The Butcher's Son (21 page)

And Patrick. Why was I so intrigued with Patrick? The whole thing was none of my damned business. Leave Patrick to his own devices and let him bring the chief down on his own.

That anyone could be as evil as Kevin painted his brother was hard to believe, until you looked at the whole dysfunctional mess of a family. That Patrick might be as fucked-up in one direction as Kevin was in the other wasn’t that hard to accept. I just knew I had to know more about Patrick’s side of the story.

Dick Hardesty: Collector of Lost Souls.

Deciding the dishes could wait a while longer, I had another cigarette and went to bed.

*

Work had settled into a soporific routine. An endless string of press releases, press kits, head shots, a barrage of PR materials following every announced endorsement by some group or organization. A big to-do over the amazing and, from the chief’s camp’s ecstatic response, supposedly totally unexpected support of the National Rifle Association, the Christians for Democracy, the American Rights Foundation, Families for Justice, and other equally open-minded organizations. Each endorsement was ranked right up there with the Second Coming in importance to the campaign and heralded as such.

McNearny played puppeteer to Kevin’s increasingly frenetic marionette as more and more time was demanded of him. Sean had caught a bad cold on one of the day trips, so Sue-Lynn, at least, was able to take some time out to care for the baby, while Kevin continued his endless string of speeches.

He had, however, asserted himself to the point of gaining a grudging concession that he would not be scheduled for engagements from Friday evening through Sunday noon. I think even McNearny had some vague idea of how hard he was pushing and didn’t want to risk losing Kevin altogether.

Kevin called me at home Saturday morning. He sounded a little tired, and more than a little depressed.

“I know it’s the weekend, Dick, and I really shouldn’t be bothering you at home, but do you suppose we might get together for a few minutes? For coffee, maybe?”

I could tell from his tone of voice that it didn’t involve more calls from Patrick, and realized he probably just wanted someone to talk to. Hey, I was his friend, right? Ah, well, fuck the “no mixing business and pleasure.” It might not necessarily be a pleasure, but I figured I owed him something.

There was the laundry to do, and groceries to buy, and that damned sink full of dishes, but…

“Sure, Kev. Do you want me to come to the shelter?”

“No. If I stay here, I’ll feel like I have to work. The staff can handle lunch. I just need to relax for a little while. What’s that coffee shop on the river, the one with the big windows?”

“Everly’s?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Would that be alright?”

“That will be fine. In about half an hour?”

*

On the way to the diner, I once again had a little
heart-to-heart with myself, wondering what I thought I was doing. Did I really want to get involved with Kevin on a personal level?

I was reminded of one of my favorite bits of graffiti. On a bathroom wall in one of the bars someone had written:
Tony’s a SLUT!
and under it someone else had added
Yes, but he can suck a golf ball through a garden hose!
Was I letting my memories of Kevin’s oral abilities sway my thinking? It wouldn’t be the first time my crotch had run away with my head.

But I rationalized that, while another round or two in the sack with him would be interesting, my main attraction was finding out more about Patrick and what he had in mind. The only way I was going to get to Patrick would be through Kevin.

*

Kevin was standing in front of Everly’s when I got
there, and we went in and found a table by the windows overlooking the river. He ordered coffee, and I opted for coffee and a piece of the banana crème pie I’d noticed in the bakery case when we walked in.

“So,” I asked as the waitress left to get my pie, “how are you doing?”

He smiled and shrugged.

“Okay, I guess. I’m used to talking in front of groups, but I much prefer to talk about the Lord and salvation than about the current governor’s shortcomings—though there are a lot of them,” he hastened to add, almost as though he was afraid his father or McNearny might be listening.

I couldn’t resist asking.

“Tell me, Kev, what do you do for fun?”

He looked at me as though the question had never been asked him before. It occurred to me that possibly it never had. He looked confused, and I could tell he had to think hard before answering.

