The Butcher's Son

by Dorien Grey

  I suggested we first get the photos out of the way, and Ted, the photographer, proceeded to take up the next half-hour orchestrating various homey shots of the family around the picnic table, by the barbecue, in the living room, around the kitchen table, etc. It might have just been my imagination, but it seemed like every time I looked at Kevin, he was looking at me. Whenever our eyes met, he’d hurriedly look away.

  Actually, Ted need have taken only one photo of the chief, since his expression—that of the proud family man—never changed except for one moment when the baby, who had been handed to him, reluctantly, only after Ted’s repeated suggestion, developed a slow leak in the diaper department.

  While all this was going on, the writer, in obvious awe at actually being in the presence of someone so prominent as the chief, tried getting responses to a set of routine questions.

  After the majority of the photos had been taken and the chief and Mrs. Rourke were huddled at one end of the living room with the writer, I wandered over to the mantle to look at a set of family photos. There were individual shots of all the kids, plus Kevin and Sue-Lynn’s wedding photo, plus a photo of baby Sean. However, one that caught my eye was an older family shot, taken in front of the house apparently when Mary, the youngest child, was a baby. The interesting thing about the picture was that it contained two Kevins.

  Kevin, who had been off somewhere with Sue-Lynn changing the baby, had just reentered the living room. He must have noticed me looking at the photo and hurried over. I got the distinct feeling I’d been caught at something illicit.

  “I was just looking at your photos,” I said, rather lamely.

  “Yes,” he said, the first time since we’d arrived that he’d spoken directly to me. “My mother and father are typical proud parents, I guess.”

  Never having been noted for excessive tact when my curiosity is aroused, I couldn’t resist remarking on the photo.

  “I hope I’m not touching a sensitive area, but I notice in this one photo there seem to be two of you. I didn’t know you had an identical twin.”

  “Patrick.”

  Suddenly, we were aware the chief had gotten up from the sofa, crossed the room, and was, like a thundercloud at a picnic, hovering just behind us.

  “Sue-Lynn needs you, Kevin,” he said, although how he might have come by that information was totally beyond me, since he’d been seated at the other end of the room for the past ten minutes.

  Kevin turned without a word and left the room the way he’d come in, leaving me standing there with the chief. The beaming family man façade was gone. His eyes were cold black holes, and his voice sent a chill down my spine.

  “Patrick’s dead,” he said.

  Chapter 2

  By the time I got home from the meeting with the chief’s little brood, the first thing I wanted was a long, hot shower, followed by a drink. Chris wasn’t home when I arrived but was in the kitchen unpacking a sack of groceries when I came in from the bedroom to fix my drink.

  “Do I need to ask how it went?” he asked, opening the refrigerator to hand me an ice cube tray and to put away a package of chicken.

  “Imagine Adolph and Eva with kids.” I looked for an ashtray and, as usual, didn’t find one. I turned on the tap just enough to put out my cigarette, tossed it in the garbage, and reached for the cupboard where we kept the liquor. “You want one?” I asked, taking a glass from the shelf.

  He shook his head.

  “I’ll wait,” he said, folding the bag carefully and putting it in the broom closet with the 10,000 other bags. He then opened a drawer, rummaged around a moment, and handed me a small glass ashtray. “Oh, do you remember those fire trucks that woke us up last night? It was the Ebony Room.”

  “Oh, no! How bad?” I asked, pouring bourbon into my glass.

  “It was gutted. Somebody tossed a fire bomb in through the bathroom window, I hear. It was after closing, thank God, so nobody was hurt.”

  “Somebody there is that does not like gay bars,” I said, paraphrasing Robert Frost. “This makes—what?—six in two months?” I set my drink on the counter and reached into my shirt pocket for another cigarette.

  “At least,” Chris said as he put away the last of the groceries.

  “Did you talk to Bob?” I asked, walking into the living room and sitting in my favorite chair. Bob Allen was the owner of the Ebony Room and lived in our building with his lover Ramón, a really cute Puerto Rican about fifteen years Bob’s junior. We weren’t exactly friends, but we were, as Chris would say, close acquaintances.

