The Butcher's Son (16 page)

So we just had time to exchange quick encapsulated bits of news and hung up, promising to talk later in the week.

My dinner with Bob was nice, and I think it did us both a lot of good. Up until the night of the Dog Collar fire, we’d never spent any time together except as a foursome. He and I had usually spent a lot of time talking with one another while Chris and Ramón did the same, but it was different to be just the two of us. I got the distinct impression we were going to become pretty good friends.

Bob’s big news of the evening was that he had heard at long last from his insurance company, and it seemed they were fairly close to getting off the fence—although he still wasn’t sure which side they’d come down on. I told him about my weekend, leaving out the part where Kevin crawled into bed with me, and of my growing Reptile House fascination with the whole Rourke family. I also, of course, didn’t mention that Patrick was alive.

*

C.C., apparently suffering from selective short-term amnesia, came blustering through the office on Tuesday morning, nearly knocking me over as I headed back from the copy machine with a stack of press releases. I didn’t expect an “excuse me” but thought he perhaps might have recognized me as the guy who’d just given up his weekend for the team. Silly me.

Then, about ten seconds after I’d returned to my desk, my phone rang.

“I want to see you in my office.”

I did my little knocking-twice routine and got the usual curt “Come.”

I took my usual stance—emphasis on
stance
—just inside the door, about halfway between it and C.C.’s enormous desk. Its polished top contained one telephone, one Rolodex, one mahogany thermidor, one photo of Mrs. C.C. and C.C Junior, for whom I had the utmost sympathy, one pen holder with pen, and one sheet of paper, to give the impression C.C. was busily at work. I rather suspected it was always the same sheet of paper but never got close enough to check.

“You’re having dinner with Charles McNearny tonight,” he said.

Yes, I know, I thought, but I’d learned C.C. had an aversion to question marks. I think he thought it would make him appear vulnerable.

“The Imperator, no less. You’re swimming with some pretty big fishes now, Hardesty, and you’d damned well better not do anything to embarrass this firm.”

Does that mean I can’t wear my bib overalls? I said nothing.

“The important thing for you to understand here is that what Charles McNearny says in regards to what will or will not be done to promote the chief is the way it will be. If you disagree with anything he says, you just keep your mouth shut and nod your head. You got that?”

“Got it.”

He gave me the palm-down flick of his fingers that so subtly indicated our lesson for the day was over. I turned and walked out the door without looking back.

*

I arrived at the Imperator at exactly seven o’clock.
Of course, I’d gotten to the place fifteen minutes earlier, parked in a public garage, and just sat there for awhile in order to time my entrance to the minute.

I must admit I was impressed. It reeked of elegance but didn’t overpower you with it. Lots of heavy, richly carved wood, soft lighting, walls hung with pictures you knew automatically were not prints, thick burgundy carpets with a subtle blue pattern of some sort. I stepped to the maître d’s podium, announced myself and asked if Mr. McNearny or Reverend Rourke had arrived. I was impressed again when, although he looked the stereotype, he was actually friendly and smiled readily.

Since seven p.m. is practically the break of day for most of the Imperator’s patrons, the dining room was relatively empty. As soon as the maître d’ led me down the short staircase into the main room, I spotted Kevin seated with a man I’d seen only in photographs. Both men stood up as I approached the table. Kevin and I shook hands, and then I was introduced to Charles McNearny.

“Dick Hardesty,” McNearny said, voice deep with warmth and good fellowship. “A pleasure to meet you!”

“Thank you, Mr. McNearny, it’s a pleasure meeting you, too.”

As we sat, McNearny gave a nod to no one in particular, and a waiter appeared as if out of a genie’s lamp, a bottle of wine wrapped like a baby in white linen cradled in one arm.

“I hope you don’t mind,” McNearny said, nodding again to set the waiter into his uncorking and decanting ritual, “but I’ve always enjoyed this particular vintage and took the liberty of ordering it for us.”

I took stock of Charles McNearny. Deeply tanned, impeccably groomed and dressed; quite handsome by corporate boardroom standards. I recognized immediately that he gave new meaning to the word
confidence
. He practically oozed it, and it was undoubtedly the reason he headed up one of the state’s most powerful lobbying organizations.

