The Ninth Man by Dorien Grey

suits predominated, since most of the clientele had stopped in directly from work. I was, thank God, the only one in white shorts and a white Polo shirt, and as usual, I was about ten minutes early.
    I took a seat near the door where I could watch everything and everyone in the mirrors behind the bar and ordered an Old Fashioned. At exactly six-thirty, a pair of cutoffs and a white tank top walked into the bar, filled out by a six-foot, naturally muscular frame. Dark-brown hair cut short, dark eyes, a nice tan, and a definitely interesting face. Not Gary Miller but decidedly handsome. And sexy. No doubt about it—my kind of guy.
    He saw me, smiled, and walked over.
    “Made it,” he said, extending his hand.
    We shook hands, and I was favorably impressed by the casual firmness of his grip.
    “Do people set their watches by you?” I asked, smiling as he pulled out the stool beside me and sat down.
    He grinned. “I know. Sometimes I think my punctuality is a curse. But it drives me up a wall to be late.”
    He motioned for the bartender and ordered a whiskey sour.
    “I’m the same way,” I said while we waited for his drink, “only I always manage to be too damned early.”
    Grayley paid for his drink, and I noticed that his hair, which I’d first seen as dark brown, was actually black, beginning to turn salt-and-pepper. It only added to his appeal.
    “So, tell me…,” he said, grinning and getting directly to business, “…more about this Rogers thing.”
    I fished in the small pocket of my shorts and pulled out the folded piece of napkin, handing it to him. He unfolded it, looked at the note, and raised his eyebrows.
    “Yep. That’s my writing, all right. Let me think. Since it’s handwritten, it apparently wasn’t business-related. And I don’t give out my home number casually—which hopefully speaks well for my lack of promiscuity.”
    I sipped my drink while he thought aloud.
    “Alan Rogers…Alan Rogers…Alan…hmm.” Suddenly, his face brightened. “Yeah! Sure! Now I remember. This was a guy I met at the Cochise Club—oh, hell, it must be nearly two months ago, now. Nice guy, I thought at first.
    “We danced a couple of times, and he came on pretty strong. He asked me for my number, and I gave it to him, but when I asked for his, he said he couldn’t give it to me because his lover was too jealous.
    “Well, that took the wind out of my sails real fast. If I’d known he had a lover I never would have given him my number. Maybe I’m square, but I don’t believe in playing that kind of game, and I told him so. And that was about it.”
    “A gentleman of principle, I see.”
    “I try,” Grayley said. Noticing that my drink was nearly empty, he signaled for the bartender with his free hand.
    “You never saw him again?”
    “Huh-uh. Like I said, I don’t see any percentage in going to bed with someone who has a lover. Too strong a middle-class, middle-west upbringing, I guess. I learned a long time ago that if someone will dump a lover for you, you can be damn sure one day he’ll dump you for someone else.”
    “Two minds with but a single thought,” I said.
    He raised his glass.
    “I’ll drink to that.”
    “Can you tell me anything else about him?” I asked as we set our glasses back on the bar.
    “Like what? What are you looking for?”
    I felt like saying, “That’s two different questions,” but thought better of it and shook my head in frustration.
    “I wish to hell I knew. I’m open for anything…” I caught his quick smile. “…no pun intended. Was he with anyone when you met him?”
    Grayley shook his head.
    “Not that I saw. The place was jammed wall-to-wall, as usual, but I didn’t see him talking to anyone else.”
    “Did he say anything about his life, about people he knew—anything?”
    Grayley took another drink.
    “Other than that he had a lover? Hmm. Don’t forget, this was only one night—or, rather, a small part of one night—a couple of months