Butcher's Road (17 page)

He woke some time later, brought from the hot swamp of dreams to find a figure standing at the end of his bed. Though not wholly certain, Butch told himself this person, a young man with a sour face, was real and not another scrap of delusion.

The kid was short and stocky with pale skin, accentuated by a sheer white shirt that hugged his shoulders and chest.

“Who are you?” Butch asked.

“This is my house,” the kid said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Hollis brought you home. You’ve been stinking up our guest room for two days and making Hollis act like a complete ass.”

“I’m sorry,” Butch replied. A whisper of self-consciousness blew through the miserable aches and pains. But at least he knew where he was and who he was with.

“Yeah, well, sorry and a nickel…” The kid crossed his arms over his chest and sneered. “At least you’re easy on the eyes.”

Butch tried to make sense of the comment, but his feverish and fatigued thoughts melted together like candle wax. He shut his eyes for a moment, just a second to rest them, and then he was asleep, drifting through fragmented images.

The young man’s name was Humphrey Bell. Rabin knew a lot about him now. For instance, he knew Humphrey was twenty-two years old, and not the teenage boy Rabin had thought when observing him on the train. Humphrey’s oddly proportioned features and slight build had given Rabin the mistaken impression that he was still in his growing years. Further, Rabin knew that Humphrey was only visiting Chicago. A long time resident of Red Hook, New York, Humphrey had been sent—by whom he would not say—to the windy city, where he had rented a room in a building across the street from the former residence of Butch Cardinal with the intent of keeping an eye on the property. Another thing Rabin knew was that the kid was bleeding all over the floor of the room; he was sobbing quietly into his gag, a filthy piece of shirt already sodden with tears and spit and snot.

“This is my job,” Rabin said, leaning against the counter of the kitchenette. “Which is to say, I have nowhere else to be right now. I can stay here for a few more seconds or a few more weeks.”

From his chair in the center of the room, Humphrey sniffed loudly and closed his eyes.

Indianapolis had proved frustrating for Rabin. He’d endured the train ride surrounded by pitiful humanity only to watch the Paddy, Rory Sullivan, leave the station and climb into a car. The old Irishman hadn’t so much as paused to adjust the vehicle’s mirrors before speeding away. Rabin had flagged a cab and they’d followed Sullivan for thirty minutes, but it became clear that Butch Cardinal’s friend was doing nothing more than retrieving his vehicle and returning to Chicago. The gym owner had not come south to help the wrestler; he’d already helped Cardinal by loaning the man a means to escape. For all Rabin knew, that act had ended Sullivan’s complicity. He wasn’t ready to write Sullivan off, but the man was not the shortcut Rabin had hoped.

In the cab, returning to the train station, Rabin had grown more incensed with the situation, and he nearly asked the cabbie to pull to the side of the road, where Rabin had intended to release a bit of his annoyance on the driver, but he’d thought better of it, and the decision turned out to be a good one. Had he indulged himself with the cabbie, he would have missed the train back to Chicago. In and of itself not a significant event, but on the return trip, he’d again seen Humphrey in the club car, appearing as frustrated as Rabin himself.

Back in Chicago, he’d followed Humphrey to his room, which overlooked the same street as Butch Cardinal’s, and there he’d secured the young man to a chair. Going through the man’s pockets he’d found identification, which had given him Humphrey’s name and an address in Brooklyn. But why he was in Chicago and following the same man as Rabin was the question. He wasn’t a hitter. No chance of that. Humphrey’s eyes were too clear, filled too full with hope and dreams. So what
was
he, and why had his path crossed Rabin’s twice in a single evening?

Still leaning against the counter, Rabin removed the ice pick from his jacket and tapped the tapered spike against his palm. He looked away from Humphrey who seemed to have drifted into unconsciousness again, and sneered at his surroundings. Wallpaper peeled away from seams, had been torn out in great swatches, exposing dirty plaster like wounds. Once the color of wheat and grass, the paper had fouled from age and dirt and nicotine stain and now resembled the colors of infection. The floor was buckled and warped. Long deep scratches bit deeply into the planks. The furniture and linens and window shades were of the lowest quality. Only the radio beside the window was as yet untarnished by time and indifference. How could a man call himself human and install himself in such a sty?

