The Butcher's Son Read online

  The goon curled his lip into a sneer and said, “Get in.”

  “Just like that?” Ian asked, not budging. “No flowers, no explanation?”

  The man rolled his shoulders and opened his jacket to show the black polymer grip of a .45 Beretta nestled snugly in a nylon shoulder holster.

  “Leather would go better with your belt,” said Ian, playing off the man’s nervousness despite not understanding its reason. “The nylon looks cheap.”

  When the man bristled, Ian glanced around at the empty street. His options were limited: get in the car or run.

  Breathing through his mouth, the man moved his hand closer to his holster, but a sharp tap on the window behind him made his fingers twitch and hold.

  With an irritated hiss of annoyance, he said, “Get in the back or I’ll stuff you in the trunk.” His voice lowered to a barely audible growl. “I’d prefer the trunk, so keep pushing.”

  Ian unconsciously touched his bandaged rib, the dull spark of pain reminding him that when it came to being tough, he was more of a punching bag than a boxer.

  He climbed into the car.

  12

  The interior of the vehicle was like stepping into a time machine that had glitched, blending all the overindulgent glory of the jet age with present-day tech. Despite its generous size, there were only two seats in the rear compartment. Midnight blue suede and leather recliners were separated by a wide console that combined polished mahogany woodwork with a pop-up video monitor connected to a hidden computer somewhere out of sight.

  Ian had never flown first class, working in a not-for-profit agency didn’t allow such an indulgence, but he imagined even that luxury couldn’t compare to this. The plush carpet alone made him want to kick off his socks and shoes and sink his bare feet into the velvety softness, but he resisted the temptation. He didn’t think the elderly gentleman sitting in the opposite seat would approve. Then again, he wasn’t entirely sure the man was alive.

  The jittery rise and fall of the silk tie resting on the man’s stark white shirt told Ian that he was still breathing, but the man was so old he appeared to be in the pre-stages of mummification. Folds of bloodless, slack skin had lost their grip on his bones, and its wrinkled surface was so mottled that it was difficult to tell if he was originally white or brown.

  When Ian told the Dynasty waitress that time left a mark, he could see now that he had soft-pedaled the concept. Time hadn’t so much bruised this man as it had sucked the very marrow from his bones.

  The man’s paper-thin and blue-veined eyelids fluttered before opening, like a vampire sensing sunset, as the car smoothly pulled away from the curb on its twenty-one-inch, polished aluminum wheels. When he sensed Ian’s presence, his head turned and alarmingly coltish brown eyes locked onto the newcomer. It reminded Ian of a cobra sensing that a lunchtime mouse had been dropped into its cage.

  “Your name is Ian Quinn,” said the man in a raspy voice.

  He touched a button on the center console to open a hidden compartment that contained several small glass bottles of water. Ian didn’t recognize the brand, but it looked expensive. Shakily, the man handed the bottle to Nose Bandage in the front seat, who twisted off the cap and handed it back. The man took a small sip before continuing.

  “Your father was Jack Quinn. Your grandfather was Augustus Quinn. Your family appears to have a disdain for middle names.”

  “Couldn’t afford them,” Ian quipped, a familiar joke that he added to his arsenal whenever he socialized with Helena’s family. Her father had enjoyed using his yacht club friends as a passive-aggressive reminder of Ian’s lack of societal birthright.

  A smile crept across the man’s lips, but it was more disturbing than comforting.

  “When was the last time you saw your father?”

  Ian shrugged. “When I was seven.”

  “Your grandfather’s funeral?”

  Ian nodded.

  “And never since?”

  Ian remained silent, not seeing the point in giving the man something he already seemed to know.

  “Do you know why he left?”

  “He ran out of cigarettes,” said Ian.

  The smile returned, but this time a dark tongue followed in its wake. The disobedient muscle was returned to its dusty cave with another sip of water.

  “Would you like to see him again?”

  Caught off guard, Ian’s reply escaped his lips with a sigh. “He’s dead.”

