The Butcher's Son

by Grant McKenzie

  “It does,” said the lawyer. “But I like it. Where are you now?”

  “The butcher’s shop you gave me the keys to. I lived here as a boy after my father left, but I haven’t been back in a long time. It actually never occurred to me that I would see it again, and to be honest, that never bothered me. But—”

  “Another but,” Rossella chuckled.

  “But I’m glad I’m here.”

  “Good. So are you going to ask me out on a proper date?”

  “Yes. When?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “You choose. Pick me up at seven.”

  “At your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You better.”

  Before she could hang up, Ian asked, “One more thing?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you find out who has been paying the taxes on this property for all these years?”

  “That’s not a ‘one more thing,’” she said.

  “It’s not?”

  “No. That’s business. When you are asking a woman out on a date, one more thing is, for example, ‘Until we meet tonight, I’ll be dreaming of your beauty.’”

  “That’s good,” Ian said, a smile breaking across his face. “Will you be dreaming of my beauty?”

  “No. I’ll be thinking that you’ve got a lot of work to do if you ever hope to see me naked again.”

  “I’ll start studying right away.”

  “Good to hear.”

  Slipping the phone back into his jacket pocket, Ian studied the main room of the apartment. Consisting of a galley kitchen plus sitting room, this was where he and his mother spent most of their time. Not that they had much choice. The two bedrooms were small, which was why they both had single beds, and the bathroom was just large enough to fit a bathtub, toilet and sink.

  Oddly, nothing appeared to have been touched. Whatever the thug was looking for, he obviously didn’t believe it was hidden up here.

  Walking to the window, Ian looked down upon the street where he played as a child. It had aged even worse than he had, and yet it still held a million memories — some fond, others painful, but together they formed the skeleton of who he was today.

  His grandfather loved this street and strode its length and breadth like a king. To his father, it was a prison, a barbed wire tether that held him too close to the ground and choked him whenever he tried to go beyond its borders. For his mother, it was the lid on her coffin. And for Ian, it was a playground full of adventure, skinned knees, bloody noses and stolen kisses.

  It wasn’t home. That was a place he lost when Emily died, but there was a connection here, a familiar energy that whispered in his ear and beckoned him to return.

  Ian pulled out his phone again and punched in the number for Children First. When Jeannie answered, he said, “Do you know any heavy-duty cleaners?”

  “Heavy duty?”

  “I’m thinking industrial. People used to taking on a daunting task. Maybe a crime scene crew.”

  “Crime scene?”

  “Yeah, but with murdered dust bunnies instead of blood.”

  Jeannie chuckled. “I can ask our insurance company, they must have people like that.”

  “Brilliant. You’re a gem.”

  “Of course I am, but it’s nice of you to notice.”

  Ian laughed. “How are we looking?”

  “Your schedule’s clear for the rest of the day, but a courier dropped off a large envelope from your wife’s lawyer that I had to sign for. He said he could wait until you signed it and take it back, which is odd, but I explained that I didn’t know when you would return.”

  “Thanks. I’ll stop in and sign it shortly.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “It’s fine, just divorce stuff. Helena needs me to move out of the house because I’m scaring off buyers, which is why I need the cleaners.” Ian looked around the sparse room filled to the rafters with a confusing muddle of despair and laughter. “My new place is a bit of a dump.”

  10

  On the mantle above the electric fireplace, Ian lifted a framed photograph and wiped away a thick layer of dust. His sister was eleven, he was five, and they were eating ice cream. Or, to be exact, Ian was mostly wearing the ice cream, his face smeared in a vanilla grin, while Abbie held a perfect cone, methodically licked around the edges before the drips could reach her fingers.

  She was always the serious one; he, the clown.

  When he bugged her too much, especially when she had friends over, she would tell him that she wished Mom and Dad had never adopted him, that they had brought home a puppy instead, like she suggested.

  The disparagement didn’t work, however, as Ian loved the idea of being adopted. And even when his parents scolded his sister for the hurtful lie, Ian clung to the idea that it might be true, that his real parents were space aliens or treasure-hunting pirates or even secret agents, anything that wasn’t just ordinary.

  Ian wondered why this was the photograph his mother had chosen to keep. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly special about it except, maybe, the smile. His sister’s rare smile shone brightly despite the silly antics of her brother.

  Returning the photo to the mantel, Ian heard the brass bell sound from below.

  With a final look around, he headed back to the stairs.

  *

  Waiting for him in the gloom of the shop floor was an old man with a silver-tipped cane and an impeccable, three-piece suit that had been in style when he bought it and, remarkably, was now considered retro-chic again.

  Despite the man’s advanced age, Ian recognized him.

  “Mr. Capello, is that you?”

  “Of course,” he barked. “Who are you?”

  “It’s Ian Quinn, my grandfather—”

  “I know your grandfather,” he interrupted. “And I know you, too, young man. You still owe me fifty cents.”

  Ian laughed. “I do?”

  “You thought I’d forget, didn’t you? You bought two bottles of orange soda, but only had money for one. The other bottle was for that lovely Indian girl you had a crush on, and you begged me not to show you up.” He held out his free hand. “I kept my word, now you keep yours.”

