Butcher's Road (33 page)

The men behind the hotel’s front desk leaned close to one another to confer. Butch assumed he was the topic of conversation. Figuring he had enough trouble at this point, he pushed on the door and returned to the rain.

• • •

Hollis’s home was unnervingly quiet when he entered. In his room he stripped off his suit jacket and his shirt, and then realized he had no change of clothing. The wound at his chest, two inches long, had cauterized instantly, but blisters had formed at its edges. He touched these. Winced. A single red welt, hardly a burn at all, marred his forearm where Keane had pressed his blade. The injuries were a minor annoyance, likely to heal in no time at all. But he couldn’t leave the house in his ruined shirt. He was still a wanted man, and the last thing he needed were eyes lingering on him, putting together violence and his face.

Hollis must have spare shirts upstairs, Butch reasoned. He climbed the spiral staircase and crossed to Hollis’s bedroom, where he found the man standing before a wardrobe. He wore only a pair of hunter-green trousers and smiled as he saw Butch in the doorway.

“Got a deluge, huh?” he asked.

“Sure,” Butch said. Hollis’s powerful musculature, despite having softened over the years, remained impressive, and Butch found himself distracted. Having always been as smooth as a child above the waist, he found himself fascinated by the density and richness of the hair covering Hollis’s torso. When he realized he was staring, he forced himself to look away. “Yeah.”

“Happens a lot this time of year,” Rossington said. “I imagine you didn’t find the umbrellas in the stand downstairs?”

“No, I left early. Wasn’t thinking about the weather.”

“What happened there?” Hollis asked, indicating the wound on Butch’s chest with a nod of his chin.

“An accident,” Butch said. A momentary flash of image startled him. He saw Keane on the end of a knife, flames guttering up around his chin, shooting like fountains from his eyes.

“As long as you’re not badly injured. You’ve spent enough time using this place as a hospital room. It’s about time you started enjoying your visit.”

Though he saw no chance of that, Butch thanked him.

Hollis crossed the room and eyed the wound closely. “Are you sure you’re okay? This looks nasty.”

“No, I’m good,” Butch said. The scent of Hollis’s shaving soap put him off guard. It was a familiar brand. Butch used it himself. His father had used it. He took a step back. “I was just wondering if you might have a spare shirt? Mine’s about done in.”

“Of course,” Hollis said. “I should have realized you couldn’t wear the same clothes day after day.”

Hollis displayed good spirits for the first time since Lowery’s departure. His smile was friendly and his eyes were lit with the anticipation of having an enjoyable project ahead of him. He crossed the room and clapped Butch on the shoulder. His chest brushed lightly against Butch’s arm as he did so. “I have some suits from a few years back that might just about fit you.”

Butch’s face went red. His heartbeat stampeded up his throat and into his ears.

“I really just need a shirt,” Butch said. “The suit will dry okay.”

“Don’t be silly. Any luck with that list I gave you?”

“A bit.”

“So you’ve found something?”

“Nothing concrete,” Butch said. “But I think I’m on the right track.”

“Well, fine,” Hollis said. “I keep my older clothes, the ones I wore before my gut took over, in the room at the end of the hall.”

Butch followed his host into the hallway. Hollis gave him a crisp white shirt and a fresh collar, and the man chatted amiably as Butch changed into the garment. As Butch examined a rust-colored tie, Hollis said, “I was thinking of taking a night off from the club.”

“Yeah?”

“I thought we could use a night out. A
gent’s
night. We can forget about this Chicago business for a few hours and gab about the ring.”

“Sure,” Butch said. “Sounds good.”

Hollis slapped him on the back again. “Excellent. We’ll have supper at Galatoire’s and see where that takes us.” Hollis retrieved a forest-green fedora with a brown band from the shelf of the armoire and handed it to Butch. He then reached into the back of the wardrobe and removed a matching trench coat. “And be sure to take one of the umbrellas from the stand if you’re going back out. These rains can go on for days.”

