Butcher's Road

by Lee Thomas

  “You put the assignment and the money in an envelope and you have one of your chumps drop that envelope off. You don’t want to meet this man, don’t want Paul Rabin to know your face if you can help it.”

  Impelliteri had been about to laugh in Collasanto’s face. Considering the level of bat-shit crazy exhibited by the gang boys he’d bummed around with on the streets of Brooklyn and later Chicago, it struck him as pretty damn funny that he should be warned away from a contract man, but before he let this train of thought lead him to laughter, he considered Big Cheeks’ history, knew the currents of violence that had lifted and carried him to Al’s side. The life he’d lived. The shit he’d done. If this man was concerned enough to keep a distance from Rabin, then Impelliteri would do the same.

  When he needed Rabin’s services, he sent the fat cop. Let that slob say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing and take Rabin’s heat. The life of a cop meant less than a turkey neck to Marco. He had a hundred cops in his pocket.

  Cermak and his war on crime, now there was a laugh.

  And Marco had to admit Rabin knew his business. Men that were supposed to disappear, like that piece of shit Barney Orso, disappeared and never surfaced. If a more public display was necessary to throw a scare into Moran’s crew, Rabin could manage that, too. The killer did his job and that was all that mattered. Soon enough, Rabin would introduce himself to that meathead Cardinal, and he’d open the wrestler up—slowly if Rabin followed Marco’s instructions. He wanted that son of a bitch to pay.

  Every time he thought about that fucking wrestler his stomach turned sour. He pictured Lonnie lying dead, a guy he’d known since they were both pissing diapers, and he thought about the package Lonnie was supposed to deliver, and Marco’s vision went red. He wanted Cardinal to suffer all the way to his soul, and he wanted every Paddy on Powell’s crew to follow him into the ground, and then he wanted the rest of the cunts in Moran’s outfit to follow them.

  Nitti wanted him to shut it down, told him it was done. Nothing was fucking done, not until the Irish were under dirt or under water, and Marco was shown the respect he deserved.

  He left the window and crossed his office. In the hallway he looked up the stairs and then over his shoulder as if someone were following him. Impelliteri climbed the stairs, turned left on the landing and walked to the first door: his daughter Sylvia’s room. Carefully he turned the knob and pushed the door open, allowing the light from the hall to cut a line from the threshold to his daughter’s bed. Upon seeing her, the red rage all but vanished. Sylvia faced the wall, her beautiful black hair sprayed over the pillow like bands of satin. Her silk duvet, the color of lavender, clutched tightly to her legs and rose in gentle swells at her hips and shoulders. The sight stirred Marco, made him forget Lou’s phone call and the muddy thoughts it had stirred up. His beautiful girl. His light.

  Marco took a step into the room, but a noise from the front of the house startled him, brought him to a stop. It might have been nothing more than the house settling, or a tenacious icicle finally releasing its grasp on the eaves, falling, and cracking against the walk, but a distinct change in the air followed the noise, as if it had thinned and fled. Escaped. Maybe his guard, Tony, had decided to do a sweep, or he’d noticed the office light on and decided to see if his boss needed anything. It was possible, but Impelliteri doubted it.

  Backing out of the room, Marco listened carefully. He closed the door to his daughter’s room and reached for the gun he kept in the pocket of his robe. Once he had a firm grip on the weapon, he returned to the top of the stairs and looked down. The entryway was empty, and the floor was clean, no muddy footprints to indicate intruders. He eased down the stairs, alert for both sound and motion. At the bottom of the stairs he stopped again, and he listened, and though he didn’t hear anything, his belief that someone was moving around remained. It was the air. The air felt wrong. It shifted and rolled like a phantom draught. Marco retraced his steps to his office and outside he pressed his ear to the door. More silence.

  Marco entered the room, holding the gun low and close to his hip. Tony stood behind his desk. Hands at his sides. The man’s narrow face was tight with fear.

  Before Marco could take in the totality of the scene, or completely understand the expression on his bodyguard’s face, a hand slammed down on his wrist with so much force he dropped the gun and flinched. When he opened his eyes, he saw a hard, broad face and the point of a knife, hovering less than an inch from his eye.

