Free The Hired Man by Dorien Grey Page A

with the little games—like getting dressed up—hustling at Faces pretty much required. The hustlers at Faces seldom drank beer.
    Finally, at Faces, generally you wouldn’t be moved in on without your giving some indication of interest first.
    While I was hardly a regular there, I had been in often enough either for dinner—they had a fantastic French onion soup—or on other cases to casually know some of the staff. I’d tricked with one of the maître d’s a couple years before when he worked at another restaurant, and the turnover among the waiters and bartenders tended to be lower at Faces because of the money that could be made on tips from the wealthy businessmen comprising the other half of the clientele.
    I got there at around seven, just at the end of the cocktail hour when the early diners started to arrive. I was happy to see that the bartender I’d spoken most often with—Kent—was on duty, and so was one of the waiters…Tod? I’d gotten info from before. That would make it a lot easier. And of course, I always made sure to fulfill my part of the quid pro quo with a sizable contribution to their personal charities.
    As usual, there were a number of USDA Prime specimens seated at the bar, although it was a little early for most of the…um, what to call them? Johns was what they were, just as hustlers were what the guys waiting for them were, but somehow, they were a cut or two above the Hughie’s brand of either.
    And once again I wondered where in hell all these good-looking guys had come from, and how they’d gotten into hustling, and where they’d be in ten years.
    Yeah, yeah…and do they like puppies, and do they pay their rent on time, and…yawn, my mind said, neatly bringing me back to reality.
    I took a seat at the bar, noticing a few casual glances from other customers probably wondering which category I fit into—buyer or seller.
    Kent came over immediately.
    “What’ll it be tonight, Dick? Old Fashioned?” Two marks of a good bartender—remembering names and remembering drinks.
    “You talked me into it,” I said.
    He grinned and moved a few feet down the bar to put it all together. I watched as he emptied the last from a bottle of bourbon then expertly snapped the neck off the bottle on a little device kept just below the bar. I’d always wondered why they did that until I realized it was to guarantee the customers the bottles couldn’t be refilled with cheaper stuff.
    While he was doing that, I reached inside my shirt for Stuart Anderson’s photograph. When he returned with my drink, I set the photo on the bar in front of him.
    “Would you happen to know this guy?” I asked.
    He picked up the photo, looked at it carefully then handed it back to me, shaking his head.
    “Sorry, Dick, never seen the guy before.” He went back down the bar to attend to a customer.
    I sat nursing my drink, idly looking around. At a table not too far from me, I noticed a double-take-hot guy about thirty seated with a rather attractive man in his early fifties. They looked like two successful executives, and I wondered idly if they were just business associates here for dinner or if the younger guy was part of the menu. I tried not to stare, but my attention kept wandering back to the younger guy. If he wasn’t ModelMen material, I didn’t know who was.
    At one point, he caught me looking at him. He gave me a quick, warm smile and a wink then returned his attention to his companion.
    I engaged in some healthy erotic fantasy until Tod, the waiter, came over to the service area of the bar to place a drink order. He saw me, smiled, and nodded. I returned both the smile and the nod then waited while he gave Kent his order. When Kent turned away to make the drinks, I took advantage of the momentary lull to call Tod over.
    With an eye on Kent so as not to keep his customers waiting one second longer than necessary, he crossed the four or five steps from the service area.
    “Can I help you, Dick?” he