Leaving the kitchenette, Rabin walked past the dozing man. At the window, he pulled the shade aside and peered into the street. Pedestrians bundled against the bitter, gray air scurried like vermin—rats seeking their sustenance. He’d missed another morning with his wife, and it was because of the kid in the chair. Of course, Rabin was here voluntarily. It was his choice, but it was Humphrey’s
fault
. He released the shade and turned to the radio.

A moment later, the raucous and tinny music of a big band clamored into the room. Humphrey shot upright in his chair. He knew what the music meant; it meant questions, and it meant pain.

At the chair, Rabin leaned close to Humphrey’s ear so that he could be heard through the music. “I’d like to say that I admire your courage, but the truth is I don’t understand it. I cannot fathom the notion of enduring personal discomfort for another man, even less for an ideal. Apparently, you’ve convinced yourself that silence is bravery’s equivalent. But you’re not a friend of Butch Cardinal’s. You don’t even know the man, do you?”

Humphrey shook his head. This fact had been established early on.

“You were sent to find Cardinal, as I was. But you don’t work for the police or the Irish or the Italians. You don’t work for anyone in Chicago.” This had also been established. “So, we know what you’re not. I want to assure you, we will be together until I find out what you are.” He lifted the ice pick and placed the point against the skin beneath Humphrey’s lower eyelid. A moment later, the man was trembling violently as if he were riding a carriage over rough roads. Tears spilled from his eyes like rain from a gutter spout. The reaction interested Rabin greatly.

“You have sincere eyes,” he said. “I’d like to keep them in a jar as a reminder of our time together.”

With that, the tremors shaking Humphrey’s body became a series of convulsions. Wet, clear snot bubbled from his broken nose; it drained over his lip and was quickly absorbed into the filthy gag. He swung his head from side to side and panted frantically, releasing a high-pitched whine through his nose.

Every man had a particular weakness, a fear that overpowered all pretensions to bravery. Rabin was glad he’d stumbled onto Humphrey’s.

He pulled the ice pick away and slapped the back of Humphrey’s head with a palm. “You’ll want to pay attention, Humphrey,” he said. “I’m going to count to five. At the count of five, I will either learn what I came here for, or I will puncture your eye.” Rabin stepped around and knelt down so that he could meet Humphrey’s gaze before he said, “And I’ll do it slow, Humphrey. So…very…fucking…slow.”

The young man’s eyes grew comically wide and white. His convulsions returned in spasms that rocked the chair, making its legs click against the floor like the feet of a brain damaged tap dancer.

“One,” Rabin said.

Humphrey shook his head violently from side to side.

“Three,” Rabin said. The fact he’d skipped the number two had not been missed by Humphrey, whose face had turned as red as a beet beneath the film of greasy sweat covering it. The stink of ammonia rose as Humphrey’s bladder released a stream of piss into his trousers.

“Just nod your head, Humphrey. Tell me something fascinating. No one else ever needs to know.”

Then as if what remained of his strength had drained away with the urine, Humphrey’s body relaxed and slumped.

“Four,” Rabin whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the music.

Humphrey nodded his head. Rabin nodded, too. He stood and walked around behind the chair. With the ice pick back in his pocket, he set his fingers to work on the knot of the gag. “You know what will happen if you call out. You know what will happen if you lie to me.” The young man nodded again. Rabin pulled the filthy scrap of shirt free and threw it on the floor.

Humphrey gasped for breath. He coughed and wretched dryly. Finally, he managed to say, “The Alchemi.”

“Pardon me?” Rabin asked, returning to his place in front of the chair.

“The Alchemi,” Humphrey whispered.

“What is that?”

“We gather the metals and protect them.”

Rabin felt a tide of rage rising behind his face. The punk kid was playing him for a fool. In a swift motion, he yanked the ice pick free and lunged forward, pressing the point against the soft flesh beneath Humphrey’s eye. “What did I say about lying?”

