He was wearing a blue work shirt with a white patch with an embroidered “Fells” on the pocket, and from some oily smudges on his blue work pants, I assumed he must be a mechanic of some sort.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said, indicating a TV tray set up in front of a recliner on one side of the living room. I hadn’t said a word yet but walked over and set the kit on the tray, opening it.
“I appreciate you doing this, Chuck,” I said, and he shrugged. He held out his right hand and I took it. “Relax,” I said when he splayed his hand, his fingers rigid. “Just let me roll them.”
It took some effort, but eventually, he got the idea and the left-hand printing went much easier.
“You’re going on the AIDS ride this Sunday?” I asked, though Don Gleason had already told me he was.
“Yeah. You ride?”
“No,” I admitted. “I’ve never been around bikes much.”
As he wiped off his fingers, I said, “Do you have any idea who might have stolen Jake’s gun. You giving me your prints pretty much rules you out.”
“Not a clue,” he said, wadding up the paper towel and laying it on the TV tray.
“What do you know about Art Manners and Tom Spinoza?” I asked.
“Why them?”
“No special reason, except that I haven’t gotten their prints yet, and I know they both had a good reason to want to see Hysong dead.”
He shrugged again. “We all did. Both Art and Tony have had it in for Cal for a long time, way before this AIDS thing ever came up.”
“What was Spinoza’s beef?” I asked, taking my time to put everything back in the kit and close it.
“Cal was always on his case,” he said. “Any time Tom’d start zeroing in on somebody, Cal would barge in and snap the guy up. One time, Tom and a guy were in the back room and in the middle of getting it on when Cal just pulled Tom off the guy and took over. Tom didn’t have the guts to fight him.’
“I gather most guys didn’t,” I said.
“True.”
“One last question,” I said. “I understand Spinoza had sex with Hysong once.”
I was totally surprised when he actually laughed. “Once? Cal used to screw him at least once a month. It was his way of showing Tom who was boss.”
Then, as though suddenly thinking he’d said too much, he glanced into the kitchen, where I could see a bag of groceries sitting on the plain wooden table.
“I just got home, and I’ve got stuff to do. And your five minutes is up.”
“Right,” I said, though I’d gotten the impression he was more bluster than bite, which took away some of my irritation with him. “Well, thanks again.”
I deliberately extended my hand. A flash of mild surprise crossed his face, but he took it and we shook.
“You ought to get yourself a bike,” he said, which I took as an oddly out-of-left-field compliment.
“Have a good ride Sunday,” I said, walking to the door.
*
Interesting bit of information about Spinoza, I thought on my drive home. I’ve often said that I never really understood the leather scene or what motivates guys who are into it. My problem, not theirs. But I do know that if somebody used me like a blow-up doll whenever he felt like it, I’d be a little more than mildly resentful. And to then find out the guy was doing it even though he knew he had AIDS…
I got home a little after six and joined Jonathan and Joshua near the end of their dinner. Though Joshua almost always hopped out of his chair and ran into the living room to play as soon as he was finished eating, he’d apparently been in the middle of a long dissertation on his day at “school” when I arrived, and for my benefit, started over from the beginning. Jonathan excused himself to get ready for practice, but Joshua sat with me until both his story and most of my dinner were more or less finished—it’s a little hard to tell with Joshua’s stories sometimes.
Jonathan left on time, and after we did the dishes, Joshua brought over the latest issue of
Life
for us to “read.” We’d no sooner sat down when the phone rang. I got up quickly to answer it.
“Dick, it’s Butch Reed. You left me a message?”
“Yeah, Butch, I did. Thanks for getting back to me,” I said and then went into my story and request.
“Sure,” he replied. “Though my prints are on record with the department, and you can get them there if you want.”
“Thanks, Butch, but the police aren’t officially involved yet. I’m just laying the groundwork for when they are.”
“Ah, okay,” he said, sounding a little confused. I certainly couldn’t blame him. “Your office is downtown, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said, giving him my address.
