The Butcher's Son

by Dorien Grey

  He was quiet for a minute, watching out the window as a barge moved up the river. At last he looked back toward me, almost as if he were surprised to see me there.

  “But then, as we got older, things began to change. Our parents, as I’ve said, were very strict. My father, especially, had a firm vision of what kind of adults Patrick and I should be, and his methods were…rather stern. Patrick rebelled at every turn, whereas I respected their wishes even when I didn’t agree with them. We were children, after all, and it was not our place to question.

  “Patrick increasingly resented me for not standing up to our parents like he did. Of course, that only made it all the worse for him. He saw himself as defending both of us, yet the punishment increasingly fell on him. And for whatever reason, I could never defend him as he always defended me.” He stared back out the window for another long moment, and then said softly, “I think Patrick felt I betrayed him. And sometimes I feel he was right.”

  He suddenly sat up and reached for the check.

  “I really should be getting back, Dick,” he said, a little too briskly. “I appreciate your coming out and meeting me. I did need the break.”

  Without waiting for any response from me, he stood up, reached into his wallet for some dollar bills, and put them under his saucer in the center of the table. It was as if he couldn’t wait to leave.

  Without a word I got up and followed him to the cashier.

  “Let me get that, Kev,” I said, indicating the check in his hand, but he waved me off.

  “No, no. It was I who dragged you out on your day off. It’s the least I can do.”

  We left the diner without another word, shook hands in the parking lot and exchanged goodbyes, and that was it. Fifteen minutes, tops.

  As I drove home, one thought kept recurring.

  Kevin Rourke, you are one fucked-up young man!

  *

  I had three messages waiting for me when I got home—one from Chris asking me to call him, one from Tom to confirm our dinner for that night, and one from Don, asking if I had plans for the evening and if I’d like to go to dinner if I didn’t.

  It had occurred to me that Don and Tom might get along quite well together, so I returned Tom’s call first, asking if he minded if Don came with us. He was all for it, and I was a bit surprised when he suggested Rasputin’s. He was obviously taking a few bold steps out of the closet.

  I next called Don and invited him to join us, and he agreed. We arranged to meet at Rasputin’s at eight o’clock.

  Chris wanted me to ship out another couple of his boxes. He was settling into his new apartment, still loved his job, and was apparently having a hell of a good time. I got the impression he might be seeing someone but didn’t ask, and he didn’t volunteer any information.

  Bob called a little later in the day, and I asked him if he’d like to join the group for dinner. He had other plans but said he might be at Bacchus’s Lair for the last show, if we felt like going over. I thought Bacchus’s Lair might be just a tad too much for Tom but told Bob I’d suggest it and see what the others thought.

  *

  Dinner was very pleasant, and I had vastly underestimated the possibility Tom and Don might like one another. They hit it off immediately, and the electricity between them could have lit up a room. Still, they did their best not to ignore me completely.

  The only news Tom had on the fire(s) was an unconfirmed rumor in the department that a confidential file containing Tamasini’s MO had been stolen from the chief’s office about two weeks before the first of them.

  When, after dinner, I asked if they might want to go to Bacchus’s Lair, there was a pregnant pause and a from-the-second-balcony exchange of glances between them. Then, Tom begged off, saying he had to be up early the next day, and Don said that he, too, was suddenly very tired and thought maybe we should call it a night.

  Uh-huh. Sure, guys.

  We left Rasputin’s around ten-forty-five, and I made a point, after bidding Tom and Don goodnight, of heading directly for my car and not looking back. I wouldn’t have been surprised, if I had, to see the two of them stripping each other right there on the street.

  I debated just going home but then thought What the hell? and headed for Bacchus’s Lair. Parking was once more a problem, signifying a return to normal for the bars along Arnwood. I got a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realized the nearest parking spot I could find was directly across from the now-vacant lot that had once been the location of the Dog Collar.

