The Butcher's Son Read Free

in obvious awe at actually being in the presence of someone so prominent as the chief, tried getting responses to a set of routine questions.
    After the majority of the photos had been taken and the chief and Mrs. Rourke were huddled at one end of the living room with the writer, I wandered over to the mantle to look at a set of family photos. There were individual shots of all the kids, plus Kevin and Sue-Lynn’s wedding photo, plus a photo of baby Sean. However, one that caught my eye was an older family shot, taken in front of the house apparently when Mary, the youngest child, was a baby. The interesting thing about the picture was that it contained two Kevins.
    Kevin, who had been off somewhere with Sue-Lynn changing the baby, had just reentered the living room. He must have noticed me looking at the photo and hurried over. I got the distinct feeling I’d been caught at something illicit.
    “I was just looking at your photos,” I said, rather lamely.
    “Yes,” he said, the first time since we’d arrived that he’d spoken directly to me. “My mother and father are typical proud parents, I guess.”
    Never having been noted for excessive tact when my curiosity is aroused, I couldn’t resist remarking on the photo.
    “I hope I’m not touching a sensitive area, but I notice in this one photo there seem to be two of you. I didn’t know you had an identical twin.”
    “Patrick.”
    Suddenly, we were aware the chief had gotten up from the sofa, crossed the room, and was, like a thundercloud at a picnic, hovering just behind us.
    “Sue-Lynn needs you, Kevin,” he said, although how he might have come by that information was totally beyond me, since he’d been seated at the other end of the room for the past ten minutes.
    Kevin turned without a word and left the room the way he’d come in, leaving me standing there with the chief. The beaming family man façade was gone. His eyes were cold black holes, and his voice sent a chill down my spine.
    “Patrick’s dead,” he said.

Chapter 2
    By the time I got home from the meeting with the chief’s little brood, the first thing I wanted was a long, hot shower, followed by a drink. Chris wasn’t home when I arrived but was in the kitchen unpacking a sack of groceries when I came in from the bedroom to fix my drink.
    “Do I need to ask how it went?” he asked, opening the refrigerator to hand me an ice cube tray and to put away a package of chicken.
    “Imagine Adolph and Eva with kids.” I looked for an ashtray and, as usual, didn’t find one. I turned on the tap just enough to put out my cigarette, tossed it in the garbage, and reached for the cupboard where we kept the liquor. “You want one?” I asked, taking a glass from the shelf.
    He shook his head.
    “I’ll wait,” he said, folding the bag carefully and putting it in the broom closet with the 10,000 other bags. He then opened a drawer, rummaged around a moment, and handed me a small glass ashtray. “Oh, do you remember those fire trucks that woke us up last night? It was the Ebony Room.”
    “Oh, no! How bad?” I asked, pouring bourbon into my glass.
    “It was gutted. Somebody tossed a fire bomb in through the bathroom window, I hear. It was after closing, thank God, so nobody was hurt.”
    “Somebody there is that does not like gay bars,” I said, paraphrasing Robert Frost. “This makes—what?—six in two months?” I set my drink on the counter and reached into my shirt pocket for another cigarette.
    “At least,” Chris said as he put away the last of the groceries.
    “Did you talk to Bob?” I asked, walking into the living room and sitting in my favorite chair. Bob Allen was the owner of the Ebony Room and lived in our building with his lover Ramón, a really cute Puerto Rican about fifteen years Bob’s junior. We weren’t exactly friends, but we were, as Chris would say, close acquaintances.
    “No.” Chris followed me into the living room. He took my glass and had a sip of my