Free The Bar Watcher by Dorien Grey

knocked on the office door.
    “Come on in.”
    The office was, like the offices in most bars, small and crowded but oddly comfortable. Everything in it was relatively new, of course, since reconstruction following the fire that had gutted the building some time before, and it was surprisingly neat.
    On the wall above Bob’s desk were several photos of him and Ramón, taken in happier days.
    Bob turned around in his chair then got up to greet me.
    “Dick!” he said, actually sounding happy to see me. “Come on in.”
    We shook hands, and I reached for my wallet to get the check.
    “Here,” I said sheepishly. “I should have gotten this to you sooner.”
    Bob nodded in mock seriousness as he took the check and put it into his shirt pocket without looking at it.
    “Yeah,” he said. “It’s been all of…what…three days?”
    “Still too long. And, again, I don’t know what I’d have done without you being there for me.”
    “As if you’ve never done anything for me.” He sat back down and pointed me to a folding chair against the far wall. “So, what are you up to?”
    “Well,” I said, pulling the chair out and setting it across from him, “this is just between you and me, but I’m looking into Barry Comstock’s murder.”
    “I assume you have a client, rather than just running around trying to do it all yourself?”
    I nodded, and started to speak, but he raised a hand to forestall me.
    “No, no, I don’t need to know who the client is. That’s your business. But have you learned anything yet? The police sure aren’t saying much, from what I hear.”
    “I’m on to a couple things,” I said, “but nothing that’ll nail the guy who did it. I was wondering if you might have heard anything more about Comstock’s death that might help.”
    “I’m afraid not,” Bob said. “Other than the fact nobody has been weeping much over him. Sorry.”
    I shrugged. “No problem.”
    “So, what are you doing here at this time of day?” Bob asked. “Not planning on getting sozzled again, I hope.”
    “No,” I said with a grin. “I’m supposed to meet Jared Martinson here at around four.”
    “Jared? The how-in-the-hell-does-anybody-have-a-right-to-so-many-muscles delivery guy?” Bob returned the grin and shook his head. “That boy does get around. From what I hear, he’s got a basket of goodies that would put Santa Claus to shame.”
    “All true,” I said, smiling. Bob just gave me a raised-eyebrow look. “Speaking of which, I hear you’ve jumped back into the pool. No disrespect to Ramón, but it’s about time. He wouldn’t have wanted you to become a monk.”
    Bob gave a little smile, almost as if he were embarrassed.
    “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “His name’s Mario, and I didn’t mention it the other night because I’m still kind of ambivalent about it. As you know, I’ve been really hesitant about even dating again, and especially another Latino, but…” He sighed. “We’ll just play it by ear and see what happens.” Time for a subject change , I thought.
    “I wanted to ask if you know a guy named Richie Smith.”
    “I’m-too-fucking-hot-for-my-own-good Richie, you mean. Yeah, everybody knows Richie. Another arrogant prick—he and Comstock have a lot in common on that score. If he was only a tenth as nice on the inside is he is on the outside, he’d be a lot better off.”
    “I take it you haven’t heard—he’s dead.”
    Bob looked only mildly surprised.
    “No shit? Too bad they couldn’t have done a brain transplant and given his body to somebody who could really appreciate it. What happened? Drug overdose?”
    “No,” I said. “Carbon monoxide poisoning. Apparently, he passed out in his garage before he had a chance to turn the motor off.”
    I told him about my peripheral encounter with Richie at Glitter, and that I was meeting Jared to find out more about what actually happened on the dance floor.
    “Interesting,” Bob said. “But from what I know