Butcher (14 page)

‘No, he didn't say.'

‘What if you hadn't known my name?'

‘Then I'd never have guessed,' Perlman said.

‘You're sweet,' she said.

She walked out of the room, leaving Perlman alone with the stripped slots and his nicotine cravings. He left the casino the way he came in, through the beaded curtain.

Rhoda popped up like a sudden rainbow. ‘Leaving so soon?'

‘No reflection on your casino, love.'

‘We like to think we run the best in the city. The others are all a bit naff, past their sell-by. We like to keep the clientele in a good mood. We Try – that's our motto.'

‘Mission accomplished,' he said.

Outside, darkness, street lamps glowing.
Cauld
. He walked back to where he'd left his car. He unlocked it, got inside, scavenged a cigarette-end from the ashtray and lit it, almost singeing his nose. Two puffs, deid.

Fag end of a lost day, he thought.

Tartakower's joke. You give me the name of a guy who likes to dress as a woman. And you don't tell me. So egg on my face.

He rubbed the knuckles of the hand he'd used to fell Latta. They were red, and they ached. Inflict pain, you always get some of it back.

17

Because the battery of his mobie was almost flat, Perlman made a call from a public telephone outside a twenty-four-hour petrol station in Alexandra Parade. Madeleine answered. Perlman offered a profuse apology about the unholy hour of his previous call: he was notorious, ha ha, for failing to keep track of time. He told her he was so absentminded he'd probably forget to show for his own funeral.

She was never annoyed with Perlman for long. She found his stories of clueless criminals and their vainglorious plans intriguing, because they were her only link with her husband's work. Sandy dumped his professional life outside the house, as if he were removing objectionably muddy wellington boots. She began to tell Lou about her latest discovery on the Internet – she'd found a Porteous McNiven who'd emigrated from Dundee to New Zealand in 1856. Lou listened, tapping fingertips on the coinbox:
here she goes
. She was genuinely excited by this discovery. She'd been tracking her family name for years.

‘And this character's important?' Perlman asked. He found the roots business a bore, and hoped Maddie wouldn't relate the life and times of Porteous McNiven to him. But she did: long arduous trip and hostile Maoris and a shipwreck, all you could ask for. He was fond of Maddie, and enjoyed her company hugely, but Jesus she could be longwinded when she got on to the subject of her genealogy.

‘ … I've only tracked him as far as Dunedin,' she was saying.

‘Maddie, my dear, I need to talk to your inferior half if he's there.'

‘He's slumped in front of the telly. Hang on.'

Perlman heard Scullion's voice in the background, then the phone was picked up. ‘In search of updates?'

‘I was hoping for some.'

‘You saved me a call,' Scullion said. He was quiet a moment, presumably waiting for Maddie to move out of earshot. Perlman picked at a wart of chewing-gum stuck to the wall of the phone box, then drew his hand away when he considered health threats. ‘It seems the victim was alive when the cut was made, Lou.'

‘Sid's
sure
?'

‘Positive. There was evidence of bruising, and that apparently only happens in the living.'

Perlman shut his eyes because the neon sign at the edge of the concourse was suddenly too bright. ‘I can only hope this poor fucker was drugged to the moon.'

‘Even if he wasn't unconscious, he'd pass out from the pain.'

‘And he wakes up and then what? Bleeds to death? I doubt if the stump was cauterized properly. This isn't some routine hospital operation – unless its NHS policy to dump amputated limbs in people's houses. I know they're in a fuck of a mess, but even so—'

‘Sid's still waiting on the DNA test result to establish gender, which I'll pass along as soon as I know anything. I can't push him, because this isn't my case.'

‘Whose case is it?'

Scullion hesitated. ‘Tigge's.'

Perlman had an effervescent burst of rage. ‘How the fuck did that bearded plodder get it?'

‘Tigge is Tay's wife's cousin.'

‘Nepotism,' Perlman said. He watched a hooker get out of a taxi. She was all spangles and fishnet stockings. She sashayed inside the station. This interest in girls, what was happening to him: resuscitated adolescence, a new influx of randy born-again hormones?

