The Butcher's Son Read Free Page B

accept them, and left it to me and the photographer to select which photos to submit with the article—subject to his final okay, of course.
    The patently obvious motive for all this bullshit was, of course, aside from his psychotic need to put everyone down, so that he could tell Chief Rourke that he, personally, had whipped the article into shape.
    I’d already wined-and-dined the editor of the paper’s Sunday supplement, who had previously been pressured by both my boss and the chief’s aides, and confirmed the piece would be the lead story the Sunday before the chief’s press conference announcing his candidacy for governor.
    On Thursday, C.C. called me into his office. I was praying he was going to fire me, but no such luck.
    “Hardesty,” he said, unwrapping a cigar the size of a large zucchini, “this Rourke-for-Governor thing is going to put Carlton Carlson and Associates on the map. You didn’t screw up the article assignment too badly…”
    No greater praise , I thought.
    “…and I didn’t hear any specific complaints about your attitude, so I’m going to let you keep handling future contact with the family members. All direct contact with the chief will, of course, be made by me and only me.
    “With my help, Terrence C. Rourke’s going to be this state’s next governor!” He banged his desk with one fist then leaned forward to glare at me. “This is a big responsibility I’m giving you here, and you’d damned well better not fuck it up.”
    Why was I not thrilled? Why was I biting my tongue to keep from telling old C.C., there, to take his zucchini cigar and shove it up both his and the chief’s ass? Why the hell didn’t I just quit then and there? Why don’t I have an answer for those three questions?
    Suffice it to say, I was not thrilled, I held my tongue, and I swore to myself I would start sending resumes out in the morning.
    *
    Friday night I spent sitting in front of the television, polishing off my third pack of cigarettes for the day. Chris went out with some friends from the store and didn’t get home until about two hours after the bars closed—a fact noted only because I’d gotten up to go to the bathroom just as he came in and had looked at the clock.
    What bothered me most about what I was beginning to see clearly as the approaching end of my relationship with Chris was that it really didn’t scare me nearly as much as I thought it should. We still cared a lot for each other, I knew, but the kind of love that separates lovers from loving friends wasn’t really there anymore. We’d just been growing in two different directions, and although we never talked about it, we both knew.
    Anyway, on Saturday night we went to dinner—Chris insisted on Rasputin’s again—and afterwards, the Ebony Room now gone, we decided to go back to Bacchus’s Lair to catch the show. As if on cue, a pouring rain started just as we left the restaurant.
    Two Saturdays in a row , I told myself.
    The place was packed. They’d installed a new maître d’, who unctuously informed us that, without a reservation, we’d be lucky to get a seat at the bar. As we were deciding whether or not to take up his kind semi-offer, we heard a bellowed “Chile, there you are!” and looked toward the bar to see Tondelaya/Teddy surging through the crowd.
    “I’ll just bet you couldn’t get a table, could you?”
    We shook our heads in exact unison, looking, I’m sure, like the Synchronized Idiot team. She grabbed each of us by an arm and, before either of us could say anything, steered us past the maître d’ and into the room.
    “My sister just called and told me she couldn’t make it to the show tonight, so I’ll put you at her table,” T/T said, the rustle of her taffeta gown audible even above the hubbub of the crowd.
    The table was so close to the stage we could, if we were so inclined—I, for one, certainly wasn’t—look up the skirts of the performers. It was not near an exit. I looked at