The Butcher's Boy

15

Thursday morning. He stared into the mirror and worked his fingertips over the skin of his cheeks. It wasn’t too bad. He was still young enough to heal quickly, he thought. In another day or two the suntan and the soft life would take care of the worst of it, and he was beginning to think there might not be a scar. He lingered in the shower for fifteen minutes, trying to decide how to manage the next stage of it. There was too much he didn’t know. He dressed carefully and inspected the results. Not bad—a real estate man from Phoenix having a little side trip on the way home from a business meeting or a winter vacation, if it weren’t for the bruises. But the sunglasses helped.

At the end of the hallway he waited for a moment to see if another door opened, but there was no sign of anyone. It would be the maid, probably, who would be under orders to ring someone she thought must be an assistant manager as soon as Room 413 was unoccupied. He took the stairs to the casino and moved through the crowds in the direction of the front entrance. The telephones here were too closely flanked by slot machines. There was no way of telling who today’s watchers were, or even if there were some electronic eavesdropping system. It didn’t matter because if they could videotape every hand at every blackjack table they could probably pick up a number dialed on the house phones too, and there was no way for him to know what happened to the tapes afterward.

On the street he stopped to buy a newspaper at a vending machine, then walked into Uncle John’s Pancake House. He waited at the door to see if the watchers were following closely enough to be seen, then went to the telephone booth and placed the call.

He counted six rings before the voice on the other end said, “Dapper Dry Cleaners.”

“Mr. De la Cruz, please,” he said.

A voice shouted “De la Cruz” over the hum of machinery.

“Cruiser, I don’t want to talk long, so listen. I have a little work I need to subcontract—maybe two days’ worth and nothing noisy, so it can be any rummy as long as he doesn’t stand out. Can you sell it for me?”

“Well, hello to you too, amigo. I heard somebody seen you but I didn’t believe it. Bring me some shirts.” The line went dead. He said good-bye to the dial tone and went back to the line of patrons waiting to be served for breakfast.

He sat down at the counter and ate quickly, scanning the paper. It wouldn’t do to keep the Cruiser waiting too long: his other interests might take him away from the laundry. As soon as he could get out without seeming hurried, he was back on the street.

It didn’t look as though the maid had been to his room yet; at least she hadn’t cleaned it. He built a pile of his dirty shirts and fitted the hotel’s plastic bag around it. Once outside he walked the two long blocks to the Flamingo to lead whatever watchers there might be far enough from their cars before he got into a taxi. To his disappointment he didn’t see anyone rushing for a car as he drove off. That had been one of Eddie’s favorites: “Always look as though you’re doing one thing and do another; but do it smooth. Don’t look as though you changed your mind. A stupid watcher will commit himself too early and walk right up your ass. If they’re set up to cover you with a switch they’ll usually look at each other, just like one was handing you off. They can’t help it.” But that was only if they weren’t good. If they were, you might see them and you might not.

When he came through the entrance to the laundry he could see the Cruiser waiting for him in the center of the dry-cleaning section. Clothes on hangers suspended from the conveyer track on the ceiling whisked past the Cruiser’s dark, slouching form like frantic ghosts. Abruptly the moving track stopped and the dresses and coats swung forward once, then backward, then stopped too, and hung opaque like a curtain. The Cruiser stepped from among them.

“Hello, amigo,” he said, snatching the bag and shaking the shirts out onto the counter. “What’s happening?”

“Just some watching until tomorrow night. Nothing special.”

“How much?”

“Four hundred do it?”

“What’s the bonus?”

“Another four for the best. One if I’m just sure he was awake and nobody saw him.”

The Cruiser smiled and thumped the counter once with his fist and said, “Sold” and then returned to sorting shirts. “What’s the name?”

“Harry Orloff. He’s in the phone book. Want something up front now?”

The Cruiser nodded his head. “All but the bonus.”

He looked up as he took the four hundred. “You know I can’t do anything without something to at least flash at them, amigo. And if you’re not around Friday when I deliver these shirts—I’m not saying you wouldn’t want to pay, but things happen—I’d be out that much. I gotta live here, man, and—”

“It’s all right. Just get on it as soon as you can. I’d like the shirts at seven on Friday. That okay?”

