Butcher's Road (2 page)

“I don’t ask questions,” Butch replied, “makes life easier.”

“And longer,
sometimes
,” Musante said. He cackled out a laugh with an ample spray of spit. Then the man chewed a bit, saying nothing but crushing his lips together. He returned to pacing. “But see, I do ask questions, even if no one’s around to hear me but the roaches.”

“That so?” Butch asked.

“Figure people don’t ask questions ’cause they’re afraid of the answers, right?” Musante said. “Their daddy or their boss or their priest or their senator tells ’em a thing is a thing, and they lap that up like starving kittens, because otherwise they got to find their own supper. They gotta think for themselves is what I’m saying, and that takes guts, which most feeblos ain’t got.”

“Look, Musante, I don’t have all night. We can talk philosophical some other time.”

“That’s the thing, Butchy.” Musante’s eyes narrowed and his lips clamped down so tight his nose and chin nearly met. “Ain’t likely to be another time. I got to asking myself about this particular situation and do you know what answer I came up with?”

“How about you just give me the package, and I’ll show myself out?”

“Hold your horses,” Musante said as if scolding a child.

Butch clenched his fists in the pockets. His patience was running out of him like a stream of piss after a hard night of drinking. He checked the grandfather clock in the corner of the room; its walnut cabinet was chipped and scratched. The glass face was cracked over filigreed hands that put the time at nine minutes past seven. Butch had come in as the weathered device was chiming the hour.

“You used to be somebody,” Musante said. “Used to be a big deal on the wrestling circuit. Heard you used to be the best there was, except for Simm.”

And he was a crooked pile of horseshit,
Butch thought.

“But you ain’t somebody anymore,” Musante said. “Fallen good and far, ain’t ya? Powell probably brought you in because he saw you in your glory days and thought he’d like having you around. Thing is, you don’t belong in this game. You might be tough enough. Might be shrewd enough. But you don’t belong here. You didn’t grow up on our streets, and you don’t have any threads tying you to anyone, least of all Moran and his syndicate.”

“Musante, you’ve got three seconds to give me something besides your lip. Then I’m putting your lights out. I’ll tell Powell you held out on me. He can decide what to do about it.”

The aged man kept stomping across the floor, wholly unaffected by the threat. “Like I said, I got to thinking about this situation, and I got to wondering what Marco Impelliteri could possibly give the Bug. They say we got an all’s-quiet, and that’s a fine thing, but that don’t mean we’re working together.”

“Just give me the package, Musante.”

“And it’s not like Marco is going to be sending a token of his gratitude to the Bug. We Italians aren’t exactly known for our peace offerings, so what kind of gift is Marco sending? Why are you here, in the house of a Southsider? Why you, a thug for the Northside Bug?”

“Been asking myself that very thing for the last ten minutes,” Butch said, snidely.

“Me, I understand,” Musante said. “I been around too long. I’m tired of the rackets, and the rackets are tired of me. I’m an old man and I’d be in the dirt soon enough even if they weren’t going to… Even if things were different. Besides, I get a few drinks in me and I talk. Never used to, but these days these loose lips can’t stop a wagging once they get wet.”

“I’m guessing you had a few before I got here?”

“More than three,” Musante said. This busted the guy up, and he let fly another spit-drenched cackle. “Kills the pain.”

“I’m just here to pick up a package, Musante,” Butch said. “Give me the damned thing and I’ll be on my way. I didn’t mean what I said about bustin’ your head.”

“Yeah,” Musante said. “I figured that. Saw that clear as day two seconds after you stepped inside. That’s when I figured we were both in for a nap, just wanted to find out why Powell wants you sleeping.”

A tremor ran up Butch’s spine. He didn’t know what kind of swindle Musante was playing with his head. He didn’t like it though, mostly because he’d had the same conversation with himself a few dozen times. He didn’t belong in the company of men like Powell, men like Musante. Butch knew that. He’d taken the job because he was tired of the road; because the money was a hell of a lot better than the strong man act and wrestling exhibitions with Mack Mack McCauley’s Traveling Wonder Show.

