The Butcher (13 page)

The lights in the restaurant were off everywhere except in the kitchen, and his grandfather stood in silence as Matt wiped down the large marble island. He could feel the Chief's eyes on him and wondered how to even tell him what had happened earlier. He bought himself another minute by opening the huge stainless steel fridge and
fussing around with its contents, before finally shutting the door and turning to face the old man.

The Chief raised a bushy silver eyebrow. “Well? What's got your panties in a twist?”

“I'm not in a twist,” Matt replied, but even he could hear the tension in his own voice.

“I've got things to do, you know.” His grandfather frowned. “You called, I'm here, but I ain't got all night.”

“Really? Where could you possibly have to be at”—Matt glanced up at the large clock mounted high on the kitchen wall—“one twelve in the morning? Got a hot date?”

“Matter of fact, I do,” the old man said evenly. “And don't be a jackass. I might be retired, but I still have a life, and places to go, and people to see. Not that it's any of your goddamned business.”

“Sorry.” Matt averted his gaze. “Didn't mean to offend you.”

“Kid, if I was that easy to offend, I'd have keeled over three decades ago. Now are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to coax it out of you?” The Chief looked at him expectantly. While his expression wasn't unkind, it was clear he was getting impatient.

“I did something really bad.” Matt was horrified to realize he was dangerously close to tears. The last time he'd felt anything remotely this upsetting was when the Seahawks lost the Super Bowl to the Pittsburgh Steelers in 2006. This, obviously, was a million times worse. “I don't know what to do, Chief. I really fucked up.”

“This about Samantha?”

“What?”

“You mess around on her?” His grandfather's tone was stern. “It's best to tell the truth, Matthew. Lying doesn't help. You'll have to come clean, no other way around it.”

“No, I—”

“Not to me, to her. I don't give a rat's ass if you screwed someone else, though let me tell you, it's hardly ever worth it. But we're men and we're programmed by Mother Nature to fuck anything with lipstick and a pulse. But Samantha's a good girl, Matthew, and you should—”

“I killed someone,” Matt blurted. “I killed someone, okay? You gotta help me, Chief. I don't know what to do.”

A silence descended over them and for a moment, neither Shank said anything. Edward stared at Matt, his eyes bright and searching, as if he were waiting for the punch line. Which, of course, didn't come, because nothing about this was a joke.

When his grandfather finally spoke, it wasn't the question Matt was expecting to hear. “Anybody see you?”

“No. I don't think so.”

“You don't think so? Think hard, Matthew.”

“Nobody saw anything, I'm sure of it.”

“Where's the body?”

“Out back. In the dumpster.”

“Show me.”

“The body?”

“No, you dummy, the moon.” The Chief looked irritated. “Of course the body.”

Moving slowly past his grandfather, Matt pushed open the door that led to the back alleyway. Both men stepped out into the cool night air.

Fremont was dead this time of night, and it was absolute silence in the alleyway. The lightbulb above the restaurant's door burned a dim yellow, and the shadows seemed spookier to Matt than normal.

“In there,” Matt said, pointing to the large black metal bin a few feet away. “I didn't know where else to put him.”

The Chief looked toward the dumpster, scratching his chin. In the darkness the gesture seemed almost villainous, and Matt found himself shivering even though he felt hot. It was all so surreal, like it was happening to someone else.

“Give me a boost,” his grandfather said. “I need to see what we're dealing with here.”

“I can't, I hurt my back,” Matt said. “It's killing me right now.”

“Then go get me something to stand on,” Edward snapped. “
Now,
Matthew. Time is of the essence. And bring me a broom.”

Matt nodded and went back into the kitchen, returning with a stepladder and the broom he kept in the storage room. Placing them both in front of the dumpster, he held out his arm to help steady his grandfather as the old man climbed up.

Once he reached the top step, Edward said, “Hand me the broom.”

Matt did.

It was a painstaking few seconds as the Chief used the broom to move aside the garbage bags that had piled up inside the dumpster over the past few hours. Several restaurants and bars had back doors to this alley, and the dumpster was shared among them.