  “Mr. Brand,” a voice said from the corner, “bring Mr. Impelliteri in and show him a seat.”

  A strong hand gripped Marco’s arm and yanked him into the office. The door closed behind him.

  On his left stood a tall, thick man, holding a metal bar about two feet long. For Marco, he called to mind a baseball manager, holding a new narrow bat. His partner, the guy with the knife, was a short, stocky piece of shit, and a freak on top of it. What kind of a guy walks around a Chicago winter in an A-shirt and a butcher’s apron? And what was with his arms? The arm he’d used to drag Impelliteri into the room was thick with muscle, the other arm was like a stalk of broccoli—thin and flaccid. And he had something on his wing: a metal band, copper maybe, coiled around the scrawny arm from wrist to shoulder.

  The shorter man tugged and shoved and forced Marco into the club chair beneath a wall of books. After gripping the armrests, Marco glared at Tony and a string of obscenities paraded through his head. Marco knew he should be afraid, should be pissing-himself terrified, but what he felt was rage. His guard, Tony, had let these men—men who didn’t even have guns—into Marco’s home. There was no excuse. If these guys were here, Tony should have been face-down dead in the yard. He should have done everything in his power to kill these motherfuckers or at least gotten a warning to Marco. Fire off a round. Scream his head off. Even if it meant getting his throat cut, Tony should have given his boss a chance.

  “You piece of shit,” Impelliteri said, glaring at the man.

  Tony lowered his head in response.

  “Mr. Impelliteri,” the tall, thick man said, “we are here for information.” He strolled up to the chair and placed the metal bar on Impelliteri’s shoulder. “This should only take a few minutes, and if all goes well, no one will be hurt.”

  “You’re already dead,” Impelliteri said. “You think you can just walk in here and start shoving me around, you fucking lowlife shit-heel?”

  The stocky man with the knife looked amused and startled. His eyes widened in surprise and his cheeks turned red as if he were some sheltered schoolgirl who’d never heard real men talk before. Only then did Marco wonder who these men were. He’d assumed they were sent by the Irish, just street thug hitters carrying out a contract for Powell or Moran, but the short man’s reaction, not to mention the way the two dressed—like Halstead Street kitchen help—and the fact they hadn’t plugged Tony right off and opened up on Marco at first sight threw that likelihood out the window. Were they members of Nitti’s crew—a couple of out-of-towners brought in to lean on him? That didn’t fly either, especially since they were asking for information. Who the hell asked for information? The law? These guys didn’t look or act like cops. They sure as shit weren’t feds.

  “You’re fucking feeble if you think I’m going to tell you guys anything.” As he spoke he noticed Tony stepping to the end of the desk. One of his hands twitched as it eased behind his back.

  Good, Marco thought. Maybe his guard wasn’t completely useless. Tony probably kept a spare piece in a holster at the small of his back. All Marco had to do was keep the circus entertained for a couple of seconds.

  “Who are you anyway?” he asked. He stared at the stocky man with the mismatched arms. “What’s with your wing, kid? You do all your jerking off with the right and the left got jealous and died.”

  Again the guy’s face went red, but this time Marco saw the anger building there. He figured that was good, kept the fucker’s attention on him. The tall man at his side tapp
ed his shoulder with the metal bar.

  “That’s enough, Mr. Impelliteri.”

  “Did I hurt your boyfriend’s feelings?” he asked. “Or did I hurt yours? Is tugging his meat your job?”

  Marco laughed, not only because of the comment, which he found extremely clever, but also because Tony was in the process of drawing down on these cunts. Another second and bang bang he could get back to his evening.

  The tall guy raised the metal bar from Marco’s shoulder. Across the room, Tony pulled the gun from behind his back, but he never got the chance to fire. With a motion so smooth and fast Marco could barely track it, the man at his side whipped the metal bar in a side-handed toss. The rod soared past the stocky man with the knife, and then it broke apart. Separated. Where there had been a single iron rod was now a swarm of dozens, maybe hundreds, of elongated needles that spread out like scattergun shot. Tony only managed to get the gun to his side before the needles hit him, giving off the sound of a hundred sighs. They simultaneously pierced his face, his neck, his shoulders, and torso and slid through him as easily as bullets through butter. Then the narrow spears reconnected, joined together, and a single metal bar hit the far wall with a thunk. It pierced the paneling, going deep into the plaster, and jutted out over the floor like an accusing finger.

