Lawrence Block - Masters of Noir - Volume 1

“Cops,” he rumbled. “Geezus, all the crudding cops.”

“Since the girls lived so close, I wondered if you ever noticed anybody hanging around them, following or watching them.”

He grinned, showing square, too-short teeth, a film of yellow coloring them. “You didn’t want no steak, did you?”

Before I could answer he walked from behind the meat counter and across the floor to the door of a walk-in refrigerator. Keys jangled as he unlocked a big padlock, then slid a heavy bolt back, flipped on a light and went inside; in a moment he came out with what looked like a whole half cow balanced on one of his heavy shoulders. Holding it with one upstretched hand he bolted and locked the door, then carried the beef back to the meat block, carried it effortlessly, big muscles swelling.

He dropped the beef with a sodden thud onto the block, picked up a long wide-bladed knife and conical stone, began sharpening the knife with a whispering grate, grate, grate of steel on stone, ignoring me.

I said, “You didn’t answer my question. Might be you could help.”

Without looking at me he said, “I don’t know nothing about them. They bought meat here is all. Beat it.” The knife moved faster as he sharpened it, then he slid the stone into a metal bracket clamped on the block, ran the keen blade over the meat, sliced easily down to the bone.

I rephrased my question, asked it of Mrs. Hecker. She shook her head wordlessly, looking tired and nervous. In silence Hecker deftly sliced around the bone, put down the knife and picked up a massive cleaver, raised it over his head. He swung it in a swift arc and I heard it crack completely through the bone, bury its edge in the wood beneath. Then he turned and stared fixedly, soberly at me, still in silence. Finally he turned back to the block. I left.

Driving downtown in the Cad there was a tightness between my shoulder blades; all I had was a funny feeling about Hecker, a hunch, no real proof against him. But he had acted damned strange. And I kept seeing that knife rub on stone, hearing the grating sound, hearing the crack of a cleaver slicing bone. I went to Homicide.

Samson had his inevitable cigar going, so naturally there was a horrible smell in his office. I gave him the story of the last hour. “This guy’s a bug,” I said to him. “He’s non compos whatever, not at all pleasant. He could sure as hell stand a check.”

Samson sighed, fumbled in his desk, found some papers and flipped through them. “Robert Hecker, fifty-two years old, married, no kids — he’s been checked. Along with a hundred and forty others.”

“You mean he’s clean?”

“Not clean. Just nothing that looks wrong.”

“You got a man on him?”

A slight trace of annoyance flickered over his pink face. “How many men you think we got, Shell? I put men on some other guys that look better and got records that fit this better. I’d like to have a man on all hundred and forty. And it still could be the hundred and forty-first.”

“Answer me this, pal: you told me yourself the guy that did the others, and this one, knew what and where and how to do it; that he could be anything from a meat cutter to a brain surgeon.” He nodded. “And they were all three frozen stiff; this guy’s got a cold room, a freezing room with beef hanging in it; easy enough to drop the temperature lower than usual if he wanted; he’s got frozen-food lockers.”

“Yeah. So has every other butcher in town,” Samson growled. “You want to watch the guy, watch him. Get me some more cops. Take the butcher to dinner and show him ink blots.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll get you a good cigar.”

He blew foul smoke in the air. “O.K., Shell. This guy’s got me jumpy, but we’ll put him through the wringer, give him a closer look.”

I spent a long afternoon at the office. Samson phoned me before he went home for dinner. “No soap on Hecker,” he said. “Nothing yet, anyway. No past record, not even any complaints; far as we can tell he never even went out with any of the girls that live around Melrose there. He tried to date some — but according to the boys that saw his wife, you could hardly blame him for trying.”

“I know what they mean. If she were married to anybody but Hecker, she’d look more like a man than her husband.”

“We’ll go over him some more, but he looks clear.”

“Thanks, Sam.” We hung up.

Maybe I was a little off balance about it, but thinking of Hecker still gave me the creeps. When I headed the Cad out Sunset I remembered how carefully locked and bolted that walk-in refrigerator had been. Seemed funny that it would be locked during the daytime, when Hecker was in the market himself. He must be damned careful about his meat. Or something.

I swung over to Melrose and when I got close to Hecker’s it looked dark. I doused the Cad’s lights, parked at the curb and poked the glove compartment open, fumbled for a ring of keys I keep there. I wanted a look in that big refrigerator.

When I got out of the car I could see that the front door of the market was closed, but a thin strip of light slanted out the window from behind drawn blinds — and I could hear the soft, measured thud of that cleaver. I hesitated, and my right hand went to my shoulder where my gun should have been — only the gun was in my office desk. Then I made up my mind. The sodden chop, chop, persisted inside as I tried the door, found it locked, and selected keys on my ring until one worked. I unlocked the door, eased it open, slipped inside and pulled the door closed behind me.

Light from the green-shaded bulb behind the meat counter spilled down over the bulky shape of Hecker, reached out to touch me here by the door, glanced from the cleaver as Hecker raised it above his head and slammed it down onto the block. He wore only an undershirt covering his huge chest, and perspiration glistened on his hairy shoulders and arms. I moved forward, bent so I’d be out of his line of vision, then straightened until I could see a quarter of beef on the chopping block. Cold sweat beaded my forehead. There was something odd about Hecker’s actions, the way he chopped at the meat, and I could hear grunting sounds in his throat. His arm rose and fell rhythmically.

Suddenly he stopped and turned. I thought he’d heard me but he wasn’t looking at me, was staring across the room, yards beyond where I stood in partial shadow. I glanced to my right; the door to the walk-in refrigerator was closed, but a red bulb burned above it. He stared fixedly at the refrigerator, seemed strangely agitated.

He turned back to the block, picked up the long knife, the conical stone, and again I heard the grating scraping noise of steel rubbing stone as he sharpened the knife. He slid the stone into its bracket with a crash, sliced at the meat before him on the block.

His back was to me and I bent over, moved toward the refrigerator door. It was closed but unbolted, the padlock hanging open. As quietly as I could I cracked the heavy door. Cold air seeped from it and its inside surface chilled my fingers as I touched it, pulled it out far enough to let my body through. The chopping didn’t falter.

I pulled the door shut, turned and looked inside the freezing room, cold swimming over my flesh. In the dim light I could see naked carcasses of beeves hanging from iron hooks. I walked forward, the light throwing eerie shadows on the wall ahead of me. And finally, far in back against the wall, hidden among the suspended meats, I found something that was different.

It was a white and bloodless thing like something made of wax, an artfully fashioned image of a woman — of part of a woman. It was a human slug suspended from a pointed iron hook. Then I saw the matted, clinging hair, and part of it was blonde, blonde as sunshine. This was what was left of Judy.