The Butcher's Son

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The Butcher's Son Page 18

by Grant McKenzie


  “Thanks for the tip.”

  Jersey laughed. “You owe me lunch. I’m thinking pulled pork sandwiches, hold the teeth, and a chocolate milkshake.”

  Ian glanced at the hardcover book on the corner of his desk. It crackled with imaginary energy.

  “Take a rain check?” he asked. “I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Add a shot of espresso to the milkshake and you’ve got a deal.”

  “Done.”

  Ian hung up and grabbed the book off his desk, telling Jeannie he’d be on his cell, before heading out.

  He didn’t make it far.

  *

  A tall man stood beside Ian’s van in the parking lot across the street from Children First. Dressed in funerary black, he gripped an old-fashioned umbrella that had been solidly crafted to double as a walking stick. By his side, sitting patiently on their haunches, were two large Doberman Pinschers. Their cropped ears were on high alert, their focus absolute.

  The dogs were both terrifying and handsome, unlike their owner who appeared to be neither. Despite his impressive height, the man’s frame was near skeletal, which was most evident in his face. His flesh was pallid and his cheeks hollow. The bones of his skull were prominent and sharp, while the whites of his eyes swirled with a patina of dull yellowish-green.

  “You’ve been following me,” said Ian as he approached. “Why?”

  The man attempted a smile, but it was an action he had little practice at, and the result was creepy rather than comforting.

  “I was asked to keep watch.”

  “By who?”

  “You likely already know the answer.”

  “Zelig?”

  The man shook his head, the movement barely discernible but his disappointment apparent.

  “Then who?”

  “Your sister.”

  Ian was taken aback. “You know Abbie?”

  “I have had that pleasure for many years, though not under that name.”

  A thousand questions bubbled in Ian’s brain, each fighting the other to be asked, but the first to burst forth was simply, “What is she like?”

  The man smiled again. It was just as disturbing as before.

  “Headstrong, courageous and fiercely loyal. I am only now beginning to understand where she gets it from.”

  “She lives in Boston,” said Ian.

  “Yes.”

  “Did my father know her?”

  “He did, although their relationship was strained.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “That is why I am here. She flew into town last night, but wishes to remain out of sight.” The man indicated his black Range Rover parked nearby. “If you will allow me, I can take you to her.”

  Ian tucked The Maltese Falcon tighter under his arm and nodded his agreement.

  “Voraus!” the man said to the dogs as the rear hatch of the Range Rover popped open with a touch on his key fob.

  Immediately, the two dogs ran to the vehicle and bounded inside. Neither of them made a solitary noise.

  “Braver Hund!” rewarded the man as the hatch lowered. He turned to Ian. “You may be more comfortable in a seat.”

  Walking around to the passenger side, Ian guessed that was humor. Or at least, he hoped it was.

  *

  They drove across town in near silence except for when Ian asked a question. The tall man already seemed to know everything he needed to about Ian.

  “Why did my sister send you?” Ian asked.

  “When your father was killed, she realized that Zelig had never given up in his search for revenge. She was afraid the burden would fall to you, and she was not wrong.”

  “And what were you to do?”

  “For now, observe. But I also possess certain skills that could be deployed if necessary.”

  “Skills?”

  “Your sister doesn’t want to bury you, too.”

  “Has she known about me all this time?” An invisible hand squeezed his chest, a sensation Ian hadn’t experienced in years, not since he was a child, waking up in the night, panic filling him with dread, feeling lost, alone, and afraid. “And why has she never contacted me before?”

  “There are some questions to which only she can provide the best answer,” said the man. “Why don’t we wait and ask her. It’s not far now.”

  And with that, the vehicle returned to silence, the air thick with the heavy sound of breathing, both dogs and man.

  28

  The boutique hotel was located in a quaint part of town away from the seedy hustle that attracted men like Walter Zelig. In this neighborhood, the biggest crime was not serving Fair Trade coffee.

  The thin man parked outside and told Ian the room number.

  “You trust me to go in alone?” Ian asked, only half joking.

