back gate and down the alley, leaving my police protection detail none the wiser.
I hoof it over to Rush Street, where I hail a cab and head for Boystown. It’s here that Eric most often frequented gay clubs. Maybe I can ask around, find out who he was spending time with. I’m not about to sit home and do nothing when I can do something to help.
I’ll have a much better chance of finding out who might have wanted to hurt Eric than Tyler. He’d probably get hives just from stepping foot inside one of these clubs.
* * *
The taxi drops me off right in front of Diablo’s, one of the most popular gay clubs in the village. I go to the end of the line and wait my turn like a good little boy. If Bruno, the bouncer, saw me, he’d let me go right in. But I’m not looking for special treatment, and I don’t mind waiting.
Half an hour later, I’m at the front of the line, and Bruno waves me forward.
“Hey, man, I’m sorry about your friend,” he says in his deep bass voice. “Eric was a great guy.”
“He was. Thanks, Bruno.”
The club’s interior is pumping, as usual, the darkness lit up by multi-colored disco balls suspended from the ceiling. The music is pounding, and the place is packed.
Heading to the bar, I work my way through the diverse crowd. Guys of every type, color, and creed are here, from young to old. Other than the paid dancers on raised pedestals, dressed in G-strings stuffed with cash, most everyone else is either standing around in small groups talking and drinking, or they’re on the dance floor, which is jam packed.
I stop at the bar to grab a beer and shoot the breeze with the staff. Three guys work behind the bar. Two of them are dressed in jeans and t-shirts. The third—Roy, the owner—is bare-chested and wearing a black leather harness and tight black jeans. Flashing strobe lights glint off the rings piercing his nipples.
Roy sees me and waves me over. “Ian!” When I take a seat at the bar, he reaches over to clasp my hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “I’m so sorry about Eric!” He has to yell to be heard over the music.
“Thanks!”
“What can I get you?” he says.
“Beer.”
Roy grabs a bottle out of the case, pops the top, and hands it to me. “It’s on the house.”
I take a swig. “Was Eric in here much lately?”
“Yeah.” He steps away to fill another customer’s drink order. When he returns, his expression is pensive. “I saw him in here a lot the past few weeks. Why?”
“Do you remember if he was here Friday night?”
Roy thinks for a moment, and then he nods. “Yeah, I think so.” He motions me closer, leaning over the bar so he can be heard over the din. “Is it true what I heard on the news? He was strangled with a garrotte?”
The reminder makes my stomach twist into a knot. I nod. “Did you see him talking to anyone in particular? Was he seeing anyone?”
Roy shrugs. “I didn’t notice anyone in particular. I saw him with a lot of guys, you know?” And then he’s pulled away again when more customers arrive at the bar.
I turn to face the crowd and sip my beer, watching the mix of familiar faces and new ones. A couple of friends come up to say ‘hi’ and invite me to join them on the dance floor, but I decline. A guy seated beside me at the bar offers to buy me a drink, but I decline the offer. I’m not looking to hook up. I’m here to see if I can find out anything about Eric. I owe it to him.
An hour and two beers later, after having talked to at least a dozen people, I have nothing to show for my efforts. I think my best bet will be to let folks know I’m asking around. Maybe that will lead to something.
While I’m waiting to get Roy’s attention, so I can settle up my bar bill, a strong hand grips the back of my neck. I glance back, expecting to see one of my friends, but no. I’m staring into a pair of angry blue-green eyes. He’s clearly pissed, his jaws clenched tightly. His nostrils are flaring.
I’m so happy to see him, I can’t hide my smile. “Hello, detective! Fancy meeting you—”
“What in the hell are you doing here?” he growls through