  Staggered by the man’s memory, Ian dug in his pockets for change, found two quarters and handed them over.

  Mr. Capello slipped the coins into a small pocket in his waistcoat. After patting the cloth to reassure himself the money was safe, he lifted his chin and offered Ian a warm smile.

  “Now we’re square,” he said.

  “I’m sorry it’s taken so long. Honestly, I had forgotten all about it.”

  Mr. Capello tapped the side of his head with his finger. “First rule of business, never forget outstanding debts, no matter how small.”

  “Good advice. Do you and your family still live around here?”

  Mr. Capello shrugged. “Nearby, but I like to walk the neighborhood, check up on old friends, make sure my store is still standing.”

  “You still own the green grocers next door?”

  “I own the husk. The store is long gone, but nobody is interested in buying an old, empty building attached to other old, empty buildings. Why are you here?”

  “I just inherited the place.”

  “Ah. Are you a butcher, too, like your grandfather?”

  “No.”

  A sadness fell over his wrinkled face. “My children never wanted to run my store either. Bigger dreams they said, but what can be bigger than feeding people good food? These supermarkets today have forgotten what food is meant to be. They sell us chemicals and pesticides disguised as tomatoes and peppers, but one taste…ah, one taste and you know, it is not food.”

  “I’m thinking of moving in,” said Ian to change the subject.

  “Why? It’s a shit hole.”

  Ian burst out laughing at the sudden chan
ge in sentimentality. “True, but it feels right.”

  “I wish you luck. The street has not been the same since your grandfather passed. He was the fist that kept the rabble at bay. Your father was smart to run.”

  “Smart?” Ian said, his voice taking on a sharp edge. “He abandoned his family.”

  “A difficult choice, I am sure.”

  “A selfish one.”

  Mr. Capello shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  A thought dropped onto Ian’s tongue. “Do you know what his burden was? Why it’s been passed onto me?”

  Mr. Capello paled slightly as he pulled a gold watch out of a vest pocket and glanced at the round face. “I need to be going,” he said, suddenly displaying the weight of his years. “It’s time for my pills and afternoon nap.”

  “Did he tell you what his burden was?” Ian pressed. “There are men threatening me and I don’t know why.”

  Mr. Capello glanced nervously at the door behind him. “All I know, despite the stories, is your grandfather was a good man. Your father became involved when his daughter, your sister, disappeared. But your father was not your grandfather. People did not fear him as they feared Augustus. That is all I know.”

  “Then why do you look afraid?”

  “It’s time for my pills. I need to get back. Good day.”

  Deciding he couldn’t push it, Ian said, “Can we talk again?”

  Mr. Capello hoisted his walking stick in valediction as he exited the store.

  *

  Following him to the doorway, Ian’s attention was diverted to a tall man standing directly across the street. Although he didn’t have a pair of Dobermans at his heels, the man appeared to be the same stranger he had spotted at both the graveyard and in the street last night when he left Rossella’s office.

  Ian’s gaze flickered to Mr. Capello’s retreat before returning to the spot across the street.

  The tall man was gone.

  11

  Ian’s phone rang as he pondered crossing the street for an all-day breakfast, and to mull over what Mr. Capello had said about his grandfather. The diner looked exactly as he remembered it from his childhood with one exception — someone had tossed a greasy bucket of time across its facade.

  The once bright white frontage with gleeful cherry-red swoops that made every child subconsciously think of strawberry sundaes or ketchup-topped fries was now a grimy beige and putrid brown that was less than appetizing. Even the exotic name had lost most of its allure as the first D and Y had been stolen off the Dynasty Diner marquee and never been replaced.

  Ian glanced at the caller ID and answered his phone. “Hey, Jeannie.”

  “I found some cleaners. They’re not super cheap, but I’m told they’re good.”

  “When can they start?”

  “The owner just had a warehouse damage job put on hold by the insurance company, and he sounded eager to go. I’ve texted you the number.”

  As soon as he hung up, Ian checked his texts and tapped the number. A man answered on the second ring.

  “Legion Cleaners. Clark here.”

  Ian introduced himself and explained what he was looking for.

  “I’m intrigued,” said Clark. “Can you show it to me before I quote?”

  Ian gave him the address.

  “Perfect. Give me thirty.”

  “I’ll be in the diner across the street.”

  *

  The dynasty diner was empty when Ian entered and grabbed a table for two by the window. The murky view of the street showed him it wasn’t just the eatery that had suffered. Every building on the block was either abandoned or converted into a lesser version of its original self.

  Raven’s Rest, the boutique hotel run by Bo Kemp’s family was never, in reality, much more than a place where salesmen stayed for a night or two because it was cheaper than across the river. And the only time Mrs. Kemp received the level of gentlemen she was most interested in attracting, their companions were never their wives, they always paid in cash, and they rarely stayed the whole night.