  “True,” said the man. “An unfortunate turn of events.” The man inclined his head slightly in the direction of the front seat. “He did not go gently into that good night, did he, Munster?”

  Nose Bandage turned slightly in his seat and grunted in response.

  “It’s one of the troubles of sending a sledgehammer to do a scalpel’s work,” said the man, although his voice held a note of affection, which was clearly aimed at the goon in the front.

  Leaning forward, the man pressed a hidden button on the seat back in front of him to lower a concealed tray. When the tray was completely perpendicular, a tiny white laser switched on to project a keyboard onto its dark surface. At the touch of a button made only of light, the computer monitor in the center console lit up.

  Running his fingers across the surface of the projection, the man brought a video clip onto the screen. He glanced across at Ian to make sure he was paying attention before pressing play.

  The screen displayed the interior of a dark and dingy bar with a scattered row of men sitting apart and alone. It wasn’t a bar where friends went to meet and share a laugh, but rather a place where strangers congregated to be together and drink alone.

  The video was jerky and it took Ian a moment to realize that it was being recorded on a hidden camera stitched into someone’s lapel. When the cameraman’s large hands appeared in the frame, Ian recognized them as belonging to Munster.

  He glanced over at the man sitting beside him and saw glee shining in his eyes. He had watched this video many times.

  Ian returned his attention to the screen as Munster approached a disheveled man draining the last of his dark pint. A second goon in a fitted suit entered the frame and stood off to one side, although a suspicious bulge ruining the cut of his jacket revealed he wasn’t simply curious.

  The man in the video lowered his pint onto a tattered beermat with the name McNally stamped on top of a four-leaf clover. The clichéd symbol had been made unique with a bite taken out of one leaf. When the man turned to the camera, his face was somehow familiar and yet one Ian had never seen before.

  “Your father,” explained the man beside him. “You can run from everything but the ravages of time. That bastard plays us all in the end.”

  An unexpected swelling of pride filled Ian’s chest as the stranger who was his father launched an attack on the two men. The camera’s perspective spun wildly as Munster recoiled from the brutal loss of his nose and ended up on the floor. The video jumped mid-frame as Jack Quinn began swinging a baseball bat, and suddenly the view was of a back alley.

  “It needs some work,” apologized the elderly man with the slack tongue. “This is a rough cut.” He pointed a bony finger at the screen. “Watch. This is my favorite part.”

  The alley appeared deserted until Jack Quinn suddenly launched himself out of a doorway and rushed toward the camera. The man froze the playback, his skeletal finger twitching with excitement.

  “Look at his hands,” he said.

  Ian leaned forward to study the video. A smile broke on his lips, but also caused an old scar to crack open in his heart and bring moisture to his eyes. His father was armed with nothing more than his fingers, formed into pretend guns.

  He was also bleeding.

  Blood dribbled down the side of his face from a gash in his ear, while a greater amount soaked one of his legs and blossomed from a soggy patch in his chest, inches below his heart. Ian touched the spot where his own broken rib ached.

  The living corpse beside him hit play again, and Ia
n watched his father die.

  *

  “I wanted him alive,” said the man. “But what is it that rock’n’roll band sings? You can’t always get it.”

  Ian wiped a rough knuckle across his eyes, angry at himself for allowing this monster to see any emotion from him. When he finally found the strength to talk, he asked, “Why?”

  The man cocked his head to one side like a chicken puzzled by the sharpening of an axe.

  “Why did I want—”

  “Why did you kill him?” Ian interrupted sharply. “What has my family ever done to you?”

  The man began to shake in his seat, his papery skin making a noise like dried leaves being crushed underfoot. Silvery white foam bubbled in the corners of his mouth and his dark tongue slipped out of its cave once more.

  “Your family took everything.” His voice was sharp and venomous. “Augustus thought he could challenge me, stand up and steal my legacy, but all anyone remembers is the monster I made him to be.” An agonizing rasp escaped the man’s frail throat and cloudy spittle flew from his lips. “Your father thought he could run, like your sister before him, but if you don’t find her…” he stabbed angrily at the screen, “…pretend guns won’t save you from the fate I have in store.”

