The Butcher (16 page)

“Of course I do.”

“Mind if I ask you to take your shirt off?”

Matt blinked. “Right now? Are you serious?”

“Trust us,” Karen said with a smile.

Looking around the bar, which was empty save for the three of them, Matt got up off his bar stool with a sigh. He quickly removed his shirt and tie, and soon was wearing nothing on top but a black sleeveless undershirt.

“I told you,” Bernard said to Karen. “Look at those biceps.”

“Oh, I'm looking,” Karen said, her eyes roaming over every inch of Matt's torso. “And so will every other woman in America.”

“Now,
this
is your look,” Bernard said to Matt. “Sleeveless shirt, pair of jeans. You always show the guns. Always.”

Matt was flattered, if a little uncomfortable. “That's fine. Can I put my shirt back on now?”

“If you insist,” Karen said with a wink. He felt his face flush.

“But remember, it's a reality show, so while your looks matter, so does your personality.” Bernard's tone was prissy but professional. “How you interact with your staff and the customers and the other food trucks owners will make all the difference. The key is to commit to whatever personality you decide to show. Like the whole hard-ass thing? With your looks? Hot,” he said. “Very hot.”

“I'm fine with all of it,” Matt said. “As long as we still focus on the food. And I still have a restaurant to run, don't forget, so I'll need to know what days we're filming way in advance.”

“Of course we'll focus on the food.” Bernard sounded insulted. “We're the Fresh Network,
hello
. The food is always the focus, but the people are what sells it.”

“We'll also need more background on you,” Karen said. “Personal stuff. On the Food Truck Challenge, they mentioned that your grandfather is the former chief of police of Seattle and I love the little cameo he gave at the end. He has such a commanding personality. Any chance he'd want to be involved with the show?”

Instantly, Matt tensed. “He's a colorful guy, the Chief. But I highly doubt it.”

“The Chief, that's right!” Karen said, clapping her hands together. “I love that. We were thinking he'd be awesome. He's got a very authoritative presence, so alpha male.”

“Like you,” Bernard said. “But unlike you, he'd be more of a spice instead of the main dish. A little Chief here, a little Chief there.”

“He reminds me of someone . . .” Karen paused, thinking. “Oh, what's his name, it's right on the tip of my tongue . . .”

Bernard snapped his fingers. “Clint Eastwood. He's practically a dead ringer, with that square jaw and that steely squint.”

“And the cigars,” Matt added. “He never goes anywhere without his cherry-flavored cigars.”

“Even better,” Karen said. “So do you think he'd be interested?”

Matt forced himself to smile, but it felt tight and unnatural. The Chief, a serial killer and now Fresh Network star? How much crazier could things get? “I really don't think so,” he said. “It was a fluke that he made an appearance on the Food Truck Challenge at all. I'm not sure he'd want to do a regular thing.”

“We'd obviously pay him well,” Bernard said. “Worth a shot, right?”

“He definitely doesn't need the money, but I'll talk to him.”

“Bring him to dinner tonight,” Bernard said. “And I hear you have a girlfriend, right? Who's a published author? Bring her, too.”

Caught off guard, Matt paused while he figured out what he wanted to say. “Yeah, I don't know about that, guys. Sam . . . she's not exactly the reality TV type. Sorry, I mean
unscripted television
,” he said when he saw the look on Bernard's face. “And things aren't exactly ideal with us right now.”

Karen nodded. Did she look pleased? Matt thought so.

“I understand, Matt, but romantic challenges can add a really great level of drama to the show if that's something you're both willing to be open about.” The producer leaned forward, revealing a hint of olive-skinned cleavage beneath her crisp white blouse. “We all want the show to be successful, don't we? Just talk to her. Maybe she'd appreciate the publicity it would give her since she's a writer. You never know, she might surprise you.”

“Fine, I'll talk to her, too.” Matt looked at his watch. “The lunch rush is starting soon. Is there anything else? Or can it wait till dinner tonight?”

“It can wait,” Karen said. “But we want you to know, Matt, that the Fresh Network is really excited about having you on board. You're going to be a big star.”

