The Butcher's Son (3 page)

On Thursday, C.C. called me into his office. I was praying he was going to fire me, but no such luck.

“Hardesty,” he said, unwrapping a cigar the size of a large zucchini, “this Rourke-for-Governor thing is going to put Carlton Carlson and Associates on the map. You didn’t screw up the article assignment too badly…”

No greater praise
, I thought.

“…and I didn’t hear any specific complaints about your attitude, so I’m going to let you keep handling future contact with the family members. All direct contact with the chief will, of course, be made by me and only me.

“With my help, Terrence C. Rourke’s going to be this state’s next governor!” He banged his desk with one fist then leaned forward to glare at me. “This is a big responsibility I’m giving you here, and you’d damned well better not fuck it up.”

Why was I not thrilled? Why was I biting my tongue to keep from telling old C.C., there, to take his zucchini cigar and shove it up both his and the chief’s ass? Why the hell didn’t I just quit then and there? Why don’t I have an answer for those three questions?

Suffice it to say, I was not thrilled, I held my tongue, and I swore to myself I would start sending resumes out in the morning.

*

Friday night I spent sitting in front of the television, polishing off my third pack of cigarettes for the day. Chris went out with some friends from the store and didn’t get home until about two hours after the bars closed—a fact noted only because I’d gotten up to go to the bathroom just as he came in and had looked at the clock.

What bothered me most about what I was beginning to see clearly as the approaching end of my relationship with Chris was that it really didn’t scare me nearly as much as I thought it should. We still cared a lot for each other, I knew, but the kind of love that separates lovers from loving friends wasn’t really there anymore. We’d just been growing in two different directions, and although we never talked about it, we both knew.

Anyway, on Saturday night we went to dinner—Chris insisted on Rasputin’s again—and afterwards, the Ebony Room now gone, we decided to go back to Bacchus’s Lair to catch the show. As if on cue, a pouring rain started just as we left the restaurant.

Two Saturdays in
a row
, I told myself.

The place was packed. They’d installed a new maître d’, who unctuously informed us that, without a reservation, we’d be lucky to get a seat at the bar. As we were deciding whether or not to take up his kind semi-offer, we heard a bellowed “Chile, there you are!” and looked toward the bar to see Tondelaya/Teddy surging through the crowd.

“I’ll just bet you couldn’t get a table, could you?”

We shook our heads in exact unison, looking, I’m sure, like the Synchronized Idiot team. She grabbed each of us by an arm and, before either of us could say anything, steered us past the maître d’ and into the room.

“My sister just called and told me she couldn’t make it to the show tonight, so I’ll put you at her table,” T/T said, the rustle of her taffeta gown audible even above the hubbub of the crowd.

The table was so close to the stage we could, if we were so inclined—I, for one, certainly wasn’t—look up the skirts of the performers. It was not near an exit. I looked at Chris who, reading my mind as he so often did, grinned and shrugged.

After seeing us safely ensconced at the table, T/T blew us both poster-sized kisses and went to put finishing touches on her makeup. The waiter came and took our drink order then vanished into the crowd, hips expertly maneuvering between tables, extended arms and legs, and milling customers.

The table beside us was empty, but just as the music came on and the house lights started to dim, two forms were ushered up and seated by the maître d’. I wasn’t paying much attention until I heard, “Hi, Dick. Hi Chris,” and looked over to see Bob Allen and Ramón.

We returned the greeting—at least, I think we did. By that time, we couldn’t even hear our own voices over the blare of the always-tinny-sounding canned music as the spotlight came on and the show began.

With a few variations, it was pretty much the same as the last time we’d seen it, except that T/T’s rendition of “The Butcher’s Son” seemed, if possible, a little raunchier, and he made a point of directing the song to Chris and me.

At intermission, we had a chance, finally, to exchange a few words with Bob and Ramón. We’d spoken with Bob briefly on the phone some days before to express our regrets over the loss of the Ebony Room, but he’d been so busy we hadn’t seen him since the fire.

“I didn’t feel much like coming out tonight,” he said, “but Ramón dragged me. I’m glad he did, actually. I’m not used to not being around a lot of people, and I’ve kind of missed it. We almost didn’t make it, though—had a hell of a time getting a cab in the rain.”

