The Butcher's Son

by Dorien Grey

  McNearny smiled.

  “You’re absolutely right. Kevin told me you aren’t afraid to tell it like it is.”

  I wasn’t quite sure whether I could breathe a sigh of relief yet or not, so I held off.

  “I’ve known Chief Rourke for a good long time now, and I sincerely believe he is exactly the man this state desperately needs in the governor’s mansion. But I have no illusions about how he comes across to the average voter. The Sunday Supplement article you and Carlton did was exactly the kind of thing we need to…well, to show there’s a human being under that uniform. The timing could not have been worse with the bar fire incident, but that could not have been foreseen, and we have to move on.”

  He took a drink of his coffee then carefully set the cup on its saucer before looking at me.

  “Exactly how do you picture this fundraiser scenario?”

  Once again I had the mildly disturbing feeling I might actually be helping the chief, but ego does strange things, so I forged ahead.

  “Obviously, it would have to be for Salvation’s Door, not for the chief’s campaign coffers.” I didn’t know whether McNearny was aware the chief owned the building, and that any improvements that might result would ultimately benefit the chief and thereby provide a solid basis for conflict of interest charges. If he did know, he was shrewd enough to recognize that little time bomb and would jump right in, but he said nothing.

  I thought Kevin might take the opportunity to mention it, but he didn’t.

  Whether the chief would see the danger was another matter altogether, but I suspected he might just be arrogant and self-serving enough to think no one would find out.

  “The actual event could be as low-key or as big a deal as you and the chief’s other advisers might choose to make it,” I continued. “I would suggest the low-key approach, holding the event at the shelter itself rather than at some ballroom. Let those attending see just how the homeless actually live—I’m sure most of them have no idea.

  “Maybe even, instead of a caterer, serve the same lunch the homeless receive, which I can attest is pretty good, given what Kevin has to work with. The important thing is that the public see the chief in surroundings not directly linked to his job. It would also shore up his image as a family man, showing his support for his son, and it certainly would help Kevin continue his work for the homeless.”

  McNearny sat nodding as I talked, and I noted Kevin was looking at him intently, as if watching for his reaction.

  “Interesting,” McNearny said at last, and I saw Kevin almost imperceptibly relax. “Of course, there are certain problems we’d have to overcome.

  “One of the chief’s greatest handicaps, I think we all realize, is that, while he is a decisive leader, his intense devotion to his duty and sense of purpose makes him appear…well…uncomfortable in actual face-to-face meetings with people he does not know well. We realized going in this would be an obstacle, and I even went so far as to recommend he hire someone to help him to be more at ease in group situations in which he is not giving orders.

  “But I think we might be able to do something with this. Let me talk it over with a few of the others, and we’ll let you know.”

  The meeting…dinner…whatever it was supposed to be broke up shortly thereafter. Kevin had to return to the shelter to take care of some unfinished business, and McNearny said he had an early flight to the capitol the next day to lobby a group of senators for a proposed highway in the state’s relatively undeveloped north. We left the restaurant together and went our separate ways. I got the feeling Kevin wanted to talk with me privately, but he said nothing as we shook hands and said our goodnights.

  *

  I was more wound up from the meeting than I’d anticipated and decided that, rather than return directly home, I’d stop in at Griff’s, a piano bar on the way, for a quick one to help me sleep. It was only a little after nine-thirty when I arrived at the bar, found a parking place easily on the nearly deserted street, and went in.

  As I’d expected, the place was very sparsely populated—maybe five guys at the bar and three around the piano, where one of my favorites, Guy Prentice, was holding sway. I ordered my drink and noticed a familiar large, dark form at one of the stools by the piano.

  I walked over, smiled and nodded to Guy, who returned both, and sat at the stool next to Tondelaya/Teddy, who was engrossed in conversation with an anorexic-looking bleached blond. As I said, Guy is one of my—and Chris’s—favorite bar performers. He knows every song—melody and words—from every musical produced on Broadway from 1922 to the present. He loves the campier numbers and spending an evening listening to him is always a delight.

