“All right, Denise, take a break while I talk to the man.”
The model got up off the couch without any visible effort, like a snake leaving a rock, and slunk off through a door behind the velvet hangings on the far wall. Witherspoon walked over to me and put the camera down beside me on the desk.
“What is it I can do for you, Chickie?” he said.
“I’ve come for one last try, Race,” I said. “I’ve got to know. What is your name, really?”
“Why do you doubt me?”
I shook my head. “No one is named Race Witherspoon.”
“Someone is named anything.”
I took out my photo of Vic Harroway and handed it to Witherspoon.
“I’d like to locate this guy, Race. Know him?”
“Hmm, fine-looking figure of a man. What makes you think I might know him?”
“I heard he was gay.”
“Well, for crissake, Spenser, I don’t know every queer in the country. It’s one thing to come out of the damned closet.
It’s quite another to run a gay data bank.”
“You know him, Race?”
“I’ve seen him about. What’s your interest? Want me to fix you up; maybe you could go dancing at Nutting’s on the Charles?”
“Naw, he’d want to lead. I think I’ll just stay home and wash my hair and listen to my old Phil Brito albums. What do you know about Harroway?”
“Not much, but I want to know the rap on him before I say anything. I owe you some stuff, but, you know, I don’t owe you everything I am.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You don’t. Okay, there’s a missing boy, about fifteen. I saw him with Harroway. I want the kid back, and I would like to ask Harroway about a murder.”
Witherspoon’s thick eyebrows raised evenly. “Heavy,” he said. “Very heavy. A fifteen-year-old kid, huh? Harroway was always a damned baby-raper, anyway.”
“He’s got no record,” I said.
“I know. I didn’t mean literally. He’s the kind of guy who likes young kids. If he were straight, he’d be queer for virgins, you know.”
“He is gay, then?”
“Oh hell, yes.”
“Where’s he hang out?”
“I see him at a gay bar over in Bay Village, The Odds’ End. Isn’t that precious? I don’t go there much. It attracts a kinkier crowd than I like.”
“Know what he does for a living?”
“No. I thought he lifted weights all the time. I know he was fired from a health club a year or so ago, and as far as I know he never got another job. He’s around with a lot of bread, though. Fancy restaurants, clothes, new car. That kind of thing,”
“Think he might kill someone?”
“He’s a mean bitch, you know. He’s a fag that doesn’t like fags. He likes to shove people around. One of those I’m-gay-but-I’m-no-fairy types.”
“Anything else you know that could help? Friends, lovers, anything?”
Witherspoon shook his head. “No, I don’t know him all that well, only seen him around. He’s not my type.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Now, on the other hand,” Witherspoon said, “you are.”
“Not with someone who won’t give his real name,” I said.
“Well, how about Denise then?”
“Not till you feed her,” I said. “Your secretary, however, is another matter.”
Witherspoon gave me a big smile. “Sorry, old Spenser, she’s hot for Denise.” I said, “I think I’ll go look for Harroway before I find myself mating with a floor lamp,” and I left.
Chapter 19
The Odds’ End was on a side street off Broadway in the Bay Village section of Boston. The neighborhood was restored red-brick three-story town houses with neat front steps and an occasional pane of stained glass in the windows. The bar itself had a big fake lantern with Schlitz written on it hanging over the entrance and the name The Odds’ End in nineteenth-century lettering across the big glass front.
I got a crumpled-up white poplin rain hat with a red and white band out of the glove compartment and put it on. I put on my sunglasses and tipped the rain hat forward over my eyes. Harroway had seen me only once, and
