The Butcher's Son (4 page)

“I think it’s time we went home,” I said

Bob and Ramón got up to walk us to the door, and on the way, Bob put his hand on my shoulder.

“Do you remember the guy you were dating when you first started coming into the Ebony Room, just before you met Prince Charming, here?”

I nodded. “Tom. Tom Erickson. Yeah. I was still in college.”

“And do you remember what Tom Erickson did for a living?”

I thought a moment.

“He was a fireman.”

Bob looked at me, left eyebrow raised.

“Noooo, not just a fireman. He was on the…” He paused, his eyebrow continuing to rise until it almost lost itself in his hairline, coaxing me to remember what I probably never should have forgotten.

A light went on in my head.

“He was on the arson squad,” I said. “Still is, last I heard.”

“Bingo!”

“And you would like me to call him after not having talked to him in five years to see if he knows anything about the bar fires.”

I wasn’t quite sure it was a good idea, but at the same time, I was a little embarrassed for not having thought of it myself.

“I’d hang up on you,” Chris said.

“You have,” I noted. “Many times. But let’s not rattle the skeletons just now.”

He slowly brought up his fist until it was about six inches in front of my face and slowly unfurled the middle finger. I just as slowly brought my right hand forward from my side, fingers spread wide, grabbed his crotch, and squeezed.

Chris yelped and dropped his fist.

“Bastard,” he said with a grin.

“Are they friends, Daddy?” Ramón asked Bob.

“I think so,” Bob said, then addressed himself to me. “I’d really appreciate it,” he said. “I’d have called him myself, but I don’t really know him all that well, and I wouldn’t want to put him in an awkward position. As I remember, he was pretty closeted.”

“Only at work, and I certainly wouldn’t call him there. But you’re right. I imagine if there’s anything to know, he just might be the one to know it.”

Chris, leaning against the half-open door, lowered his chin to his chest and made a “come on, come on” gesture with one hand.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” I said as he closed his eyes and made a loud snoring sound. “I’ll give Tom a call tomorrow,” I told Bob. “Thanks for the drink, guys.”

Chris grabbed me by the sleeve and pulled me out into the hall as Bob and Ramón waved goodnight.

*

After having spent a week slaving in the cotton fields for ol’ Massah C.C., and anticipating the week to come, I would have preferred just to have spent Sunday vegetating. However, since I’d told Bob I’d call Tom, I felt obligated to do it, although I put it off until after noon.

Tom was a good guy, actually, but we’d more or less lost contact after I met Chris. We probably could have gone on to be friends, but Chris and I are both Scorpios, and Scorpios are notorious for waging a continuous—and generally losing—battle with jealousy. Starting a new relationship is hard enough under the best of circumstances, and I didn’t want to give Chris any unnecessary cause for concern. So, Tom and I just sort of closed the door between us.

He had met someone almost immediately after, I’d heard, and had moved out to the suburbs. I really felt a little guilty at not having maintained contact with him, and I hoped, as I put out my umpteenth cigarette of the day and reached for the phone book, that he wouldn’t think it too odd for me to call now.

Fortunately, he was listed, and with some trepidation, I dialed his number. The phone was answered on the second ring by a rich masculine voice I recognized immediately.

“Tom? This is a voice from your far-distant past—too far, I’m ashamed to say. Dick Hardesty.”

“Dick! My God, what a surprise! It’s good to hear from you.” He sounded as though he meant it, and I was glad. “How have you been? Are you still with Chuck?”

“Chris, and yes, we’re still at it. How about you?”

“Single again, I’m sad to say. Kent—I don’t think you ever met him, did you?—was just too…well, too open about who he was. He could never understand why I had to be so ‘uptight,’ as he called it. I hate having to walk a tightrope all the time, but I have too much invested in my job to risk throwing it all away.”

“You’re still with the department, then?”

He sighed. “Yeah. There just aren’t too many openings in the private sector for an arson investigator.”

“As a matter of fact, Tom, I was kind of hoping to talk with you about something having to do with the department, if it wouldn’t be improper for you to do it.”

“Ah, so this isn’t just a social call?” Fortunately, I recognized the teasing tone in his voice, but I still felt embarrassed.

