Page 8 of Mann Hunt
Charlie re-read the job description.Strong computer knowledge an asset…
His knowledge was beyond strong on the computer side of things.
Discreet, and a clean criminal record…
Check. His life was far too boring to have a criminal record and, as far as discretion went, he’d been keeping a big secret his entire life.
Then there was that image of this Hunt guy that was burned into his brain. Imagine spending every day with him…
What the hell?What do I have to lose?He was going to land this job! It would be a lot more exciting than his last internship working for an oil company cleaning uptheir databases. He grabbed his phone, opened the email he had received at the bar and hit the ‘Accept’ icon.
Before he got home, he’d received an interview time—Monday, eleven a.m.
Chapter Four
It was Saturday, July ninth—his mother’s birthday. Had she still been alive, Declan would have spent the evening having dinner with her. But she wasn’t alive, and he’d woken up fuelled by anger. The night before had been punctuated by one of his recurring nightmares—the one where he’d hidden under his bed as his father had yelled at his mother, “You’re the reason he’s nothing but a God-damned faggot! You and your mollycoddling. This is your fault.”
Declan hadn’t been able to focus all day and there’d been no further leads on the Attwal case, so he decided to head down to Bar-None. The place was just the way he liked it—empty, except for Mickey tending bar and a couple of old-timers talking to their best friends—the dregs of beer left at the bottom of their near-empty glasses.
Before Declan could say anything, Mickey had placed a tall double-shot vodka and soda on the bar.
“Thanks, Mickey,” Declan said.
“Good to see you, Dec.” Mickey was one of only a few to call him that and not be corrected. Ever since he was a kid, Declan had hated that nickname. Dec Hunt had quickly morphed into the juvenile moniker De-cunt, which even more rapidly morphed into Declan’s fist connecting with whoever had said it. They’d quickly learned that they could only make that joke once. Mickey always saidDecwith overtones of friendship and a smile that came across as a visible hug. Declan liked that, and on many days needed it.
The detective took his drink and headed off to his regular corner table where he sipped and watched. He’d been coming here since he was legally allowed to drink. A gay bar rarely carded patrons unless they were obviously underage. Even so, if it was crowded, which it usually was after ten o’clock, they ignored the occasional under-eighteen-year-old. Most of them were street kids just looking for a warm place to hang out, or to make a few bucks from a discreet hook-up in the toilet. They weren’t hurting anyone, and gay men looked after each other. No one else did, and that was why Declan was in business—Calgary’s only openly gay private investigator. He hoped his mom would be proud of him.
He raised his glass. “Happy Birthday, Mom.”
* * * *
Time was a blur. Declan had polished off several drinks. He made his way back to the bar, slightly glassy-eyed.
“Another?” Mickey asked.
“I’m done for the night,” Declan slurred.
Mickey rang up the bill and took Declan’s credit card, which he tapped. Mickey knew Declan would have a hard time with the buttons, so he usually did it for him, and he never gave himself more than a fifteen-percent tip.
“You’re not driving tonight, I hope?” he asked.
“Nope. I’m just a short walk away from where I’m headed.”
“Good. Now hand them over.” Mickey held out his hand. He had a gentle, mothering smile on his face.
“Right,” Declan said, handing Mickey his car keys. “I’ll see you tomorrow to pick ‘em up.” He turned to walk away, then stopped. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For watching out for me. If only I was your type, I’d—”
“Get outta here, Dec, and have fun.”
Declan headed out of the door and made a right up the street. He was drunk and on nights like this there was only one place for him to go—The Greek.
* * * *
The Greek, formally known as The Greek Men’s Health Spa and Steam Room, was Calgary’s largest gay bathhouse. It had been opened in the late 1960s by Spiros Adamos, a Greek émigré who had escaped the actions of the Greek military junta of 1967.