“I’ve got some business downtown tomorrow,” he said. “Do you want me to stop by your office? Say ten thirty?”
“That’d be great!” I said. “I’m on the sixth floor—six thirty-three. I’ll see you there, then.”
“Right,” he said and hung up, and I returned to Joshua and
Life
.
I’d gotten so I really enjoyed my time with Joshua. Sometimes, I’d just watch him while he played and reflect on how much he’d grown since he first came to us. He was a terrific kid. I understood how difficult it must be for him to have lost his mother and father at so young an age, and he still talked of them in terms that implied he expected them to come back, though he was old enough now to realize they couldn’t. But despite his occasional testing, Jonathan and I did our best to let him know he was loved, and I think he realized it.
*
At exactly ten thirty Wednesday morning, there was a knock at my office door and Butch Reed entered.
“Wow, you’re prompt!” I said as I stood up and moved around my desk to shake hands.
He grinned. “Hey, we try never to be late for fires, either,” he said.
I gestured him to a seat and asked if he’d like coffee, which he declined.
As long as I was up, I figured we might as well get the prints out of the way, so I took the kit from the file cabinet drawer where I’d put it earlier and set it on my desk closest to him.
“I’ve been wondering,” I said as I opened it and took out a blank card and the fingerprinting materials. “What do you know about Tom Spinoza? I hear Hysong almost singled him out for harassing.”
“Yeah, that was Cal for you. I just had that one incident with him. With Tom it was a regular thing. If it had been me, the second time Cal tried to pull his bullshit, I’d just have found myself somewhere else to hang out. But Tom kept coming back for more.”
“You think he liked it?” I asked, and Reed shrugged.
“I really don’t know Tom all that well. I don’t think he did,” he said, “and I don’t think he thinks he did. But who knows how somebody else’s mind works? I have a hard enough time figuring out my own sometimes.”
We accomplished the fingerprinting without breaking our conversation.
“And Tom isn’t exactly the friendliest guy in the world,” he continued, wiping his fingers. “He’s fine when you get to know him, but he likes to hold most people off at arm’s length. He’s like a lot of guys in figuring that the best defense is a good offense.”
“Well, he does a great job of that,” I said. “I’ve only talked to him once, and I don’t think I’d recommend him for a job as a maitre’d at the Imperator. I fully expect that when I ask him for his prints he’ll tell me to go fuck myself. The whole idea of getting the prints is to rule people out, and it’s pretty evident that anyone giving them willingly didn’t steal the gun. Anybody who won’t give them goes to the top of my suspects list, and so far Art and Tom are right up there.”
“Well, I wish you luck,” he said. “And if that offer for coffee still stands, I think maybe I would like half a cup.”
As I got up to go to the coffeemaker, I had a thought. “Do you know where Tom works, by any chance?”
“Yeah, he works for the phone company—repairman. Why?”
“Just curious,” I said.
I poured for us both, offered him creamer and sugar, then took my cup behind my desk and sat down. We spent the next half-hour just talking, and I decided that, barring some sudden damaging revelation, he was definitely off the suspect list entirely.
After he left, I dialed Spinoza’s number again. I assumed he’d be working but wanted to give it a shot, just in case. Answering machine again, so I hung up, determined to keep trying from both the office and home until I got him. The “going through the garbage” option seemed increasingly likely, if no more appealing.
*
I’d not spoken to Glen in some time so called his office to check with Donna to see when he might be in. I was surprised when she put me directly through to him.
“Hi, Dick,” he said. “How’s it going?”
I brought him up to date with what I’d been doing and the fact I was still intent on getting Manners’ and Spinoza’s prints. I asked him if he’d heard anything on Jake’s impending trial.
“Got word this morning just before you called. It’s set to start three weeks from today, and Judge Ferber has been assigned to it.”
“That’s good or bad?” I asked.
“Judge Ferber is a man born far after his time. He’d have been a great judge for Dodge City in the 1870s.”
“Not good, then, I gather.”
“Not good. But we’ll deal with him. I just hope we can get some sort of break in the case before trial.”