“Sure, amigo. See you then. Earlier if there’s something to talk about. You at Caesar’s?”

“Yes. Four thirteen.”

“Okay,” he said, and disappeared behind the hanging curtain of clothes.

When he was back on the street he glanced at his watch. It was 11:30 already. The best time to return to the Strip would be after twelve when the first of the DC 10’s and 747’s from the East arrived and dumped their hundreds of passengers at McCarron Airport. Every day the taxis streamed onto the Strip to deposit them, disoriented and burdened with luggage too heavy for them to carry, under the gigantic roofed porticos of the big hotels. And then each taxi would roar out the driveway again to try for one more piece of this flight or the first passengers off the next one—the man who was first to the taxi stand because he was in a hurry and didn’t mind tipping big to get to the casinos.

He decided to walk. Sunshine and exercise were the best medicines in the world. He was feeling stronger already, even though his leg still didn’t feel right. And maybe by evening he’d know what was bothering Orloff. It was probably just that somebody had seen him with Little Norman and gotten scared, but it could be anything. And for that matter, Little Norman hadn’t behaved right either. As soon as he showed up with a bruise or two everybody had changed—as if he were an eyesore that was going to lower the going rates on hotel rooms or spoil the customers’ appetites.

He reached the Strip at Sahara Avenue and crossed to the other side of the street. He passed Circus Circus, the Stardust, the Silver Slipper, and settled on the Frontier. It was a little quieter this time of day, and it was mostly blue inside. He established himself in the dark bar off the main casino and ordered a Bloody Mary. He didn’t much like them, but if you were going to drink in the daytime you had to have what other people drank in the daytime.

As he sipped the Bloody Mary he could see that the midday flights must have begun arriving at the airport. Already on the other side of the casino the lobby was beginning to fill up with people wearing too many clothes for this weather, who apologetically stepped aside to avoid carts of baggage propelled with relentless efficiency toward the elevators by bellmen who seemed unaware of obstacles. In another half hour the first planes would be fueled and ready to take off again, and the scene would be complicated by the husbands in line at the hotel cashiers while the wives pumped the slot machine handles a few more times. If there were still watchers they would have to fight the crowds.

It was just about right, he thought. He wouldn’t stay out of sight long enough to worry anyone; just long enough so the watchers would have time to pick him up again and pretend they hadn’t lost him in the first place. Then he noticed that the bar was slowly beginning to fill up around him. In a few minutes more waitresses would appear, and when that happened the lights would begin to brighten imperceptibly so they could push the drinks without bumping into each other or losing track of anybody.

He edged farther into the shadows and watched the people coming into the bar. There were the usual couples—some middle-aged, husbands in sport coats and looking secretly pleased at the unfamiliar feeling of not wearing ties on a weekday. The wives in spotless unwrinklable pants outfits that were designed and manufactured to say money—some young, the pair not quite used to each other yet, the man still looking younger and greener than the woman in spite of what he thought of himself. Then there were a few solitaries, both men and women, all fortyish, who would sit down where they could get a good view of the casino. Usually they smoked heavily but didn’t drink much—drank at all only because it was the price of the seats they occupied while they collected themselves from the long flight and scanned the casino to see which tables seemed to be paying off. After the first drink most of them would have to get change because they didn’t have anything smaller than a hundred.

Then he noticed three men who didn’t look right. Two were wearing business suits like junior bankers or insurance men, and the third was dressed like a cowboy in a magazine ad—boots and jeans and a blue shirt with snaps on the pockets. They all came in together, but sat alone in different corners of the bar. He couldn’t decide whether they were inspectors from the Nevada Gaming Commission or the troubleshooters the casino planted to keep the whores from hanging around and distracting the gamblers.