‘Don't tell me you believed it was all a meritocracy, Lou?'

‘I had moments of delusion.' A cousin of Tay's wife. He'd never heard of Tay
having
a wife. He caught himself picturing Tay in an act of intimacy, that small clam of a mouth sucking on his wife's tits, and his rotund white arse exposed as a duvet slid from the conjugal bed.

The hooker came out of the station with a packet of cigarettes. She smiled at him as she undid the cellophane with her teeth, and then got back into the taxi.

‘Another thing … Why did you beat up George Latta?'

‘One quick punch, that's all.'

‘And a kick.'

‘Oh aye, I forgot the kick. He was insulting. He's calling Miriam names and accusing me of that old alleged scam to share her embezzled loot, so-called. Latta's an evil bastard.'

‘Evil or not, he'll talk to Tay. Count on it. And these guys are not your friends.'

Perlman was defiant. ‘You know how fucking good it felt to smack that arsehole?'

‘I can only imagine.'

‘He also brings up the hand, like he's holding me responsible for it.'

‘How?'

‘Who knows what goes on inside the hall of mirrors he calls a brain? What are they saying about this hand at HQ, Sandy?'

‘The buzz is the buzz. Inconclusive, wild. A practical joke just to keep you occupied and out of Pitt Street—'

‘I'm laughing.'

‘Somebody else suggested it was probably evidence from some long-ago case you'd taken home with you and forgot to return.'

‘A gem.'

‘Another theory is that it was planted there to implicate you in an unspecified crime. A set-up.'

‘Sinister. And what crime is that supposed to be?'

‘Who knows.'

A set-up. A crime. It's all gossip, gossip, reams of yack. Jesus, they were like crones down there at HQ, clacking in the corridors, whispering in their offices, chuckling over the Case of Perlman's Hand.

‘Maddie would like another word with you, Lou.'

Madeleine came on the line. ‘How about dinner next week, Lou. Thursday, seven-thirty for eight. Sound OK for you?'

‘Sounds just fine.'

‘You don't have to dress up or anything.'

Dress up as what, Perlman wondered. ‘I'll leave the tux at the cleaners. What's on the menu?'

‘I'll surprise you.'

He replaced the handset and. wandered across the forecourt of the station and sat for a time in his car, smoking butts until there were none left. His mind drifted through recent encounters and occurrences – Tartakower, Jackie Ace, Betty McLatchie's lost son, Aunt Hilda making him feel guilty, and now, so help me,
Latta
– baggage that had gathered on his trolley all at once. And the hand, cut from a living human being. He felt like a man sifting dry crematory ashes in the hope of finding something useful, something
intact
, that he might retrieve from the furnace.

Like news of his heart's condition.

He was still niggled by resentment of Tigge, and carrying the incubus Latta on his back, when he parked outside his house. Lights were lit in all the windows, a warming effect. He normally came home to darkness. He'd unlock the front door, reach for the light switch in the hallway, and the illumination of that solitary bulb would direct him into the unwelcoming recesses of other empty rooms.

He heard music, an ancient Kingston Trio album he'd forgotten he owned. The things you gather only to forsake.
You pass me by, and all the folks all turn and stare, they wonder why …
Betty McLatchie was singing along to it. She had a high sweet voice. He took off his coat and hung it on a peg, then stopped on the threshold of the living room and watched her. She was on her knees, scrubbing old stains out of the carpet. Unaware of his entrance, she didn't look up. She was lost in the song.

Oh heart of stone, you pass me by …

He cleared his throat. She raised her face, stopped singing.

‘Took me by surprise,' she said.

‘I'm Fred Astaire, light on my feet.' He demonstrated, did a little two-footed circular shuffle, pretended Ginger was hanging on his coattails. Me and my shadow.

‘Needs work, but I see the raw talent right enough.' She raised herself to a kneeling position and studied the carpet. ‘Some of these stains go back years.'

‘And every one of them has a history.'

‘I wouldn't be surprised.'