“I read the Bible. And I really enjoy my work at the shelter—helping people brings me real joy.” He unconsciously played his tongue against the inside corner of his lower lip. “I…uh…I enjoy playing the piano, and…” For some strange reason, he blushed. “…and singing, when no one is around. And playing with Sean, of course. I can’t wait until he gets big enough for us to really do things together.”

“No sports?”

He thought a moment, then shook his head.

“I’m afraid I really don’t have the time. How about you?”

The waitress brought my pie, and I scooped up a large forkful before replying.

“I boxed some in high school and college.”

“Were you any good?”

“Well, I did make Golden Gloves. But after I got my nose broken the third time, I decided I’d better hang up the gloves for good.”

Kevin stared at my nose.

“It doesn’t look like it’s been broken.”

“The Fates were kind. But I can see it when I look. And I really do enjoy water-skiing. A friend of our—a friend of mine has a cottage on Lake Verde, and I used to spend a lot of time up there.”

He smiled wistfully.

“I’ve always wanted to go water-skiing, but my father emphasized what he considered the more ‘manly’ sports. Patrick and I both hated them. Especially hunting…” His gaze suddenly dropped, and he became very quiet.

“Nothing further from Patrick?” I asked and immediately regretted the insensitivity of the question.

He took a sip of his coffee and put it back on the saucer, shaking his head.

“No. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“I gather you haven’t told your father?”

Kevin once again looked shocked.

“Oh, my heavens, no! The only one I’ve told is you.” He looked at me. “
You
haven’t told anyone, have you?”

“Of course not, Kev. I made you a promise, and I’ll keep it.” As I said it, I sincerely hoped I meant it.

One thing I have never really learned to do, and that is to leave well-enough alone. I still had an awful lot of questions about Patrick, and Kevin was the only one who could even partially answer them.

“Kev, I hope you won’t mind my asking these things, but the more I know about Patrick, the better I…we…might be able to know what he’s planning to do next.”

He responded with a noncommittal shrug.

“Go ahead.”

The waitress appeared to ask if we needed anything else, and when we said “No” in unison, she placed the check on the table and went away. I used the time to try to formulate my questions in a way to elicit the most information without getting Kevin too upset.

“Tell me more about you and Patrick as kids.”

He looked into his coffee cup and, seeing it was empty, pushed it toward the center of the table and leaned back against the booth.

“Patrick was born twelve minutes before I was—I think I told you that. He always made a big thing of being the ‘older’ brother, and when we were young—before he began to change—he always was the leader, and he always tried to protect me from things.

“I was always shy, Patrick always outgoing. When our parents would discipline us, Patrick was always more concerned for how I reacted than for himself. I looked up to him. Even then, our being identical twins was more a matter of physical appearance than character.”

He was quiet for a minute, watching out the window as a barge moved up the river. At last he looked back toward me, almost as if he were surprised to see me there.

“But then, as we got older, things began to change. Our parents, as I’ve said, were very strict. My father, especially, had a firm vision of what kind of adults Patrick and I should be, and his methods were…rather stern. Patrick rebelled at every turn, whereas I respected their wishes even when I didn’t agree with them. We were children, after all, and it was not our place to question.

“Patrick increasingly resented me for not standing up to our parents like he did. Of course, that only made it all the worse for him. He saw himself as defending both of us, yet the punishment increasingly fell on him. And for whatever reason, I could never defend him as he always defended me.” He stared back out the window for another long moment, and then said softly, “I think Patrick felt I betrayed him. And sometimes I feel he was right.”

He suddenly sat up and reached for the check.

“I really should be getting back, Dick,” he said, a little too briskly. “I appreciate your coming out and meeting me. I did need the break.”

Without waiting for any response from me, he stood up, reached into his wallet for some dollar bills, and put them under his saucer in the center of the table. It was as if he couldn’t wait to leave.

Without a word I got up and followed him to the cashier.

“Let me get that, Kev,” I said, indicating the check in his hand, but he waved me off.

“No, no. It was I who dragged you out on your day off. It’s the least I can do.”

