The Rattle of the Bones, Chapter 3

Approximately 2600 words

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Chapter Three

         The wind gusted across the levee, blasted gritty dust into Conner's face and whipped his curls across his eyes.  He swept his at his hair while glancing at his watch.  Quarter after twelve.  Stan was going to have a fit, especially after last night's dinner date fell apart.  He broke into a trot, clenching a file folder in his fist against the winds.

         Five minutes later, he pushed into the downtown Denny's.  He scanned the customers while a rush of air from the air conditioning chilled the sweat on his brow.  Stan sat in the far row of booths, near the window, huddled over his table.  His hands were cupped around his coffee mug and his stony eyes stared into infinity. 

         Seeing him, alone and looking lost, made Conner pause.  Stan's stylish appearance usually hid the vulnerable man who lurked inside.  Today, though, his armor failed; his razor cut, with its angled sideburns and spiked coiffure, and the knife-like perfection of his Italian suits just accentuated the hurt and uncertainty he ordinarily kept tucked away from view.  Conner ran fingers through his own tangled locks, adjusted his rumpled sport coat, and plastered a smile on his face.  Maybe he could help.

         Stan didn't look up when Conner approached and slid in on the opposite side.

         Conner murmured, "Sorry I'm late."  He caught a whiff of his lover's musky scent, and his heart quickened.  Then the undertone of bourbon-breath wafted his way and his throat tightened.  Maybe Stan just had one too many and  was beyond anyone's help.

         Stan's eyes flicked at him.  His jaws jumped, and then seemed to examine the interior of his coffee cup.  "I've been here half an hour." 

         "I know. I'm late.  I had a last minute emergency with a client this morning.  I said I was sorry."  Conner put the file folder on the table and signaled the waiter.

         Stan sipped his water and at last stared Conner in the eye. "Jesus.  You look like shit. You're sweating like a pig and that shirt looks like you slept in it."

         "I ran the last three blocks to get here. Dammit, it's humid out there."

         "Well, it's Iowa in June.  What do you expect?"  He hesitated, but couldn't resist being Stan. "You know, if you worked out, you could run three blocks without turning into a wheezing blob of Jell-o." 

         Conner's face heated, but the waiter arrived with water and menus so he held his tongue. 

         Stan announced his order at once: the cranberry-apple chicken salad, without bothering to look at the menu. 

         The waiter turned to Conner and asked, "Would you like a few minutes to make up your mind sir?"

         Stan's right index finger traced rapid circles on the rim of his water glass. 

         Conner took the hint and picked the first thing that caught his eye on the menu.  "I'll have the prime rib Philly melt.  And a diet coke." 

        After the waiter left, Conner decided that if Stan wanted a fight it'd be best to just get it over with.  "I was looking forward to a romantic evening last night. I'm sorry it didn't work out."

        "Me, too," Stan snapped, glaring at him.  Then his face softened, and he averted his gaze.  "Rob's dead."

        Conner's breath caught in his throat.  Rob, dead!  Jesus. Adrenaline tingled down his spine and prickled out his fingers as he tried to keep his face neutral.  "You mean Rob Olofsson, your..."  He couldn't finish.

        "Yeah.  That Rob. My ex."

        "I'm so sorry."  What did he know?  He couldn't know anything, not really. "How'd it happen?"

        Stan's impassive visage seemed to inspect him, probing for secrets, but his voice was neutral when he replied, "Strangulation.  It looked like it might have been an S&M scene gone bad.  That was the case Barb wanted help with last night. She had me ID the body."

        "Shit, that sucks."  Conner took a moment to calm himself.  He unfolded his napkin and shook it out, trying to control his trembling fingers.  "I'm sorry.  Was it awful?"

        Stan stared at him for a few heartbeats, and then lowered his eyes and moved his flatware a micron to his right.  "It was pretty bad. From the state of decomp, he'd been dead maybe three days."

        Conner reached out and stroked Stan's thumb. "I'm so sorry.  I should have been there for you."

        That got him a shrug, before Stan pulled his hand back.  "He meant nothing to me."  His mouth formed a hard line.  "The ME ruled it accidental death, but Murphy doesn't think so."

        Conner considered for a moment telling Stan about Rob and himself, but decided not to.  Maybe I'll never have to tell him now.  "What's Murphy think?  I'd trust her before that publicity hound in the ME's office."  His voice quavered a bit, but he hoped Stan would think that was just from the shock of hearing about Rob's death.

        Stan's impassive features and tone revealed nothing.  "It might have been accidental death, sexual asphyxiation, like the ME said."  The words came out as if from a newspaper and about a stranger. "He was a prostitute, and a meth addict.  There was enough circumstantial evidence that it convinced the ME and his tech." 