  Recoiling from the venom, Ian only had one puzzling question. “Find who?”

  13

  The old man’s face contorted in pain, his sallow flesh turning from vivid purple to oxygen-deprived blue, as the car abruptly pulled over. Ian had no chance to react before his door was pulled open and Munster’s hand locked onto his shoulder like a steel claw.

  Before he could comprehend what was happening, Ian was yanked from his seat and thrown onto the sidewalk. Cursing as he tumbled onto his ass, Ian watched Munster quickly take his place in the backseat and secure an oxygen mask onto his boss’s straining face. The man’s bulging eyes reminded Ian of that scene in Total Recall where Arnold Schwarzenegger’s face helmet cracks and he sucks in Mars’ alien atmosphere.

  “Find who?” Ian repeated before the door was pulled closed and the car drove off.

  Rising to his feet, his body protesting every inch of vertical, Ian watched in frustration as the Lincoln drove away. Not only didn’t he know who he was supposed to find, he also had no idea who the old bastard in the car was.

  “Was you in that car?” asked a small voice.

  Ian turned to see two young boys sitting on a pair of much neglected and much enjoyed bicycles. Their cheeks were wind-burned and their eyes were bright with curiosity.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Any idea who owns it?”

  “You don’t know?” asked the one boy as he wiped his dripping nose on a well-used sleeve.

  Ian shook his head.

  “Then why was you inside?” asked the second boy.

  “Didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

  Both boys grinned at that.

  “The big dude is Munster,” said the first boy. “He’s the muscle.”

  “And who does he work for?” asked Ian.

  “Serious?” asked the second boy.

  “Serious.”

  “Wasn’t he in the car wit’ you?”

  “He neglected to introduce himself.”

  Both boys found that hilarious, and they grinned at each other as though Ian had just farted in church.

  “That’s Mister Zelig, dude,” said the second boy when he finished grinning. “My brother says they used to call him Ice Pick, back when he was a big deal, but he don’t get out of the car much anymore.”

  “Is your brother in a gang?” Ian asked.

  “Biggest gang there is,” said the second boy proudly. “He’s in the United States Marine Corps. Got the hell out of this shit hole.” The boy grinned again at his choice use of profanity. “He’s saving a spot for me. I’m gonna drive a tank.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Ian.

  “Oorah,” yelled the boy before high-fiving his friend in a signal that this conversation was no longer holding his attention.

  Laughing, the two boys turned tail and took off down the street at warp speed — or as fast as warp can be on a rusted chain.

  *

  Looking around, Ian discovered he had been dropped off less than a block from where he started, as if the journey had been little more than a waking nightmare.

  But illusion or not, he needed answers. Zelig obviously knew more about Ian’s own family history than he did, and that needed to change if he was going to get to the root of this madness.

  Ian crossed to the corner store and went inside. The bell above the door hadn’t changed in thirty years, and its singsong chime awakened a Pavlovian response. Ian was transported back to his childhood where he felt nervous, scared and bursting with excitement, the way he used to feel when he wanted to ask Mr. Palewandram if Shanthi could come out and play.

  Despite his short and lean stature, Mr. Palewandram was a brick wall when it came to his daughter. He made no bones about his disapproval of a gawky, pale Irish lad whose family butchered the carcasses of dead animals for a living.

  “Can I help you?” asked a male voice.

  Breaking free from his reverie, Ian focused on the sturdy man behind the counter. Although slightly younger than himself in years, the man looked a decade older in spirit. His darkly handsome face was lined with worry, his eyes baggy from lack of sleep, and starless pupils burrowed so deep that Ian could feel the cold distrust oozing out of them.

  Ian broke the ice. “Dilip?”

  The man blinked, his vigilant stare wavering slightly in confusion.

  “It’s Ian,” said Ian. “Ian Quinn?”

  “Bullshit.”