  Marco looked on, more amazed than afraid. His mind sprang open and stories, all of the stories Lonnie Musante had ever told him about steel and magic, flooded in. Despite a lifetime of friendship, he’d written off the bulk of Lonnie’s tales, and with good reason. Not only were the man’s stories loopy, going far beyond the logic of common mysticism, but also because it had taken Lonnie nearly fifty years to say a damn thing about his uncle and the sect of believers he called the Alchemi. A part of Marco, and it was a considerable part, hadn’t believed in the mystery men or their metal magic. In fact, he’d considered such realms of magic absolute horseshit, but the men were real; here they were, and if they existed, then everything else Lonnie had told him must also be true. Marco’s head spun with it. Weapons. Baubles. Bits of steel that looked useless to everyone but the men who knew how to use them.

  Tony, his face and suit now covered in deep red freckles, fell to the floor. The tall man walked away from the chair, and the stocky man, the one named Brand, moved in and pressed the point of his knife to Marco’s chin.

  “My name is Mr. Hayes,” the tall man said. He stood next to the bar sticking out of the wall. Leaning down he said, “And as I noted, my colleague’s name is Mr. Brand.”

  The stocky man before him smiled, and then he tapped Marco’s chin with the blade of his knife. “Nice to meet ya,” Brand said.

  Hayes grasped the metal bar and gave it a gentle twist before pulling it smoothly from the wall. He tapped the rod against his palm and sneered. “Mr. Brand, would you please attach the pin to Mr. Impelliteri.”

  “Of course,” Brand said, reaching into the pocket of the leather apron.

  “The what?” Impelliteri asked. The amazement he’d felt only moments before was gone as he understood the focus of the two men was now wholly on him. “You’re not sticking anything in me.”

  Brand pressed the blade hard against Impelliteri’s cheek. From his pocket he drew a shining silver item approximately the length of his little finger. Ridges ran over the arched top of the object, and a long, needle jutted from below. Brand lifted the thing for Impelliteri to get a good look, waving it with his puny hand like a child teasing a classmate with a toy. Then the stocky man reached down and in two quick motions pushed aside the lapel of Impelliteri’s dressing gown and jabbed the needle into his chest.

  Though the pain was minimal, hardly more than a light pinch, Impelliteri shouted and tried to launch himself from the chair, but Brand caught him with a shoulder and knocked him back into the seat. Marco reached for the pendant, eager to have it out of his flesh, but Brand knocked his hand away and returned the blade of the knife to his cheek. The point again hovered a quarter of an inch from the soft tissue of Impelliteri’s eye.

  Hayes tapped his hand with the rod as he returned to his place by Impelliteri’s side. “That pin, Mr. Impelliteri, is a means of gathering the truth. If you lie to us, you will feel it. More importantly we will know it. I suggest you stick with the truth. Despite the unfortunate incident with your associate, we have no taste for violence, though we understand its efficacy and are more than willing to use it as we deem necessary.”

  “You’re the Alchemi,” Impelliteri said. “I’ve heard about you.”

  “From Mr. Musante?” Hayes asked.

  “Yeah, Lonnie told me about you freaks.”

  Brand frowned and pressed the flat side of the knife hard against Marco’s cheekbone.

  “That was a severe indiscretion on Mr. Musante’s part,” Hayes said. “But he was never a particularly reliable individual. If he were still alive, I imagine we’d be forced to deal with him.” Hayes paused and leaned close to Impelliteri’s ear. “He’s not alive, is he?”

  “Who, Lonnie? He’s as dead as shit,” Impelliteri said. “Don’t you freaks get the newspaper?”

  “I think we can dispense with terms like ‘freak,’ Mr. Impelliteri. They are hateful and Mr. Brand is particularly sensitive to such derision.”

  “Indeed I am,” Brand said.

