The Butcher's Boy (18 page)

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, 86

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 ofthe 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, 87

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.

"Amigo," he said. "I got some shirts for you."

"I'll go pick them up.”

“Not a good idea, amigo. I'm on the road already. Ten minutes, no more."

"Right." The line went dead.

Shit, he thought. Any news had to be trouble, and it was—what? ten hours? before the shirts were supposed to be back. He looked at his watch. Nine o'clock . The Cruiser never did business at nine. Most of his customers wouldn't be up for hours. Even the cleaning business didn't open until ten thirty .

He scarcely had time to dress before he heard the knock. When he swung the door open the Cruiser slipped inward with it as though attached to it, then tossed the box of folded shirts on the bed.

"Amigo," said the Cruiser. "You really fucked me up." The Cruiser was smiling, the first time he could remember having seen that exact expression: he was showing his bad teeth and his breath seemed to come in short gasps.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You said it was no big thing but it was. All you had to do was tell me it was. You know better, amigo. You should never have done it to me."

"It's no big thing. Orloff owes me money."

"Not now. He's dead."

"How?"

"I sent a man to his office to watch. He was in a parked van all night and then I was going to send somebody else this morning. He was my cousin. Not 89

smart, but I thought I'd let him have this easy one to make some money. But he wasn't smart, so I sent my boy Jesus at seven to see if he was awake. He was.

God. Something to do was such a big deal he hadn't even lain down all night. Sat there in a chair staring at an empty office through a peephole he drilled. He sent Jesus to get him something to eat. Jesus got back to the block in time to see it.

Orloff drove up to the office and started to get out of his car. Then three of them just appeared from no place. Jesus said he thought the one with the shotgun came out of the building, one came from someplace on the other side of the street where the van was parked. The other might have been in the bushes, but he couldn't tell. They just were there. Orloff just stood there next to his car shaking, and the one with the shotgun blew his head off. Jesus said my cousin panicked and jumped into the driver's seat and tried to start the van. He must not have seen the one near him. Jesus said the guy didn't look surprised or anything, just stepped to the side of the van and put a pistol to the window. He fired five or six times. After that Jesus didn't see anything else. He was already running."

"I'm sorry it happened. Where is Jesus now?"

"Outside in the car waiting for me. I've got to get us all out of town."

"Will a thousand do it?"

"I think so. You know I'll have to tell if they corner me, though. With Jesus and Ascencion—"

"Sure. But try to give me time. Leave now and keep going. I wish I could tell you something that would help you spot them, but I don't know anything. He just owed me money and looked nervous. Did the kid tell you what they looked like?"

"No. Just three Anglos. One dressed like a cowboy and the other two in suits. They didn't even look like they came together."

"Thanks for the shirts," he said.

"Yeah," said the Cruiser. "See you sometime." He slipped out the door and was gone.

He locked the door and sat down on the bed. It wasn't good. There was no way to tell if it even had anything to do with him. Anybody who had any dealings with Orloff would probably consider doing it sometime. Orloff was cunning and greedy, and he sometimes got nervous. But the three who did it had to be the ones he'd seen in the Frontier, and that meant it had something to do with Carl Bala—but what? They'd either been watching for Bala or just watching him. And there was the money too—a lot of trouble for nothing. His leg started to ache a little at the thought of it.

And now he couldn't leave. If he did, they'd think he'd done it—broken the rule and violated the truce the families had agreed to among themselves and imposed on everyone else for almost thirty years. Especially the way his face looked, and the fact that Orloff had been seen with him—the fat, stupid pig. Now he'd have to stay put and hope that would convince the dozen old men locked in their houses and hotels that he represented no threat or inconvenience to them.

At least with Orloff he could be sure whoever had wanted Claremont dead didn't know about him. Orloff had never been stupid enough to make his services as middleman unnecessary. He'd known his life depended on it. So he could forget about the three men unless somebody saw the connection between the pile of dead meat in the van and the Cruiser and had the resources and the persistence to find him. And Cruiser would probably be in Mexico by late afternoon.

The ringing of the telephone startled him. He snatched the receiver off the hook and snapped, "Yes?"

"Hi, kid. It's Norman ." The deep, velvety voice was quiet and imperturbable.

He collected himself. "Hello, Norman ." So it was starting already, the test.

"What can I do for you?" He added, "It's pretty early yet for either of us, isn't it?

What time is it?"

"Almost ten, kid," said Little Norman. "I figured you'd be up for hours by now. Maybe playing tennis. You like to keep in shape, don't you?"

"Sure, Norman."

"Well come downstairs and I'll buy you breakfast. I'm in the coffee shop.”

“I'll be there."

He quickly got undressed again, showered, shaved, and put on a coat and tie. At the closet he lingered for an instant, thinking about the gun taped to the wall, then felt ashamed. Whatever happened he wouldn't need a gun between the room and the coffee shop. This wasn't the time to indulge his nerves.

In the coffee shop Little Norman seemed to take up one side of the booth, his arms spread out along the top of the seat in a gorilla's embrace so that the camelhair sport coat looked like upholstery. When he sat down, Norman didn't smile. "You're having ham and eggs, kid," said Little Norman. "I ordered them while I was waiting."

"Thanks, Norman . That'll be just fine." He added, "Sorry to keep you waiting, but you pulled me out of the sack."