“So, tell me, Dick,” he began, “are you married?”

“Separated,” I said truthfully. I caught Kevin’s sidelong glance, but it was so swift I hoped McNearny hadn’t noticed.

*

The dinner conversation was casual, wide-ranging
at first and finally funneling down to the chief’s campaign. The bulk of it was between Kevin and McNearny, of course, since they’d known each other for some time. My own contributions were mainly generalizations.

The food was superb; the service a perfect balance of anticipation of needs without being intrusive. When the dessert cart was brought over, filled with such wonders as to make the arteries harden just by looking at them, I was too full to take advantage of it, and opted just for coffee, as did Kevin and, after encouraging us to change our minds about dessert, McNearny.

Finally, McNearny decided it was time to get to the point.

“Kevin tells me you don’t think too much of Chief Rourke’s public image.”

Pushing aside a mental image of C.C. toppling over in apoplexy, I plunged right in.

“It’s not what I think that matters. It’s what the rest of the voting public thinks and, frankly, since the chief is so…private a person…the average man on the street only knows what he reads in the newspapers and sees on TV. To him, the chief is little more than an imposingly authoritarian figure in a police chief’s uniform—with all the negative images those things bring to mind.”

McNearny smiled.

“You’re absolutely right. Kevin told me you aren’t afraid to tell it like it is.”

I wasn’t quite sure whether I could breathe a sigh of relief yet or not, so I held off.

“I’ve known Chief Rourke for a good long time now, and I sincerely believe he is exactly the man this state desperately needs in the governor’s mansion. But I have no illusions about how he comes across to the average voter. The Sunday Supplement article you and Carlton did was exactly the kind of thing we need to…well, to show there’s a human being under that uniform. The timing could not have been worse with the bar fire incident, but that could not have been foreseen, and we have to move on.”

He took a drink of his coffee then carefully set the cup on its saucer before looking at me.

“Exactly how do you picture this fundraiser scenario?”

Once again I had the mildly disturbing feeling I might actually be helping the chief, but ego does strange things, so I forged ahead.

“Obviously, it would have to be for Salvation’s Door, not for the chief’s campaign coffers.” I didn’t know whether McNearny was aware the chief owned the building, and that any improvements that might result would ultimately benefit the chief and thereby provide a solid basis for conflict of interest charges. If he did know, he was shrewd enough to recognize that little time bomb and would jump right in, but he said nothing.

I thought Kevin might take the opportunity to mention it, but he didn’t.

Whether the chief would see the danger was another matter altogether, but I suspected he might just be arrogant and self-serving enough to think no one would find out.

“The actual event could be as low-key or as big a deal as you and the chief’s other advisers might choose to make it,” I continued. “I would suggest the low-key approach, holding the event at the shelter itself rather than at some ballroom. Let those attending see just how the homeless actually live—I’m sure most of them have no idea.

“Maybe even, instead of a caterer, serve the same lunch the homeless receive, which I can attest is pretty good, given what Kevin has to work with. The important thing is that the public see the chief in surroundings not directly linked to his job. It would also shore up his image as a family man, showing his support for his son, and it certainly would help Kevin continue his work for the homeless.”

McNearny sat nodding as I talked, and I noted Kevin was looking at him intently, as if watching for his reaction.

“Interesting,” McNearny said at last, and I saw Kevin almost imperceptibly relax. “Of course, there are certain problems we’d have to overcome.

“One of the chief’s greatest handicaps, I think we all realize, is that, while he is a decisive leader, his intense devotion to his duty and sense of purpose makes him appear…well…uncomfortable in actual face-to-face meetings with people he does not know well. We realized going in this would be an obstacle, and I even went so far as to recommend he hire someone to help him to be more at ease in group situations in which he is not giving orders.

“But I think we might be able to do something with this. Let me talk it over with a few of the others, and we’ll let you know.”

The meeting…dinner…whatever it was supposed to be broke up shortly thereafter. Kevin had to return to the shelter to take care of some unfinished business, and McNearny said he had an early flight to the capitol the next day to lobby a group of senators for a proposed highway in the state’s relatively undeveloped north. We left the restaurant together and went our separate ways. I got the feeling Kevin wanted to talk with me privately, but he said nothing as we shook hands and said our goodnights.

