The Butcher's Son

by Grant McKenzie

  “Watch your tongue!” snarled Nose Bandage.

  “Fuck you!” Ian snapped back. “When this is over, if you don’t leave me alone, I won’t hesitate to fill those extra graves. Google my history, see if I’m lying.”

  Zelig chuckled softly. “Maybe you are of Augustus’s blood after all.”

  “More than you know. I’ll be in touch when your daughter is ready to meet.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  The way he said it sent a razor down Ian’s back, but he tried not to let it show as he exited the car and watched it drive away.

  The evening was cold and dank, the coarse air a letdown for his lungs after the oxygen rich environment of the luxury vehicle. Ian shivered as he zipped up his jacket and went to retrieve his book from Tommy.

  30

  Sitting in the van, waiting for the heater to kick in and clear some of the moisture covering the interior of the windshield, Ian pulled out his phone and dialed.

  “Mr. Quinn,” answered the sultry voice of Rossella Ragano. “Your timing is impeccable.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “And I’m nearby, but—”

  “Don’t spoil it, your answer was perfect without the conjunction.”

  Ian laughed. “I would be delighted to feed you, but—”

  “There you go again,” Rossella interrupted.

  “But can we get it to go? I have some work to do and I was hoping you could help.”

  “Oh?”

  “How are you at puzzles?”

  “I’m a lawyer, puzzles are my business. Both creating and unraveling — depending on who’s paying. Why, did you buy a new jigsaw?”

  Ian laughed again. “I’m more of a Lego guy, but this is something that might be a little more challenging.”

  “Oh?”

  “Did you know our grandfathers were in Vietnam together during the war?”

  “I know my grandfather’s history, although he rarely discusses it.”

  “That’s where they first met. I don’t know the whole story, but they both possessed the same CIA code book.”

  “CIA?”

  “Your grandfather never mentioned working for the Central Intelligence Agency?”

  “No. Never.”

  “I don’t know what they were up to over there, but my grandfather used the code book in his ledgers here, and I’m hoping you can help me crack it.”

  “And what’s in the ledgers?”

  “The locations of women who he helped make disappear.”

  “Including Zelig’s daughter, Constance?”

  “Yes. At least I hope so.”

  “I’ll order pizza. We can pick it up on the way.”

  *

  “Your pig’s missing,” said Rossella as Ian parked the van outside the butcher’s shop.

  Ian leaned forward to peer skyward through the windshield. The speckled bricks beneath where the sign had hung didn’t look any less ravaged than the surrounding wall. Rain and age had seeped behind the iron protector to scar them all equally.

  “It was time,” said Ian.

  Exiting the van, Rossella dashed through the drizzle to the store entrance before Ian could stop her. When she looked back for him, he stabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Chinese restaurant.

  “We already have pizza,” she said.

  “Hide it until we’re past the cook.” Ian grinned at her confusion and explained. “That’s the address you gave me this morning. My grandfather has an office there, where he kept the ledgers. The owners were old friends.”

  Hand in hand, they darted across the street, hiding the pizza box between them as Ian quickly introduced Rossella to the Song family before leading her up the stairs.

  “They totally knew we had pizza,” said Rossella when they reached the second landing.

  “I suspect they also know about the bottle of wine in your purse.”

  Rossella gasped in mock horror. “Objection, your honor. Where is your proof?”

  “Overruled,” said Ian. “I can hear it clanging against your keys.”

  “Then we better get rid of the evidence.”

  “Easily done, I suspect.”

  “I concur.”

  Ian unlocked the door to the small apartment and invited Rossella inside.

  *

  Rossella surveyed the room, propping the bottle of wine and box of pizza on the desk before walking to the window and gazing out at the street below.

  “Your grandfather liked to keep an eye on things,” she said.

  “I never thought of him as a man of secrets,” said Ian, crossing the room to stand behind her. His hands rested on her hips and she leaned back, joining her warmth with his. “Danger, yeah. He was a powerful, looming presence in my life. A fearsome giant that I never wanted to anger, and yet these ledgers, plus the story your grandfather told me, tell such a contradictory story.”

  “My grandfather?” Rossella questioned.

  Ian nuzzled her neck, his embrace tightening as his hands explored. Rossella pressed harder against him, her hips swaying rhythmically, their clothing suddenly feeling thick and uncomfortable.

  “He told me a story about Vietnam. About finding Augustus in a jail cell with the blood of six soldiers on his hands.”

  Rossella gasped and stiffened.

  “I didn’t get all the details, but your grandfather suggested the soldiers were gang-raping a pair of twin girls. One of the girls died, but I believe the surviving twin is Mrs. Song.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Your grandfather helped Augustus and the girl escape the country.”

  Rossella released herself from Ian’s embrace and turned to face him.

  “When did he tell you this?” she asked.

  “This morning.” Ian indicated the shelf of ledgers. “I stopped by, looking for a code book to decipher these.”

  “And what made you think my grandfather had it?” She was probing, but not angry.

  “It was a guess, really,” admitted Ian. “I suspected Augustus would have needed help, someone with access to the right people with the proper skills. From what your grandfather said over breakfast, I couldn’t figure out their connection. How did a neighborhood butcher and a high-profile criminal lawyer become friends?”

