Butcher's Road (12 page)

With the words still hanging in the air, the men of the Alchemi walked out of the study, leaving Marco with the remains of his bodyguard.

Thoughts ran through his head in a jumble of words and images. Each idea was critical. They raced like ponies on a track as Marco leaned back in his chair and let the pounding of his heart ease. The thought that led the pack was:
Lonnie hadn’t been full of shit; the Rose was real and its power was real.

This important realization lost ground to Marco’s temper, which insisted he get on the phone so he could have his men begin the process of hunting down Brand and Hayes. He needed to show those fucks how much he enjoyed someone breaking into his house and killing his guard. This thought came on fast and hot, but it faded just as quickly when he remembered how little he’d done to track down the Rose.

He’d only sent Rabin, and Rabin was good, but he could only cover so much ground. Cardinal could be anywhere by now. The outfits had a long reach, and Marco decided that getting the word out was crucial; he would put an ample price on Cardinal’s head, one so high no one would be stupid enough to let the wrestler slide.

Marco crossed to his desk, ignoring Tony’s corpse, which continued to leak fluids through the innumerable holes in its skin. For a moment, he was confused because the space where he kept his phone was empty. Then he remembered and looked at the floor where the busted machine lay like another victim. He growled a stream of obscenities and walked through the house to the kitchen where he kept a second phone. The longest night he’d experienced in months was just beginning.

Butch woke to the sensation of someone rapping gently on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to a stern, round face with bulging eyes and plump, wet lips beneath the bill of a conductor’s cap. With his amphibian eyes and fat cheeks, the man’s face looked like it was about to explode. “New Orleans,” he said, but Butch’s plugged ears and addled mind turned the words into “Nawluns.”

Threads of dream clung to him as he shook off sleep. Details from his dreams melted like paraffin but he knew with complete certainty that the dreams had been horrible. He felt so bad, they couldn’t have been otherwise.

He nodded, which sent the conductor on his way, but Butch remained in the seat, looking through the window at the wooly, gray air, as he tried to compose himself. A chill ran through him as if his blood had been replaced with ice water. He trembled. Sweat coated his neck and brow. Fluid streamed from his scratchy eyes and his head felt as if it were full of rancid pudding. His throat hurt. His head ached. When he tried to breathe, he could barely get air to his lungs. His chest felt as if it were being used as a bumper between two trucks. Then the pain from his wounded ear surfaced, arriving after the other miserable sensations like the star of a show. It burned and throbbed. Butch coughed painfully and set about hoisting himself from the seat. At first, his muscles were like rubber, all but useless, and only with a tremendous act of will did Butch manage to get to his feet. He wobbled for a moment as he checked for his billfold and the scrap of paper with the name and phone exchange of Rory’s friend on it. The necklace nearly slipped his mind. He reached into his shirt and felt the bauble against his chest and nodded. Then, with great effort, he made his way off the train.

The depot teamed with people, dressed against the weather. Every face appeared beleaguered and anxious. Butch shambled through them, struggling to keep his balance, feeling as though someone had filled his body with water that sloshed and sent him in directions he didn’t wish to go. The sight of a man in uniform startled him, and Butch lowered his head, conscious of little except the illness and an overriding sense of suspicion, but what he’d taken as the neat blue suit of a police officer was just another conductor’s uniform, and he approached the man to ask directions to the phone.

“You look like you lost a few fights,” the conductor said.

“Won more than I lost,” Butch said, though the defense of his fighting record seemed, even to him, like an odd thing to discuss. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit under the weather. Can you…” For a moment he’d forgotten why he was speaking to this man. He cleared his scratchy throat and searched over the conductor’s shoulder for a clue as to what he needed, but his thoughts became a tangle of hemp, sinking below a swamp’s surface.

The conductor, a young and healthy looking man, put his hand on Butch’s shoulder. “There’s a Salvation Army shelter in the Central Business District,” he said earnestly. “They won’t stand for no dope or drink, but they could get you squared for the night.”

“No,” Butch said, suddenly remembering what he needed. “I need to call a friend. I need a telephone.”

“Telephones are in the back,” the conductor said, though the pinch of his mouth and eyes showed he considered Butch’s decision a bad one. He kept his hand on Butch’s shoulder and squeezed in a gesture of comfort. “God will protect you and provide.”

“Well, that would be nice for a change,” Butch said. He thanked the man, who looked at him like he’d just spit on the floor and trundled away through the crowd.

Though the station wasn’t large, it took Butch more than ten minutes to find the bank of telephones. He wandered in a daze, getting turned around. At one point, he stood outside of the depot, his body quaking with chills as a light mist settled on his face, and then he realized he needed the phone, and the phones were in the back.

Once seated on the hard wooden bench and facing the telephone apparatus, Butch dozed off, waking a second later when his head rapped against the wooden wall. He shook off the worst of his fatigue and reached in his breast pocket for the scrap of paper Rory had given him.

The letters and numbers of the phone exchange slid and smeared on the sheet like living creatures that didn’t wish to be caught. Butch dug change out of his pocket and lifted the earpiece. He tapped the arm it had hung from until the reedy voice of an operator swam into his muddled mind.

Rossington,
he thought, fixing the name in his head.
Hollis. Hollis. Hollis Rossington.

“How can I connect you?” the operator asked.

He said the name and then squinted to discern the specifics of the exchange. These he read aloud.

“One moment, sir.”

Then there was silence, and Butch thought the call might have been lost. A twinge of panic made its way through his tight and aching chest. What if he had the wrong name? The wrong exchange? Not even considering the fact he could always call Rory for clarification, Butch gathered the fabric of his trousers in a fist and squeezed tight in frustration.

Then a deep voice came over the line. The man told him that he had reached the Rossington residence.