  The blond next to T/T drained his glass, pushed off the barstool, and they exchanged over-the-top “Mmmmm-wah mmmmm-wah” cheek kisses. With regal waves to Guy, the bartender, and the room in general, he made his way to the door and disappeared. T/T settled back on his stool and, for the first time, noticed my presence. He gave a melodramatic jerk backward, eyes wide open.

  “Why, chile, where did you come from?”

  “The stork brought me, I’m told,” I said.

  T/T slapped at my arm and grinned, then looked around.

  “Where’s your other half?”

  “He’s in New York.”

  “Oh, that lucky boy! When’s he comin’ back?”

  I tried to be as casual as possible when I said, “He’s not. He got a great promotion, and we decided he should take it.”

  T/T laid his hand gently on my arm, his eyes wide in a look of surprise.

  “You mean you two…?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, darlin’, I’m sorry. I truly am. But look on the bright side. Somewhere out there’s two very lucky guys who’re goin’ to find the both of you.”

  That was really nice of him to say, I thought.

  “Thanks, Teddy.” Noticing his glass was nearly empty, I said, “Can I buy you a drink?”

  His face broke into a broad grin.

  “Why, of course you can, darlin’.”

  I caught the bartender’s attention and pointed to T/T’s glass. He nodded and turned to make the drink.

  “Something you’d like to hear, Dick?” Guy asked.

  “Yeah,” T/T said. “You play this boy ‘Maybe This Time.’”

  Guy raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question, and I gave him a small grin and a nod. It certainly wasn’t the song I’d have chosen under the circumstances, but T/T meant well, and I appreciated the gesture. T/T and Guy sang it together, with T/T’s large arm draped around my shoulder.

  Guy then segued into a Cabaret medley as the bartender came over with T/T’s drink.

  “Thank you, darlin’,” T/T said, raising his glass in a toast. I raised mine and tapped it against his, and we sat quietly for a few minutes listening to Guy play.

  “So when, exactly, is Bacchus’s Lair going to reopen?” I asked.

  “A week this coming Friday, I hear. Can’t be too early for me. I don’t like bein’ out of work.”

  “I can imagine.” Another moment of silence, and I let my curiosity get the better of me for the ten thousandth time.

  “Who actually owns Bacchus’s Lair?”

  T/T shrugged.

  “I honestly don’t know, darlin’. Whoever it is, I’ve never met him. Dave Lee runs the place. He’s a good manager, but he sort of keeps his distance.”

  “Like Judy.”

  T/T gave me a strange look, but said nothing.

  “What do you know about Judy?” I asked.

  T/T took a quick drink and set his glass carefully down on the napkin in front of him. He didn’t look directly at me as he said, “I don’t know nothin’ about Judy, darlin’. Nothin’ at all, and I prefer to leave it that way.”

  Chapter 13

  Wednesday morning I got to my desk to find a phone message from Kevin requesting that I stop by the shelter with PR materials for him to take on his next speaking-for-the-chief jaunt. I suspected
he really wanted to talk about dinner with McNearny, or perhaps to offer some sort of explanation for his little bed-hopping adventure at the SAPC meeting.

  One of the nice things about working within the outer fringes of the Rourke camp was that I had a lot more flexibility than most of C.C.’s other workers-in-the-vineyard. I did a couple minor jobs around the office then told the secretary I had to run over to Kevin’s with the materials he’d requested. I timed it to arrive at the shelter around ten-fifteen, knowing that Kevin would not have much time to talk before the eleven o’clock lunch hour.

  When we were both seated in his office, he got right to the point.

  “I think last night went very well, and Charles seemed quite impressed by your presentation. But something has been bothering me a bit.”

  This was the first time we had been alone since the meeting, and I was again wondering if he might allude to what he thought was going on between us.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I believe I told you my father owns this building, and it occurred to me that some people might see a fundraiser for the shelter as something of a conflict of interest. To raise money for improvements on a building he actually owns…”

  Wrong again, Hardesty, I thought.