  The first show had just ended when I passed the security guard and climbed the stairs to Bacchus’s Lair. The place was back to its usual state of being packed, although a few tables were emptied by guys who wouldn’t be staying for the second show. I looked around for Bob and, not seeing him, decided to sit at the bar. T/T was working the crowd, and after a minute or so, he made his way to the bar.

  “Chile!” he boomed when he spotted me. “If it isn’t my very favorite big ol’ Dick!”

  That got a couple intense glances from others at the bar, and, as usual, I was embarrassed as all hell to be singled out.

  “Hi, Teddy. Buy you a drink?”

  “Silly question!” T/T said, raising an arm to attract the bartender’s attention and causing a clatter as the thirty or so bracelets he wore shifted from wrist to elbow. “What’cha doin’ here all alone, darlin’? If you came lookin’ for me, I’m all yours!”

  The bartender brought T/T’s double scotch, which he belted back in one toss.

  “Thanks, darlin’. You are here with someone, aren’t you?”

  “I’m supposed to meet Bob Allen, but I don’t see him.”

  T/T surveyed the room, as if to confirm that Bob was, indeed, not there.

  “Well, let’s get you a table up close. When Bob comes in, he’ll see you. ’Sides, you stay here at the bar and someone’s goin’ to try to put the make on you!”

  Please, God, I thought.

  Grabbing my drink before I had a chance to object, T/T led me to one of the empty tables at the foot of the stage. It was not near an exit, but I didn’t want to make an issue of it. He put my drink down and made sure I was seated.

  “Now, you enjoy the show, hear?” And with that, he disappeared down the hall toward the bathrooms.

  While I’ve never been one of those people who won’t go anywhere unless they have someone to go with, or wouldn’t dream of eating in a restaurant alone, sitting by myself at a table in a gay bar surrounded by couples and groups did make me feel just a little self-conscious. When Chris and I had been together, and we’d seen someone sitting by himself, we’d kind of felt sorry for him. Now that shoe was on the other foot.

  Bob hadn’t shown up by the time the house lights dimmed for the second show, so I decided to just sit back and enjoy it. It was pretty much a carbon copy of the other times I’d seen it but still enough fun to be worthwhile. T/T was as outrageous as ever—he did a version of Sophie Tucker’s “You Gotta See Momma Every Night” that brought down the house. There was a new kid who did a pretty good version of Marlene Dietrich’s “Falling in Love Again” and a campy version of “Lili Marlene.”

  Then it was time for Judy.

  If her selections had been a little on the reflective side the last few times I’d seen her, tonight she was on an upswing. She opened with “The Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe,” followed by “Get Happy,” and ended with “Swanee.” This time, there was no doubt—she looked directly at me at least three times. Quickly, but no mistaking the eye contact.

  The audience, as usual, went wild and wouldn’t let her off the stage. Finally, she relented for only the second time since I’d started coming to see her. She sat on the edge of the stage directly in front of me. The lights dimmed to a single light-pink spot on her face, and she sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” And she sang it to me!

  At the end of the song, the spotlight went out, and I saw her—because I was so close—get up and disappear behind the curtain. D
espite nearly five minutes of wild applause and whistles and calls of “Ju-dy! Ju-dy!” the curtains remained closed. The other performers came out for their curtain calls, and the show was over.

  I was sitting there, finishing my drink and wondering what in hell that had been all about—she rarely had even seemed aware of the audience, let alone played so directly to just one guy in it—when the waiter came over and handed me a note. Puzzled, I opened it to read Come backstage.

  Thinking it was from T/T and not sure whether I wanted to go backstage or not, I hesitated a moment before deciding, again, What the hell?

  I flagged down the waiter who had brought me the note and asked him how I could get back to find T/T. He looked at me oddly.

  “It’s not from Tondelaya,” he said. “It’s Judy.” He pointed me to the hallway leading to the bathroom.

  Okay, Hardesty, I thought as I started toward the hall. What in the hell is going on here?

