The Butcher's Son

by Grant McKenzie

  34

  Ian dropped his phone and slammed both hands against the steering wheel.

  “Son of a bitch!” he screamed, ignoring nervous glances from neighboring vehicles as occupants froze mid-bite.

  He wanted to hit something…someone. Instead, he punched the center of the steering wheel, making the horn howl in protest.

  The vehicle directly beside him started its engine and drove away, the driver’s strawberry milkshake frozen halfway in its journey between lap and lips as though his elbow had locked in terror.

  This isn’t the end, Ian told himself as the horn fell silent and his breathing resumed. The gorilla may have a different endgame, but that didn’t mean Ian had to be cut out.

  If Zelig was to suffer, Ian needed to be part of it.

  All he had to do was convince the gorilla that a partnership was valuable.

  And to do that, they needed to meet.

  *

  Unwrapping his grandfather’s .45 from its oily rag, Ian sprayed the gun with a lubricating cleaner and dragged a bore-snake through the barrel. For its age, the gun had been kept in incredibly good shape and showed no signs of rust or burnt powder build-up.

  This didn’t surprise Ian as he had many a memory of his grandfather slaving over the sausage grinder and meat slicers, cleaning every razor sharp tooth, blade and gear until they glistened better than new.

  Once the gun was cleaned, greased and oiled, Ian dug back into the bag he had purchased at a local sports store and opened a fresh box of ammunition. Keeping one eye on the house across from where he was parked, Ian loaded the magazine with seven jacketed hollow-point rounds. If he needed to reload, that left thirteen fresh rounds in the box, but that would also mean he was in a deep, deep pile of trouble.

  Resting the gun in his lap, Ian lifted the small pair of binoculars he had bought and focused them on the house.

  The dwelling was exactly as he had imagined it would be: a dull colored, side-by-side duplex with a dead square of lawn and a bruised front door that looked to have been opened with a kick more often than a push. Inside, a large flat-screen television flickered and flashed though nobody seemed to be watching.

  Ian cracked his window to stop the glass from fogging as his warm breath mixed with the cool, damp air.

  Rory Bowery, his face flushed with anger, stepped in front of the living room window. He was waving his arms in the air and thick spittle flew from between dry, cracked lips. Whoever he was yelling at was out of sight. It took a long time to get his point across as every second and third word was a profanity. In Rory’s world, toast wasn’t just toast, it was goddamned fucking useless fucking burnt fucking toast.

  The target of his rant burst through the front door and made sure to slam it behind her. The flimsy barrier rattled in its frame, tired hinges barely strong enough to keep it attached.

  Ian hadn’t spent as much time with Noah’s mom as he had with Rory as she wasn’t the one whose visits needed to be supervised. She looked so young and yet so completely depleted at the same time. Her gray skin and limp hair blended with the rain, toil and grief having smothered the embers of life.

  Part of him wanted to go to her, to say he wasn’t angry with her, and explain all the ways she could improve her life by asking for help. Assholes like Rory were a dime a dozen, which was why there were so many tireless organizations set up specifically to help abused and ill-treated women.

  But Ian stayed where he was and watched her walk away. Her shoulders were hunched tight and her back was curved as though the storm clouds added more weight to her burdens. But today, he was not the healer, nor the protector; today, he was fire and rage.

  Ian waited until Shirley disappeared around the corner before taking his gun in hand and opening the van door.

  *

  Rory yelled “Fuck off” through the closed door when Ian knocked. So he knocked again.

  “Godfuckindammit!” Rory screamed. “I don’t want to see yer fuckin’ ugly bitch of a face—”

  He stopped talking after yanking open the door as Ian wasn’t who he was expecting to find.

  “What the fuckin’ fuck do you—”

  Two bloody teeth went flying out of Rory’s mouth as the cold, steel barrel of the .45 sliced through his cheek. This was followed by a bruising pain in his chest as Ian’s left hand shoved him roughly inside. Rory stumbled and fell onto the stairs with a crunch of tailbone as Ian entered the home and back-heeled the door closed behind him.