“Well, uh,” I mumbled, hoping I didn’t sound as flustered as I felt, “let’s say it’s both.”

I felt not unlike a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and I could have kicked myself for not having been more diplomatic. But, then, tact was never one of my strong points.

“That’s okay,” Tom said, sensing my awkwardness. “I’m still glad you called.”

“Me, too,” I said, and meant it. I guess I’d forgotten just how well the two of us had gotten along. “Listen, why don’t we get together. Maybe you can come over for dinner some night this week?”

“Yeah, that might be nice. But I tell you what. I’m free later this afternoon. Would you and Chris like to join me for a drink? You know I’m not much of a bar person, but I’ve got to come into town, and I’ve been having the urge to stop in somewhere. I hate drinking alone.”

“Sounds good. Let me check with Chris.” I put my hand over the receiver and yelled to him in the bathroom. “You feel up to going out for a drink with Tom this afternoon?”

“Can’t,” he called back. “It’s bowling day, remember? You go ahead if you want.”

I shrugged and took my hand from off the mouthpiece.

“I forgot Chris has bowling this afternoon. But I’d still like to get together, if we can make it fairly early. Tomorrow’s back-to-the-grind day.”

“Sure. It’s…what?…one-thirty now?”

I checked my watch. He was right.

“How about three-thirty, four o’clock?”

“Fine with me,” I said, cradling the phone under one ear while lighting up another cigarette. “Where?”

“Calypso’s? About three-thirty?”

I might have guessed. Calypso’s was very popular with those who, for whatever reason, have one foot in the closet—businessmen, rising young executives, up-and-coming arson investigators. Three-piece suits were
de rigueur
weekdays during cocktail hour, but on Sundays the dress code was a bit more relaxed. The Sunday brunch crowd was almost exclusively although discreetly gay, the clientele switching to almost completely straight by mid-evening.

“Great,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”

Fortunately, I’d already performed my hour-long shower ritual. I usually tried to get up before Chris even opened his eyes so I could be more than halfway through before he started pounding on the shower door complaining about the water bill. Like our Saturday night dinners, it was one of those little family rituals we’d developed over the years.

Chris had joined a gay bowling league a few months earlier; I think maybe in part because he knew I didn’t care for the game, and it gave him a chance to flirt without having to feel guilty. I also suspected he might be chalking up a few strikes with at least one of his teammates.

But as I said earlier, our relationship had reached the point where it didn’t bother even an old Scorpio like me nearly as much as it once would have.

*

I was, as usual, early.

Even at three-fifteen on a Sunday afternoon, the bar was fairly crowded. There was a strong contingent left over from brunch getting progressively but discreetly smashed as the afternoon wore on. Although things were beginning to loosen up, discretion was still the better part of valor. Should the G-word be spoken audibly enough for others to hear, stern looks would be cast in the direction of the offender. I found the whole elaborate charade more than a little silly, which probably accounted for my seldom coming into the place.

Tom did not arrive until my second Bloody Mary was pretty well gone. I was watching for him in the mirror behind the bar and spotted him as he wove through a clot of goodbye-sayers at the door. Of course, his red-blond hair would have stood out even if he wasn’t nearly six-foot-six. Not having seen him for five years, I was struck by the fact he was still as attractive as ever, and that his hair was thinning noticeably.

He spotted me watching him in the mirror, gave a big grin, and, expertly dodging a waiter with a tray full of drinks, came up to pat me resoundingly on the back. I turned around on my stool, and we shook hands. At any other gay bar, we’d probably have hugged.

“Now, as I was saying…,” he said.

“Oh, come on, it’s only been five years.”

“The merest flicker of an angel’s eyelash,” he said, grinning again. He caught the bartender’s attention and ordered a scotch-rocks. “You ready for another one?”

“Why not?

The bartender nodded and moved off to make the drinks.

“Sorry to hear about you and Kent.”

He shrugged.

“It happens. Glad you’re still with Chuck…sorry,
Chris
…though.”

It was my turn to shrug.