Perlman was more aware than ever of renewal all about him. Not only the smells he'd encountered before, the air freshener and the pine-scented polish, not only the sight of shining wood and the dearth of dust and spider's webs, now there was the deep-perfumed foam of carpet shampoo and a couple of chocolate-scented candles burning on the window sill. The angle of his TV was altered slightly, and so was the position of his favourite old velvet armchair. Betty had also moved the sofa a couple of feet, creating a kind of triangular viewing centre. Rearranging his life, a little comfort. He was pleased.

He asked, ‘You always work this late?'

‘Keeps me busy, Lou. I don't mind cleaning anyway. You put in the work, you see instant results.'

‘What cop can say that?'

She smiled and began to rise. He took her hand and helped her up. Her skin was hot. He had a spontaneous urge to put his arms around her, as if to prolong the unexpected illusion of domesticity, which he found touching, an intriguing novelty. I've been alone too long, far too long. Their faces came close together a moment, within kissing distance. He took a step back. Come on, did the idea of a kiss really cross his mind? Maybe the unfamiliar intimacy of the situation affected him, and he felt moved to express gratitude, or it was some simple need for the touch of another person. Homecoming, Betty's presence, a clean well-lit house.
Sweetheart, lemme tell you what a day I had at the office
.

She lit a cigarette and Perlman, who'd forgotten to buy any, cadged one from her. She held her lighter toward him.

‘You deserve a medal, Betty.'

‘I was worried you'd think I'd taken liberties. What about the candles?'

‘I don't think I've ever had candles in this house. Never scented ones anyway. Are they edible? I could make one into a sandwich, if I had bread.'

‘Just remember to blow them out before you go to bed.'

The music stopped. Perlman smoked in silence and watched Betty gaze at pools of foam drying on the carpet. She was lingering, he knew that. She didn't want to leave before asking about her son – but she didn't want to appear pushy.

If he told her he had no new information, would that increase her worries or elevate her hopes? No news is … whatever they say it is. He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray on the sideboard and felt the acuteness of her uncertainty. He wished he had some means of reassuring her. How? He wasn't about to spout an easy fiction or mutter a mealy palliative that might still her anxiety for a brief period.

‘This place feels like a home,' he said quietly. He felt the tips of his ears heat. Was he blushing, please no. ‘I don't feel ashamed of it any more, Betty. I thank you for that.'

‘Isn't that what life is all about? Making people feel a little better about themselves and their environment?'

What a pleasing outlook, he thought. She moved a couple of steps toward him. He noticed she'd pinned back her unruly hair with wine-red plastic barrettes that made her look younger. The zodiac jeans had been swapped for a pair of black Levis which she wore with the cuffs turned up. One time she must have been cheeky and funny and sexy – she still was.

‘Isn't it all about
kindness
, Lou?'

‘In an ideal world.' He imagined her cavorting in Woodstock mud. Life was all in the now. Later, there would be a one-night stand and a fatherless kid gone missing and a great tide of fear inside her. Who in their right mind would want to know what the future held?

Without warning, she wept explosively, and pressed her face against his shoulder. He stroked her hair. He was connected to the depths of her pain, its savage cut, the force of it.

‘Betty, listen to me, never give up hope, always hang on. You understand?'

She tried to speak through her tears. He didn't catch a word. She simply wanted to be held.

‘Cry all you want, cry …'

‘I'm falling to fucking pieces, Lou.'

‘I'm here, I'll catch you.'

She pulled back from him, rubbing her eyes, trying to force a smile that didn't quite work. ‘You're a nice man, Lou.'

‘For a polisman.'

‘A nice man full stop.'

Perlman placed his hand under her chin. ‘I've got some old wine somewhere. Fancy a wee medicinal glass?'

She drew her sleeve across her face. She trailed a thin line of pale mucus across the back of her hand and looked embarrassed. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘For what? Let me get the vino. I'm not claiming it's drinkable. It might be complete piss. If I can find it.' He turned toward the kitchen door.

‘Third shelf in the pantry. Above the sauce bottles.'

‘I've got sauce bottles? I never knew.'

‘Some from companies that went out of biz years ago.'

‘Amazing. You sit down. I'll be right back.'

‘You'll find clean glasses in the cabinet.'