by Lee Thomas
“Humphrey. Humphrey. Humphrey.” Mr. Brand spat the name in time with his tromping steps.
They would have to clean the room and remove the body and Mr. Bell’s belongings, which would need to be searched. The corpse would need to be thoroughly bathed to afford the sad young man his dignity. A report would have to be made. The remains would need to be secured and transported back to Red Hook for a proper burial. Mr. Bell’s family would have to be notified—his dear sister would be devastated. But Mr. Hayes refused to focus on this particular issue. His mind was incapable of managing the sight of the bloodied, eyeless body, and he couldn’t endure thinking about the young man’s last moments of life. Instead, he wanted distraction. Tasks.
First, Mr. Bell had to be unbound and properly, carefully, wrapped so he could be taken from the room and… And what? They couldn’t carry him back to their hotel. They couldn’t prop him on the seat of a train like an old, rolled rug.
“We need a car,” he said.
“I’ll rip his head off,” Mr. Brand said. “When I catch Cardinal, I will cut his throat and tear his fucking head from his carcass.”
Hayes hadn’t considered the identity of Mr. Bell’s assassin, except in the broadest of terms. His mind had been filled with gangsters, the highbrow cousins to the street scum they’d interviewed over the past two days. Oddly, he hadn’t thought of Butch Cardinal once, but now the name was lodged in his mind, and his anger began to form around it like a pearl hardening over a speck of grit. Except he could not let his emotions loose. Not now. There were tasks. Details. They needed to focus and manage this place and care for Mr. Bell’s earthly remains. Then they could pursue justice.
“We need a car,” Hayes repeated. Brand continued his vicious pacing from one side of the room to the other, oblivious to the statement. “Mr. Brand,” Hayes said tersely. The tone of his voice did the trick and Brand came to a stop. “We need a car to transport Mr. Bell’s body. You will go and buy a vehicle. It should be used, but not so old that we are likely to need it repaired. I will remain here and put the room in order and prepare Mr. Bell.”
The muscles on Brand’s face twitched and shifted as if parasites scrambled beneath the skin, but then the spasms calmed and he appeared earnest. Only his eyes remained disturbed. Anger and loss came through them as if the emotions were cast by a projector at the back of his skull. Brand faced off on Hayes and threw back his shoulders. He brought his arms to his sides like a soldier awaiting command, though he’d already received his orders.
“You know where the money is kept in our room. At the hotel, send a wire to 213 House so that an apprentice can be sent by train. He will drive Mr. Bell home.”
“I have to go with him,” Brand said. “I have to tell Marie. She’ll need me.”
“You’re needed here, Mr. Brand. I’m sorry.”
The burly man’s expression didn’t change. “This is unacceptable.”
“We need a car,” Mr. Hayes said again. “You will go and buy one.”
His chest ached with regret as he gave the orders. He knew Brand should return with the young man’s corpse, but they couldn’t afford that kind of delay. They were facing something Hayes had never imagined. He quickly looked at the dead boy bound in the chair and then yanked his gaze away. No longer did he believe they were in the land of men; this place was far darker and inhabited by vile things. A soulless beast was leading them away from civilization and would one day turn on them; Hayes could feel it. What waited ahead was not simply criminal. It was sinister. It was evil.
Chapter 22
…A Man When He’s Down
Hollis never did answer Butch’s question: What is Lionel to you?
Butch didn’t really need an answer. It was clear enough. For two days, ever since he’d confronted Hollis and been summarily knocked down a few pegs, Hollis and his housemate had done nothing but argue, sounding like a married couple, reminiscent of Butch’s parents, only without the inevitable bloodshed. They were at it again, and the angry tones drove Butch outside.
Vines and succulent plants filled the courtyard. Even so late in the year, flowers blossomed white and violet amid low shrubs of green. The scent was a sugary perfume of rose, sweet olive, and jasmine, and Butch filled his lungs with the cool fragrant air. It felt good to be outside after so many days cooped up in his room. He’d experienced a similar cabin fever in Chicago, where the brutal winds had forced him inside and kept him there for entire days unless work called him away. But the weather here was agreeable. Cool but not cold. A soothing climate, particularly after so much snow. And it was a pretty place. At the center of the flagstone patio stood a granite fountain like a stone wedding cake. Ivy blanketed the brick wall, and the house rose like a sheer mountain precipice, above which a square of sky revealed dove-gray clouds.
Behind him, the door opened and Lionel emerged, slapping a cap on his head. The kid fixed Butch with a hateful glare. Then he smirked and stormed away, slamming the gate behind him with a clanging crash.
Butch had managed to avoid the punk for the past couple of days. He heard Lionel Lowery stomping about the house, climbing the spiral staircase, playing records in the upstairs bedroom, but they’d seen little of one another, and that was just fine with Butch. It was bad enough he couldn’t clear his mind of the act he’d witnessed Lowery performing. The scene frequently interrupted his thoughts, leaving him baffled and agitated. He didn’t need to interact with the kid who’d put those thoughts in his head.
Hollis appeared a few minutes later, looking worn out. The man crossed to Butch and handed him a folded sheet of paper and then clapped Butch on the shoulder and turned back for the door.