  The man tilted his head and his eyes became gray pebbles, revealing a dark and dangerous core.

  “If she trusts you, then so do I.”

  Ian climbed out of the vehicle and entered the hotel.

  On the top floor, he knocked on the door.

  The woman who answered looked nothing like the girl he barely remembered. Slightly taller than himself, her face was thin and hard with a nose that bent slightly as if a break had never been correctly set; her hair was light chestnut and cut to frame her face in soft lines; her eyes were clear and bright, the color of a fresh water lake at dusk.

  As Ian studied her, she did the same with him; two nervous gunslingers in the middle of a dusty street, neither daring to make the first move, until…

  “Sprout!” Abbie broke the ice with a toothy grin. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Ian hadn’t heard that silly nickname in more years than he cared to remember. It had been forced on him one Thanksgiving before everything changed. Abbie had been watching a frozen food commercial on television and decided Ian was the spitting image of a character called Little Green Sprout.

  Ian had naturally hated the name, but hearing it spoken with affection now chipped away more of the scar tissue deep inside his chest.

  “You have,” he said. “But it looks good on you.”

  Abbie burst into laughter, the distinctive throaty cackle breaking open a forgotten chamber in his brain, awakening a true memory. This was his sister.

  She opened her arms to him and Ian stepped into the room, entering the embrace without hesitation, and squeezing. She was real. Not a phantom or a figment of his imagination, but flesh and blood. His blood.

  After a long, silent hug, Abbie led Ian to a couch near the window. They sat facing each other.

  Ian wanted to be patient, to let the questions flow naturally, but he couldn’t contain them.

  “I never thought I would see you again,” he said. “All these years I never knew if you were alive or dead. Why did you never contact me? Why didn’t our father? And why did you leave? I don’t know if Mom even knew what happened to you. She never told me anything. Nobody did.”

  Abbie grabbed a tissue off the nearby coffee table and dabbed at her eyes. The wrinkles around them spoke of tears and laughter, love and sorrow; an entire life that Ian knew nothing about.

  “It’s fucked up,” she agreed.

  But Ian wasn’t finished. “When Zelig approached me two days ago, I didn’t even know who he was. How could I not—”

  Abbie laid a hand upon his knee. “I know. You’ve been busy.”

  “I’ve been threatened,” said Ian. “But it seems that’s not unusual for our family.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Last night, I found four dead bodies in the basement of the butcher shop. They were Zelig’s men, and they had been there awhile. Every time Zelig sent someone to threaten our grandfather, a fresh grave was dug.”

  “He was formidable.”

  “Wish I had known that side of him. People in the neighborhood still talk about him with admiration, and yet he always terrified me.”

  “He loved us more than we’ll ever know.”

&n
bsp; “Are you sure?”

  “I am. At least one of those dead men was sent to find me. Grandfather never told him shit.”

  “Even when Zelig tortured him to death.”

  Abbie nodded and dabbed at her eyes again.

  “You knew?” asked Ian.

  “Father told me. Zelig forced him to watch. It broke him. I don’t think he was ever a brave man to begin with, not like his father, but what he witnessed that day dissolved every ounce of backbone he had left.”

  Ian recalled what Mr. Palewandram had said about that day, about the neighbors finding his father soaked in blood in the middle of the street. “His wail was as unintelligible as it was frightening.”

  “That’s why he ran,” said Ian.

  “The burden was passed onto him, but he couldn’t stand up to Zelig like grandfather had. He didn’t have that courage, so he ran away instead. He found me in Boston and tried to be a father, but he couldn’t do that either. The only thing he was ever much good at was leaving.”

  “Zelig’s men found him in the end.”

  “They never stopped looking.” Abbie lowered her eyes in shame. “Father told me they wouldn’t, that if I ever tried to make contact with you and Mom, Zelig would find out where I was and come for me.”

  “Why?”

