Free The Bar Watcher by Dorien Grey Page B

duly flattered, but I suspected Mario’s main reason was just to spend some time with Bob.
    We agreed to meet at Napoleon, a small new restaurant in a former private home on the edge of The Central. The clientele was predominantly gay, and the food was reported to be excellent. Bob had made reservations for 8:30.
    *
    I arrived at Napoleon at 8:14 and was lucky enough to find a parking place within walking distance. I recognized the place immediately—it was a small bungalow modeled on the Seven Dwarfs’ house in Snow White that had fascinated me for years. It had somehow been spared the fate of its neighbors, which had been bulldozed and demolished as the area made the transition from residential to commercial.
    The place still maintained the comfortable atmosphere of a home—what had been the living room was now a small, nicely appointed bar with a low ceiling and a working fireplace. I sat on one of the six stools at the bar and ordered an Old Fashioned, which had just arrived when Bob and Mario came in.
    Mario was taller than Ramón, several years older, and could be described as more handsome than cute, as Ramón had been, but there were many physical similarities, and I wondered if Bob was consciously aware of it.
    I got up to greet them, and Bob made the introductions. Mario’s handshake was strong and warm, and his smile seemed sincere and natural. I was favorably impressed. Bob ordered drinks for himself and Mario then excused himself to let the maître d’ know we had arrived. The drinks arrived before he returned, so Mario paid for them; and we moved to a group of chairs in front of the fireplace.
    “This may be one of the oldest clichés in the book,” Mario said as we set our drinks on the small table between each set of chairs, “but I’ve heard a lot about you from Bob. You’re pretty special to him.”
    “The feeling’s mutual, believe me,” I said. “And I’m really happy that he met you. It was about time.”
    Mario smiled, a little sadly. “Yes. Bob doesn’t talk much about…some things…but I know what you mean.” Just then Bob rejoined us.
    “Table’s ready,” he said.
    Mario handed him his drink, and we followed him to where the maître d’ waited, menus in hand.
    The main dining room was still relatively small, maybe eight tables in all, probably made by combining what had once been the dining room and one or two bedrooms. Nice, subdued lighting, lots of paneling, attractive individually lit pictures on the walls, crisp white tablecloths with red napkins and place settings. Our waiter stopped by to introduce himself and announce the specials then said he’d come back when we were ready to order, leaving us to finish our drinks at leisure. He and Mario had met, Bob explained, when he paid a typical bar-owner courtesy call to Venture, where Mario had been tending bar for nearly a year. The next night, Mario had come by Ramón’s.
    “Purely by chance, I’m sure,” I said, and Mario gave me a wicked grin.
    “Not exactly,” he said.
    The conversation got around to Comstock’s murder and my whole involvement in the case, although I still didn’t mention O’Banyon’s role, and my mild frustration with not really being able to find out anything substantial.
    “Did Jared tell you anything about Richie?” Bob asked, and the talk shifted to Richie’s death and my inability to fully accept the coincidence scenario.
    “That’s kind of odd,” Mario said. “Did you see yesterday’s paper about the two guys who drove off the cliff coming down from the Hilltop?”
    The Hilltop was a nice but slightly remote gay club located on the edge of the chain of bluffs running along the east side of the river. The shortest way up and down was McAlester Road, which wound precariously from Riverside at the bottom of the bluff to Cortez at the top, where the Hilltop was located. It was a general rule that if you were drinking, you didn’t take McAlester down.
    “Yeah,” I said, “I saw