The Hired Man by Dorien Grey Page B

crap!”
    He really had me, and I was just a little embarrassed because I knew exactly what he was saying.
    “Well,” I said, “next time I’ll just belch a lot and scratch my crotch.”
    He grinned then sighed.
    “That would be a breath of fresh air,” he said. “I know she means well, but sometimes she reminds me of a drill instructor. I guess it pays off, though—we’re all doing pretty well. But the thing that gets me with all this ‘gentlemen of the world’ training is that a lot of our…clients…are vanilla pudding on the surface—martinis and polite conversation at dinner—but the minute that bedroom door’s closed, they wanna rut like pigs.”
    We’d reached my car, but Aaron kept right on talking.
    “Of course, I’m probably being a little unfair—rutting’s my specialty. I’m like the rest of the guys in that I can do anything, and do, but we each have our little ‘specialties’ for the more discriminating clients, and mine is down and dirty.” He smiled again, and it was pure satanic glee. “You like it down and dirty, Dick?”
    He had me on that one.
    “I’d have to see the menu first,” I said.
    “Yeah,” Aaron said. “You think about it.”
    He extended his hand, and I took it. He slowly but steadily increased the pressure of his grip, and I automatically matched it. Neither of us said a word, but our eyes were locked, our faces impassive as hand tightened on hand. Just before I was sure I was going to start hearing bones cracking, he released his grip and smiled again.
    “You’ll do,” he said. And again I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about.
    He held his forearm unconsciously with his wrist lightly touching the side of his chest just about level with his pecs, his elbow and arm drawn back like a piston stopped in mid-stroke. His hand, again apparently unconsciously, was in the position of a lightly formed fist, and his thumb worked itself slowly and lightly back and forth across the top of his index finger, as if bringing the circulation back. For some ungodly reason, I found it erotic as all hell.
    Jeezus, Hardesty . Get a life!
    I reached for the door handle.
    “See ya, Aaron,” I said, opening the door.
    “Bet on it.” He grinned then turned and headed back toward the open gate.
    *
    I really couldn’t do much more until I could talk to Tim. I had to find out whatever he could tell me about Stuart Anderson’s death and what Richman meant by “certain indications.” I puttered around the office for a couple hours then headed for home. Around 5:30, I started playing the “don’t watch the clock” game.
    You’ve done it. You find yourself looking at the clock so often you determine not to look at it. You look. It says 5:43. You force yourself not to look for a good twenty or twenty-five minutes. Then you look at the clock again. It says 5:44.
    Oh, the hell with it, I thought, and was just reaching for the phone when it rang, scaring the shit out of me.
    “Dick Hardesty,” I said after the second ring.
    “Hi, stranger.” Tim’s voice, cheerful as always. “It was great to hear from you. It’s only been…what…six years?”
    “Oh, come on!” I said. “It can’t have been more than three years next Michaelmas.”
    “Well, however long it’s been, it’s been too long,” he said “Of course, a phone line does have two ends, so I’ll forgive you one more time.”
    “You’re a saint,” I said. “When can I make it up to you? I won’t ask how.”
    “Well,” he said, “that part goes without saying. But Gay Pride’s coming up this weekend. You want to go to the parade with me…maybe the carnival afterwards?”
    “Sure,” I said. “That’d be fun. But, uh, there was something else I wanted to mention…”
    “Here it comes,” he said with a long, dramatic sigh.
    “Hey, no,” I said. “This just came up, I swear! I called you before it happened.”
    “Stuart Anderson.”
    “You got your diploma from mind-reading school,