  The attack was more brutal than Rory deserved, but Ian knew he had to make him frightened for his life or this would all be for nothing.

  “Anybody else here?” asked Ian. “Your brother?”

  Rory raised his hands and shook his head. Blood poured down his chin from the gash in his cheek and his broken mouth.

  “Wha’thefuck—”

  “Shut up,” snapped Ian. “I’m trying to decide whether to kill you or not, and flapping your gums isn’t helping your case any.”

  “You can’t fu—”

  Ian thumbed back the hammer, letting Rory hear the loud click as it locked in place.

  “What did I just say? You can talk when I ask a question, not before.”

  “But you—”

  Ian rushed forward and pressed the barrel of the gun against Rory’s left eye, pushing it deep into the flesh and twisting slightly so the steel rim bit in and drew blood.

  “How fucking dumb are you, Rory?”

  “Okayokayokay.”

  Ian stepped back and took a look around. The place was a dump, except for the TV. It stood like a golden idol amidst a clutter of poverty and neglect.

  “I can make this easy,” said Ian. “Take me to see the gorilla and I’ll let you live.”

  Rory’s eyes widened in panic.

  “I can’t do that—”

  Ian shot the TV, the hollow-point widening on impact and pulverizing the glass into a million pieces.

  Rory whimpered at the sight.

  “Imagine what that would do to your kneecap,” said Ian. “Because if you don’t take me where I need to go, that’s where I’ll start.”

  Snot bubbled out of Rory’s nose as he reluctantly hung his head in defeat.

  “You ready to go for a drive?” asked Ian. “Without a hood this time.”

  Rory glared as Ian helped him to his feet.

  35

  “We can still turn the fuck back,” Rory whined as he pulled the van onto a gravel driveway surrounded on both sides by an overgrown laurel hedge. A weather-beaten and bullet-pocked sign hung from a metal pole advertising Buddy’s Garage. A large vinyl Foreclosure sticker had been slapped across it when the garage went under, but there wasn’t much left that was readable.

  “You worried about me or you?” Ian sat in the passenger seat with the .45 pointed at Rory’s side. From this distance, a squeeze of the trigger would pulverize his liver, sever his spine and make a hell of a mess of the driver’s seat.

  “Don’t give a fuck ’bout you,” said Rory in a rare moment of honesty.

  “That’s what I figured.” Ian clenched his teeth. “Drive.”

  Rory drove, jamming it into park only when the van reached the end of the driveway.

  Pulling the keys out of the ignition, Ian shouldered open the passenger door and told Rory to join him outside.

  The garage was a small, two-bay handyman special attached to a ramshackle bungalow that wore its years of neglect like a mossy cloak. Once upon a time this would have likely been a thriving family business, bringing in just enough income to make life comfortable without having to report to a sociopathic boss or endure a long, stressful commute. It was the type of business that could shut up shop for the afternoon when the kids had an important hockey game or school play, or even when a nap after lunch seemed like a particularly great idea.

  But, not unlike his grandfather’s butcher shop, those days were gone, lost to the bulk-buy corporations with loss-leader oil changes, Chinese-made tires, and vehicles that
contained more computer chips than pistons.

  The garage door trundled open to reveal the gorilla and a skinny sidekick Ian reckoned was the hooded driver from before. The driver didn’t look particularly surprised to see them — then again, he had one of those slack faces that only ever sported one expression: ambivalence.

  The gorilla, however, was clearly enraged.

  He was also gripping a short-barrel, pump-action Defender shotgun.

  Rory immediately held up his hands. “I-I didn’ fuckin’ want—”

  Without a word, the gorilla raised the shotgun, pointed it at Rory’s face and pulled the trigger.

  Rory’s head vanished in a bloom of blood and brain, pieces of his skull flying like the skin of a burst balloon. Ian flinched as a chunk of bloody jawbone slashed his cheek, but he was too shocked to move.