Matt couldn't help but smile. The feeling he had right now was almost impossible to describe. Maybe it was because the producers had been kissing his ass for the past hour, but it felt like every bone in his body was tingling. He could almost hear the clicking of everything he'd ever wanted snapping right into place.

He really was going to be a star. And to think he'd actually considered turning himself in, and throwing it all away.

PJ Wu who?

There wasn't a damned thing wrong with Edward's nose, thank you very much.

His eyesight might not be as crisp as it used to be, and his hearing wasn't as sharp, but his nose was still one hundred percent functional at eighty years old. Marisol had always said he had a nose like a wolfhound, and Edward had never disagreed. He was a hunter, and hunters were born with a naturally keen sense of smell.

The only downside was that he couldn't shut it off. He could close his eyes or stick headphones over his ears, but his goddamned nose kept right on working. Which was a real drawback when the whole bus seemed to smell like Bengay lotion and Shalimar perfume.

The sign-up sheet for the day trip to Tulalip had been posted a week earlier, and it filled fast like it always did. The Sweetbay Village Retirement Residence had a full-time activities director, a perky young thing in her early thirties with double-Ds and a mop of curly black hair. Kyla Murray's sole job was to keep the seniors amused several times a week with games of
charades and Pictionary (for the old fogies who liked to stand), bingo and gin rummy (for those who didn't), and round robin tennis (for the active folks). And once every two weeks, there was an organized day trip of some sort. When Edward had seen that it was for the big Indian casino north of Seattle, he'd signed up immediately. You had to be quick; the sign-up sheets for day trips were full within a few hours. Village residents liked getting out and about.

Edward enjoyed a good casino once in a while, but that wasn't why he was going.

His seatmate on the bus was a fidgety old fart named Donald Martini, and it was all Edward could do not to break the man's neck. Martini, reeking of Old Spice, had plopped himself down into the aisle seat and had nodded off within sixty seconds. By the time another minute passed, he'd elbowed Edward twice already. When the man's bony elbow dug into his ribs a third time, Edward placed a hand on his seatmate's skinny arm and spoke in a low voice.

“I'll kill you, my friend.”

“What's that, Edward?”

“I said try and be still, my friend.”

Martini looked instantly apologetic. “Sorry, Edward. I think I need my dosage adjusted. I've been a goddamned spaz all week.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“Sad about old Greg, huh?”

“Damned shame.” Edward spoke in his most agreeable voice. “Terrible accident. A reminder for all of us to be careful. We break too easily nowadays.”

The funeral for Greg Bonner had taken place the day before, and a bus had been hired by the Village to take anyone to the funeral home who wanted to pay their respects. Bonner had been found in the kitchen
the morning after he died, bright and early, right where Edward had left him. An ambulance had been called, but not the police. It was clear he'd slipped and fallen. No reason to be alarmed.

After all, old folks died in old folks' homes every day.

The bus hummed along and the vibrations weren't unpleasant. The upbeat chatter that had peppered the air for the first twenty minutes of the bus ride was finally beginning to die down. All around him, gray heads began to loll as his fellow Villagers began to nod off, Donald Martini included.

Looking out the window, Edward watched the traffic go by, then finally closed his own eyes. He was looking forward to Tulalip. It had been thirty years or so since he'd last been there, and it had been fun.

The thing about Indian reservations is that they had an abundance of Indian girls. And Lord knew Edward had never minded Indian girls. He smiled as he recalled the last time he'd been there. It was a fun memory.

AUGUST 1983

He'd spotted her the minute she'd come into the bar. Young with a plain face, the heavy makeup was the only reason she passed for pretty. Cheap clothes showed off her nubile body in all the right spots. The insolent look in her eyes masked her loneliness and need for love. She couldn't have been more than fifteen.

She was perfect.

The bartender eyed her as she sidled up to the bar, but said nothing. She took a seat beside Edward and crossed her legs, her cutoff denim skirt riding up to show her lean, tanned thighs.

