The Butcher's Son Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  The Butcher’s Son

  To all those who led the way

  Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.

  As hard as it is for me to remember sometimes, I haven’t always been a private investigator. None of us starts life doing what we end up doing, of course, but how we get where we are instead of someplace else is often pretty fascinating to contemplate. Now, in my case…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  The Butcher’s Son

  A Dick Hardesty Mystery

  By Dorien Grey

  Copyright 2015 by Dorien Grey

  Cover Copyright 2015 by Untreed Reads Publishing

  Cover Design by Ginny Glass

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 2013

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  Also by Dorien Grey and Untreed Reads Publishing

  A World Ago: A Navy Man’s Letters Home (1954-1956)

  Short Circuits: A Life in Blogs (Volume 1)

  www.untreedreads.com

  The Butcher’s Son

  A Dick Hardesty Mystery

  Dorien Grey

  To all those who led the way

  Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.

  —Aristotle

  As hard as it is for me to remember sometimes, I haven’t always been a private investigator. None of us starts life doing what we end up doing, of course, but how we get where we are instead of someplace else is often pretty fascinating to contemplate. Now, in my case…

  —Dick Hardesty

  Chapter 1

  Did you ever have one of those years? You know. You start New Years’ day with a hangover, and everything just goes downhill from there?

  Well, it was one of those years. I was stuck in a job I hated, and Chris, my lover of five years, was getting the seven-year itch two years early. We’d been together ever since shortly after we got out of college, and each of us was the other’s first real relationship, so I guess you couldn’t really blame him. Plus, we lived in a gay ghetto, so the candy store syndrome made it easy enough to stray for anyone so inclined; and Chris became increasingly inclined.

  But we were hanging in there, putting on the good old “perfect couple” routine whenever anyone else was around and working on matching ulcers when they weren’t. I was up to two-and-a-half packs of cigarettes a day and rising; Chris was devoting considerable time to adding to his swizzle-stick collection. All-in-all, a real fun time.

  Chris had always been a lot more into bars than I am, so it wasn’t unusual for him to go out by himself, although I noted that, lately, he’d been going out a lot more than normal. We did hold to our Saturday-night-out-to-dinner tradition, though, after which we’d stop in at the Ebony Room, a nice little neighborhood bar close to home, for a nightcap.

  This particular night, however, Chris suggested we go to a new bar he’d found, Bacchus’s Lair, which he said had a great drag show. I would have put great in quotes, since I was never much for drag, but Chris got a kick out of it, so we went.

  I should point out that this was after Stonewall but not by all that much, and the community hadn’t completely gotten its act together in most cities. Blatant homophobia was the attitude of choice for most police forces, and ours was particularly noted for its less-than-tolerant methods. It was also a solid source of income for the city—bust a gay bar, haul in thirty or forty gays too scared or too poor to fight it, charge them with “lewd and lascivious conduct,” drop the charges down to “disturbing the peace” and slap them with a $350 fine for a no-contest plea. The city was happy; the police were happy; the lawyers were happy. The gays weren’t happy, but who cared?

  Bacchus’s Lair was located in a former loft over a discount furniture store on the edge of Skid Row. A lot of gay bars were in this area, probably in part because of the lower rents and the less likelihood neighbors would complain about the clientele. The decor was Early Flamboyant—tables the size of dinner plates, purple tablecloths, purple carpet, purple stage curtains, wall fixtures with dangly globs of plastic I suppose the management thought looked like bunches of grapes. Wall niches with little gold cherubs shouldering platters of plastic grapes. Oh, and a cover charge. And a two-watered-down-drink minimum. But you got to keep the little purple umbrellas that came with them.

  There were a few people there we knew—I should say a few people I knew; Chris seemed to know a lot more. We were shown to a table—I asked for one close to an exit, as usual—by a lesbian in full male drag, a nice touch of equality, I thought. We ordered our drinks just as the canned music announcing the start of the show blared across the room, making conversation impossible. The lights dimmed, the curtains opened on a stage about three feet deep, and the show began.

  If you’ve seen one drag show, you saw this one. Not too bad, really—the usual standard numbers by the usual standard drag queens. Only one—a huge black named, if you could believe the emcee, Tondelaya O’Tool—did her own material and was really talented.

  Intermission arrived with the inevitable, and inevitably “cute,” announcement by the emcee that “We’ll be right back after a wee-wee break.” The curtains closed, the lights came back up, and the waiters rushed around the room restocking the what-passed-for-liquor. Also as usual, some of the entertainers came down to mix with the customers.

  “Well,” Chris said, “what did you think? Great, huh?”

  I nodded. “Great.”

  “Yeah, but wait until the second half. That’s when Judy comes on. She’s fantastic.”