“Got you thinking about it now,” Musante said. “If you’d’a asked yourself some questions thirty minutes ago, you might be on a train to Nebraska breathing easy. Now I’m thinking you best be happy with any breath you got left to take. See, I’m thinking there’s a shotgun or a tommy outside that door and as soon as I give over the package and show you out we’re both going to be introduced to sweet St. Pete, so I figure I’ll talk a bit, clear my throat and my head. Get a few things offa my chest, because I’m ready to go, just not quite ready this very minute.”

“You’re crazy,” Butch said, but the confidence in his voice was gone.

He looked away from Musante, fixed his gaze on one of the ugly green walls. It seemed to breathe, moving with the sudden pulse behind his eyes. Disturbed by the illusion, he dropped his gaze and caught sight of a deck of cards on the table beside him. It was a tarot deck, the kind the carnie mystics used. He didn’t like the sight of those either; most of the folks in the medium rackets were okay, but he’d met a couple that had made his skin shrivel.

He looked back at Musante and said, “I haven’t done a single thing that was out of line with Powell.”

“Maybe yes. Maybe no. His lady like the shape of you? You’re a big guy, lots of muscle, and your face ain’t bad. She spend some time looking you over?”

“Haven’t noticed,” Butch replied. That was true enough. “Only met the lady once and she seemed happy with her situation.”

Musante walked to the corner of the room where a rickety wooden table leaned against the wall. He snatched up a bottle, pulled its cork and threw back a long slug. Then he reached into the front pocket of his trousers and lifted out a package, no bigger than a pulp novel, wrapped in brown paper.

“I guess I’m ready as I’m ever gonna get,” he said.

“You really think you’re gonna get snuffed?”

“Been around a long time, Butchy,” Musante said. “I know what I know.”

“You’re nuts,” Butch said, stepping forward. He reached for the package and noticed the tremble in his fingers as he waited for Musante to hand it over. “If you really thought that, you’d have skipped.”

“Where am I gonna go?” Musante asked. He pushed the parcel into Butch’s hand and stepped away. “I got this shack and a place on Lake Wisconsin. Had a lady friend up that way. Saw the place and figured it wasn’t bad at all, dropped the cash on it right then. Can’t go there and can’t stay here. Can’t hide this face anywhere they won’t find it. A candle’s only useful while it’s got wax. After that, nothing but a burnt bit of string, and that’s me Butchy. They lit me when I was a kid and I’m all burned down, just waiting for one last hot puff of air.”

Butch felt certain Musante was the one pushing hot air. No man just surrendered to death; it didn’t matter how little chance he had. Butch had heard this kind of tough talk his entire life—from schoolyard friends and naval buddies—but it was talk, empty chatter. You see a gun coming for you and you run or you duck, or you try to talk your way around. You don’t walk toward it.

The package in Butch’s hand weighed so little; it could have been empty. And what if it was? What would that mean? After another uneasy glance at the tarot deck, he shook the package. The contents made no sound, nothing knocked against the sides of the box. What could be so important? It wasn’t heavy enough to be a meaningful amount of cash or dope. He stared at the brown paper enveloping the thing as if a clue as to what was inside might appear there. What if Musante wasn’t crazy?

Butch slid the parcel into the pocket of his overcoat.

Musante stepped around him. The ugly little man walked with his shoulders back, his chest pushed out, like a cocksure grappler strutting the ring. At the front door, he grasped the handle and gave it a twist.

“Hey,” Butch said, unable to shake the shawl of dread from his shoulders, “wait a minute.”

“Nice knowing you,” Musante said as he pulled open the door.

Butch didn’t even hear the gunshot. One moment Musante was speaking to him and the next the man stumbled back, following a mist of his own blood. Musante dropped hard to the carpet. The next shot Butch did hear. It popped like a snapping twig, and the second it sounded Musante’s body twitched with the bullet’s impact, and then fell motionless.

Butch stood in shock, disbelieving. Musante, the son of a bitch, had done just what he’d said he would. He’d known death waited outside and he hadn’t done a thing to avoid it. How? It wasn’t sane. Butch couldn’t figure it.