“I promise I’ll get those prints somehow by the first of next week,” I said. I didn’t even mention the possibility of what we might do if none of them matched the ones on Jake’s kitchen window.
*
I tried three times Wednesday night to reach Tom Spinoza with no luck, and I didn’t even consider leaving another message.
It hadn’t occurred to me, when Butch said Spinoza worked for the phone company, to ask if he was a home repairman or a lineman. If he was a lineman, he might well have sporadic hours and/or put in a lot of overtime, accounting for his not being home when I called. Or maybe he just didn’t answer his phone.
It wasn’t until my second call on Thursday night that I finally heard the receiver lifted, followed by “Yeah?”
“Tom.” I usually didn’t use first names as a matter of courtesy, but in Spinoza’s case courtesy wasn’t an issue. “This is Dick Hardesty calling. I wanted to let you know the police found fingerprints at Jake Jacobsen’s apartment after determining his stolen gun had been used to kill Cal Hysong.”
I rather expected to hear a hang-up, but there was nothing so I continued.
“I’m sure the police will start with the guys at the meeting. I’m trying to spare everybody from an interrogation by collecting everyone’s prints to give to the police so they can rule them out without bothering them. However, it’s a damned sure bet that anyone whose prints I don’t have will be at the top of their suspects list. I just thought I’d spare you the hassle.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” he said. “I told you I don’t have the time for this crap, so just leave me the hell alone!”
Then I heard the click of the disconnect.
My mental sigh was accompanied by a physical one.
Ohhh-kay, Hardesty. Now what?
Garbage time, I guess.
Well, garbage time was just going to have to wait until Monday night; garbage was picked up on Tuesday morning in Spinoza’s neighborhood, I knew. At least he lived in a single-family house—I’d driven by his place a week or so before when I was in the neighborhood—so I could be fairly certain any garbage at the curb would be just his.
Friday I had to take Joshua to the doctor to check his progress and have his stitches removed. Jonathan wanted to take time off work to go along, but I convinced him it was a very simple procedure, and I could provide sufficient moral support should it be needed.
Everything went smoothly, and Joshua took it far more in stride than I would have at his age. We celebrated his bravery with a hot fudge sundae on the way home.
As an alternative to reading books at Story Time, Jonathan and I had recently begun telling Joshua fairy tales, which totally fascinated him. His favorite, which he insisted on my retelling Friday night for the third time, was one my mother had told me when I was his age, about why the Chinese have very short names.
“Tell me about Time-Bo!” he insisted.
“Not tonight, Joshua,” Jonathan said then turned his attention to me. “You know what’s going to happen,” he warned.
“Yes, please! Tell me Time-Bo!”
Jonathan rolled his eyes to the ceiling but said nothing more.
“Okay,” I began. “Do you know why Chinese children have short names?”
“No,” he said, wide-eyed, playing along like a pro, though he’d heard the story twice before.
“Well,” I continued, “once upon a time, Chinese little boys had very long names, and there was a little boy named…” I paused, giving him the chance to jump in.
“Time-Bo!” Joshua responded.
“Well, not quite,” I said. “His name was Rickety-Tickety-Time-Bo-Time-Bo-Meta-Meta-Kibo-Kibo-Blotz.”
It was important to the story to say the name as rapidly as possible.
“Yeah!” Joshua replied.
“And one day, Rickety-Tickety-Time-Bo-Time-Bo-Meta-Meta-Kibo-Kibo-Blotz and his sister were out playing in the backyard.” I was very glad he never asked what the sister’s name was. “And do you know what happened then?”
“He fell down the well!” Joshua exclaimed.
“That’s right!” I said. “And his sister ran into the house to tell their mother that Rickety-Tickety-Time-Bo-Time-Bo-Meta-Meta-Kibo-Kibo-Blotz had fallen down the well. But she was so nervous and excited that by the time she was able to say ‘Rickety-Tickety-Time-Bo-Time-Bo-Meta-Meta-Kibo-Kibo-Blotz has fallen down the well!’ he had drowned.”