  But time had stripped the hotel of even that illusion, that wished-for possibility. There were no lace curtains in the windows anymore and the lobby reeked of sweat, cigarettes and desperate men rather than fresh-cut flowers and lavender soap. When an under-funded charity took over the foreclosed property to turn it into a halfway house, it struggled to run it with pride.

  The promise was there, but not the money, and the building continued its decay.

  Between Raven’s Rest and his grandfather’s store was the boarded up storefront of Mr. Capello’s grocery. Without its green-and-white striped awnings, fruit and vegetable wicker baskets crowding the sidewalk, and Mr. Capello’s name hand-painted upon the large plate glass window, it was just another crumbling brick husk without a soul.

  “Do you see ghosts?” asked a woman’s voice.

  Ian turned to see a young Asian woman with a round face so youthful and fresh that he couldn’t guess her age. She wore little makeup, except for a pearly gloss on her lips and a delicate pencil of eyeliner, but her height and body shape made Ian guess early twenties. A nametag above her high bosom read Mei.

  “I’m sorry?” Ian asked, confused.

  “The street,” said the woman. “The way you are studying it, I assumed you must see something the rest of us can’t, like ghosts.”

  Ian grinned. “No, nothing like that. I was…remembering. Remembering what the buildings used to look like.”

  “Ah, you grew up here?”

  “For part of my childhood.” He pointed across the street. “I’ve just inherited the butcher’s shop.”

  “Really?” In her amazement, Mei moved close to Ian and leaned over his shoulder to peer out the window, as if wanting to see the street through his eyes. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m thinking of moving in.”

  The woman blinked rapidly, then realized that her bosom was practically caressing Ian’s ear. She stepped back with a slight blush in her cheeks.

  “Are you a butcher?” Mei asked.

  “No, but the apartment still looks livable.”

  Mei wrinkled her nose. “Really?”

  Ian laughed and shrugged. “Well, not yet, but I’ve got some cleaners coming down to take a look.”

  “I think you might need more than cleaners.”

  “Talking from experience?”

  The woman blushed a little deeper. “My family has been in this location for over forty years.”

  This time it was Ian’s turn to look amazed. “Seriously? Your grandparents are the Songs?”

  “Yes. You know them?”

  “Mostly the cooking,” Ian admitted. “Their children were older, so we didn’t hang out. I’m surprised they stayed, though. Everyone else has gone.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “No? Who else stayed?”

  Mei pointed out the window and down the street a short distance. “A nice young man runs the corner store. He is third generation.”

  A smirk crossed Ian’s face. The corner store had been owned by Mr. Palewandram, father to his childhood crush, Shanthi, and her younger brother. “Is his name Dilip?”

  A smile creased the woman’s eyes. “You know him?”

  Although a different answer slid to the tip of Ian’s tongue, an answer too weighted in history for the young woman to understand, he let it fall without utterance. Instead, he said, “We were friends once.”

  “What happened?”

  The question caught Ian by surprise simply because he had never given it much thought.

  “Time,” he answered quietly, looking around once again at his surroundings. “It always leaves a mark.”

  *

  When Ian saw the broad-shouldered man climb out of his white paneled van and stand in front of the butcher’s shop, he paid his food bill and crossed the street to meet him.

  “Clark?”

  The man turned and offered his hand. “So this is your inheritance, huh?�
�� He looked back around. “I’m surprised it’s still standing.”

  “Me, too,” said Ian. “Gentrification never quite caught on here.”

  “You hoping to change that?”

  “No, this is just for me. Want to look inside?”

  After the two men entered, Clark let out a low whistle and his voice took on an air of excitement.

  “I can see it,” he said. “The exposed brick, the hardwood. Hell, you’ve got solid brass finishings in here. We shine that up, acid wash some of the brick. Wow! This could look awesome.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You bet, but it needs more than a serious cleaning. It needs gutting, some renovation. I’ll bet the washrooms need to be torn apart and replaced with modern conveniences. You put some money into this, it could be incredible, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Why not?”

  “The neighborhood sucks. You’ll never get your investment back out.”

  “What if I just want to live here? How much to make it habitable?”

  Clark glanced up at the ceiling. “Both floors?”

  Ian nodded and led the way to the second-floor apartment. After Clark looked around, he said, “First things first, get the power turned on. We’ll need that. I have three four-man crews sitting idle at the moment until the insurance company signs off on a flooded warehouse. If I get them started on this straight away, I could have this place livable in a couple days. It won’t look new, just clean. After that, if you want it to be something cool, I can recommend some great guys who would love to get their hands dirty on this. You got any money?”

  Ian thought about the legal papers sitting on his desk at Children First. All he had to do was sign.

  He nodded and handed over one of the ancient door keys. “I received a bit of cash, too.”

  *

  After Clark drove off to fetch his cleaning crew, Ian phoned the local power company and set up an account to restore electricity to the building.

  The moment he hung up, a midnight blue, four-door Lincoln Continental glided to the curb, and the goon with the nose bandage who had visited earlier climbed out of the front passenger seat.

  He studied Ian cautiously before speaking, and Ian was surprised to note a slight ripple of unease in the crease between his eyes. What is that about?