We left the diner without another word, shook hands in the parking lot and exchanged goodbyes, and that was it. Fifteen minutes, tops.

As I drove home, one thought kept recurring.

Kevin Rourke, you are one fucked-up young man!

*

I had three messages waiting for me when I got home—one from Chris asking me to call him, one from Tom to confirm our dinner for that night, and one from Don, asking if I had plans for the evening and if I’d like to go to dinner if I didn’t.

It had occurred to me that Don and Tom might get along quite well together, so I returned Tom’s call first, asking if he minded if Don came with us. He was all for it, and I was a bit surprised when he suggested Rasputin’s. He was obviously taking a few bold steps out of the closet.

I next called Don and invited him to join us, and he agreed. We arranged to meet at Rasputin’s at eight o’clock.

Chris wanted me to ship out another couple of his boxes. He was settling into his new apartment, still loved his job, and was apparently having a hell of a good time. I got the impression he might be seeing someone but didn’t ask, and he didn’t volunteer any information.

Bob called a little later in the day, and I asked him if he’d like to join the group for dinner. He had other plans but said he might be at Bacchus’s Lair for the last show, if we felt like going over. I thought Bacchus’s Lair might be just a tad too much for Tom but told Bob I’d suggest it and see what the others thought.

*

Dinner was very pleasant, and I had vastly under
estimated the possibility Tom and Don might like one another. They hit it off immediately, and the electricity between them could have lit up a room. Still, they did their best not to ignore me completely.

The only news Tom had on the fire(s) was an unconfirmed rumor in the department that a confidential file containing Tamasini’s MO had been stolen from the chief’s office about two weeks before the first of them.

When, after dinner, I asked if they might want to go to Bacchus’s Lair, there was a pregnant pause and a from-the-second-balcony exchange of glances between them. Then, Tom begged off, saying he had to be up early the next day, and Don said that he, too, was suddenly very tired and thought maybe we should call it a night.

Uh-huh. Sure, guys.

We left Rasputin’s around ten-forty-five, and I made a point, after bidding Tom and Don goodnight, of heading directly for my car and not looking back. I wouldn’t have been surprised, if I had, to see the two of them stripping each other right there on the street.

I debated just going home but then thought
What the
hell?
and headed for Bacchus’s Lair. Parking was once more a problem, signifying a return to normal for the bars along Arnwood. I got a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realized the nearest parking spot I could find was directly across from the now-vacant lot that had once been the location of the Dog Collar.

The first show had just ended when I passed the security guard and climbed the stairs to Bacchus’s Lair. The place was back to its usual state of being packed, although a few tables were emptied by guys who wouldn’t be staying for the second show. I looked around for Bob and, not seeing him, decided to sit at the bar. T/T was working the crowd, and after a minute or so, he made his way to the bar.

“Chile!” he boomed when he spotted me. “If it isn’t my very favorite big ol’ Dick!”

That got a couple intense glances from others at the bar, and, as usual, I was embarrassed as all hell to be singled out.

“Hi, Teddy. Buy you a drink?”

“Silly question!” T/T said, raising an arm to attract the bartender’s attention and causing a clatter as the thirty or so bracelets he wore shifted from wrist to elbow. “What’cha doin’ here all alone, darlin’? If you came lookin’ for me, I’m all yours!”

The bartender brought T/T’s double scotch, which he belted back in one toss.

“Thanks, darlin’. You are here with someone, aren’t you?”

“I’m supposed to meet Bob Allen, but I don’t see him.”

T/T surveyed the room, as if to confirm that Bob was, indeed, not there.

“Well, let’s get you a table up close. When Bob comes in, he’ll see you. ’Sides, you stay here at the bar and someone’s goin’ to try to put the make on you!”

Please, God
, I thought.

Grabbing my drink before I had a chance to object, T/T led me to one of the empty tables at the foot of the stage. It was not near an exit, but I didn’t want to make an issue of it. He put my drink down and made sure I was seated.