador pants.

Probably not the maid,
I decided.

“Mrs. Glick,” I said, risking it, “I'm Dick Hardesty. Your husband is expecting me.”

She smiled warmly and naturally and extended her heavily jeweled hand.

“Please come in, Mr. Hardesty,” she said. “My husband is on the phone but should be off shortly. Why don't we go into the study?”

She closed the door behind me and led the way through the marble-floored circular foyer of which the focal point was a staircase like the one at Tara, only nicer, then through a large, Doric-column-flanked doorway into a surprisingly comfortable study complete with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a fireplace. I would not have been the least bit surprised to see Sherlock Holmes in a smoking jacket, seated in one of the wing-back chairs by the fire.

“Please,” she said, with a sweeping-handed, full-arm game-show-hostess gesture toward one of the wing-backs, “have a seat. I'll go check on my husband.”

And as I sat, she turned and left the room, the soft click of her stiletto heels marking her path across the foyer.

I took the time to look more carefully around the room. A large French-paned window flanked by wooden shutters rather than curtains; rich, dark paneling—walnut, I think; a muted rose carpet; an elegant writing desk that managed to look both fragile and sturdy at the same time; some very nice paintings on the wall areas between the bookcases. One of the paintings was a marvelous French cityscape by Raoul Dufy—I had a print of it in my bedroom hallway. I got out of my chair to verify what I already knew—this wasn't a print.

I heard the clicking of Mrs. Glick's shoes approaching and turned to see her enter the room accompanied by a small, grey-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman in—I swear!—a smoking jacket with a casually open-at-the-collar white shirt. I was mildly disappointed not to see a pipe.

He hurried across the room, hand extended, which I rose and stepped forward to take as he reached me.

“Mr. Hardesty,” he said in a smooth, rich voice, “I can't tell you how much I appreciate your coming over.” He motioned me toward the chair I'd just left. “Please, let's sit. May I get you a drink?”

“Not right now, thanks,” I said, and he gave me a quick smile.

He and I sat, and Mrs. Glick stood beside her husband, as though protecting him. When we'd settled in, Glick slid all the way into the chair back and said, “We have a serious problem.”

I nodded. “Stuart Anderson.”

He nodded and glanced up at his wife, reaching over to pat her hand gently.

“You have no idea how distressed we are over what has happened,” he said. “Stuart was a long-time business acquaintance, and a friend. Phil tells me you and Stuart were doing some work together. While your business arrangement with him is none of my business, I would assume that he died before it was completed, and therefore you were not paid for your services.”

I realized with something of a mild shock that he was right.

“That's true,” I acknowledged, “but I'm certainly not concerned about money under these circumstances.”

“That's very noble of you,” Glick said, and he wasn't being sarcastic. “However, Stuart's death creates a very complex set of problems and potential problems for the ModelMen Agency, and we would like to utilize your expertise in helping us resolve or avoid them. Would you be interested?”

“As a matter of fact, I would.”

Glick looked up at his wife, and they exchanged smiles.

“Wonderful,” he said. “I assume you have a standard contract you would need us to sign?”

I did, of course, but since I'd had no idea I'd be taking the Glicks on as clients, I hadn't brought one with me.

“I'll get you one,” I said. “Shall I drop it by your office?”

“Would you mind bringing it here?” Glick asked. “While all our escorts are also registered as models, we prefer to keep the two aspects of the agency as separate as possible. And my wife should be here all day—we're having a fountain put in beside the pool house, and Iris likes to oversee these things.” He turned slightly to smile up at his wife again, who returned it.

I realized I hadn't mentioned my fee, but it was in the contract, and I sincerely doubted the Glicks would have a hard time meeting it. I was sure the cost of a fountain beside the pool house would be considerably greater than the cost of my services for several months—full time.

“But perhaps we should go over a few things first,” I said.

“Of course.”

Mrs. Glick moved to sit on the arm of his chair.

“I recognize the importance of…discretion…to the escort service branch of ModelMen, and I will consider myself bound by it. I will not ask questions in what you consider sensitive areas unless I feel it is absolutely necessary.”

They both nodded.