“Cardinal stole the Rose,” the young man babbled. “It was stolen from the Alchemi and sold to Lonnie Musante and then Cardinal murdered Musante and stole the Rose. I was sent to find him, sent to find the Rose.”

Rabin pressed the ice pick deeper until the dimpled skin nearly broke. Through the crimson haze of his anger, he remembered something that swine Conrad had said about a necklace that was incredibly important to Marco Impelliteri. Was this “Rose” the item in question?

No,
he thought.
The little fucker is testing me. Take his eye. Take it right fucking now!

Disturbed by the screeching voice that suddenly filled his head, Rabin pulled away and took a deep breath. He needed a moment to clear his thoughts, to silence the shrill demands for violence. Blood would come soon enough, but he had visited Humphrey with a purpose. Once he’d gotten what he needed, then he could entertain the needs of that scraping voice. Until then, his thoughts had to be lucid. He wasn’t an animal.

“Tell me again,” Rabin said.

“I belong to the Alchemi. We gather the thinking steel and harbor it, protect it.”

“What is thinking steel?”

Humphrey seemed confused as if Rabin had asked him to define air or water. “Long ago, the sky rained ore. It fell like God’s wrath all over Europe and the Orient.”

Rabin considered the possibility that he’d already done too much damage to the young man. Perhaps Humphrey’s mind had snapped from fear and trauma. Whatever the case, Rabin wasn’t accustomed to forgiving regardless of the excuse. “I’m losing my patience, Humphrey,” he said.

“It’s the truth. Or I think it is. It’s what we’re taught. The ore rained down on the earth, and it was discovered by the tribes of men. They used the raw ore to create alloys and from these they fashioned weapons and icons. Over time, the items were lost, or they were hoarded by immoral men who exploited the powers of the metal. The Alchemi was formed to protect the thinking steel.”

“Your eyes must mean very little to you.”

“I can prove it,” Humphrey said. “I can. Just wait.”

“What kind of proof?” Rabin asked.

“I was just sent to watch, so they didn’t give me a weapon, but I have something else. You took it out of my pocket when…it’s there, on the counter.”

Rabin looked about the room and saw the low pile of items he’d removed from Humphrey’s pockets: a wallet, some loose change, a handkerchief, a cheap spring blade knife, a ring that held two simple house keys, and yes, there was something else. Something strange. It was an arced metal band, no longer than Rabin’s pinkie finger. Attached to this simple arm was a sheer plate of metal that ran diagonally from the bend. He crossed to the thing and lifted it. He remembered taking this from the inside pocket of the young man’s overcoat but he couldn’t remember having asked Humphrey about the item, though it certainly was odd enough to warrant such an inquiry. More than likely he hadn’t thought to ask because the device had not appeared to be a weapon, at least not a useful one. He lifted the thing from the counter and rubbed it between his fingers. The metallic surface was cold and presented an uncommon velvety texture.

“What is it?” Rabin asked.

“It’s for listening,” Humphrey said quickly. “You see that depression near the bottom of the angled arm? That goes in your ear. You can hear everything.”

“That’s your proof? That’s your magic? A hearing assistant?”

“Put it on,” Humphrey said. “The band goes over your ear like a spectacle stem. You’ll understand.”

Rabin gave the device a thorough examination, searching for some hidden lever or spring mechanism that might identify the thing as a trap, but it had no moving parts, just two lengths of metal no wider than a cigar band attached by a thick and clumsy weld. Seeing no apparent danger, Rabin slid the arced band over his ear and positioned the flat metal over his left ear.

At first, he heard only crackling like sturdy paper crumpled in a strong fist, and then a blast of noise punched the side of his head. He squeezed his eyes against the roar and quickly realized it was the tinny music from the radio amplified to ear splitting volume. Furious, he snatched the device from his head, but the screaming music echoed in his head like tortured souls, only far less pleasant. A groan escaped his throat, and he drove a fist into Humphrey’s cheek for not having warned him about the radio. Shock came and went quickly over the young man’s face.