“Yeah, but I don’t think it’ll be for too much longer.” I caught myself by surprise with that one. I usually keep my private problems pretty much private.

Tom pulled a bill out of his wallet and exchanged it for our drinks, waving away the proffered change.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Like you say, it happens. And it’s not so much that we’re breaking up as that we’ve just sort of drifted apart. I think we’ll always stay friends.”

We were both quiet for a minute, staring into our drinks.

“So,” I said finally, “fill me in on the last five years.”

Boy, did that sound stupid! Have another drink, Hardesty!

Tom grinned. “I was thinking about that on the way over here, and I was really surprised to come to the conclusion that, other than my relatively brief relationship with Kent, nothing much at all has changed since the last time we saw one another. Not much to say for five years, is it?”

“Your job going okay?”

“So-so. I took the test for promotion last month. Didn’t make it, but there’s always next time, right?” He couldn’t quite hide a note of bitterness. “And I still love doing what I do.”

I gave a deep sigh and took the celery stick out of my Bloody Mary, tapping the end on the rim of the glass to keep it from dripping

“Wish to hell I could say the same.” I took a healthy and very loud bite. “I’m stuck in a shit job with an asshole for a boss…but other than that, everything’s great.”

This wasn’t going quite the way I’d have liked it to.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about, as if I didn’t have a pretty good idea?”

“The fires.” I said, feeling a little awkward for imposing on a friend.

“That’s what I do for a living. I’m in the fire department. Would you like to see my badge?” Tom said with a small grin. “You’ll have to be a little more specific as to which fires.”

I couldn’t help but grin back.

“You bastard, you know damned good and well which fires.”

He looked off toward the back of the restaurant.

“Is the patio still open? Maybe we can find a table out there. A little less noisy.”

And a lot more private, I intuited.

“Good idea.” I got off the stool and picked up my drink to follow him through the restaurant.

The patio was open, and there were quite a few empty tables. Tom picked out one surrounded by other empty tables, and we sat down.

“Better,” he said, and I nodded in agreement. “You know that I really shouldn’t be talking to you—or to anybody else—about this. It’s department business, and they’re pretty strict about not leaking information on ongoing cases.”

I felt like a total asshole. He was right, of course.

“Look, Tom,” I started to say, “I’m—”

He held up his hand to silence me.

“First, let me ask you why you want to know whatever it is you want to know?”

I explained to him about Bob and the Ebony Room, and how everything seemed to be hanging on the arson report, and that Bob just wanted to know what was going on and couldn’t get any information at all through the regular channels. Tom sat staring into his drink as I talked. When I finished, he remained silent then suddenly sighed and looked up at me.

“Did you know I was a fag, Dick?”

Now,
that
I wasn’t expecting!

“Did I what?” I asked, not sure that I heard him correctly.

“I asked if you knew I was a fag.” He put one open hand over his chin and moved it slowly down to his neck, as if he were checking for beard stubble. “
I
didn’t. I knew I was gay, but I didn’t know I was a fag.”

I just sat there, a puzzled look on my face, waiting for him to continue. He took another sip of his drink, put the glass down, and took up his story.

“I told you I took the promotions test last month, and that I didn’t get it. While I was really disappointed, I figured ‘Hey, it happens.’

“Then, a couple days after the test, I had to go down to the main office for some paperwork and stopped in the john. I was in one of the stalls pulling my pants up when I heard two guys come in, and they were talking about the test. One of them mentioned my name and said something like ‘I was surprised Erickson didn’t make it,’ and the other guy said, ‘I heard it was because they don’t promote fags,’ and they laughed.

“They might as well have come in and spit in my face. Man, I stormed out of that stall like a bull into the arena and went right up to them. ‘What the
fuck
are you talking about?’ I said.

“I guess I surprised the shit out of them—the guy I knew looked really embarrassed, and the other one just sort of stammered something I couldn’t hear. ‘Speak up, you stupid shit!’ I yelled at him. ‘Where did you hear anybody say I was a fag?’ I was so fucking pissed I couldn’t see straight, and they damned well knew it. The guy was sort of backed up against the washbasins with his head pulled away from me, like he was afraid I was going to hit him, which I was just about ready to do.