  The gorilla spoke to his skeletal sidekick. “Bring Quinn inside, then clean up this mess. Call his brother to help.”

  The sidekick raised a chromed Beretta and gestured to the interior of the garage. It took a moment for Ian’s trembling legs to obey, but he found the strength when the man didn’t seem to notice him slipping his own .45 into the waistband of his jeans and covering it with his blood-peppered jacket.

  *

  the interior of the garage was exactly as it had been during Ian’s first visit: starkly utilitarian with the familiar reek of grease and oil that helped mask the fresh metallic tang of splattered brain.

  The gorilla paced back and forth in the shadows, muttering indecipherably to himself, as Ian stood awkwardly a few steps inside the door.

  “I—”

  “Not yet!” The gorilla slammed an open hand into a large file cabinet with enough force to dent the metal.

  The large man returned to pacing and muttering before flipping a switch that caused the garage doors to rumble closed.

  Ian glanced over his shoulder at the diminishing light, wondering if he should run while he still had a chance. Then something soft hit his cheek and he instinctively turned back to catch it. The overhead doors closed behind him as he stared at a clean, white rag in his hands.

  He looked across at the gorilla, who was using a similar rag to wipe ruby freckles from his face. Ian followed suit, surprised at the amount of gore that had spattered his own face and neck.

  “You surprise me,” said the gorilla, the pacing of his words slowing as he regained control of his temper, “coming here. I gave you credit for being smarter than that.”

  “You have something I need.”

  “Well, that is the nature of my business. I deliver what people need and take what I want.”

  “You have Constance.”

  The gorilla shrugged. “I have lots of women.”

  Ian ignored the sloppy evasion. “I need to deliver her to Zelig. What happens after that doesn’t concern me.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What part?”

  “Your lack of concern. That’s not how you’re built.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’ve watched you.” The gorilla grinned, his badly crooked teeth glistening with saliva. “You’re the kind of man who helps old ladies carry their groceries across the street, the soppy idiot who rescues kites out of trees for wailing children.”

  “Once perhaps.”

  “Bullshit. I know what you did to those responsible for your daughter’s death, but that doesn’t make you a tough guy, it only makes you a grieving father. Face it, that wound you cling onto is scabbing over. Underneath, you’re still a soft touch.”

  Ian bristled, but the gorilla wasn’t finished.

  “You know I battered little Noah just to make a point. You know I made his father work for me, to lick the boots of his son’s killer every day. You know exactly what I am, but you’re not going to do a damn thing about it.” The gorilla paused to show his teeth again before adding, “Even with that gun hidden in your waistband, you’re fucking impotent. That’s the difference between you and me.”

  The gorilla raised his shotgun, pointed it at Ian’s chest and chambered another round. The deadly click-clack made Ian’s heart wither in fright, but his face kept it hidden. Ever since his daughter died, life had become a daily decision rather than a necessity.

  “Why shouldn’t I kill you right here, right now?”

  “Because you need me,” said Ian, attempting to sound braver than he felt.

  The gorilla’s grin twisted and a rivulet of drool escaped the corner of his misshapen mouth.

  “And why do you think that?”

  “Because I’m still alive.”

  The gorilla laughed and lowered his gun.

  “See? You’re a clever fucker, but don’t confuse brains with balls.” He indicated a table in the middle of the garage. “Leave your gun and we can continue this discussion inside.”

  To show his sincerity, the gorilla placed his shotgun on the table. Reluctantly, Ian placed his .45 beside the shotgun and followed the man through a door to the interior of the attached house.

  *

  A pale woman sat at the kitchen table in a room that had known better days. She was dressed casually, but definitely not cheaply. Ian had never understood the difference between a regular pair of jeans and those with a designer label on the pocket, but he had a feeling that Constance did.

  She had taken good care of herself and the years were as kind to her as time could be. In a flattering light, she could easily pass for the same age as Ian rather than the decade or so she had on him. The kitchen’s light, however, was unjustly harsh. When she lifted her chin and brushed platinum hair from her face, the dark bruise under her left eye jumped out in sharp contrast to her pale skin.

