Lies She Told(56)

The hour is too early for the after-work crowd. Only one of the several booths hosts patrons. Two men. Perhaps a couple. Their presence alone, sitting across from one another, does not make this a gay bar. The bartender’s work attire of a silken red scarf and tight black pants, however, strongly hints in that direction. The man could bench press me. Another clue.

I take a seat on a red velvet stool and request a tequila gimlet. It’s the only mixed drink I can come up with while still struggling to digest the decor. The bartender looks at me like I am in the wrong place and hands me a menu. All the cocktails are special to the restaurant, he explains. He doesn’t do plain old tequila and lime.

I point to the first one. It has an accent over the vowel and raspberry listed in the description. It doesn’t matter. I’m not drinking so much as I am trying to create a financial transaction involving information. If I am tipping this guy, he might be more forthcoming.

As the mixologist starts taking bottles from the back bar, I slide my phone from my purse and scroll to the picture of Nick and David. “I am sorry to bother you, but I am hoping that you may have some information on a friend of mine.” Surprisingly, my voice doesn’t sound all squeaky. The stress of the past few days has forced me to get over some of my social anxiety.

The bartender squints as though I might be a crazed stalker or badly cast bounty hunter. He doesn’t say anything.

I place the phone on the bar. “His name is Nick Landau. The man on the right.”

The bartender pours raspberry vodka into a shaker with one hand and red raspberry juice in with the other. He glances at the screen.

“He’s my husband’s best friend and law partner. He disappeared about a month ago. His name has been in the paper. Apparently, he was last seen here.”

The bartender keeps looking at the image. His lips remain shut. He adds another liquor to the shaker before vibrating it above his shoulder like an odd instrument.

“We don’t want money or anything from him.” I cough. “We just want to know what happened.”

The bartender grabs a champagne flute and strains the lipstick-colored concoction into it. “We don’t really talk about guests. Don’t want to out anyone for coming. Understand?”

All doubts about the sexual orientation of the bar’s primary clientele disappear. The man probably thinks that I am a girlfriend trying to figure out whether her boyfriend is using her as a beard.

I sip my drink. It’s good, but too sweet for me. Still, I effuse over the man’s efforts. He smiles in a thin way that shows he’s all too aware that my compliments are because I want something and moves to straighten the glasses on the back bar. If another patron were here, he’d probably start chatting him up right now to avoid me.

“My husband and Nick were prominent in the LGBT community after their law firm sued the city on behalf of a bullied teen,” I blurt out. “Please, look. He thinks Nick could have been the victim of a hate crime.”

This gets the man’s attention. His arms puff out as he walks over to me. He picks up my phone from the counter and taps the screen to zoom into the photo. “The guy on the right, smiling. Nick, is it?”

“Yes.”

He hands me back the phone. “He’s a regular. Takes dates here often. Great tipper.”

I remember Christine. Did Nick have a thing about bringing women to gay bars? “Female or male dates?”

The bartender’s mouth pinches on the side as though I’m particularly dense. “Honey, look around. Men bring men here.”

Nick was gay! Things that never made sense to me before become clear. Why he was never particularly affectionate with any of his “girlfriends.” Why he hadn’t been interested in sleeping with a clearly willing Christine. Why he still wasn’t married, while David and I had just celebrated twelve years.

My mouth must be hanging open because the bartender’s hands are folded across his oiled pectorals as if to tell me to get on with it. I clear my throat and pose another question. “The night he disappeared, Saturday, July ninth, Nick came here with a man. A woman came in later. She was upset.”

The bartender regards me skeptically and shakes his head. “I wasn’t here. I spend most of July in Fire Island. But I can ask the rest of the staff if you text me a photo.”

I type in his number as he rattles it off and then send him the picture of David and Nick. There’s a beep under the counter that I assume is his cell acknowledging receipt.

“Do you have a photo?” he asks.

“I think you just got it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of you.”

“Me?” I don’t understand. Maybe bartenders for gay clubs aren’t necessarily homosexual. Or he’s bisexual? A flush rises to my cheeks. “I—”

He chuckles. “You’re cute, hon. But I also want to ask around about you. How do I know you’re not the girl who came in here all upset about her boyfriend and then had her homophobic brother or some other asshole murder him?”

I want to protest with a list: (a) I’m married. (b) My husband is straight. (c) We’ve been together twelve years and are trying to have a baby. (d) I’ve never been here in my life. But I hold my tongue. He wouldn’t believe me, anyway. After all, I hadn’t realized Nick was gay.

I pull my wallet from my purse and remove a business card. My last book cover is on the front. A flattering photo of me is printed on the back with a few lines of positive criticism for my first book, the international bestseller. “This is me.”