Edward handed Matt back the broom. “Help me down.”

Matt once again offered his grandfather his arm, and when the Chief reached the pavement, he asked, “Well? What do we do now?”

“Nothing.” Edward shook his head. “The guy's not in there anymore.”

“What?”

The Chief barked a laugh. “I'm kidding. Christ almighty. Of course he's in there. Where the fuck else would he be?”

“Not funny, Chief.” Matt detected the faint odor of onions, and realized that his armpits were soaked with perspiration. “I have absolutely no sense of humor right now.”

“You're going to have to jump in there and get him out.”

Matt looked up at the dumpster. “Chief, there's no way. I sprained something when I threw him in there in the first place. There's no way I can throw him back out.”

Feeling the outer walls of the dumpster with a liver-spotted hand, Edward circled the bin, his eyes roaming every inch of the black metal. Matt had never seen his grandfather so focused, so alert.

“Goddammit, there's no door. Sometimes these things have sliding doors in case something goes in accidentally that you need to get out. But . . .” He paused. Leaning against the bin, he positioned himself carefully, then shoved it with his shoulder. The dumpster moved slightly, though not much. “Good. This is good. The whole thing is tilted. See that? It's kind of balancing on that one corner.”

“Huh?”

“Pay attention, stupid. The dumpster. It's
tilted
.”

Matt still didn't follow.

Edward let out a sigh. “The body is fairly close to the top of the bin and there's only one layer of trash on top of it. The dumpster is already tilted. You can see the part of it that's broken right here.” He indicated to a spot at the bottom near the cement that Matt couldn't see, but he nodded anyway. His grandfather shoved against the bin again. “See? A bit wobbly. We might actually be able to tip this thing, and get him to fall out of the top.”

“Okay,” Matt said. That made sense. “And how do we that?”

“Where's your van?”

“A block away.” Nobody was allowed to park in the alley. The city only permitted three minutes for loading and unloading, so Matt had parked it as he usually did down the street, which was about a five-minute walk. Two if he ran.

“Go and get it. And hustle, goddammit. We don't have time to waste.”

Six minutes later, Edward was behind the wheel of Matt's supply van, which was bumped up against the dumpster, rear end first.

“Now listen to me. I'm going to try and move the dumpster using the van,” Edward said through the open driver's-side window. “But I need you to help, too. Make sure you do everything you can to get it to tilt, and when it does, get the fuck out of the way.”

“You want me to help?” Matt said, confused. “Using what? Brute strength?”

“Don't be a smartass. You're a strong man. Do your best to push.”

“Are you joking?”

“Am I laughing?”

No, his grandfather wasn't laughing. In fact, Matt couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the old man so serious.

“Okay, I'll try.” He took a deep breath and tried not to think about his aching back. “But my back really hurts—”

“Fuck your back,” Edward barked. “If you're standing, it's not broken. This is your ass on the line and right now tipping the goddamned dumpster is the only option we got. You want to get the body out or not?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Then do what the fuck I say.”

Matt nodded, then determinedly put both hands up against the side of the dumpster.

Edward put the van in reverse and moved the vehicle back slowly. Metal scraped against metal for a few seconds, and with a groan, the dumpster finally tipped. Several bags of garbage fell out of the top, one of them breaking open when it hit the hard cement. His grandfather continued to reverse, and Matt used all his strength to push against the metal, ignoring the screaming pain in his lower back.

A moment later, the dumpster tipped over the entire way. It hit the pavement with a clang that was alarmingly loud, and Matt froze, waiting to see if someone would come running around the corner. Then he realized that was just silly. A noise that loud at this time of night would have people running
away
from it, not toward it. Plus every establishment in Fremont was closed at this time of night.

Garbage bags spilled over onto the pavement, and with them, the body of PJ Wu. Matt was taken aback at the sight of his friend's lifeless form, which already looked different than it had a few hours ago. PJ's skin was ashy, his hair matted down from whatever liquids had soaked him. A few hours ago, PJ could have been sleeping, maybe unconscious. But now? He looked dead. Totally, completely dead.