“Thank you,” said Butch, fitting the hat on his head. It sat well on his brow, but he’d gone without wearing one for so long it felt awkward, restrictive. “But I think I’m in for the day. Haven’t quite shaken the bug. I’ll see you at dinner.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Hollis told him. “Good luck.”

After Hollis left the bungalow, Butch rested on the guest-room bed and stared at the ceiling. The sight of Delbert Keane’s last moments played behind his eyes, but it wasn’t alone there. In addition to the despondent man’s suicide, Butch thought about Hollis, about the way the brush of his chest had brought a flush to his face. Keane’s shirt erupted in flame. Hollis Rossington grasped him by the arms and pulled him close. Fire plumed from a dead man’s eyes and firm lips pressed against his as a strong hand slid down his belly and…

Seward had told him that he could still find joy in the world; that for some men it was the only knowable magic. For
some
men that might be true, but Butch knew that additional magics littered the world. He’d seen them. He’d felt them. But in that moment on a bed in Hollis Rossington’s home, he believed that joy might be the one magic that would undo him completely.

D
eath makes angels of us all.

Lennon thought this as he slammed the highball glass down on the polished counter of the bar in the banquet room of McMaster’s Chophouse. The room was full. Beneath the chandeliers and between the finely paneled walls, the place brimmed with police officers and low-level city officials, all of whom had turned out to celebrate the life and commiserate the death of Curtis Michael Conrad. All evening, whispers had been running through the room that the chief of police and the mayor would be attending Conrad’s funeral and making speeches. If that were true, the planting ceremony tomorrow would be a circus. Neither of the officials had known the detective; both were likely memorizing his name or jotting it down on note cards so they didn’t embarrass themselves. Conrad had little in the way of blood relations, at least as far as Lennon knew. He had mentioned a brother in Milwaukee, a furniture salesman if Lennon remembered correctly. No wife or kids. That made the politicians’ jobs all the easier because they wouldn’t have to share the microphone with civilians, men and women who weren’t part of the big machine, normal people who might not be able to lie with such abandon.

The bartender dropped ice in Lennon’s glass and then covered the cubes with a hefty pour of Canadian whiskey. Nodding to the bartender, he took the glass and turned back to the throng. So many black suits. So many polished shoes on the expensive crimson carpet. So much bullshit. They were supposed to be the city’s protectors, upholders of the law, and yet they stood around guzzling illegal booze, using it to toast the passing of a murderer.

A bland looking young man whom Lennon found vaguely familiar walked up and shook his hand and offered his apologies for Lennon’s loss. “Those fucking Paddies are going to wish they’d never been born,” the young man said. “Curt was one of the best. A fine detective.”

Lennon agreed and then excused himself. Obligation had brought him to the wake, but he wished he could find a place to hide, wished he could grab one of the whiskey bottles and vanish into a corner, so he could observe the ridiculous scene rather than be a part of it. He wanted to be on a train. He should have been on his way to New Orleans to find Butch Cardinal, to warn him. The urge to do something to strike back against the mockery this entire night represented, to throw the smallest wrench into the big machine’s gears, burned in his chest. But he couldn’t leave before the funeral. No way. There was no excuse good enough to get him out of that, not as the partner of the murdered man.

A round man with a bad toupee waddled up and stuck out a palm. Lennon heard more wonderful things about Curt Conrad. The porker in the cheap wig called Conrad “Upstanding,” and “Dedicated,” and “An example we should all aspire, too.” Lennon wanted to laugh in the man’s face, or maybe punch him in the throat, anything to shut down the torrent of unadulterated shit spilling over his plump, wet lips.

All evening, he’d thought that there had been some mistake. The stories and condolences and the wishes for a peaceful rest couldn’t have anything to do with the crooked son of a bitch who’d skulked through the station unshaven, more times than not with a drop of crusted egg yolk on his tie. A man who bragged about leaving bruised whores in alleyways once they’d finished him off. A man who hadn’t done an honest day’s work in years. A sloth. A slob. A murderer.