  “Constance, this is Ian Quinn,” said the gorilla. “Quinn, this is Constance.”

  “Quinn?” said Constance.

  When she moved her arms, Ian saw that her left wrist was attached to the chair with a pair of old-fashioned steel handcuffs, although they hung so loosely on her wrist, she likely could have slid right out of them without much effort.

  “You knew my grandfather,” said Ian. “Augustus.”

  A sad smile glistened upon her lips. “He saved my life.”

  “And now his grandson is here to end it,” said the gorilla.

  Ian’s eyes flashed in anger, which made the gorilla laugh.

  “See!” he proclaimed. “Your resolve is weakening already. One look at a damsel in distress and all your tough-guy attitude melts like butter on toast.” The gorilla slammed his open palm against the table, making both Constance and Ian jump. “But it’s time to be the bastard you say you are.”

  “What’s he talking about?” asked Constance.

  Ian had trouble meeting the woman’s gaze as the gorilla said, “He’s going to deliver you back into the bosom of your far-too-loving father.”

  “What? No. Why?” The woman looked terrified.

  “He made a bargain,” said the gorilla. “Tell her.”

  Ian lifted his gaze and fixed it on the woman. “I’m sorry,” he began. “Zelig tortured and killed my grandfather, gunned down my father, and sent my sister into hiding. The only way I can make his vendetta stop is to return you to him, but—”

  “There’s no but,” interrupted the gorilla. “Where your grandfather died with honor, you’re choosing to live with shame. Nothing wrong with that, you’re human. Who the fuck is she to you anyway?”

  Ian stared at the gorilla with pure hatred, but that only seemed to amuse the beast.

  Unexpectedly, the woman reached her free hand across the small table and latched onto Ian’s closed fist; paper smothering rock.

  “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’ve grown tired of hiding, of looking over my shoulder and being afraid every time a stranger pays more than a passing interest in me. It’s time I faced him once and for all.”

  “Awww,” mocked the gorilla. “Don’t let the sap off the hook. It’s fun watching him squirm.”

  Ian glared at the
man. “Why do you need me?”

  “Zelig is already expecting your call. He won’t have his guard up when it finally happens.”

  “And what do you get out of it?”

  “You get your life back, I get everything else.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Once his daughter is back under his roof, Zelig won’t have the heart to put up a fight when I take his empire from him. Nothing makes a man weaker than family.”

  “I didn’t think his empire was worth taking,” said Ian. “Not anymore.”

  “You’d be surprised. A man like Zelig doesn’t stay alive and out of jail without considerable influence and assets. I need those assets working for me.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden howl of pain as though a stray dog had been kicked in the balls.

  As all three heads turned toward the kitchen window, the gorilla flashed his teeth again. “See? Family. Rory’s brother’s here, should we go out and tell him what you did?”

  Ian balked. “Me?”

  “If you hadn’t made Rory betray me, I wouldn’t have had to kill him. His blood is on your hands. Besides, who do you think Ryan would rather go up against? You or me?”

  The gorilla had a point.

  Fuck, thought Ian, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  36

  Ryan Bowery stared fiercely at the two men as the garage door rumbled open. He was slumped on the ground in a puddle of gore with the lifeless body of his brother in his lap.

  “What the fuck have you done?” he screamed at both of them.

  The gorilla stared back impassively, his shotgun resting against his leg. He had returned Ian’s gun to him also, but Ian stuck it in his waistband rather than hold onto it.

  “Your brother brought Quinn to my home,” said the gorilla. “I don’t take betrayal lightly. You both understood that.”

  Ryan’s heated gaze shifted to Ian. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

  “Quinn forced him,” said the gorilla before Ian could speak. “I was as surprised as you are. Your brother didn’t strike me as such a little bitch.”

  Ryan dropped his brother’s body and sprang to his feet. His eyes flicked toward the gorilla, but his rage remained focused completely on Ian.