“Something wrong with your car again?”

Bob snorted in disgust.

“The damned transmission this time. That lemon’s been in the shop more than it’s been on the road.”

“Well, if you need a ride home after the show, we’ll be glad to give you a lift,” Chris volunteered.

“We’d appreciate that,” Bob said.

*

It had stopped raining by the time we left the club
,
and most of the talk on the drive home was about Judy. Her performance had been even better than the first time we’d seen her, and the crowd again was wild about her. But as before, she refused to come back for a curtain call, and Chris was speculating on whether her increasing popularity would change the situation.

“Don’t count on it,” Ramón volunteered from the back seat. “She’s never done a curtain call, and if you ask me, she never will. That’s one strange character, that Judy.”

“Yeah, I’d been wondering about her,” I said. “I think I’ve seen her around someplace as a guy, but I’m not sure—hard to tell with the wig and makeup. What’s his real name?”

Ramón shrugged. “‘Judy’ is all I know. Nobody knows her. And I mean that literally. I worked there when the place first opened up—waiter, busboy, bartender, whatever they needed. Would you believe that nobody in that place has ever seen her out of drag?

“Not only that, but nobody has ever seen her come in or go out. She doesn’t mix with the other performers—hell, sometimes she doesn’t even show up. Not often, granted, but…

“She’s got her own dressing room that she comes out of only when it’s time for her to go on, and when the show’s over, back in she goes, and that’s it. You can stand outside that door all night, and you won’t see her come out. Probably got a back door. Or maybe she lives there…who knows?”

“How can she manage that? Why the mystery and special treatment?” Chris asked.

Ramón shrugged again.

“Word has it she’s sleeping with the manager—or the owner—or both.”

“And who are the manager and the owner?” Chris asked.

“The manager’s Dave Lee.”

“And the owner?”

“Nobody seems to know. I think it’s a corporation. If that’s the case, Judy’s a busy girl.”

“Yeah,” Bob offered. “I know they don’t belong to the Bar Guild.”

We were pondering that little mystery as Chris pulled into the garage of our apartment building.

“You guys want to stop in for a drink?” Bob asked as we got on the elevator. “We owe you for the ride.”

Chris looked to me, and I said, “Sure. We’ll have a quick one.”

I was curious to know more about Judy, and although I didn’t want to pry into something that was really none of my business, I was hoping Bob would volunteer more information on the Ebony Room fire.

*

Chris asked for scotch, and I opted for coffee (decaf) and Strega, and we settled in their comfortable living room while Ramón took charge of fixing the coffee. Bob went to a beautiful mahogany hutch that served as a liquor cabinet and poured Chris’s scotch and Strega for me, himself, and Ramón into beautiful leaded crystal glasses.

When we were all seated—Bob in his favorite armchair and Ramón on the floor in front of him, leaning back against his legs—the conversation turned to the series of fires plaguing the community’s bars in general, and the one at the Ebony Room in particular. Bob confirmed that someone had tossed a Molotov cocktail through a small, high window in the bathroom. He figured it had happened about an hour after closing, shortly after the bartender had locked up for the night and gone home.

The insurance company, of course, refused to settle the claim until it was determined Bob himself hadn’t started the fire. All evidence to the contrary, and despite there having been five other similar fires, the company remained adamant and was giving Bob a hard time as it is the habit, duty, and delight of insurance companies to do.

“How is the investigation going?” I asked.

Bob shrugged.

“Who knows? I’ve been calling them nearly every day, and they keep saying they’re still waiting for the arson report to come in—and, of course, hoping that when it does, it will implicate
me
as having set fire to my own place so they can deny the claim. I’ve made at least a dozen phone calls to both the fire department and the police, but it’s pretty obvious they have more important things on their mind. I think the annual Firemen’s and Policemen’s Ball is coming up.”

“Are you planning to reopen?” Chris asked.

Bob shrugged, one hand reaching out to tousle Ramón’s hair.