  Abbie’s eyes snapped up and fire danced upon the deep, dark lake. “Because he’s a sick fuck with fairytales in his head in place of truth. He abused his daughter until she begged our grandfather to make her disappear. Instead of accepting what a monster he was, Zelig demanded her return. When Grandfather refused, Zelig decided I was to be her replacement. My disappearance was always supposed to be temporary until grandfather sorted the situation, but Zelig never gave up. Whatever warped story he told himself, it became his obsession. But when Grandfather was killed and Father ran away, my bridge collapsed. There was no going home.”

  Ian thought of the grave his grandfather had prepared in the basement. The one that was never filled. His father ran from that responsibility, too. Maybe that was the burden his father meant in his note — not finding Zelig’s daughter, but finally giving the grave its due.

  “Did Mom know you were alive?”

  Abbie shrugged. “I think she knew why I had to leave, but we never had any contact after I was gone. It was never meant to be permanent.”

  “It broke her, too,” said Ian quietly. “Physically, she remained here, but whatever it was that made her a mother dissolved when dad left. I couldn’t stand to look at her near the end, and then, like father, like son, I abandoned her as well. I couldn’t stay in that damn shop, watching her drink herself to death.” Ian choked on his final words. “She died alone.”

  Abbie grabbed Ian’s hand and squeezed it hard.

  “Goddamn shitty parents,” she said.

  “Yeah. Fuck ’em,” agreed Ian.

  Both siblings stared at each other in shock, and then they started to laugh.

  *

  Ian cradled a tumbler of bourbon and ginger on ice — his sister’s drink of choice — while the crumbs of a simple meal littered the coffee table. Ian had barely registered he was eating as he stuffed morsels around breaks in conversation, minute by minute the years fading away until they were both children again, whispering in their bedroom about the secrets of the day.

  “I’ve missed having a sister,” said Ian.

  Abbie smiled. “You wouldn’t have said that when you were six. Little brothers are such pests when you’re ten. I tortured you relentlessly.”

  “True, but I missed you the moment you were gone. How long are you planning to stay in Portland?”

  “Not long,” said Abbie. “It doesn’t feel safe. I have a life in Boston, but I need this to end. The weight of it…” She paused in mid-sentence and crossed the room to a small safe beside the mini-bar.

  After punching in the code, she returned with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

  “Father told me that if anything happened to him, I was to give this to you.”

  “What is it?” asked Ian.

  “He believed it was the answer to finding Zelig’s daughter, but he admitted to me that he had no idea how.”

  Ian unwrapped the parcel. Inside was a battered red notebook identical to the one contained within his borrowed copy of The Maltese Falcon. It even had the same word, Albatross, stamped on its cover, and bore the CIA watermark in one corner.

  “This was Grandfather’s,” said Ian, his fingers gliding over its hard-lived cover. “Part of some assignment he was on in Vietnam.”

  “Really? I never knew he served.”

  Ian lifted his gaze from the book. “He got arrested and shipped home.” A smile crossed his lips. “How much of a bad ass do you need to be to get kicked out of Vietnam during the height of the war?”

  Abbie laughed. “Guess we already know the answer. Do you know what to do with the book?”

  Ian nodded. “But if I find Constance, what then?”

  “You bring her home,” said Abbie, her eyes glistening with ice. “If I know anything about surviving this bullshit, she’s not going to be a frightened little girl anymore. It’s time to face up to her bastard father and end this fucking vendetta once and for all. We all need to be free.”

  29

  The thin man dropped Ian back at his van across the street from Children First.

  Somebody had broken in and rummaged through the glove box, scattering expired paperwork and discarded candy wrappers on the passenger seat. There was nothing worth stealing, which was why Ian never bothered to lock the doors. Better to come back to a mess than a broken window.

  Tommy the Tink wandered over and leaned against the passenger door. When Ian rolled down the window, the ripe stench of body odor, urine, rubbing alcohol and sour cranberry rolled in. It was artisanal tear gas with a fruity aftertaste.