And then he spotted the old man crossing the lobby toward the elevators, his accountant in front of him to shield him from the possibility that anyone could come within eight feet of him, his lawyer beside him, eyes sweeping the surrounding area for any sign that something was out of place, and then, five paces behind him the porter pushing the luggage cart. It didn’t matter who paid the men in the bar for watching the old man. Just the fact that Carlo Balacontano was here was enough reason to be somewhere else. The old man was an industry. There would be bodyguards, courtesy envoys from the semiretired Dons in the area, influence peddlers, favor seekers, business partners, all trooping in to get an audience with Carl Bala. And probably there would be cops, here to be sure he wasn’t in town because he had a secret interest in a casino; and just as much, to be nearby if any of the people who hated him finally managed to have him killed—not to stop it, but to clean up afterward so the public order wasn’t derailed too brutally or for too long. It wasn’t a good place to be.

The old man had passed through and disappeared in a moment. He waited while the three men finished their drinks and left, then finished his own more slowly. He headed out through the aisles of jangling, buzzing, winking slot machines toward the side entrance to the parking lot.

ELIZABETH WAS NOT FULLY awake and it was ten o’clock already in Washington. It was her third time zone this week; the fact that this was the one she was supposed to be accustomed to didn’t help any. And being pulled away from her activity reports before she’d had fifteen minutes to burrow into the three-day backlog destroyed any illusion that she was settling back into the routine. As soon as he’d noticed her, Brayer had said, “Drop that. Padgett needs your help.”

So now, as drudgery specialist for the entire office, damn them, she was doing Padgett’s field reports while the computers in the room behind the glass wall ticked out more to be piled onto her own desk. Sometimes she imagined she could hear it, though she knew that was impossible. It wasn’t just the work. It was that she was always at the mercy of contingencies, at any moment available to be pulled away from her own work to become what amounted to a clerical assistant to Padgett or Richardson or somebody. They were all supposed to be on a par: senior analysts. But when Elizabeth was in trouble you didn’t see Brayer pulling them off anything to help her. And they didn’t see it and wouldn’t see it if they outlived the Washington Monument. It was just the way things were. Every time one of Padgett’s “friends” felt his hemorrhoids acting up and decided to see a doctor in Des Moines, Elizabeth had to drop everything and monitor field reports or do background checks or something. And when the “crisis” was over and even the file report was already done because Elizabeth had done it for him, did anybody worry about Elizabeth’s work? No, dammit, they didn’t. They stood around in the lounge or took a much-needed day or two off.

This time it was going to be worse. There were four of Padgett’s old mafiosi out of their neighborhoods at once, all in the Southwest, and now two had turned up in Las Vegas. These were old men, rich men. What else would they do in the winter but go to a warm spot? And of course they’d stop in Las Vegas. What on earth did John think? That they’d sit alone in the middle of the desert reading Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, no doubt. And when Elizabeth had worked two or three weeks as Padgett’s lackey, they’d all four have had enough of the big hotels and gambling and golf and hookers and go back home to rest up and so would Padgett.

But not Elizabeth. She’d go back to her own desk and work three more weeks of twelve- and fourteen-hour days to catch up. But she wouldn’t say anything to them, because there wasn’t anything to say that was sufficient to overcome the massive stupidity of it. If she tried they’d wink at each other behind her back and tell each other it was probably just that she was having her period. Well fuck them, she thought. And you can’t even get the satisfaction of saying that because if you do they’ll decide you’re a slut and have that to hold over you too.

Suddenly she realized she hadn’t been doing any work for some time—just staring at the field report and feeling sorry for herself. It wouldn’t help. It just meant there was that much more to do besides her own work. She forced herself to read it: “There are none of the standard indicators of friction or animosity at this time. Balacontano has been placed in a celebrity suite at the Frontier Hotel, which, although it has security design of B class, does not appear to indicate undue fear of violence. The suite also has superior facilities. The normal price of the suite is six hundred dollars per diem, and it is often used to house entertainers appearing in the hotel shows. As of this time there is no indication of the length of Balacontano’s stay. The Learjet (leased from Airlift Transport, Inc.; Nutley, New Jersey, Registration Number N-589632) was refueled immediately after landing. No flight plan for another destination has been filed with the FAA, however. There has been no communication with persons outside the suite since arrival at eleven forty-five A.M. Thursday.”