“Hey,” Butch said.
Hollis paused and asked, “Yeah?” over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry about the ruckus,” he said.
“Well, I think things will be a lot quieter now.”
“How’s that?”
“I’ve asked Lionel to leave.” Hollis turned. His lips curved down in a frown. His eyes appeared dull with exhaustion. “He’s never been a good fit for my life. Best to just accept that and get on with things.”
Butch wanted to say something comforting like “It’s probably for the best,” but he had no right to make such a claim. In fact anything he said, outside of praise for Hollis’s decision, would have been forced, inappropriate, or fraudulent. He thought he might like Hollis, figured they’d be friends under different circumstances. Maybe they were anyway. He felt comfortable in Hollis’s presence. The man’s strong yet kind face and powerful physicality reassured him. Hollis had been good to him, and he felt pretty low about hurting the man. But he did believe it was for the best. Fairy or not, that Lionel kid was trouble. It showed on his face and sounded in his voice like a snake’s rattle.
He unfolded the paper Hollis had given him and found a list of names and addresses. “What’s this?”
“A few jewelers and antique dealers I know. It should get you a good start on finding information about that necklace.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Hollis replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll lie down for a bit before I head into work.”
“Sure,” Butch said.
“Oh, one other thing,” Hollis said. “I’ll be packing Lionel’s belongings in the morning. He’ll be by to pick them up tomorrow noon. I don’t want him in this house while I’m out.”
“Sure,” he said again. “Okay.”
Then Hollis left him alone in the courtyard. Butch walked across the flagstones, approaching the big house. It was a grand place. He wondered who owned it. He hadn’t seen so much as a drape move in the breeze since his arrival.
Not long ago, only a handful of years, Butch might have pictured himself owning such a house. During his rise through the athletic ranks, he’d often imagined an opulent lifestyle, but after the Hungarian and the ensuing battles with the wrestling establishment, he’d toned down his fantasies, had come to terms with simple
r wants and wishes. He wanted nothing more than a small, comfortable home on a good piece of land. A place of his own, where he made the rules. Even that humble dream seemed unlikely now.
The gravity of his situation returned with startling focus. His life was eroding, slipping away, and he didn’t have a clue how to manage the slide. The path of his life had taken him through crooked territory and his only companion had been bad fucking luck. The journey had eaten away at his competence and his strength, leading him from the ring into the underworld and leaving him powerless against the forces he’d found there. Now he was forced to live in a stranger’s house, trapped with his rules, not knowing how to behave.
He returned to the bungalow and tried to call Rory, but there was no answer. In his room, he lay on the bed to stare at the ceiling fan. Its blades revolved slowly, casting shadows on the ceiling.
His only real hope was the money he’d kept under the boards in his apartment. If he could get his hands on that—if, if, if—his prospects would open up. It wasn’t enough to get him through the rest of his years, but it could get him started in a town far from Chicago where nobody knew his face, and he could live his life without worrying about lies and humiliation and bullets and knives. But with each day, the hope dwindled. No word from Rory. The police had probably found Butch’s bank, and it was rotting away in an evidence box, or worse it was currently lining the pockets of one of the shady bastards who’d set him up in the first place.
When this is over…
But he couldn’t finish the thought. It would never be over, not while he was drawing breath. This was life, his life, and it was going to be a series of holds and blows and wounds and takedowns. A fight to the death. He couldn’t imagine the fine house on good land, and he couldn’t imagine a companion at his side. In the end, he would be another casualty of the era. A zero. Quickly forgotten. Once certain he would enter the pantheon of legendary athletes, Butch now believed his legacy would be nothing more than a slick of sweat, rapidly drying on the earth’s skin.
• • •
Early the next morning, Butch was woken by Hollis’s return from his club. The man moved quietly but Butch heard every step. The clink of a glass stopper told him that Hollis was pouring himself a drink, and the sudden change in the tone of footsteps—from light rapping on tile to a hushed whisper—informed Butch that Hollis was having his drink in the parlor just outside of his room.
He gazed into the shadowed ceiling and willed himself to stay put, but the urge to leave the bed and join Hollis in the next room gnawed at him. He remembered Hollis’s words: No one here, in this house, is particularly concerned with normal. There are millions of ways to live a good life. In this house, we make our own rules for how we live. He imagined Hollis standing in the doorway, gazing at him, and then stepping forward, without a word, to join Butch in the bed. His mind grew raucous with images and imagined sensations, and through all of the turmoil a sliver of anger pushed itself.
You’re still sick, he told himself. You’re exhausted and your mind isn’t wholly recovered.
When this excuse failed to quell his agitation another surfaced to replace it: you’ve been alone too long, months since you’ve shared skin with anyone. It’s natural your body would seek some kind of release. It’s no different from your cousin on the rocks by the lake or the Weeping Clown in a shabby rooming house. Except it was different, because those encounters had been spontaneous. He’d anticipated neither of them, nor had he brought himself to turmoil over them.
Don’t do anything stupid, he warned. Just go to sleep. Tomorrow you’ll find out what the necklace is worth, and then you can leave. You can work the deal with Impelliteri or change the plan according to what you find. Either way you’ll never have to travel this muddling landscape again.