  “Weren’t the fuckwits,” said Tommy, indicating the mess of paper. “Sometimes one of ’em forgets you ain’t got nothin’ worth nothin’ and goes for a rummage, but it was a big prick in a decent suit did this. Had a bloody big bandage on his nose and a snarl across his mouth like he just swallowed a shit sandwich. I was goin’ to say somethin’, but—” Tommy grinned, showing blackened teeth clinging to inflamed gums. “Bastard looked dangerous.”

  “Appreciate it, Tommy,” said Ian. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a rumpled five dollar bill. Handing it over, he asked, “Did you eat?”

  “Yeah,” he said too quickly, before pausing and adding, “Pretty sure I did. What about you?”

  Ian grinned. “Yeah, pretty sure I did, too.”

  Tommy glanced to the side and cursed. “Ah, shit, that’s him.”

  Ian followed Tommy’s gaze and saw the midnight blue Lincoln stopped at the lights across the street.

  “I need a favor,” said Ian quickly. He handed over The Maltese Falcon. “Hide this until I return. It’s important.”

  Tommy accepted the book and slid it inside his clothing before scuttling off to a makeshift camp he had erected in a corner of the parking lot. Two No Loitering signs acted as tent poles for the rear corners of his orange tarp, while his shopping cart kept the front taut, creating a triangular canopy that kept most of the rain off while he slept.

  As the light turned green, Ian took the second copy of the code book and jammed it under the passenger seat, making sure it was invisible against the mechanics. If Nose Bandage had already searched the van, there should be no need for him to do so again, but just in case, it was good to have backup.

  Ignoring the approaching Lincoln, Ian returned to tidying up the mess and jamming everything back in the glove box. When Nose Bandage arrived at the open window, Ian looked up and said, “You know what the most annoying part is?”

  Nose Bandage glared down at him in silence.

  “They add insult to injury by not stealing my tunes.” Ian held up two music cassettes: Jumping Jive by Joe Jackson, and Virtuoso by Joe Pass. “These are classics.”

  “Mr. Zelig w
ants to see you.”

  “You would be more likable if you at least pretended to take an interest.”

  The bandage covering the goon’s nose flared — and not in a cute way.

  “Should we take your car?” Ian asked, but Nose Bandage was already walking away, confident that Ian would follow.

  He did.

  *

  Walter Zelig waited in the back seat, the hiss of oxygen from a nearby tank giving the air a noticeable pep. Despite the fusty old-man smell, Ian inhaled greedily, a gentle wash of oxygenated euphoria sweeping cobwebs from his brain. No wonder hospital workers used the gas as a hangover cure. It worked.

  “Police were at your grandfather’s store this morning,” Zelig wheezed. “And the coroner spent several hours on the premises. What did she remove?”

  “I stumbled across some old friends of yours,” Ian said. “One sported a .45 shell as a tiepin, another had a gold tooth and Mario Brothers mustache. Ring any bells?”

  Zelig was quiet for a moment. “How many?”

  “Four.”

  “And the bodies. They were whole?”

  Ian nodded. “My grandfather was very fussy about the quality of meat used in his sausage. I’m thinking your guys didn’t rate.”

  Zelig lifted his leaking oxygen mask off the tank and placed it over his nose and mouth. His sunken chest inflated as he inhaled, and Ian had the disturbing thought of punching through his brittle ribcage and yanking out a cold, black heart. The thought made him smile, which caused Zelig’s frown to deepen.

  “My grandfather dug six graves,” Ian added to break the uneasy silence. “He only filled four.” He nodded towards Nose Bandage in the front seat. “He would’ve been too young back then. Who was the spare one for?”

  Zelig glared at him over the transparent mask, his eyes sparking as though two electrons had collided in a miscommunication of spiral trajectory.

  “Have you found my daughter?” Zelig asked as he lowered the mask, ignoring the unspoken subtext that one of the graves was reserved for him.

  “Not yet, but I’m closing in.”

  Zelig’s eyes widened.

  “I’ll bring her to you,” added Ian before Zelig could speak. “But when I do, this vendetta against my family is over. I want to live my life in peace, and I never want to see your ugly mug again.”

 

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