“Depends on what the insurance company does. I’d like to, of course—I own the building, or what’s left of it, and I’ve been there ten years now. But even if the insurance comes through, they’ll cancel me for sure, and it’ll be next to impossible to get other insurance, especially with all these other bar fires lately. The Bar Guild is trying to pull something together, but I’m not sure what we can do.

“Being a bar owner isn’t the easiest job in the world,” he said, taking another sip of his Strega. “If it’s not the fires, it’s the police harassment, and with Chief Rourke at the helm, that’s not likely to end soon.”

“Careful what you say about Dick’s good buddy,” Chris said.

Bob looked at me quizzically as I shot Chris a dirty glare.

I sighed.

“Mr. Tact, here, is referring to an assignment I’ve got shepherding our beloved chief and his family through the media minefields until he announces his candidacy for governor a week from Tuesday.”

Since the chief’s political aspirations were common knowledge, I didn’t feel I was betraying any confidences.

“Well, that ought to be a boon to the U-Haul and moving van industry,” Bob said.

Ramón’s eyes grew large.

“You mean you actually know the Butcher?” He gave a dramatic shudder. “I’m uncomfortable being on the same
planet
with that bigot. God knows what I’d do if I had to be in the same room. Does he know you’re gay?”

It was my turn to shudder at the thought.

“I sincerely doubt it. We’re hardly what you’d call close.”

“I know his son,” Bob said. “Knew him, I should say.”

“His son’s gay?” Ramón and Chris said in chorus.

Bob grinned. “You know, I do know a few people who aren’t gay. But in this case, yeah. His son Pat was gay.”

“Was?” Ramón said, turning to look up at him. “What did the chief do—have him castrated?”

“No,” Bob said, “the chief had him killed.”

Chapter 3

We all sat there for a moment in silence, absorb
ing
the impact of Bob’s little depth charge. Chris looked at me, gave a quick raise of his eyebrows, and drained his scotch.

Ramón finally broke the silence.

“Had him killed? Are you serious?”

Bob shrugged.

“So the story goes. I find it a little hard to believe, but it’s been going around for years. The chief takes his two sons hunting in the mountains—rumor has it right after he found out Pat was gay—and only one son comes back.”

“Just like that?” Chris asked, incredulous.

“Apparently so. They never found Pat’s body. The chief’s story was that they’d split up, and when Pat didn’t come back, the chief organized a search party that found Pat’s gun at the edge of a bluff. There’d been heavy rains, and they figured he was standing near the edge of the bluff when part of it broke off and fell into the river below.”

“Wow,” Ramón said, almost in a whisper.

“Yeah, wow,” I said. “But that raises an interesting question, aside from whatever happened to Patrick.”

“What’s that?” Chris asked.

“The chief’s sons were twins,” I said. “Identical twins. If one was gay, wouldn’t it be a pretty safe bet the other would be, too?”

“I’d think so, of course,” Chris volunteered. “But there haven’t been any really definitive studies done yet on sexual preference in identical twins, though I don’t know why. It would make a fascinating study.”

“I didn’t know that bastard even had kids,” Ramón interjected, “until I saw a picture in the paper of the one who got married a year or so ago. If Bob wasn’t around, that guy could put his shoes under my bed any day.”

Bob playfully swatted him on the back of the head with the flat of his hand.

“That’s Kevin,” I said. “Patrick’s twin, and I guess he is pretty attractive, now that I think of it. When I met him, I was only thinking of how to get through the afternoon with the chief, which didn’t leave much time for admiring the scenery.”

“Well, that settles the sexual preference question,” Ramón said, his face and voice taking on a professorial tone. “The brother’s married, therefore, he can’t be gay. I think I read that somewhere.”

Chris and I just looked at each other, and Bob pulled Ramón toward him in a bear hug saying, in his best fatherly voice, “You’ll have to excuse the lad—when he fell off the turnip truck, I’m afraid he landed on his head.”

Ramón growled and bent his head forward to bite Bob on the wrist.

“It occurs to me,” Bob went on after removing his arm from Ramón’s attack, “that if I knew, or suspected, that my old man had bumped off my brother because he was gay, I just might think about straightening myself out real fast.”

We small-talked for another twenty minutes or so until I noticed Chris and Ramón stifling yawns.