        "But Barb thinks it's something else?"

        Stan shook his head. "Maybe. It's just intuition right now, no real evidence.  Since the ME ruled it accidental, she won't be able to officially investigate.  I told her I'd look into it."

        Conner wondered where this would lead.  "Well, I'm here for you if you need me."

        Stan gave him a level look, as though he were considering the truth of Conner's statement.  "I know."    He returned his gaze to his water glass.  "Let's just drop it, shall we?  I don't want to talk about that loser.  He's dead, and good riddance."

         For a tough guy, Stan could be pretty vulnerable. Conner blinked back guilt.  "I do love you.  You know that," he murmured.  His throat tightened and he knew tears must shimmer in his eyes.  He stroked Stan's wrist.  At least he didn't pull away.

         Stan looked up and heaved a sigh.  "I know.  I love you, too." He gave Conner's hand a quick squeeze and then sucked up more coffee.    After a moment, he glanced at the folder Conner had placed on the table.  "Is that the file on Duane Bregas?"

        Conner gave a little start.  "Oh, yeah. I thought you'd want to look.  His mother told me she spoke to you this morning."  He shoved it in Stan's direction, glad for the change of subject.  "I'm sorry about this.  You can tell her you're too busy if you want."

        Stan picked up the file and flipped through it. "Already took the case.  It's not like I'm swamped with work, and I don't think it'll take too much time anyway.  If he's still in town, he should be easy to find.  If he's not, no one's going to find him."

         Conner nodded. "There's a copy of last night's police report. This Bregas guy's a real piece of work.  There've been a dozen domestic violence calls in the past year, and the cops didn't do squat."

         Stan flipped through the photocopied documents.  "It says here she wouldn't file a complaint those earlier times.  Not much they could do."  He glanced at Conner's handwritten notes.  "I see our little Duane's been busy himself.  What was he doing down on the levee?  The cops wouldn't have written him up if he was just loitering."

         "Yeah, I know. It looks like he was hooking.  I caught this case about a month ago from the cop who cited him for loitering."

         Stan glanced up.  "Says here the cop's name's Skrivseth.  Is he a rookie, maybe?"

         "Yeah, that's him.  Didn't look much older than Bregas.  You know him?"

         "I met him last night.  He's green as a pool table and twice as square."  Stan's gaze dropped back the file and he muttered, "He seemed okay."

         "Seemed that way to me, too.  Anyway, he told me he'd seen Duane at the levee on and off for the last year, wearing low-slung jeans and usually with his shirt off, stuffed in his belt."

         "Huh."  Stan returned to flipping through the file.  "Cruising then, at least, and maybe hooking.  From the pictures his mother gave me, I doubt that taking off his shirt would exactly enhance his look."

         "Not for you and me, maybe. But there's plenty of chicken hawks out there."  Conner hesitated. "How current was the photo his mother showed you?  He's got a Goth look now: black fingernails, black clothes, ear and nose rings."

         "That's new. I see you added a more recent picture."  Stan closed the folder. "His mother could only name one friend, some drag queen who goes by Lola.  Did his father beat him like he did his mother?"

         "There's no evidence of that, but he's got a couple suspicious emergency room admissions.  Could have been from bullies at his school, though."  Conner thought about his conversation about Duane with the street kids on the levee yesterday, and took a sip of water to hide his worry.  "The guidance counselor at his school told me he quit to get away from them."

         Stan snorted and glared.  "Yeah, and I bet the guy couldn't be bothered to lift a finger to help the gay kid.  Bastard."

         "Actually, the counselor's a she, and seems like a good sort.  She tried to help, but Duwne's parents both went ballistic and told her to back off.  They even complained to the principal when she mentioned PFLAG.  They thought he was a sissy and just needed to stand up for himself."

         "That worked out well."  Stan didn't quite give him a cop's sneer.

         "Exactly.  When you locate him, I've found a family he can stay with until he gets on his feet.  I've already located a part-time job for him and got him a scholarship at the VoTech.  He's smart enough.  He just never had a chance."

         "Yeah.  'When I find him.'  I just hope he's not run off to Chicago or Saint Louis.  I'll do what I can."

         Conner nodded.  "I knew I could  rely on you."  He hesitated. "I'm sorry to dump a charity case like this in your lap.  Don't you have another, paying case?  With those right-wing fuckwads, the Puchners?"

         "Their money's green, just like everybody else's, and I've got bills to pay."  Stan's lips tightened.   

         "If you're short, I can help out."

         "I wasn't asking for charity." Stan's nose gave a little twitch.

         "That's not what I meant."  The waiter arrived with their meals, and their conversation ground to a blessed halt.