“Buy me a drink?” Sweet, husky voice. Dark eyes thickly lined with
navy kohl looked up at him. Foundation a shade too light was caked over the blemishes on her forehead and chin, and her lips, coated with a frosty pink lipstick, parted to reveal even, pearly teeth.

“Sure,” Edward said. “What'll you have?”

“Shot of Jameson,” she said to the bartender.

The man nodded, poured, then placed the shot glass on the counter between them. She tossed it back like a pro. Edward watched carefully for her reaction, but there wasn't one. No grimacing, gagging, or coughing. A solid drinker at fifteen.
Indian girls
. It seemed to be in their DNA.

“Another?” he said, and she nodded. The bartender reappeared and the act was repeated.

She couldn't have been much taller than five two. Maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. Chipped glitter nail polish on tiny fingers. She had pretty little hands. Four earrings in her right ear, three in her left.

“What's your name?” she said.

“Ed.”

“I'm Agatha.” Her finger brushed his forearm. “My friends call me Aggie. You can call me that if you want to.”

“Okay, Aggie.”

“So how come you're here?” Dark eyes were now a tad glazed, whereas a moment ago they'd been clear. The whiskey had kicked in.

“Just passing through.”

“Going to Canada?”

“Yep.”

“Everybody's always going to Canada. What's so interesting about Canada?”

Edward smiled. “For me, it's where the work is.”

She smiled back. “Truck driver?”

“Salesman.”

She seemed satisfied with that. “Quarter for the juke box, Ed?”

He fished one out and handed it to her. She took the coin, her fingers grazing his a little longer than was necessary. He felt a small tingle of pleasure. She would do just fine.

A moment later Blondie's “Heart of Glass” came over the loudspeakers. Agatha was back, standing in front of him, swaying hips that still needed time to develop into the curves she was destined to one day have.

But, of course, wouldn't.

“Dance with me, Ed.”

He took her hand and eased off his bar stool, allowing her to lead him to the tiny dance floor. There were maybe a dozen people in the bar. Edward had never been here before, and would never come here again after tonight, and so he was pleased he'd picked a good spot. The lighting was extremely dim, the air permeated with cigarette smoke. A man and a woman in their early thirties huddled in the corner, kissing furiously. An affair, clearly. The rest of the patrons were middle-aged men, drinking alone or in pairs, bleary-eyed and world-weary and not paying any attention to the man dancing with a girl who looked young enough to be his granddaughter.

Aggie moved up against him, her narrow hips thrusting against his thighs. She was so petite he could see the top of her head. Her hair was freshly washed and smelled like Head & Shoulders. Her sticky-sweet perfume reminded him of birthday cake. Skinny arms circled his waist. He moved a little to the music. She moved a lot.

A minute later, she looked up. “You like me, don't you, Ed?”

“I most certainly do.”

“I can tell.” Her flat stomach pressed against his crotch. “I can feel it.”

“Can't help it. You're a beautiful girl.”

She smiled. “Want to hang out somewhere else?” She pulled him down so her lips were at his ear. “I'm not expensive. I know a place where we can be alone. I do everything. And I mean everything.” She wiggled her butt, and her hot breath on his neck sent another tingle up his spine.

“How much for a few hours?” he said.

She pulled back to look up into his face, her smile growing wider. “A few hours? Serious?”

He nodded.

“Like . . . gee . . . like . . . two hundred?”

“Okay, let's go.”

Her surprise and glee were obvious. She bounced a little, grabbing his hand again. It was undoubtedly the most money she'd make all week. “We'll take the back way out.”

There was a door to the left of the dance floor with a big
EXIT
sign overhead. Edward followed her out, sneaking a quick glance over his shoulder before stepping through to the fresh air outside. Nobody was watching them. The bartender was busy chatting up an older woman who'd just come in. The way she was dressed, she could have been Agatha in twenty-five years.

Sorry, he meant
Aggie
. That's what her friends called her, and they were about to become very good friends.

“Hey, Aggie,” Edward said once they were outside. “My car's just parked over there. Why don't we go for a drive? It'll be more comfortable.”