  “Like I give a fuck.” Impelliteri fixed his eyes on Brand’s. “I’m not the one walking around like a rag doll with a thread hanging off the shoulder. You got questions? Let’s hear ’em.”

  “You gave Mr. Musante a large sum of money for an item that was stolen from us.”

  “Bullshit,” Marco said. “I didn’t…”

  The lie had barely begun when a wash of pain, scalding and acidic, spread out along his pectoral. It climbed his shoulder and cascaded down his belly. The agony appeared so quickly it caught the scream in Marco’s throat. He grit his teeth and managed to squeeze out a high-pitched whine. Then the pain receded, leaving a patina of misery in its wake.

  “What the fuck?” he bellowed.

  “You were given ample warning about the value of the truth,” Hayes said. “So you’ve lied to us and in fact did give Mr. Musante the funds he needed to buy our item. We know the transaction occurred. We know Mr. Musante returned to Chicago soon after the acquisition with the intent of passing the item on to you. Did he do so?”

  “What?”

  “Did you take possession of our property?”

  “No,” Impelliteri said. “He was supposed to bring it to me the night that fuck of a wrestler gunned him down.”

  “Do you know where our item is?”

  “The wrestler’s got it,” he said. “I mean, I think he’s got it. I don’t know. I had a man on the scene and it wasn’t in the house, wasn’t on Lonnie.”

  “And you’re certain Mr. Musante is deceased?”

  “He’d better be,” Impelliteri said. “They put him in a coffin and burned the whole thing to char.”

  “But he could have tricked you,” Hayes said.

  “Would have been a really good trick,” Impelliteri said. “I saw him in the box, and twenty minutes later I saw them put the box in the fire, and that’s after he spent two days in the county morgue. You telling me you guys are immortal or something?”

  Mr. Hayes’ face pinched at the question. He walked around to the front of the chair his shoulder hovering over that of his buddy, Brand. “Do you know the name of the item Mr. Musante stole?”

  “The Rose,” Impelliteri said. “He called it ‘The Rose.’”

  “Do you know what it is capable of?”

  “No,” he said. Again the pain. He fought it. Struggled to keep from screaming.

  “You certainly wouldn’t spend so much on an item if you didn’t know its purpose. What did Mr. Musante tell you about the Rose, Mr. Impelliteri?”

  “He told me it could help me.”

  “Help you how?”

  “He said it could help me keep faggots like you from trying to ass fuck me.” The pain blinde
d him this time. He lost consciousness for a moment, and he wished it had been more thorough in knocking him out, because even in the second of oblivion the pain was as sharp and loud as shattering glass.

  “How was the Rose supposed to help you, Mr. Impelliteri? It didn’t help, Mr. Musante, did it?”

  “He never said it would make me bulletproof. He said it would help me. Help me fix my head.”

  Lonnie swore it would take care of the fucking disease in my brain, so I can stop… I don’t want to do it… My poor baby… I don’t. Some kind of curse. Some kind of devil possessing me, making me… Fuck, I have to find it. It’s real. The things I could do…

  “So you believe the Rose is an instrument of healing?”

  “Yeah, why? You saying it’s something else?”

  “We’re done here,” Hayes said. He backed away and held the iron rod out at his side, a pose that showed Marco he was more than ready to throw the uncommon weapon if he did so much as flinch.

  Brand tapped Marco’s cheek with the knife one last time and then yanked the pin out of his chest. He dropped it into the pocket of his apron and skipped back several steps, looking pleased as fucking punch, looking like he had a mouthful of canary. Marco hated the stubby little prick, hated his withered arm and his smug expression.

  Hayes and Brand, he thought. Hayes and Brand. If he was still breathing when those shit stains walked out of his house, he was going to make a hobby of causing them pain.

  Brand continued to the door of the office, but Hayes remained in the center of the room.

  “I understand you won’t take my advice, but I’ll offer it nonetheless,” Hayes said. “You’re likely searching for the Rose. Perhaps you’ve sent some of your men after Mr. Cardinal or you’ve put out a bounty on his head. I would suggest you cease those efforts immediately. We have resources, Mr. Impelliteri. The Rose belongs to us; it belongs with us. If you gain its possession, I can assure you it will be for a brief and sorrowful time.”