*

I was more wound up from the meeting than I’d
anticipated and decided that, rather than return directly home, I’d stop in at Griff’s, a piano bar on the way, for a quick one to help me sleep. It was only a little after nine-thirty when I arrived at the bar, found a parking place easily on the nearly deserted street, and went in.

As I’d expected, the place was very sparsely populated—maybe five guys at the bar and three around the piano, where one of my favorites, Guy Prentice, was holding sway. I ordered my drink and noticed a familiar large, dark form at one of the stools by the piano.

I walked over, smiled and nodded to Guy, who returned both, and sat at the stool next to Tondelaya/Teddy, who was engrossed in conversation with an anorexic-looking bleached blond. As I said, Guy is one of my—and Chris’s—favorite bar performers. He knows every song—melody and words—from every musical produced on Broadway from 1922 to the present. He loves the campier numbers and spending an evening listening to him is always a delight.

The blond next to T/T drained his glass, pushed off the barstool, and they exchanged over-the-top “Mmmmm-
wah
mmmmm-
wah
” cheek kisses. With regal waves to Guy, the bartender, and the room in general, he made his way to the door and disappeared. T/T settled back on his stool and, for the first time, noticed my presence. He gave a melodramatic jerk backward, eyes wide open.

“Why, chile, where did you come from?”

“The stork brought me, I’m told,” I said.

T/T slapped at my arm and grinned, then looked around.

“Where’s your other half?”

“He’s in New York.”

“Oh, that lucky boy! When’s he comin’ back?”

I tried to be as casual as possible when I said, “He’s not. He got a great promotion, and we decided he should take it.”

T/T laid his hand gently on my arm, his eyes wide in a look of surprise.

“You mean you two…?”

I nodded.

“Well, darlin’, I’m sorry. I truly am. But look on the bright side. Somewhere out there’s two very lucky guys who’re goin’ to find the both of you.”

That was really nice of him to say, I thought.

“Thanks, Teddy.” Noticing his glass was nearly empty, I said, “Can I buy you a drink?”

His face broke into a broad grin.

“Why, of
course
you can, darlin’.”

I caught the bartender’s attention and pointed to T/T’s glass. He nodded and turned to make the drink.

“Something you’d like to hear, Dick?” Guy asked.

“Yeah,” T/T said. “You play this boy ‘Maybe This Time.’”

Guy raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question, and I gave him a small grin and a nod. It certainly wasn’t the song I’d have chosen under the circumstances, but T/T meant well, and I appreciated the gesture. T/T and Guy sang it together, with T/T’s large arm draped around my shoulder.

Guy then segued into a Cabaret medley as the bartender came over with T/T’s drink.

“Thank you, darlin’,” T/T said, raising his glass in a toast. I raised mine and tapped it against his, and we sat quietly for a few minutes listening to Guy play.

“So when, exactly, is Bacchus’s Lair going to reopen?” I asked.

“A week this coming Friday, I hear. Can’t be too early for me. I don’t like bein’ out of work.”

“I can imagine.” Another moment of silence, and I let my curiosity get the better of me for the ten thousandth time.

“Who actually owns Bacchus’s Lair?”

T/T shrugged.

“I honestly don’t know, darlin’. Whoever it is, I’ve never met him. Dave Lee runs the place. He’s a good manager, but he sort of keeps his distance.”

“Like Judy.”

T/T gave me a strange look, but said nothing.

“What
do
you know about Judy?” I asked.

T/T took a quick drink and set his glass carefully down on the napkin in front of him. He didn’t look directly at me as he said, “I don’t know nothin’ about Judy, darlin’. Nothin’ at all, and I prefer to leave it that way.”

Chapter 13

Wednesday morning I got to my desk to find a
phone message from Kevin requesting that I stop by the shelter with PR materials for him to take on his next speaking-for-the-chief jaunt. I suspected he really wanted to talk about dinner with McNearny, or perhaps to offer some sort of explanation for his little bed-hopping adventure at the SAPC meeting.