“However, should there be something I feel I really need to know, I will expect your full cooperation. If any limits are set on where I can go and where I can't, I can't do the job you're paying me to do, and you might as well just save your money and hire someone else from the start.”

“Understood,” Glick said.

“Good. I have several questions already, but if you'd prefer, since it's getting late, we can take them up at our next meeting.”

Mrs. Glick slipped a hand behind her husband's head to rest it on his far shoulder.

“We can start now, if you'd like,” she said, and her husband nodded agreement

“Good,” I said again. “I'll try to make this brief. First, I understand from Phil that Mr. Anderson had called you when he got into town Sunday night, asking if Phil might be available for the night.”

Mrs. Glick smiled. “I took the call, and when I told Stuart that Phil was on another assignment, he set up an appointment for what would have been tonight.”

“He didn't ask for anyone else from ModelMen?”

Glick and his wife exchanged quick glances, and then Mrs. Glick replied, “No, Phil was his…favorite companion. I asked if he might enjoy spending time with one of our other escorts, but he said he would wait until Phil was available.”

“And your other escorts are…?”

Again the exchanged glances, and a hesitation before Glick said, “Other than Phil, we have Mike, Billy, Aaron, Steve, and Gary.”

“So, Phil was the only ModelMen escort Mr. Anderson utilized?”

There was a momentary pause before Glick said, “When Stuart first registered with us, he did spend an evening with Aaron, but on his next trip into town he asked for someone different.”

“He and Aaron didn't get along?”

“Oh, no, no,” Mrs. Glick said quickly. “It was nothing like that. It's just that many of our clients enjoy variety. It so happened that we sent Phil, and they got along so well Stuart never found the need to ask for anyone else.”

“I see,” I said, immediately remembering how much I hate it when people say “I see.” “Approximately how many times did Mr. Anderson and Phil see one another?”

“Is that important?” Mrs. Glick asked.

Test time,
I thought. I smiled.

“Yes, I think so. The more times Phil was with him, the more likely someone will remember their having been seen together, and the more curious the police will become.”

“Well, while I'm afraid it's inevitable someone will remember Phil in Stuart's company,” Glick said, “I hope no quick conclusions will be drawn. Stuart always stayed at the Montero, which is nothing if not discreet in guarding the privacy of its guests.

“But in order to allay any suspicion of Phil's real purpose in visiting, Stuart felt unnecessarily obligated to imply that he was a company employee working on the new stores. I think there were four visits in all.”

“Five,” his wife amended.

“Any overnighters?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” Glick said. “Stuart was too cautious for that. Phil would go over usually around eight, they would go out for dinner, return to the hotel for a couple hours, then Phil would leave. I really doubt anyone was paying attention, and even if they had been, it would all appear quite innocent.”

“Undoubtedly,” I said. “But Mr. Anderson's murder changes all that, dramatically. I understand Phil has an airtight alibi in that he was with a client. But here we may have a potential major problem—any alibi has to be verified, and if his client is reluctant to come forward…”

Glick smiled broadly and heaved a large sigh.

“I'm sure, if it becomes necessary, this particular client will not be hesitant,” he said. “He is a very prominent local figure, but thank God he is also gay and his sexual orientation is no secret. He normally does not utilize our services, but he met Phil at a social function and took a liking to him. Phil is very likable.”

Oh, my, yes!
I thought.

The clock over the mantle was striking 10:00, and I decided it was about time to leave.

“I think I've covered the most immediate bases,” I said. “I appreciate your cooperation, and there are several things I can start on as far as damage control is concerned. I'll do my best to keep the police at bay, but I'm obligated to advise you that if you are contacted by them, do not lie. Evade and avoid if you think it's necessary, but outright lies are dangerous, as I'm sure you know.”

I got up from my chair, and both Glicks also rose. We shook hands, and Mrs. Glick walked me to the door.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, smiling warmly as she opened the door. “We look forward to seeing you again.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” I said, not insincerely but well aware we were doing a little etiquette
pas de deux
.

We exchanged goodnights, she closed the door, and I went back to my car and then home.

*

On the way home, I kept thinking about Stuart Anderson and what might have led to his awful death. I couldn't get out of my mind the fact that Richman had said he had been “hacked to death.” I wasn't sure I knew what he meant—or that I really wanted to know.