ten thirty Monday morning before dialing his number.
“Brewer.”
“Mr. Brewer, Dick Hardesty. I’ll be writing up a full report later but wanted to give you a quick rundown on what’s going on.”
“Yeah, I’ve been wondering.”
“Would you like to get together for a few minutes today?” I could as easily do it over the phone, though I really always prefer to talk to clients face to face.
“I’ve got a busy day today. Can we just do it over the phone?”
“Sure.”
“So, what have you got?”
“I’ve still got several leads to follow,” I said, “but there’s one constant in everything I’ve found out so far, which is why I’m mentioning it now.”
I then laid out for him what I’d been doing, to whom I’d talked, what they’d told me and what I’d deduced from it. I pointed out again that there were still paths to follow, but that I could find no evidence Reardon or anyone from the Spike was engaged in a concerted effort to put the Male Call out of business. More important, I told him, at this point, everything centered on the strong probability that Cal Hysong had AIDS and was knowingly giving it to the men with whom he had sex.
I did not tell him about my conversation with Stan Jacobson, but I did mention the fact of Hysong’s insistence on sex in the dark and on wearing at least a towel in the baths.
When I finished, there was a long pause—to the point where I was beginning to wonder if he was still on the line. Then, just before I spoke, Brewer said, “Okay. I’ll take it from here. You can send me your bill.”
Send him my bill? Whoa, there, cowboy!
“Uh,” I said. (I hate saying “uh,” it makes me look like I’ve been caught by surprise. Well, I had been.) “We still don’t know without question that it’s Hysong. It’s your decision, of course, and I’m certainly not out to pad my bill, but…”
“No,” Brewer said, “You only confirmed what I suspected.”
“Can I ask what you plan to do?” I said, wishing to hell I hadn’t even called him until I’d at least checked with the guys on Jared’s list.
“I’m not sure. But the first thing I’m going to do is to permanently eighty-six Hysong and tell him that if I ever catch him within two hundred feet of the Male Call, I’ll blow his fucking head off.”
His voice was calm, but I could sense the anger under the calm. I hoped to God he wasn’t planning on doing something stupid. And if he was serious about my sending him my bill, that meant I’d just managed to talk myself out of a client.
I’d give it a couple of days to see if he might call. In the meantime, though, I wouldn’t pass up any other offers.
*
When Brewer hadn’t called back by Thursday, I finished writing up my report to him—most of which I’d told him on the phone already—and prepared my bill. I still felt a little—what? Guilty? No, more ill at ease—over the idea that I hadn’t taken the case as far as it could possibly have gone if Brewer hadn’t chopped it off. I really hadn’t expected him to do that, but I should have learned by now that people don’t always do what I expect them to do.
Friday night, just as we were finishing dinner Bob called to invite us—Joshua included—to a barbecue at their place on Sunday, and we accepted with thanks.
“Oh,” he said after we’d gotten the what-time-and-what-can-we-bring (I volunteered potato salad) details out of the way, “have you heard the latest rumor going around?”
“Great,” I said. “That’s all we need, another rumor going around. What’s this one about?”
“About a guy named Cal Hysong. He got eighty-sixed from the Male Call for spreading AIDS.”
Well, Brewer certainly hadn’t wasted any time. I hadn’t a doubt in the world about the source of this tidbit. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been handing out fliers.
“No, I hadn’t,” I said. “But guilty or not, I wouldn’t want to be in Hysong’s shoes. People will be avoiding him
“Brewer.”
“Mr. Brewer, Dick Hardesty. I’ll be writing up a full report later but wanted to give you a quick rundown on what’s going on.”
“Yeah, I’ve been wondering.”
“Would you like to get together for a few minutes today?” I could as easily do it over the phone, though I really always prefer to talk to clients face to face.
“I’ve got a busy day today. Can we just do it over the phone?”
“Sure.”
“So, what have you got?”
“I’ve still got several leads to follow,” I said, “but there’s one constant in everything I’ve found out so far, which is why I’m mentioning it now.”
I then laid out for him what I’d been doing, to whom I’d talked, what they’d told me and what I’d deduced from it. I pointed out again that there were still paths to follow, but that I could find no evidence Reardon or anyone from the Spike was engaged in a concerted effort to put the Male Call out of business. More important, I told him, at this point, everything centered on the strong probability that Cal Hysong had AIDS and was knowingly giving it to the men with whom he had sex.
I did not tell him about my conversation with Stan Jacobson, but I did mention the fact of Hysong’s insistence on sex in the dark and on wearing at least a towel in the baths.
When I finished, there was a long pause—to the point where I was beginning to wonder if he was still on the line. Then, just before I spoke, Brewer said, “Okay. I’ll take it from here. You can send me your bill.”
Send him my bill? Whoa, there, cowboy!
“Uh,” I said. (I hate saying “uh,” it makes me look like I’ve been caught by surprise. Well, I had been.) “We still don’t know without question that it’s Hysong. It’s your decision, of course, and I’m certainly not out to pad my bill, but…”
“No,” Brewer said, “You only confirmed what I suspected.”
“Can I ask what you plan to do?” I said, wishing to hell I hadn’t even called him until I’d at least checked with the guys on Jared’s list.
“I’m not sure. But the first thing I’m going to do is to permanently eighty-six Hysong and tell him that if I ever catch him within two hundred feet of the Male Call, I’ll blow his fucking head off.”
His voice was calm, but I could sense the anger under the calm. I hoped to God he wasn’t planning on doing something stupid. And if he was serious about my sending him my bill, that meant I’d just managed to talk myself out of a client.
I’d give it a couple of days to see if he might call. In the meantime, though, I wouldn’t pass up any other offers.
*
When Brewer hadn’t called back by Thursday, I finished writing up my report to him—most of which I’d told him on the phone already—and prepared my bill. I still felt a little—what? Guilty? No, more ill at ease—over the idea that I hadn’t taken the case as far as it could possibly have gone if Brewer hadn’t chopped it off. I really hadn’t expected him to do that, but I should have learned by now that people don’t always do what I expect them to do.
Friday night, just as we were finishing dinner Bob called to invite us—Joshua included—to a barbecue at their place on Sunday, and we accepted with thanks.
“Oh,” he said after we’d gotten the what-time-and-what-can-we-bring (I volunteered potato salad) details out of the way, “have you heard the latest rumor going around?”
“Great,” I said. “That’s all we need, another rumor going around. What’s this one about?”
“About a guy named Cal Hysong. He got eighty-sixed from the Male Call for spreading AIDS.”
Well, Brewer certainly hadn’t wasted any time. I hadn’t a doubt in the world about the source of this tidbit. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been handing out fliers.
“No, I hadn’t,” I said. “But guilty or not, I wouldn’t want to be in Hysong’s shoes. People will be avoiding him
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