  If, by some totally-out-of-left-field chance Judy had decided to make a pass at me, I really didn’t dig drag queens. I vastly prefer men who aren’t pretending to be…well…women. Still, my curiosity was pushing me into the hallway, and I knew I’d have to find out one way or the other.

  I’d never really noticed before that the bathroom doors were at the end of the hallway on the left but there was also a doorway on the right. I realized now it was directly behind the stage. I should have knocked, but I opened it to find another short hallway paralleling the rear of the stage.

  At the end was an open door, and I could see a couple of the drag queens removing their makeup, changing clothes, and talking and laughing among themselves. About halfway down, on the left, was a single closed door with a large gold star on it.

  Okay, Hardesty. You’re here! Do it! Taking a deep breath, I knocked.

  “Come in.”

  Oh, Jesus! I knew that voice!

  I entered the room to see a seated form in a man’s bathrobe, his back to me, in the process of removing his contact lenses. A wig I recognized as the one Judy wore for the show was on a small stand on the dressing counter. I also recognized the sandy blond hair of the man in front of me, and I had a knot the size of a grapefruit in my stomach.

  Putting the contacts carefully in their case, he got up and turned toward me for the first time.

  Kevin!

  He smiled, coming toward me and extending his hand.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Patrick.”

  Chapter 16

  I somehow managed to take his hand and, despite my shock, was aware of its strength. He stood there, staring into my eyes and smiling. And still holding my hand.

  “That’s why we’re called identical twins,” he said, my confusion apparently being written all over my face. “I understand you’ve been looking for me.”

  “Well…uh…yeah,” I managed to stammer.

  “Kev was right,” he said, pulling his head back slightly and looking me over slowly from head to toe like a rancher contemplating a prize bull,

  “About what?” I managed to say, wondering when he was going to let go of my hand.

  “You are sexy. How about a nice, hot fuck?”

  Whoa, cowboys! Break time!

  I managed to retrieve my hand and back away a step or two.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I just screwed the waiter and two busboys on the way in here.”

  He laughed and shook his head.

  “I knew I’d like you! You’ve got balls—big ones, I’d guess—not like that little wussy brother of mine.”

  Part of me suspected I was way out of my league here, but the rest of me knew I had no idea what league that might be.

  “Yeah, well,” I said, running my hand over my chin, “I really did want to talk to you.”

  “About Kevin?”

  “Well, yes, about Kevin. And about—”

  “He’s got the hots for you, you know,” Patrick said, turning around to remove his robe and hang it on a clothes hook. He had his shorts on, but I could imagine what lay inside—hell, I’d seen it, on Kevin.

  “What in hell gives you that idea?”

  He turned toward me briefly to give me a big, sexy grin.

  “We are brothers, you know,” he said, picking up a towel to wipe the remainder of his makeup off. “That ‘I’m married so I can’t be a queer’ bullshit might work for dear old Dad, but it don’t mean squat to me. But why don’t you hold on a second while I change, and we can go somewhere and talk—like your place.”

  Jesus, the guy had balls, I had to admit. And while my head told me taking Patrick to my apartment was not a good idea, my crotch was telling quite a different story.

  I waited in silence while he quickly dressed then went to the door. I started to follow, but he shook his head and turned the deadbolt. He motioned me toward the closet in one corner of the room. Puzzled, I watched as he swept the hangers—mostly with Judy costumes but a few sets of men’s shirts and pants—to either side to expose another door.

  Opening it, he made an elaborate “after you” gesture with one hand, and after I’d stepped into a narrow stairwell leading down, he moved the clothes back into position, closed the door, and followed me down the stairs. The door at the bottom opened onto the alley behind Bacchus’s Lair.

  That’s why no one ever saw Judy coming or going, I thought.

  “Which way’s your car?” Patrick asked, and I motioned down the alley to the left. “Well, let’s go around the block this way.” He headed to the right. “The street’s closer here.”

  As we walked down the dark alley, I could hear music coming from the second floor of one of the buildings on the other side. A piano. Beethoven. Suddenly, I realized we were passing directly behind Salvation’s Door; the buildings backed up on the same alley!