  “No.” Chris followed me into the living room. He took my glass and had a sip of my drink then shuddered dramatically. “Smooooth,” he said, handing the glass back then plopping down on the sofa. “Tony called right after you left this morning to tell me about it, and I tried calling Bob right after that, but nobody was home.”

  I shook my head.

  “I’m really sorry about that. We’ll just have to find another place to hang out.”

  “Speaking of which, are you up to dinner out tonight, or do you just want to drink yourself into a stupor here?”

  I carefully put my cigarette in the ashtray and gave him the finger.

  “One drink does not a stupor make, and yes, I’m up to going out. God knows I deserve it after today.”

  “Good,” he said, getting up from the sofa and moving down the hall to the bedroom. “I’m going to hit the shower and start getting ready.”

  *

  A thunderstorm had broken by the time we reached Rasputin’s, a slightly overpriced but very trendy and therefore popular gay restaurant/bar close to downtown. I wasn’t as much into either trendy or popular as Chris was, but I didn’t feel like making an issue of it. I’d discovered when we were about halfway there that I may well have deserved a night on the town, but I didn’t really feel much like it.

  We were having a drink at the bar while waiting for our table when someone came up behind us and grabbed us both around the shoulders. A deep voice said, “Well, honey lambs, I do declare you make a gorgeous couple.”

  We turned in unison to face a very large black man with exaggeratedly pursed lips who darted his gaze back and forth between us without moving his head. It wasn’t until he broke into a wide grin that I recognized Tondelaya O’Tool in his Teddy persona.

  We exchanged greetings, and his large hands rested easily on our shoulders.

  “So, what are you two lovelies doing out on a night like this?”

  “Our Saturday night ritual,” Chris said. “Old habits are hard to break, even in bad weather.”

  “You having dinner?”

  “If we ever get a table.”

  “Well, stay away from the lamb chops—they’re deadly,” T/T advised.

  “Can we buy you a drink?” Chris asked.

  He pulled both of us to him.

  “Oh, thank you, honeys, but I’ve got to get to the club. Showtime in about an hour. Are you coming over?”

  Chris looked at me, and I shook my head.

  “Not tonight, I’m afraid,” Chris said. “The master here has a headache.”

  “We’ll try for next Saturday,” I said.

  T/T slapped us both on the back

  “Well, you just better. I’ll be looking for you, hear?”

  *

  Some people are lucky enough to have jobs in which each day is a joyful blur. Chris’s was like that—he was head window designer for Marston’s, the most prestigious (and expensive) department store in the city, and he already had a solid reputation in the industry. He couldn’t wait to get to work every day.

  My workdays were more like psychedelic smudges—they were just one long blur when viewed in retrospect but were endless when viewed from each morning looking toward evening.

  The writer, who had done other assignments for my boss, wisely sent her cloyingly adulatory piece on the Clan Rourke in on Tuesday morning by messenger. The boss demanded to see it immediately then, scornfully proclaiming her “a no-
talent hack” (I resisted pointing out he was the one who had hired her), insisted that I personally make several totally unnecessary additions and changes.

  The photographer, not as shrewd as the writer, brought his contact sheets in Wednesday afternoon. I thought they were quite good, considering what he’d had to work with; but the boss viewed them with his usual total contempt, making it clear that his own four-year-old son could have done an infinitely superior job with an old Polaroid and outdated film.

  When he felt he had adequately achieved his objective of thoroughly humiliating the photographer, he magnanimously declared that, since there was no time to reschedule another shoot, he would have to deign to accept them, and left it to me and the photographer to select which photos to submit with the article—subject to his final okay, of course.

  The patently obvious motive for all this bullshit was, of course, aside from his psychotic need to put everyone down, so that he could tell Chief Rourke that he, personally, had whipped the article into shape.