Butch couldn’t speak. What if he gave his name, and the man recognized it and decided to turn him in? He didn’t have the strength or the money to last long on his own in this town. He didn’t know the rules of the place.

“I can hear you there,” the voice said. “You got something to say or not?”

Too exhausted to entertain any further paranoia, Butch said, “Hollis.”

“This is Hollis. What can I do for you?”

“Hollis. Hello, uh, I’m a friend of Rory Sullivan’s and—”

“Butch?” Rossington asked quickly. “Butch Cardinal?”

“Yeah, hi. Rory must have called ahead.”

“He did.” The voice had lost its bright timbre. Now the man sounded concerned, his tone somber. “Are you in New Orleans?”

“Just got in…off the train.”

“You don’t sound well,” Rossington noted.

“A bit of a bug. Look, I don’t know what Rory said—” A flurry of wrenching coughs fled Butch’s throat, leaving him breathless and aching.

“Okay, Butch,” Rossington said. “The thing is I don’t know if my house is the best place for you.”

He hadn’t imagined this response. Rory had called ahead. He’d sealed the deal. Except he hadn’t.

Butch hadn’t imagined it possible that he could feel worse. All he wanted was to lie down in a warm bed and sleep. He was a thousand miles from threat, but he felt so haggard and miserable, he might as well have been facing the barrel of a gun.

“You take care,” he said.

“Hold on,” Rossington said. “Are you at the train station?”

“Yeah.”

“The streetcar runs out front. Take it east and ask the conductor to let you out at the French Market. There’s a little place called the Café du Monde. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes.”

“You really shouldn’t bother.”

“So where are you going to go?” Rossington asked. “You sound like you’re about to keel over. At least let me get some coffee into you and help you find a room. That way I’ll know how to find you.”

“Why would you need to find me?” Butch asked.

“Because I promised Rory I’d help you out,” Rossington replied. “And I intend to do it.”

• • •

Hollis Rossington walked down Dumaine Street carrying an umbrella. A light mist, not unpleasant in the slightest, continued to cover the French Quarter, muting the colors painted over the façades of shotgun and camelback homes. The downpour had cleaned the air, leaving behind a wet purity that would eventually, and sooner than later, succumb to the usual mixture of savory and foul odors emanating from the homes, shops, and restaurants. Rossington lit a cigarette when he reached Royal Street and crushed it out on the damp pavement a block later, suddenly concerned with the quality of his breath.

He was keen to meet Butch Cardinal, even excited at the prospect. Not only did he want to do right by the man out of respect for the promise he’d made to Rory, but also it had been years since he’d sat down with another athlete and shared stories. He had forty bucks in his pocket, which should get the man through the first few days of his stay without worry. After that, Hollis would do what he could.

If he felt he could explain Lionel Lowery to Butch without an uproar he’d have welcomed the wrestler into his home. He couldn’t, though. Hollis had to believe that Butch was as conservative and traditional as any other man off the street, and his reaction to the exclusively masculine domestic situation would be a harsh one. A lie wouldn’t work. Lionel was aggressive and vulgar, and he would never agree to playing a part in this kind of deceit, simply because it would strike him as more entertaining to offend and taunt their guest. Realizing this brought a pang to Hollis’s chest. He disliked the near-constant frustration and suspicion he felt toward Lionel. They were supposed to be coupled, but the emotions Hollis felt for the kid had soured—faded like a daydream of supper, conjured in a starving man’s mind. He didn’t even like the young man, not really. Occasionally Lionel exhibited a good humor that was quite charming, but such moments were brief. More often he acted arrogant, needling those around him, daring someone to challenge him.

What did they always say? Any port in a storm? It would have been nice if they had noted what to do when the port was burning and the waves were throwing your vessel against the rocks. At least having Butch in town would give him an excuse to be out of the house more.

Though his memory wasn’t quite sufficient to the task, he attempted to conjure Cardinal’s appearance in his mind. The only time he’d seen the man had been on the mats, and Hollis had been near the back of the arena, so the image in his mind was of an enormous man, with a wall of chest and shoulders and tree-trunk legs that vanished into the snug red fabric of his shorts. This was all easy enough to imagine, but the face eluded him. He’d seen a photograph of Butch on a poster, and Hollis remembered thinking Cardinal was a handsome man, striking even. The exact details of the face, however, were lost to him. Still he wasn’t worried about recognizing Cardinal at the café.

Hollis walked through the arched doorway of the Café du Monde and scanned the room, but found the patrons a disappointment. Four tables near the door had been taken by couples who chatted quietly. A working girl in a torn cotton dress sat against the back window, staring into her coffee. A male counterpart to this sad lady, a lone bum, sat in the far corner of the restaurant, head down, likely sleeping off a two-day drunk. His filthy jacket sagged and he seemed to have something pale attached to the side of his head, or maybe it was his ear. Hollis didn’t let his gaze linger on the man, but moved it on to a group of four young people chatting excitedly, hands waving to animate the stories they were telling.

Hollis took one of the small round tables in the middle of the room. He sat in a wire-backed chair and again regarded the couples by the front door. It occurred to him that maybe Butch wasn’t alone; he could have struck up a conversation with a lady friend at the café. No doubt the man did quite well with women when he wanted them, but none of the men matched up with Rossington’s memory of Butch. They were all too short. Too fat. Too old. Too scrawny. And with no sign of the wrestler, he began to worry. If Butch had followed Hollis’s instructions, he should have been halfway through his first cup of coffee by now. Even if he’d crawled on hands and knees from the train station, he would have beat Rossington to the place. It wasn’t as if he could get lost. All he had to do was ask any random pedestrian on the street. Everyone in the city knew the café.