  I was willing to take his word for it.

  “I’m surprised how crowded it is,” I said.

  “Do I detect a note of the famous Dick Hardesty paranoia? I notice you insisted on sitting near an exit again.”

  “You didn’t think it was paranoia when I yanked your ass out of the Bull Pen the night the cops raided it. If we hadn’t been near an exit, we’d have been hauled in like everybody else.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry here,” Chris said, leaning back in his chair. “They’ve never had a raid.”

  “And how long have they been open?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Two months, maybe.”

  “That long, huh? Maybe they should hang up a sign: ‘A fine tradit
ion of excellence since June.’”

  Chris grinned and shook his head.

  “You’re crazy, Hardesty.”

  Tondelaya O’Tool had come down from the stage and now moved through the room like a fully laden oil tanker in heavy seas bestowing forehead kisses, Queen of England waves, and assorted quips to the customers. Spotting Chris, she plowed her way to our table.

  “How ya doin’, Chris, darlin’?” she asked, her gaze deliberately moving back and forth between Chris and me, one eyebrow raised.

  “Great, Teddy. Great show tonight.”

  Tondelaya-nee-Teddy put one hand on her more than ample hip and made a “get away with you, now” gesture with the other, a la Pearl Bailey.

  “Why, thank you, darlin’.” Then, looking at me, she gave a slow, exaggerated, tongue-extended lip-lick and said, “And who’s this good-lookin’ hunk o’ man?”

  Chris grinned. “This is my other half, Dick Hardesty.”

  Tondelaya/Teddy extended a hand.

  “I’ll just bet he is,” she said as I took it and was surprised by an unexpectedly strong grip. “My, you two make a handsome couple, don’t you, now?”

  “We try,” I said.

  “Can we buy you a drink?” Chris asked.

  “I really shouldn’t,” she said while, in one continuous movement, sweeping a chair from a nearby table and motioning for the waiter. “But I am parched, and I do have a minute or two before I have to get back. Scotch rocks, double,” she said to the waiter, who disappeared as quickly as he’d come.

  “So, how do you like working here?” I asked, for want of anything better to say.

  “Oh, I love it, honey. Love it. It’s a lot better than the Galaxy, that’s for sure.”

  “Didn’t that burn down a month or so ago?”

  T/T reached out and tapped my arm.

  “That it did, chile, that it did. That’s when I came over here. I was lucky, really. There’s gettin’ to be fewer an’ fewer drag clubs around, what with the raids an’ the fires an’ all. A lot of my friends are just plain out of work.”

  “So, what time is Judy coming on?” Chris asked, demonstrating his usual short attention span.

  T/T took the drink the waiter brought, downed it in one gulp, and shrugged.

  “Same as every night. You know she’s always the last act. Save the best for last, that’s her motto.” Suddenly, she put her hand to her mouth and lowered her voice. “I didn’t say that,” she said between her fingers. “You never heard me say that, okay?”

  “Okay,” Chris and I said in unison, exchanging a puzzled glance.

  “Good.” T/T pushed back from the table, nearly knocking our drinks on the floor in the process, and got up. “I gotta go get changed. You liked the first act, honeys, just wait till you see the second.” With a broad stage grin, she moved off toward the dressing room.

  “What was that last part all about?”

  Chris shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  The waiter arrived (unbidden) bringing two more drinks (unordered) just as the house lights dimmed and the second act began. It was more of the same, except for T/T, who did a really good down-and-dirty blues number I’d always associated with one of my favorite old army cadences:

  I’m not the butcher,

  I’m the butcher’s son;

  But I’ll give you meat

  Until the butcher comes.

  She was followed by a marginally passable Diana Ross imitator, a slightly better Barbara Streisand imitator, and somebody who apparently thought, wrongly, he/she was Sophie Tucker.

  “Judy’s next,” Chris leaned over and whispered.

  The curtains closed, and the room went completely dark. A small spotlight came on, the music started, and a voice announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Judy Garland!”

  The curtains opened on…Judy Garland. Quite a bit taller and not as frail-looking, but Judy Garland, nonetheless. It wasn’t just the face; it was the posture, the movements, the little gestures. Perfect. Even before she opened her mouth, I was impressed. This guy was good.

  The song was “The Man That Got Away,” and instead of just lip-synching, she sang with the record, and it was as if Judy Garland were singing a duet with herself. Chris nudged me and gave me his “I told you so” nod, and I just nodded back.

  The end of the song was greeted by tremendous applause, in which I joined wholeheartedly. Judy took a bow then went immediately into “The Trolley Song,” followed by “You Made Me Love You.” When she finished, the crowd was on its feet—Chris and I included. The curtains started to close, but the crowd wouldn’t have it, and she waved them back open, sat on the edge of the stage, and sang, of course, “Over the Rainbow.” Even I had a lump in my throat.