  “You gave me the impression that very few people know your father owns the building. Is it in his name?”

  Kevin shook his head.

  “No, it’s owned by GenesisCorp, a corporation my parents established many years ago for tax purposes when they began investing in real estate.”

  “And does McNearny know about GenesisCorp, or that it owns this building?”

  “I don’t think so. Like most things, my parents prefer to keep their business dealings private. But…”

  “Well, then, I think to cover the eventuality of someone finding out and raising a fuss, we should make a point of stressing that the fundraiser is strictly for operating expenses, food, et cetera—things that would not in themselves enhance the building’s value. That way, if anyone found out, it wouldn’t matter.”

  “Do you think I should bring this up with Charles?”

  I thought a minute before answering.

  “Maybe you should leave that decision up to your father. If McNearny and his team don’t already know, it’s your father’s choice to tell them or not.”

  At this point there was a knock at the office door, and the same skeletal man who had interrupted one of our earlier meetings stood again in the doorway.

  “Yes, John?”

  “It’s the oven again, Reverend. Sorry to bother you, but…”

  “No problem, John. Make sure everything’s shut off, and I’ll be down in just a moment.”

  John nodded, turned, and disappeared, wiping his hands on his apron. Kevin looked at me, shrugged, and got up from his chair. I followed suit

  “Thanks again, Dick. You don’t know how much it means to have somebody I can talk openly to.”

  Once again, I found myself really feeling sorry for the guy.

  “Any time, Kev.”

  We shook hands, and I followed him down the stairs, noting a very faint odor of gas coming from the kitchen.

  *

  There was a message from Chris on my machine when I got home, announcing that he had finally found a furnished apartment he liked and could afford—barely—and that he was moving in the next day and would call me again as soon as he got his phone put in. He added that he loved his new job, and I was happy that he was obviously making the transition smoothly.

  Tom had also called, asking if we could meet for dinner Thursday night. I called him back immediately, only to get his machine. I assumed from the tone of his voice that he had some news about the Dog Collar investigation and was anxious to talk with him. I suggested we meet around seven at O’Grunion’s Grill, a popular mostly straight but gay-friendly restaurant about halfway between his house and mine, and for him to call me with an alternate place if O’Grunion’s wasn’t convenient.

  I made myself a drink, fried up a hamburger patty I’d taken out of the freezer that morning, and fixed a box of macaroni and cheese. It wasn’t the Imperator, but it was home.

  *

  Dinner with Tom revealed that, while the Dog Collar fire was almost certainly the work of the same arsonist as the other six fires, there were some puzzling differences. The bottle used to hold the gas, for instance, was not a Valley Vineyards Chianti bottle. From what they could determine from the glass fragments and lid they’d managed to find, it had been a gallon-sized mayonnaise or jumbo olive jar commonly used by bars and restaurants—they were trying to determine which.

  The jar lid had had a quarter-sized hole drilled or punched in it to hold the cloth wick. The arsonist had apparently wanted to make sure it created the largest possible bang, and it had done just that.

  What was most puzzling and disturbing to the arson investigators was that in the previous six bombings the arsonist had taken great care to assure no one would be hurt. Those fires had been carefully timed for after closing when no one was around. With the Dog Collar, there was not the slightest doubt the bomb was meant to kill, and to kill as many as possible.

  Tom suspected the arsonist was familiar with the Dog Collar’s layout, which opened up the unthinkable but unavoidable possibility it might be someone from the community. The police, of course, liked this idea a lot—they could shift their focus from hate groups to the chief’s “jealous boyfriend” scenario and give them a good reason to hassle the fire’s survivors.

  The Dog Collar’s office was directly to one side of the rear entrance and had a window facing the alley. Although barred, it could have been used to pour gas onto the inside wall as had been done in previous fires. Instead, the arsonist had risked being seen by opening the back door—which was, Tom noted, a fire door with an interior bar release that could not be opened from the outside. He speculated the arsonist had been waiting in the alley for someone to come out then slipped some sort of a wedge in the door to keep it from closing all the way.