  I’d already wined-and-dined the editor of the paper’s Sunday supplement, who had previously been pressured by both my boss and the chief’s aides, and confirmed the piece would be the lead story the Sunday before the chief’s press conference announcing his candidacy for governor.

  On Thursday, C.C. called me into his office. I was praying he was going to fire me, but no such luck.

  “Hardesty,” he said, unwrapping a cigar the size of a large zucchini, “this Rourke-for-Governor thing is going to put Carlton Carlson and Associates on the map. You didn’t screw up the article assignment too badly…”

  No greater praise, I thought.

  “…and I didn’t hear any specific complaints about your attitude, so I’m going to let you keep handling future contact with the family members. All direct contact with the chief will, of course, be made by me and only me.

  “With my help, Terrence C. Rourke’s going to be this state’s next governor!” He banged his desk with one fist then leaned forward to glare at me. “This is a big responsibility I’m giving you here, and you’d damned well better not fuck it up.”

  Why was I not thrilled? Why was I biting my tongue to keep from telling old C.C., there, to take his zucchini cigar and shove it up both his and the chief’s ass? Why the hell didn’t I just quit then and there? Why don’t I have an answer for those three questions?

  Suffice it to say, I was not thrilled, I held my tongue, and I swore to myself I would start sending resumes out in the morning.

  *

  Friday night I spent sitting in front of the television, polishing off my third pack of cigarettes for the day. Chris went out with some friends from the store and didn’t get home until about two hours after the bars closed—a fact noted only because I’d gotten up to go to the bathroom just as he came in and had looked at the clock.

  What bothered me most about what I was beginning to see clearly as the approaching end of my relationship with Chris was that it really didn’t scare me nearly as much as I thought it should. We still cared a lot for each other, I knew, but the kind of love that separates lovers from loving friends wasn’t really there anymore. We’d just been growing in two different directions, and although we never talked about it, we both knew.

  Anyway, on Saturday night we went to dinner—Chris insisted on Rasputin’s again—and afterwards, the Ebony Room now gone, we decided to go back to Bacchus’s Lair to catch the show. As if on cue, a pouring rain started just as we left the restaurant.

  Two Saturdays in a row, I told myself.

  The place was packed. They’d installed a new maître d’, who unctuously informed us that, without a reservation, we’d be lucky to get a seat at the bar. As we were deciding whether or not to take up his kind semi-offer, we heard a bellowed “Chile, there you are!” and looked toward the bar to see Tondelaya/Teddy surging through the crowd.

  “I’ll just bet you couldn’t get a table, could you?”

  We shook our heads in exact unison, looking, I’m sure, like the Synchronized Idiot team. She grabbed each of us by an arm and, before either of us could say anything, steered us past the maître d’ and into the room.

  “My sister just called and told me she couldn’t make it to the show tonight, so I’ll put you at her table,” T/T said, the rustle of her taffeta gown audible even above the hubbub of the crowd.

  The table was so close to the stage we could, if we were so inclined—I, for one, certainly wasn’t—look up the skirts of the performers. It was not near an exit. I looked at Chris who, reading my mind as he so often did, grinned and shrugged.

  After seeing us safely ensconced at the table, T/T blew us both poster-sized kisses and went to put finishing touches on her makeup. The waiter came and took our drink order then vanished into the crowd, hips expertly maneuvering between tables, extended arms and legs, and milling customers.

  The table beside us was empty, but just as the music came on and the house lights started to dim, two forms were ushered up and seated by the maître d’. I wasn’t paying much attention until I heard, “Hi, Dick. Hi Chris,” and looked over to see Bob Allen and Ramón.

  We returned the greeting—at least, I think we did. By that time, we couldn’t even hear our own voices over the blare of the always-tinny-sounding canned music as the spotlight came on and the show began.

  With a few variations, it was pretty much the same as the last time we’d seen it, except that T/T’s rendition of “The Butcher’s Son” seemed, if possible, a little raunchier, and he made a point of directing the song to Chris and me.