  “And my grandfather was coherent?”

  “Very,” said Ian, fudging the truth. “That is until—”

  “Until?” A concerned spark fired in her voice.

  Ian grinned. “Until he fell asleep in his chair.”

  Rossella’s face softened with relief and her lips bent at the corners. “He does love to nap.”

  “Who doesn’t?” said Ian. “It’s the secret to a happy life.”

  “Oh?”

  “Scientifically proven. That’s why cats are the happiest creatures on the planet.”

  “Because of naps?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Rossella glanced over at the metal cot in the corner of the office and began to unbutton her blouse. The heat of passion made her skin glow.

  “Well then,” she said, her voice growing huskier. “Perhaps we should try it.”

  And they did.

  *

  “I hope you’re opening that wine,” said Rossella.

  She smiled teasingly as she sat up in bed. Her open blouse barely covered her ample modesty, making Ian dizzy with the sheer power of her femininity.

  “As you wish,” he said.

  “Mmmm, I like that answer. That should be your answer to everything I ask.”

  “As you wish,” he repeated.

  Rossella laughed with delight and skipped into the corner bathroom.

  “See if there are any glasses or cups in there,” Ian called after her.

  “As you wish,” Rossella called back through a crack in the door.

  The wine bottle was a screw top rather than a cork, which made opening it rather simple.

  The pizza, however
, would never make the cover of Pizza Lovers Weekly as it had endured some severe jostling on its journey to the desk. Fortunately, they weren’t planning to frame it.

  Ian slid the toppings back in place before ripping off a slice and taking a bite. Italian sausage with fennel, red peppers, mushroom and fresh tomato. The melted mozzarella had been sprinkled with crispy bits of bacon.

  “Oh my God,” he moaned.

  Rossella stepped out of the bathroom. Dressed only in silk panties and unbuttoned blouse, her dark hair hanging loose and a cheeky grin on her lips, she looked far younger than she was. The image crossed Ian’s mind of a college student sleeping with her wrinkled professor.

  “Told you they make a great pie.” Crossing the room, Rossella grabbed a slice and took a large bite, the sauce dripping onto her chin.

  She picked up the bottle of wine and took a long swallow from its neck. “No glasses,” she said, handing the bottle over. “Besides, this is more fun.”

  Ian took a swallow, the full-bodied sweetness mixing with the saltiness of the cheese, making his taste buds explode.

  Rossella took another pull from the bottle and then planted her lips on Ian’s, adding another indelible taste to the mix.

  Moisture momentarily blurred Ian’s vision as the thought entered his mind: This is what happiness feels like.

  He had forgotten.

  As Rossella’s lips parted from his, cold air replaced her warmth, the art of breathing suddenly less desirable than kissing.

  How does someone forget happiness?

  He didn’t have time to ponder the question before his phone rang. He would have ignored it, but the Caller ID showed it was Jersey.

  He answered.

  “Are you working with the Anderson family?” Jersey asked without preamble.

  “I’m supervising visits between Cody and his parents. Why?”

  “I need you over here. The dad has lost his shit.”

  Jersey gave him the address.

  “On my way.”

  When Ian hung up, Rossella was already getting dressed. With her back to him, she had removed her blouse and was slipping into her bra; the garment was a spider’s web upon her skin, both a distraction and silky entrapment, daring him to approach and brush it away.

  “You can stay here,” said Ian as he untangled his own clothes. “Or I can call you a cab. I’m not sure how long I’ll be.”

  Rossella glanced over her shoulder at him. “Uh-uh. I’m tagging along.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “Yes, there is,” she said with a mischievous smirk. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

  31

  Patrol cars blocked the street for a block in either direction. Harsh red and blue light cut through the hazy darkness, flash freezing and distorting dozens of curious faces pressed flat to living room and kitchen windows as though demonic possession had been handed out wholesale. Some of the neighbors had swapped slippers for rubber boots and pulled heavy coats over their evening comfies to brave the elements and get a better view of whatever potential tragedy was unfolding nearby.

  Every second person held a smartphone, the luminescent glow like Zippos at a rock concert.

  Ian drove up to the improvised barrier and stopped as a young officer strode forward, the palm of his bare hand thrust angrily ahead of him as if it had the power of Iron Man to repel alien invaders. His other hand dropped to his holster and rested on the butt of his sidearm.

  Ian rolled down his window and called out, “Detective Jersey Castle asked me to attend. The name’s Quinn.”

  With a nod, the officer called dispatch on his shoulder-mounted radio.

  After receiving confirmation, the officer instructed Ian to leave his vehicle where it was and cross the barrier on foot.

  Climbing out of the van, Ian was suddenly bathed in the harsh spotlight of a broadcast media scrum as cameramen and women for the local TV stations jockeyed for position and a crumb of information. The moment lasted barely a second before the lights dimmed amidst a mutter of disappointment and chatter of “Who the hell is he?” Dressed as he was in black jeans, wrinkled shirt and civilian rain jacket, Ian looked no more important than the coffee delivery service.