  The stairway down to the dungeon was just inside the rear door and was the only way in or out of the basement. Using the door rather than the office window guaranteed that anyone there would be trapped. The fifteen bodies burned beyond recognition had all been found in the dungeon.

  The six previous fires had merely been arson. The Dog Collar was, clearly, calculated mass murder.

  *

  Friday morning C.C. summoned me to his office.

  “There will be a fundraiser for the Salvation’s Door homeless shelter a week from Sunday,” he announced.

  No shit, Dick Tracy!

  “Ostensibly,” C.C. continued in his best Sermon on the Mount voice, “it will be to raise money for the shelter, but its primary purpose is to show the chief as a caring, concerned citizen supporting his son.

  “We’ll play up the ‘man of the people’ angle to the hilt—hold the fundraiser right in the shelter, show the chief eating the same food they serve the bums. I just hope he doesn’t gag on it.

  “Charles McNearny and I will be working together on the details, but it’s up to me to whip the whole thing into shape.”

  Uh-huh.

  “Sunday afternoon’s a piss-poor time to have a fundraiser from the point of maximizing press coverage, but it’s the only time of day the place won’t be crawling with bums and winos. As it is, it’ll have to be crammed in between their regular meals, and it’ll take some pretty fancy footwork.’

  Let me guess whose feet.

  “Now, the chief’s kid thinks the fundraiser should be only for food and supplies, but from what I hear the place is a total dump and needs a complete renovation. The chief should thank his lucky stars I’m in charge of public relations and not his kid—he can’t see beyond the end of his nose. No concept of the big picture.

  “So, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to have your buddy Kevin call R-and-D Contractors… Are you listening to me, Hardesty?” he demanded.


  Oh, I was listening, all right.

  “R-and-D Contractors,” I repeated.

  “Right.” He reached into his thermidor for a zucchini. Ignoring me completely as he went through his lighting ritual, he continued. “So, you’re going to tell your buddy Kevin that R-and-D contractors have volunteered to fix up…whatever room the media will be in. They’ll only do the back wall and about six feet of the ones on either side in time for the fundraiser, but the kid doesn’t have to know that.

  “What I want is for the TV cameras to get a night-and-day difference between how things should be and how they are, so that when the chief is called up to say a few words, he’ll be delivering one hell of a powerful subliminal message. Here’s the chief, in front of a neat, clean wall, surrounded by filth and squalor! The chief and the future of the state surrounded by its present. It’s perfect! I’d imagine even you can see that.”

  “Gee, I think so,” I said, “But what if the contractors are able to get more—or less—done than you envision?”

  C.C. looked at me with that expression of total contempt I’d grown so accustomed to seeing on his face when addressing anyone over whom he felt he had control.

  “Christ, Hardesty, does your mother dress you in the morning? Not that it’s any of your business, but R-and-D Contractors just happens to be run by my wife’s second cousin. He’ll know exactly how much to get done by the fundraiser, and he’ll do it. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  I shook my head slowly.

  “I have to hand it to you, Mr. Carlson! I never would have thought of that subliminal thing. I’ll bet Chief Rourke was impressed.”

  C.C. took a long puff on his cigar.

  “He will be. I’m running the PR end of this show, and I don’t have to bother the chief with every little detail in advance. That’s why he has an expert team of professionals like me to smooth the path for him. I told McNearny about it, and that’s all I need to cover my ass.” He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Well, what the hell are you standing there for? You know what you have to do. So, go do it.”

  I did.

  *

  Kevin was, of course, thrilled to think that the shelter’s dining room might be getting a badly needed renovation, and said he’d call R&D immediately. It apparently never occurred to him there might be a direct link between the offer and the conflict-of-interest issue. I felt rather guilty not letting him in on the other details, but C.C. was doing a great job of digging himself such a nice deep hole I didn’t want to do anything to keep him from burying himself in it.