  Patrick glanced up toward the sound of the music and obviously read my mind.

  “Ironic, isn’t it? So close and yet so far apart. Little brother at his prayers and meditation, you and me going for one of the hottest times you’ll ever have.”

  I was more than a little irritated by his last sentence. He was pretty damned arrogant to think that’s what was going to happen. I was also pretty sure he was right.

  *

  Now, here’s a guy you met all of half an hour ago, I thought as we rode in relative silence to my apartment. A guy who very well may be a total loon capable of just about anything, and your primary concern at the moment is to get him into bed? Just how fucking stupid can you be?

  Well, anybody who is out to keep Chief Rourke from becoming governor can’t be all bad, I rationalized—not very convincingly.

  “Look, Patrick, I think maybe we should talk first ab—”

  He looked at me.

  “Fuck first. Talk later.”

  Damn, I hated myself, but my crotch told me he was right.

  Part of me was thinking Jeez, Hardesty, you’re a real slut!, but I hastened to my own defense by reminding myself that I’d just come out of a monogamous (on my part) relationship of five years and was kind of out of practice on the etiquette of hardcore cruising. True, I’d had sort-of sex with Kevin, but that really didn’t involve cruising. Neither had the night with Don. And if Patrick was anywhere near as good as his brother…

  Suffice to say my Scorpio sex drive won out over my Scorpio deductive reasoning, and it was as exciting as all hell.

  *

  We hadn’t even closed the apartment door before Patrick started ripping—and I do mean ripping—my shirt off. We were all over one another, stumbling across the room and finally falling backward onto the sofa, then onto the floor. Patrick on top, then me, then Patrick, stripping clothes as we went. We didn’t even try to make it to the bedroom.

  I did things with him that night I had never known two human beings could do to/with one another. He had been absolutely right—it was one of the greatest nights of my life.

  I woke up at ten-thirty Sunday morning in bed. Alone. The apartment was a total shambles. We had done it in every
single room, including the kitchen and the bathroom. I was sticky from my chin to my thighs and desperately needed a shower (we’d been there, too, at one point). How I had the energy to stand up amazed me.

  But Patrick had lied. He had said, “Fuck first. Talk later.” We hadn’t talked. Not in words.

  And of course, I had absolutely no idea how to get in touch with him. No phone number. No address. Just Bacchus’s Lair, and they didn’t have a show on Sunday nights.

  Which got me to thinking, Patrick Rourke might be a drag queen, but, oh, my, strip him down to the basics, and…

  I stood in the shower and had one of my little Hardesty-to-Hardesty talks.

  Okay, Hardesty, now what’s happening? Now you’re falling for Kevin Rourke and Patrick Rourke?

  Who said anything about falling for anyone? Getting a trifle obsessed with, perhaps, but “falling for?” Get a fucking life!

  I was hoping against hope Kevin wouldn’t call. What would I—could I—possibly say to him? I sure as hell couldn’t tell him I’d met his brother and fucked the stuffing out of him without finding out one single thing of the millions of things I wanted to find out. And I am one of the world’s absolute worst liars.

  But Kevin couldn’t possibly know his brother was working as a drag queen less than 200 feet from Salvation’s Door, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. Damn it, I had to nail Patrick down…uh-huh…and get some answers.

  Bob called just after I got out of the shower to ask if we’d gone to Bacchus’s Lair. When I told him I had, he apologized and said he’d gotten involved with some friends and ended up playing cards all night. He asked how the show had been, and I told him fine.

  I just took it easy most of the day, not really in the mood to do much of anything except reflect on the night before and wonder for the two-thousandth time what was going on between the two brothers and me.

  Bacchus’s Lair didn’t open until six p.m. on Sundays, and featured only a pianist as entertainment. I wrote a note with my phone number and the message “Call me!” addressed to “Judy” and gave the waiter five dollars to let me slide it under her dressing room door.