Shifting the van into drive, his grandfather pulled forward a few feet and then cut the engine. Stepping out, he surveyed the piles of garbage filling up the narrow alleyway and nodded. “Perfect. Exactly what we wanted to happen.” Pulling open the van's back doors, he snapped, “Well, don't just stand there. Go get a tarp, something we can wrap him in. We have to get him into the back of the van.”

Matt did as he was told, and was back a moment later with a clear plastic tarp that he'd found in the storage room. He maneuvered his way through the piles of garbage toward PJ, stepping over the mounds of old food and empty coffee cups and God knew what else. The scent of rotting produce was cloying, but adrenaline was pumping through Matt's veins now and his olfactory senses barely registered anything. He helped the Chief roll the body into the tarp, then bent forward and grabbed PJ's foot.

“No, you take his shoulders, I'll take his legs,” the Chief said. “I'm no spring chicken anymore, goddammit.”

Matt didn't argue. Edward took hold of PJ's ankles while Matt
grabbed the body under the armpits, and the two of them slowly hoisted the body into the back of the van. It was only a few feet, but they moved slowly, careful not to trip over the bags. Trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his back, Matt hoisted PJ's front end into the back of the van, then jumped inside to pull the body all the way in. Climbing back out, he slammed the doors shut, then leaned against the van to catch his breath.

“Where to now, Chief?”

“Your house,” Edward said. He was already pulling open the driver's-side door. “I'll drive the van, you go get the Seville. I parked it across the street in the pay lot.” He tossed Matt his keys. “Follow me. And if for some reason I get stopped by the cops, you keep going, you hear me? I don't want you around while I'm answering questions. Not that they'd dare ask me anything. I am the Chief, after all.”

Matt nodded, then glanced down at the garbage that was still spilled everywhere. “Do we just leave it like this?”

Edward snorted. “Why, you want to clean it up?”

“I don't know.”

“Kid, you have a lot to learn about what to give a shit about and what not to give a shit about. Tomorrow morning Waste Management will show up and they'll just think somebody cut through the alleyway and rammed into the dumpster. They'll haul the garbage into the back of their truck and they'll put the dumpster back upright, and it'll be like it never happened.
Capiche?
”

“I got you.”

“Now go get my car. And don't speed. And be careful when shifting; it sticks when you shift it out of drive.”

*   *   *

A half hour later, the supply van was parked in Matt's driveway alongside the Chief's Cadillac. The two men were inside the garage with the door down and locked, PJ Wu's body in front of them atop the old work table. The bright white lights overhead made the dead man's skin look even grayer. Edward had lit a cigar, but not even its smoky sweetness could completely mask the smell of garbage emanating from PJ Wu's dead body.

“Aren't you even going to ask me what happened?” Matt asked, his voice small.

“I already know what happened.” The Chief blew out a stream of smoke. “You killed him.”

“Don't you want to know why?”

Edward snorted. “Not really. Though I'm assuming the little shit mouthed off one too many times and you hit him with something. I saw the wound on the back of his head. But the why doesn't matter, Matthew.”

Matt wasn't sure he understood this, but if his grandfather wasn't curious, then Matt wasn't about to force-feed him an explanation. Not that he had one, anyway.

“It was an accident.”

“Sure it was,” the Chief said.

Matt let out a breath, feeling spacey and light-headed now that the adrenaline had drained from his body. “It was. I swear.”

“Enough yakking.” Edward stood up and rested his cigar on the ashtray on top of the shelf beside him, where it continued to smolder. “Time to get to work.” Reaching behind him, he pulled out a chain saw. “I hope this is still charged.”

“Oh fuck. Oh hell.” Matt stared at the Chief in horror, the haze in his brain instantly lifting. Reflexively, he backed up a step. “Are you . . . are you going to . . .” He couldn't
bring himself to finish the question.