The Butcher's Son Read Free Page A

drink then shuddered dramatically. “Smooooth,” he said, handing the glass back then plopping down on the sofa. “Tony called right after you left this morning to tell me about it, and I tried calling Bob right after that, but nobody was home.”
    I shook my head.
    “I’m really sorry about that. We’ll just have to find another place to hang out.”
    “Speaking of which, are you up to dinner out tonight, or do you just want to drink yourself into a stupor here?”
    I carefully put my cigarette in the ashtray and gave him the finger.
    “One drink does not a stupor make, and yes, I’m up to going out. God knows I deserve it after today.”
    “Good,” he said, getting up from the sofa and moving down the hall to the bedroom. “I’m going to hit the shower and start getting ready.”
    *
    A thunderstorm had broken by the time we reached Rasputin’s, a slightly overpriced but very trendy and therefore popular gay restaurant/bar close to downtown. I wasn’t as much into either trendy or popular as Chris was, but I didn’t feel like making an issue of it. I’d discovered when we were about halfway there that I may well have deserved a night on the town, but I didn’t really feel much like it.
    We were having a drink at the bar while waiting for our table when someone came up behind us and grabbed us both around the shoulders. A deep voice said, “Well, honey lambs, I do declare you make a gorgeous couple.”
    We turned in unison to face a very large black man with exaggeratedly pursed lips who darted his gaze back and forth between us without moving his head. It wasn’t until he broke into a wide grin that I recognized Tondelaya O’Tool in his Teddy persona.
    We exchanged greetings, and his large hands rested easily on our shoulders.
    “So, what are you two lovelies doing out on a night like this?”
    “Our Saturday night ritual,” Chris said. “Old habits are hard to break, even in bad weather.”
    “You having dinner?”
    “If we ever get a table.”
    “Well, stay away from the lamb chops—they’re deadly,” T/T advised.
    “Can we buy you a drink?” Chris asked.
    He pulled both of us to him.
    “Oh, thank you, honeys, but I’ve got to get to the club. Showtime in about an hour. Are you coming over?”
    Chris looked at me, and I shook my head.
    “Not tonight, I’m afraid,” Chris said. “The master here has a headache.”
    “We’ll try for next Saturday,” I said.
    T/T slapped us both on the back
    “Well, you just better. I’ll be looking for you, hear?”
    *
    Some people are lucky enough to have jobs in which each day is a joyful blur. Chris’s was like that—he was head window designer for Marston’s, the most prestigious (and expensive) department store in the city, and he already had a solid reputation in the industry. He couldn’t wait to get to work every day.
    My workdays were more like psychedelic smudges—they were just one long blur when viewed in retrospect but were endless when viewed from each morning looking toward evening.
    The writer, who had done other assignments for my boss, wisely sent her cloyingly adulatory piece on the Clan Rourke in on Tuesday morning by messenger. The boss demanded to see it immediately then, scornfully proclaiming her “a no-talent hack” (I resisted pointing out he was the one who had hired her), insisted that I personally make several totally unnecessary additions and changes.
    The photographer, not as shrewd as the writer, brought his contact sheets in Wednesday afternoon. I thought they were quite good, considering what he’d had to work with; but the boss viewed them with his usual total contempt, making it clear that his own four-year-old son could have done an infinitely superior job with an old Polaroid and outdated film.
    When he felt he had adequately achieved his objective of thoroughly humiliating the photographer, he magnanimously declared that, since there was no time to reschedule another shoot, he would have to deign to