  One journalist was at least smart enough to ask the question, but was discouraged by Ian’s unhelpful reply. Another snapped his photo on her smartphone to run his mug through Google in search of a match. She, Ian thought, had potential to go places. A match of his face would show where he worked, which would let her know there was a good chance a child was involved and potentially in danger. That angle would add excitement to the story, elevating it to a lead position and more airtime for her.

  Hiding within the oversize hood of her blood red, thigh-length coat, Rossella grabbed Ian’s hand as they slipped by the patrol car and headed up the block to where Jersey had established a temporary command post a short distance from the Anderson home. The demons in the windows followed their path, their open mouths fogging the glass in concentric circles like the spread of a zombie virus.

  Jersey and his partner, Amarela, were huddled under a makeshift plastic awning with a heavily armed member of the Special Emergency Response Team. The SERT officer had the humorless face of someone who chewed wasps for breakfast and spat out their stingers from between a noticeable gap in his front teeth. He also sported a precisely trimmed white-blond mustache of impressive girth.

  Jersey glanced at Rossella, his eyebrows asking the question he didn’t have time for, before shaking Ian’s hand.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Mrs. Anderson called 9-1-1 in distress. Her estranged husband barged into the home uninvited. He’s intoxicated, armed and distraught.”

  “What about Cody, their son?” Ian asked.

  “All three are inside. He won’t let them leave.”

  “And the aunt?” Ian asked. “Cody is meant to be staying with her.”

  “Amarela called her. She’s on her way over.”

  “Have you talked to anybody inside?” asked Ian.

  Jersey nodded. “The husband’s a mess. I was hoping you could give us some insight, a way to de-escalate the situation before people get hurt.”

  “Who talked to him?” Ian asked.

  “Only me,” said Jersey.

  Ian glanced over at Amarela. She was chewing gum at a rapid pace, the muscles in her jaw clenching and releasing like an alligator trying to eat an octopus. But even in baggy rain gear, her high cheekbones, deep brown eyes and caramel skin oozed Latin sexuality.

  “She should talk to him,” said Ian.

  Amarela stopped chewing.

  “He’s feeling emasculated,” Ian explained. “His wife’s undergoing gender reassignment and that’s left him questioning his manhood. He’s wondering if other women will ever be attracted to him or if there is some flaw that makes him less of a man. He needs a woman,” Ian locked eyes with Amarela, “an attractive woman, to find him desirable.”

  “You do know I’m gay,” said Amarela.

  “He doesn’t need to know that. You just need to be nice to him, flirt a little, let him feel that everything will be okay.”

  “That he still has a dick?” added Amarela.

  “Yes.”

  “And that I want to suck it?”

  “Even better.”

  “Men, you’re all the fucking same. Big babies who want their ding-a-lings played with.”

  “We should wait for the hostage negotiator,” Wasp Face said to Jersey. “No offense, but your partner doesn’t have proper—”

  “What gender is the negotiator?” interrupted Ian.

  Wasp Face’s lips curled in what could be perceived as either a grin or a sneer. “Difficult to tell with Ralph.”

  “He’ll respond best to a woman,” said Ian. “Honestly, he’s fragile and confused at the moment and it’s manifesting in all the wrong ways.”

  “It’s manifesting in a pump-action shotgun aimed at a woman a
nd child,” said Wasp Face. “My team is ready—”

  “You wearing your vest under that?” Jersey asked his partner, over-ruling the officer’s objection.

  “Why do you think I’m so irritable,” she answered. “Chafes my nipples like a bastard.”

  “Nips aside, you okay with this?” he asked.

  “God wouldn’t have given me this body if I didn’t use it to make men my slaves.”

  “Remember to be gentle,” said Ian. “Stroke his ego.”

  “Oh, once I’m done, he’ll be wanting me to stroke a lot more than that,” said Amarela.

  Jersey turned to Ian. “You sure this is a good idea?”

  “I’m not,” said Wasp Face.

  “Yes,” said Ian. “He’s embarrassed and frail. He doesn’t want to hurt his family, but he needs to see there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “A pussy, you mean,” said Amarela.

  “Touch up your lipstick,” interjected Jersey before Ian could respond. “And be nice.”

  Amarela winked at her partner before pulling a lipstick out of her pocket and applying a fresh coat of Spank Me Red.

  *

  “Is this what you do?” Rossella asked Ian as Amarela walked across the street with her hands in the air.

  The detective was alone, vulnerable, and the natural fear that would be impossible to keep off her face would, Ian hoped, keep her safe. But just in case something went wrong, Jersey had insisted she keep her backup gun, a snub-nosed .38 revolver, out of sight but within easy reach under her rain jacket.

  Ian turned to Rossella. “This is nothing like what I do. Most of the time, I’m a glorified babysitter. I watch over the kids, talk to the parents, try to keep everyone safe. My priority is the children, they’re my clients.”

  “But people trust you. Even the police. That’s a rare gift.”

  Ian shrugged. “I try not to bullshit and I don’t pretend to know all the answers. I’m a lousy liar and my many flaws are etched like warning stickers on my skin, maybe people see that.”

  Rossella’s fingertips stroked his arm. “You have insight into the wounded soul.”