  At intermission, we had a chance, finally, to exchange a few words with Bob and Ramón. We’d spoken with Bob briefly on the phone some days before to express our regrets over the loss of the Ebony Room, but he’d been so busy we hadn’t seen him since the fire.

  “I didn’t feel much like coming out tonight,” he said, “but Ramón dragged me. I’m glad he did, actually. I’m not used to not being around a lot of people, and I’ve kind of missed it. We almost didn’t make it, though—had a hell of a time getting a cab in the rain.”

  “Something wrong with your car again?”

  Bob snorted in disgust.

  “The damned transmission this time. That lemon’s been in the shop more than it’s been on the road.”

  “Well, if you need a ride home after the show, we’ll be glad to give you a lift,” Chris volunteered.

  “We’d appreciate that,” Bob said.

  *

  It had stopped raining by the time we left the club, and most of the talk on the drive home was about Judy. Her performance had been even better than the first time we’d seen her, and the crowd again was wild about her. But as before, she refused to come back for a curtain call, and Chris was speculating on whether her increasing popularity would change the situation.

  “Don’t count on it,” Ramón volunteered from the back seat. “She’s never done a curtain call, and if you ask me, she never will. That’s one strange character, that Judy.”

  “Yeah, I’d been wondering about her,” I said. “I think I’ve seen her around someplace as a guy, but I’m not sure—hard to tell with the wig and makeup. What’s his real name?”

  Ramón shrugged. “‘Judy’ is all I know. Nobody knows her. And I mean that literally. I worked there when the place first opened up—waiter, busboy, bartender, whatever they needed. Would you believe that nobody in that place has ever seen her out of drag?

  “Not only that, but nobody has ever seen her come in or go out. She doesn’t mix with the other performers—hell, sometimes she doesn’t even show up. Not often, granted, but…

  “She’s got her own dressing room that she comes out of only when it’s time for her to go on, and when the show’s over, back in she goes, and that’s it. You can stand outside that door all night, and you won’t see her come out. Probably got a back door. Or maybe she lives there…who knows?”

  “How can she manage that? Why the mystery and special treatment?” Chri
s asked.

  Ramón shrugged again.

  “Word has it she’s sleeping with the manager—or the owner—or both.”

  “And who are the manager and the owner?” Chris asked.

  “The manager’s Dave Lee.”

  “And the owner?”

  “Nobody seems to know. I think it’s a corporation. If that’s the case, Judy’s a busy girl.”

  “Yeah,” Bob offered. “I know they don’t belong to the Bar Guild.”

  We were pondering that little mystery as Chris pulled into the garage of our apartment building.

  “You guys want to stop in for a drink?” Bob asked as we got on the elevator. “We owe you for the ride.”

  Chris looked to me, and I said, “Sure. We’ll have a quick one.”

  I was curious to know more about Judy, and although I didn’t want to pry into something that was really none of my business, I was hoping Bob would volunteer more information on the Ebony Room fire.

  *

  Chris asked for scotch, and I opted for coffee (decaf) and Strega, and we settled in their comfortable living room while Ramón took charge of fixing the coffee. Bob went to a beautiful mahogany hutch that served as a liquor cabinet and poured Chris’s scotch and Strega for me, himself, and Ramón into beautiful leaded crystal glasses.

  When we were all seated—Bob in his favorite armchair and Ramón on the floor in front of him, leaning back against his legs—the conversation turned to the series of fires plaguing the community’s bars in general, and the one at the Ebony Room in particular. Bob confirmed that someone had tossed a Molotov cocktail through a small, high window in the bathroom. He figured it had happened about an hour after closing, shortly after the bartender had locked up for the night and gone home.

  The insurance company, of course, refused to settle the claim until it was determined Bob himself hadn’t started the fire. All evidence to the contrary, and despite there having been five other similar fires, the company remained adamant and was giving Bob a hard time as it is the habit, duty, and delight of insurance companies to do.

  “How is the investigation going?” I asked.