  When she finished the song, the room went black again; and when the lights came back on, she was gone. The other entertainers came out for their curtain calls, but despite chants of “Ju-dy…Ju-dy,” she did not come out.

  At last, the applause died away, and the show was over. We finished our drinks, paid the bill, and got up to leave.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Chris,” I said. “That really was great.”

  He put his arm around my shoulders.

  “After five years, you doubted me?”

  *

  I’ve already mentioned I hated my job. I’d had several since I left college and hadn’t felt really comfortable with any of them; but as I always say, it isn’t the principle of the thing, it’s the money.

  At the moment, I was being rather embarrassingly overpaid by a small public relations firm, Carlton Carlson & Associates. The reason for the high salary was that CC&A was run by the rear end of a horse with a monumental ego, and the only way he could keep help was by paying them so much they couldn’t afford to go elsewhere.

  He had, thanks to his rich wife’s family connections, passably juggled the careers of one or two fairly well-known clients over the years. Now, he had volunteered his—that is to say, his staff’s—services in the promotion and setup of a press conference for the chief of police’s contemplated assault on the governor’s mansion. His magnanimous gesture was hardly altruistic, since C.C. viewed it as his key to taking over the chief’s entire campaign.

  The task wouldn’t be an easy one, as anyone with his head a little less far up his behind than my boss would readily have recognized. The chief’s political beliefs fell considerably to the right of Attila the Hun’s, and he ran his department like Vlad the Impaler. Need I add that he loathed homosexuals? His tact, diplomacy, and delicate handling of any problem involving the gay community had, among some gays, earned him the nickname “The Butcher.”

  But his methods, however reprehensible, had kept the local crime rate in check, and he had, until now, maintained an extremely low personal profile.

  If the chief managed to win the primaries—his opponent was one Marlen Evans, a moderately popular but lackluster state senator—he would be pretty much a shoo-in, since the incumbent governor’s wildly liberal policies had alienated the most powerful lobbying groups in the state.

  The first step in humanizing the inhuman, my boss decided, was to play up the chief’s warm and loving family life. Guess who got stuck with gathering homey bits about this little nuclear holocaust? Yep, yours truly. The fact that, up until now, very few people had any idea, or the slightest interest, that the chief had a license to breed, let alone that he had exercised it five times, left me a pretty open field.

  We started by building a rather anemic file of newspaper photos and articles. The chief’s wife Kathleen was always on hand at functions that required the presence of a spouse, but she generally blended so well with the wallpaper she was almost impossible to pick out if there were more than three people in the picture. Of the children, there was almost nothing known except that the eldest son was a minister, and the chief had recently become a grandfather.

  It was, therefore, decreed that I, together with a freelance writer noted for never having met a subject she
didn’t like and a photographer selected for his Vaseline-lensed portrait work—both handpicked by C.C. himself—would be sent out to meet with the entire family. The object was getting a feature story into the Sunday supplement of the city’s leading newspaper. My purpose for being there was a bit vague, other than to ride herd on the writer and photographer and to steer them clear of the unlikely possibility they might touch on anything that could smack of controversy.

  I viewed the entire project with the same enthusiasm as I’d anticipate a root canal, but I had little choice.

  *

  The interview was set for a Saturday afternoon, my boss not believing in the sanctity of weekends where his employees were involved. We arrived at the chief’s Hollywood-back-lot, two-story neo-Georgian home at exactly the appointed hour and were met at the door by Kathleen Rourke, looking like a cross between June Cleaver and Donna Reed. She ushered us into the living room, which appeared to have been set up for the photographers from House Beautiful. Chief Rourke, obviously painfully uncomfortable out of uniform, removed the unlit pipe from his mouth, set it in the chair-side ashtray, and rose from a wing-back chair near the fireplace to greet us.

  The cursory introductions over, to the obvious relief of both Chief Rourke and me, we were told the rest of the family was gathered on the poolside patio and followed Mrs. Rourke outside through a set of curtained French doors. Standing around a picnic table at the far end of the pool like deer caught in the headlights was the rest of the Rourke clan.

  Chief Rourke, who followed us outside lest, I suspected, one of us if unattended might make a grab for the family silver, made the introductions. Clockwise around the table: Tammy, aged fifteen; Colleen, age seventeen; Mary, thirteen; Robert (Robby), fourteen; and Kevin, the minister, age not given but probably 25, who was accompanied by his lovely wife Sue-Lynn and their infant son Sean.

  The children took after their mother, except for Kevin, who had obviously inherited all the good looks. That is to say, they were nondescript to the point that any one of them would be hard to pick out of a police lineup.