And there was no time to put it together now, not unless he wanted to join Musante on the floorboards.

Butch spun on his heels and charged through the small dining room toward the kitchen. The bare fixture cast a glare of light over faded yellow wallpaper and wooden flooring so old every plank had cracked like the fingernails of a corpse. Ahead of him was the back door, a simple sheet of wood painted gray, and he made for it with every ounce of speed he could muster.

The door cracked open before him, but instead of rethinking his direction, Butch threw coal on the fire and put more speed in his step. The guy who’d shot Musante was still behind him somewhere, possibly over the front threshold and making his way across the living room. Butch knew his only chance was straight ahead.

Then he saw the second man just beyond the opening door, and then it was thrown wide. Butch caught the impression of a face beneath a cream-colored fedora: rounded cheeks, black mustache, eyes growing wide and white as Butch barreled down. The visitor held a .38, but when he tried to swing the gun for aim, the doorjamb got in the way.

Butch bent at the waist and collided with the shooter, burying his shoulder in the guy’s gut, doubling him over with a blast of breath and a pained grunt. Once he felt the weight of the man against him, Butch uncoiled and launched the shooter off of the threshold. The guy soared, clearing the porch and coming down hard on a pile of bricks barely hidden by the first snow of winter.

Butch followed him off of the porch and landed at a run. He kept his footing in the slick accumulation and made for the fence at the back of Musante’s yard, never slowing and never looking back. Gunfire sounded behind him and a chunk of snowy fence popped away like a kernel of hot corn. Another gunshot and Butch felt white heat rip the edge of his ear. Then he threw himself over the fence, clearing it by a good four inches, and he flew and he thought he might never hit the ground, but then he did hit the ground, and he hit it hard enough to punch the wind out of his chest. A rock dug painfully into his hip, and for a moment he thought he’d taken a serious hit, but when he rolled away, he discovered his leg still worked and the pain was already receding. He scrabbled to get his footing on the icy ground and several more shots rang out, but they came nowhere near him. The shooter hadn’t even reached the fence yet.

Butch climbed to his feet and dashed across a junk-strewn alley and through the back door of a tenement house. He ran the streets without pause in a zig-zag pattern into the center of downtown.

The wind cut and scraped. The snow kept falling.

• • •

The killer stared at the fence, wondering how he’d missed a guy the size of Butch Cardinal. His heart pounded like pony hooves in his chest. He sucked in the icy air and pushed the hat back off his brow, scratched his neck just below his ear before replacing the Smith & Wesson in its holster. Done with the fence, he turned on his heels and caught sight of Lennon, still sprawled out on the pile of bricks, and it took him a moment to realize Lennon wasn’t moving, The killer rolled his eyes with annoyance. Leaning over the body, he cracked his palm against Lennon’s cheek and told him to snap out of it, but Lennon didn’t move.
Peachy,
he thought with irritation. He shoved his fat fingers under Lennon’s jaw and found a pulse ticking away.

After, he returned to Musante’s kitchen, took another look at the man in the back yard and shook his head.
Pussy,
he thought. Then he lifted the phone from its cradle and dialed.

When a young female voice came on the line, he said, “This is Detective Conrad.” He read off Musante’s address and said, “Send backup, the coroner, and an ambulance. Officer down.”

Then he hung up and walked into the living room and looked down at Lonnie Musante. As he’d done with his partner, Conrad jammed his fingers under the lowlife’s jaw and felt around for a pulse. The skin was already going cold, and that was good enough for him. He pulled the weathered Mauser from his pocket. Since there was no way to plant the weapon on Cardinal, now, he wiped it down with his tie and dropped it on the floor. At first he didn’t like the placement, so he kicked the ugly gun with the toe of his shoe, scooted it a little farther from the body.

Conrad returned to the back yard, where he stood on the porch, looking at his unconscious partner. He figured he should do something, but he wasn’t a fucking doctor. The stupid son of a bitch wasn’t even supposed to be there.