In death, Conrad had become a symbol of courage and honor. Hell, he’d become a fucking martyr. It was ludicrous, and it was disgusting. The entire façade confounded Lennon. Everyone in the room, or nearly so, knew that Conrad had been dirty. Many of them knew the darker streaks that ran beneath the grimy film of his personality, and yet they played this game. Why? Was it true generosity of spirit that compelled them to speak so highly of one so low, or were they simply wishing that others would say equally kind things of them when they went to the grave? With the mayor in attendance tomorrow, it was a certainty the press would be on hand, and they would spread the lie of Conrad’s valor across the state, possibly throughout the country, and a murderer would be mourned and heralded and those who remembered him would remember the name of a saint. Death was bleach and it burned away the stains, leaving nothing but white.

It makes us all angels,
he thought again.
What a crock.

Across the room, Captain Wenders spoke with Detective Glaser. The two men were already drunk, smiling, leaning on one another as they shared stories. Wenders looked up and noticed Lennon and his smile faded. He nodded solemnly and lifted his glass, a silent toast. Reflex caused Lennon to return the gesture, and then he veered left and lost himself in the crowd. But this was a mistake. Men gathered around him, patted his back, filled his ears with more manure. It occurred to Lennon that he was the closest thing to a widow Curt had left behind, and as such he was being given the full treatment.

Late in the morning, he’d received a wire from Edie, saying that she and the girls were settled in nicely but she wanted to come home. Lennon had crumpled the telegram and dropped it in the trash. He missed Bette and Gwen, missed them terribly, but he didn’t want them in the house either. With everything hanging over his head, he couldn’t imagine being a kind father.

Lennon guzzled the remainder of his drink, hoping to excuse himself from the group to get another. Someone at his side insisted Lennon stay. “I’ll get that for you,” a man said with so much sorrow in his voice it made Lennon grind his teeth.

There was no escape. His life—work, home—had become a rash. It covered him from head to toe, and Chicago offered no quarter from the prickly discomfort.

Tomorrow he’d be on a train to New Orleans. He’d leave the charade and the machine behind. He didn’t know if he could help Butch Cardinal, but it was enough for Lennon, at least in that moment, to know he was going to try.

Hollis Rossington and Butch Cardinal wore evening attire—dinner jackets and white waistcoats. Each had parted his hair impeccably, smoothing it against his scalp in sleek, oiled sheets. The large men cut impressive figures sitting at the table against the wall. Neither of them smiled. If anything, they seemed awkward in each other’s company, though they did their best to hide it.

Similarly well-dressed patrons occupied the other tables in Galatoire’s front dining room. Chair legs scraped over the small, white, hexagonal tiles. Hushed voices, like distant surf, murmured. The
click
and
clink
of silver on china and glasses meeting in toast, created a soft, syncopated rhythm. Enchanting scents from the kitchen and from fine cigars wafted through the room, and though the restaurant was lovely and the appetizers exceptional, Hollis found himself disappointed.

He’d expected something different from the evening. Galatoire’s was Hollis’s favorite restaurant, but all of the fond memories he attributed to the setting couldn’t breach the crust of disenchantment. Though he could hardly afford the extravagant restaurant, he’d thought a night out would loosen up his friend, get his mind off his troubles, but Butch had carried his distracting concerns across the Quarter, and they’d dropped down in the chair with him. Though the clothes Hollis had given him looked quite fine, Butch fidgeted with discomfort, running his fingers under his collar and rolling his shoulders as if trying to dislodge something captured beneath his jacket. They’d already consumed salads and bowls of a delicious turtle soup, but Hollis had yet to engage Butch in easy banter. All of the talk of the “good old days” had never emerged, despite his numerous prompts.