He didn’t sleep, though. Not for a long time. The circuit of thoughts he’d just completed started over, running through his mind time and again. He heard Hollis leave the parlor and walk across the kitchen to deposit his glass in the sink. He heard the man’s footsteps on the spiral staircase, and despite the warring messages filling his head he wanted to follow.
Chapter 23
Failure
Only an hour after returning to sleep, Butch woke, dressed quickly, and left Hollis’s house. With little knowledge of the city, he wandered for some time in the morning sun, zigzagging through the streets until he came upon a restaurant that didn’t look pricey. He ordered his breakfast and gobbled it, guzzling three cups of coffee in between bites of egg and toast and bacon. After, he made his way toward the river until he came upon a newsstand. There he bought a map and a nub of pencil and five minutes later, he was in another café, very near the Mississippi, perhaps even the same café where he’d first met Hollis, though he couldn’t be certain. He spent the next hour searching the map for the general locations of the addresses Hollis had given him. He circled areas and put an X on the intersection near Hollis’s home so he could find his way back.
Away from the confusing atmosphere of Hollis’s bungalow, he felt better. His mind was clear now. He had a purpose. If the necklace had any value at all, a clerk at one of the shops would be able to tell him. All he needed was information and once he had it, he could be on his way.
Unfortunately, the first shop he visited, Francine & François on Royal Street, set the tone for his morning. It was a large store, despite having a narrow and misleading shop front. Butch entered to the tinkling sound of a bell and made his way through the ornaments of prosperity, all tucked neatly behind glass, to the counter at the back. No one emerged to greet him, and it occurred to Butch that the owners weren’t particularly concerned with their merchandise as he could have cleaned out the cases by the door and fled into the street in the time it was taking the proprietor to investigate the bell.
Butch peered through the glass case before him. Diamonds and sapphires glimmered from gold settings. Finely crafted pieces of silver shone against the black velvet. He considered the necklace in his pocket and felt ridiculous.
A woman in an obviously expensive dress, the color of coral, pushed aside a navy blue curtain draping the doorway. She moved with elegance, the light catching her own jewelry, pearls at the throat and diamond teardrops on her ears. She smiled a hard porcelain smile, and regarded Butch with suspicion.
“Can I help you?” she asked. Her eyes roamed over his cheap suit and wrinkled shirt. Her expression was pure disdain.
“I’m trying to identify a piece of jewelry,” he said. “A friend said you might be able to help me out.”
“Really?” she asked, touching the string of pearls at her throat. “I’m not in the consignment market, you know?”
Butch wondered how many men and women had come into the shop trying to hawk their family heirlooms. How many bums had trudged in to pawn off their St. Christopher medals and crucifixes and military honors for the opportunity to put bread on the table?
“I’m not looking to sell the thing,” he said. “I don’t think there’s anything precious about it, but maybe you’ve seen something like it before.”
“Well, let’s see what you have.” The shopkeeper’s disinterest came through as clearly as if she had wearily sighed.
He removed the necklace from his pocket and set it on the counter. The woman leaned to the side, fingers still resting against the pearls at her neck. A soft clicking noise rose in her throat and she shook her head.
“I don’t believe I can be of any assistance,” she said.
“So you’ve never seen anything like this before?”
“If I have, I’ve quickly forgotten it.” The smile fixed to her face took on a cruel property. “Have a pleasant day.”
Having been dismissed, Butch retrieved the necklace and returned it to his pocket. He fumed and turned for the front of the store.
In his heyday women like this had cooed over him, petted his muscles, embarrassed themselves in front of their husbands at cocktail parties. Oh, they always started out with the cold, h
olier-than-thou crap, but as evenings progressed and drinks were consumed, they’d warmed to him. He couldn’t count the number of propositions he’d entertained for late-night rendezvous, slurred into his ear by some socialite. Now, he couldn’t even get a shopkeeper to show him civility.
And the next shop proved no different. Nor did the one after that. By the time his morning came to an end, Butch’s humiliation was complete. No matter how many times he explained that he simply wanted information, shop owners sneered and sent him on his way with the assurance that he wouldn’t get a nickel for the necklace, and beneath such statements was the implied scorn that he—a bum—should have been ashamed for wasting their precious time.
Maybe they were right. For all he knew, Musante had been given a dime-store ornament, a prop in a drama meant to end with his and Butch’s death. Butch couldn’t figure the why of it, but if the necklace meant nothing then what other answer could there be?
• • •
He pushed open the gate and walked along the narrow alley running between the converted slave quarters and the high brick wall on his left. As he stepped into the courtyard he paused to take in the foliage and the fountain. Lionel Lowery barreled into him a moment later, sending him momentarily off balance.
“Watch where you’re going,” Lowery said.
“Hey,” Butch protested after regaining his footing.
“Fuck off,” the kid said.
He stomped into the alley, swinging a brown cardboard suitcase. In his other hand he carried a hobo’s pack made from an old gray towel. Midway down the corridor, Lowery stopped and released his luggage, letting it drop to the flagstone path. He whipped around, glaring at Butch.