         When they were alone again, Stan turned an eye on Conner's meal. "How can you stand to eat that crap?  It's all full of grease and fat.  How're your cholesterol and blood pressure doing, anyway?  You know what your doctor said."

         "I'm okay.  Really."  Jesus, lay off will you?  I haven't bitched about the bourbon I can smell on your breath.

         "Sorry.  I don't mean to nag. It's just that I worry about you."  He blushed and looked away. 

         Conner gazed for a moment at his lover's trim form and rugged features and thought about the scars that hid beneath his too-perfect veneer.  I guess you've got a right to be moody.  "I worry about you, too," he whispered, but Stan didn't seem to hear him.

         Conner checked his watch.  He had twenty minutes before his next appointment.  He took a huge bite out of his sandwich and spoke through a mouthful of prime rib, mayonnaise and bun. "Mrph. This is good."

         "Don't talk with your mouth full."  Stan's face relaxed into a crooked grin.  "If you think that's good, you should taste the meal you missed last night. I could re-heat it.  What you doing tonight?"

         "Said the spider to the fly.  What do you have in mind?"

         "Mmmm...I'm sure we can think of something." He glanced toward the front of the dining room and his eyes narrowed.  "What the fuck's he doing here?"

         Conner followed his gaze to where a beefy man with a florid face was speaking with the restaurant's greeter.  "Who?  That dumpy, bald guy?  He's not my type, if you're thinking of a three-way."

         "Don't be silly.  That's Thurston Puchner."

         "No shit?  The high and mighty hisself?  Isn't this a little low class for him?"  Conner glanced at his watch and took another huge bite out of his sandwich.

         "You can say that again.  Uh-oh. He's spotted me."  Stan stood, gave his suit coat a tug, and held out his hand as the man marched  their way.  "Mr. Puchner.  So nice to see you."

         "Scholl. Good to see you."

         "This is my friend, Conner Jacobs." 

         Conner stood, wiped mayonnaise off his fingers, and they shook while he muttered, "Mff, er, grrg."  He pointed to his mouth and made exaggerated chewing motions.

         Puchner nodded and turned his attention back to Stan in dismissal.  "How's our business coming?"

         "Slowly, sir. I'm kind of working in a vacuum right now.  If you could give me an idea of where to look..."  Stan quirked an eyebrow at him.

         "Certainly, certainly. Call my girl for an appointment.  I should have some time tomorrow or the next day.  You can show me your preliminary report, and we'll go from there."  He glanced to the front of the restaurant.  "Ah, my associate is here."  He nodded at Conner without looking at him.  "Mr. Johnson." 

         They sat back down and Stan smirked. "You're so cute with mayo smeared on your chin."  He dabbed his napkin in his water glass and wiped Conner's face.

         "Shit.  I must look like an idiot, and in front of your fancy-shmancy client. I'm sorry."

         "It's all right.  The SOB didn't even care enough to get your name right.  'Mr. Johnson,' my ass.  He can take his johnson and stuff it where the sun don't shine.  Near as I can tell, the only thing that makes an impression on him is money. Huge stacks of it."

         "Well, that leaves me out."  Conner craned his neck.  "Hey, look who he's having lunch with."

         "It's rude to stare.  You'll never be a private eye if you can't be more subtle."  Stan scratched his temple and signaled to the waiter while peeking at the men.  "Okay, so he's with some redneck dude who looks like he's gone too many rounds in a tough man contest."

         "Yeah. That's Johnnie Bregas."  Conner considered the possibilities, and a frown wrinkled his brow.  "What are those two doing together?"

         "Well, Cissy told me her husband worked for Puchner Payday Loans."

         "Yeah, I know. Bregas is the muscle they use when someone is slow paying. So, what's that low-life doing hob-nobbing with the company's power elite?"

         Stan frowned.  "Don't know.  But I bet it'd be interesting to find out."  He brightened.  "Hey, come to my place around nine or so?  We'll have leaved-overs and watch a movie or something."

         "I vote for 'or something.'  I'll be there."  Glad that Stan seemed less morose, at least for now, Conner checked his watch.  "Shit.  I gotta run." He wrapped the remains of his sandwich in a napkin and stood.

         The waiter chose that moment to return.  "Did you need something, gentlemen?"

         Stan nodded.  "I think we're ready for the check, thanks."  The man left to add up their bill, and Stan touched Conner's hand.  "Go.  I'll pay for lunch."

         "Well..." Conner looked at his watch. "I am late.  See you tonight."

         "I'll have dinner ready."  Stan's face held that impassive, appraising look again, and Conner felt like a bug under a magnifying glass.  Or a suspect in a crime.

         It must be just my imagination.  He can't know anything. He bustled out the restaurant and back to work.