  Ian laughed aloud, a sudden memory of Dilip as a young boy dogging his sister’s heels, never letting Ian go anywhere with her alone. Ian had used plenty of profanity in his youth, a freedom not allowed the Palewandram children, but it was this particular term that made Dilip laugh the most, and the one he adopted as his own.

  “Long time,” said Ian.

  Dilip came around the counter, his eyes still wary until he was only a few steps away. And then, like the sun burning through a haze of cloud, recognition finally took hold and his face brightened. He rushed the next two steps and embraced Ian in an unexpected hug.

  Ian winced but swallowed the pain, hiding it from his face as the man crushed his broken and bruised ribs. When Dilip stepped away, he looked slightly embarrassed as though he hadn’t expected to unburden such emotion.

  “You’re looking good,” Ian lied.

  “You’re not,” said Dilip, and both men laughed.

  “I’m surprised the store is still here.”

  “Me, too.” Dilip shrugged. “Mostly lotto, beer and smokes now. The neighborhood is still here, just better hidden.”

  “Is your dad still around?”

  Dilip grinned. “I’m surprised that’s who you’re asking for.”

  Despite the years, a blush colored Ian’s cheeks. “How is Shanthi?”

  “Fat and happy. Two beautiful daughters. My father claims she doesn’t have a son just to spite him.”

  “Wouldn’t put it past her,” said Ian, smiling. “She always had a stubborn streak.”

  “That she does. So what brings you back?”

  “I inherited the butcher’s shop.”

  Dilip was dumbstruck for a moment as he tried to comprehend the information.

  “Inherited? Who from? I thought that place was abandoned decades ago.”

  “Me, too, but apparently it still belonged to my father.”

  Dilip’s eyes widened. “You guys were in touch?”

  “No,” Ian said with a sharpness that he didn’t intend. “He was killed recently and the building passed onto me. I’m as surprised as anyone.”

  “You said killed?”

  Ian swallowed. “A gangster named Zelig showed me a video. He was gunned down in a back alley. Zelig didn’t say where or when, but it was recent.”

  “You know Mis
ter Zelig?”

  Shaking his head, Ian said, “Met him for the first time a few minutes ago. You?”

  “Creepy old bastard,” said Dilip. “He runs the neighborhood, been shaking us down for decades. Ever since your grandfather died actually.”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask your father, see if he remembers anything about my grandfather. There were stories, but…” Ian paused before continuing. “I didn’t want to listen back then, and my mother never talked about it. She seemed ashamed and afraid in equal measure, and maybe I was, too.”

  “Dad’s in the back making tea, let’s ask.”

  *

  The tiny back room, separated from the shop by a bead curtain the color of leftover oatmeal, was stuffed with all the comforts of an agoraphobic bachelor. Due to the narrowness of the room, two ancient lounge chairs faced each other at an awkward angle with a kidney-shaped coffee table stuck in the middle. Resting on top of the table was a marble chessboard, the black and white pieces carved to resemble two ancient armies that Ian didn’t recognize. The armchairs were so old that puffs of yellow stuffing leaked out of them like leprosy.

  Beyond the chairs was a tiny kitchen that would have looked more at home inside a Volkswagen van: single sink, hot plate, microwave and kettle. Standing beside the kettle, nearly dwarfed by the farthest chair, was a frail-looking man dressed in white linen. When he turned around, Mr. Palewandram’s distrustful eyes were sunk so deeply inside an ancient skull that he almost appeared to be wearing a mask. To think that as a boy, Ian was afraid of this tiny man’s wrath seemed laughable now.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Palewandram without any hint of surprise, “the butcher’s boy.” He lifted his hand and wagged a bony finger in Ian’s direction. “You are too late. I married Shanthi off to a good Sinhalese boy. A respectable medical doctor. Nothing like you.”

  An unexpected pain stretched Ian’s lips, understanding now what he could never understand then: a father’s love for, and protection over, his daughter. Ian would never know the heartache of a father watching his daughter stepping out on a first date, but a part of him had been dreading it from the moment Emily first gurgled in his arms.