Big deal, thought Elizabeth. Flew in and checked into a hotel room, in a thousand words or less. But they were edgy, she could tell. They always did that until something happened and then they snapped to. Every word would count then, but now it was just chattering to make the time pass, to keep the sense that there was somebody back here listening.

She looked up and saw Padgett rush by with a worried look on his face, carrying a voice transcript in his hand. So important—Man with a Big Job to Do—he was really in his glory now, she thought. Probably one of them ordered a martini from room service and the agent in place called for help. Padgett rapped urgently on Brayer’s door, then passed in.

Elizabeth returned to her reports: “Toscanzio is at the MGM Grand Hotel, where it appears he has been for at least twenty-four hours.” So that’s part of it, she thought. Somebody lost track of one of them, and now the whole organization is supposed to compensate for the lost day by watching them all twice as hard, as though they could bring back that day.

“Elizabeth,” said Brayer from his doorway. “Come on in. I think we’ve got something.”

Sure thing, Mr. Brayer, thought Elizabeth as she set aside the sheaf of reports and stepped to the inner office. It had to be an isolated farmhouse, she thought. The agents were getting edgy and it was about time for a farmhouse. Field agents seemed to live with the vision of an isolated house in the backs of their minds because they were weaned on the Apalachin conference and Boiardo’s private graveyard. It was like the Holy Grail to them, and you knew they were getting eager when it started turning up.

“What is it?” she asked.

“All hell seems to be breaking loose,” said Padgett. So it wasn’t the farmhouse. Maybe they were already up to the Man With A Rifle, always amended in final reports to man with a long, thin parcel (or golf club or broom or cane or pool cue).

“What, exactly?”

“Three murders in Las Vegas in the last two hours—at least two of them odd-job types. The other one seems to be some kind of businessman who just got in the way while they were taking out the first of the others. We’re checking, of course.”

“What makes you think it’s significant?”

“Because Balacontano made his first appearance in public while it was going on. Went down to the hundred-dollar tables and started betting the farm at the crap tables, not even looking to see if he’d won or lost, flashing a lot of money and attracting attention.”

Elizabeth noted that the farm had made its appearance in a new avatar, but didn’t let it distract her. “What about other people? Toscanzio? Castiglione?”

“All in an uproar for the first few minutes, then quiet. Shut up in their houses and hotels. But no soldiers in evidence anywhere, almost as though somebody got word to them and convinced them there was nothing to worry about. Like they were ignoring it for now. Or maybe they knew in advance. It’s hard to tell at this distance, and the reports are all of the ‘we’re standing by’ variety.”

Brayer was still silent, staring at the transcript on his desk. Elizabeth waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. She asked Padgett, “Any idea yet on how it was done?”

“No,” said Padgett. “Give me ten minutes. There’s a call out for the report of the LVPD as soon as the homicide team gets back in.”

She glanced at her watch: twelve o’clock. That meant nine o’clock there. Friday. Too early for much of the reaction. Some of them probably weren’t awake yet. The hourlies later in the day would be more reliable.

“What do you think, Elizabeth?” Brayer finally spoke up.

“I think we should check on the other two and see where they go. If there’s a conference in Las Vegas and this is really Balacontano, I would guess they’d head for home. If they show up in Las Vegas this was nothing. If they don’t, it doesn’t prove they’d ever planned to, but it’s still worth checking.”

“Agreed,” said Brayer. “And Padgett, be as thorough as you can when you’re checking on those victims. Don’t give up easy. If you can establish a connection with somebody in particular it’ll tell us what’s going on. We might as well know who’s mad at whom.” Then he added, “Even though it probably won’t do us any good or them any harm.”

Padgett wheeled about and headed for the door and Elizabeth followed. Brayer sat immobile, staring at the transcript. Elizabeth almost asked for it, but thought better of it. There would be another copy at the monitor’s desk. Brayer was either planning his next three moves or contemplating the vanity of his last three. If it helped to stare at a paragraph he’d long since memorized, so much the better.