Max Collins - Butcher's dozen

Ben tried not to let his sinking feeling show. "Oh?"

"She was talking about visiting her sister in Akron."

"Oh."

"Anyways, she hasn't been around for a couple weeks."

"Oh."

"But hell, you never know. She might show. I don't stop in here every night, you know-and Betsy and me don't work the same district. Maybe she'll be in."

Ben shrugged like it was no matter.

"You still hiding out in that hole on the Run, pard?"

"Sure."

"Beats paying the landlords," Red said. "Thought you might be flopping at the Sally."

"Why? It's summer."

"Yeah, but at the Sally you can sleep and eat and be safe and sound."

Ben frowned. "Hunting's good on the Run, this time of year."

"Yeah, but it ain't just jackrabbits bein' hunted."

"What else is?"

"People! Heads! I'd think shantytown woulda emptied out by now, with this here Mad Butcher on the loose."

Ben snorted a laugh. "I killed more people than that piker."

"What, with your jackknife?" Red grinned greenly. "Don't tell me you're the Butcher, Ben!"

"In the war," he said quietly.

"What?"

"I killed more than that bastard did."

"Maybe so, but you can still get killed out there."

"I can take of myself."

"I know. But I'd be sleeping inside, if I was you."

Ben shrugged, and so did Red, who grinned his green-and-yellow grin and went back to the bar for another beer. Pretty soon Ben shambled up after another boilermaker and went back to his booth and sat and got morosely drunk, wondering whether he should wait for Betsy to show or try to make Peggy Peg. She was kind of fat, but that didn't bother Ben. Fucking a one-legged woman didn't, either. He just had his heart, and hard, set on little Betsy.

"How you doing tonight, Ben?"

Ben looked up from the whiskey half of his fourth boilermaker and saw Andy, a husky, pleasant worker who frequented the saloon from time to time. They'd spoken before.

"Doing okay, Andy. Have a seat."

Andy sat; he was a good-looking man about thirty with sandy blond hair and a ready smile.

"Where's your honeybun?" Andy asked.

"I ain't got a honeybun."

"You know who I mean. That little girl with the blisters on her arm that you're always walking out of here with."

Ben smiled, but he felt sad. "I think she's seeing her sister. I don't think she's gonna be in tonight."

Andy sighed. "Yeah. I bet you been looking forward to seein' her, too."

"Yeah."

"I got stood up, too."

Ben bristled. "I wasn't stood up-"

"Hey, same thing. Neither one of us is getting laid tonight."

Ben nodded. Gulped some whiskey. His belly felt warm. That much, at least, was going right.

They had another round, Ben his fifth Boilermaker, Andy a beer.

"That's what I get for trying to date a girl in the front office," Andy said, bitter but accepting it.

"Snobby?"

"Yeah. Sometimes I think a guy's better off paying for it."

Ben nodded agreement, but said, "I like it better when they like you. Buy 'em some drinks and they like you. That's how I see it."

"Not a bad philosophy."

Ben stared into his whiskey. "I used to have a girl. Back in Chicago. At the slaughterhouse."

"You worked at a slaughterhouse?"

"Sure."

"God." Andy shivered. "Didn't that give you the willies?"

"No."

By eleven it was clear that Betsy wasn't going to show. Ben was feeling drunk, but not enjoying the feeling. Hell of a thing, working all day and getting screwed out of screwing.

He was digging in his pocket for his second buck when Andy shook his head and said, "Hey, save your dough. I got a bottle back at my place."

"Yeah?"

"Hell, I got two bottles. One for you and one for me."

Ben looked through bleary eyes at Andy. Andy seemed like a nice enough guy, but Ben didn't trust guys who looked as good as Andy. Andy's mouth was soft, like a girl's.

'That's white of you, but-"

"Hey. If you'd prefer to wait around for Betsy… maybe she'll show."

"She ain't gonna fuckin' show. But look, I got to say something and I don't want you to take it wrong."

Andy shrugged, smiled. "Okay."

"I don't cotton up to queers."

"Neither do I," Andy said matter-of-factly.

"Okay. I don't know you all that good, so I just wanted to make it plain. Sharing a bottle is white of you. But I gotta warn you. I got a knife."

"Ben…"

"I ain't no wolf. And I killed punks before."

A "punk," in Ben's parlance, was a young homosexual. And a "wolf" was an older homosexual man who craved punks.

"Ben, I know there's a lot of that kind of thing down in shantytown," Andy said, "but I always knew you weren't a part of that. I hate that unnatural shit. Queers should all be killed."

Ben nodded. "Them that touches me is going to be."

"No argument from me. What do you say we blow this joint? If you'll excuse the expression."

Andy grinned at his own joke, but Ben was too drunk to get it.

In fact, Andy had to help Ben out of the saloon; as they walked down the dimly lit street, Andy supported Ben's arm, as if the man were a cripple like the beggars they were leaving behind pretended to be.

Andy lived a few blocks off the Run, on Central. Drunk as he was, Ben was impressed, even surprised by the place. Not that it was nice-it was a small, paint-peeling clapboard bungalow-but the single-story, single-dwelling frame structure, which even had something of a lawn about it, differed from the crowded-together, two-and three-story rooming houses that were its neighbors. The front windows were blotted out by dark drapes; a basement window in front was boarded up; at left, rickety stairs and a rusted iron rail rose to an entrance.

Unlocking the door, Andy led Ben into a small foyer. A connecting hall led to the whiteness of a kitchen, and straight ahead, to the right, was a living room. At left, on the wall, were a dozen screwed-on coat hooks. Andy motioned Ben into the living room, which was also small but seemed expensively furnished to Ben. The sofa and chairs were overstuffed and plush; oriental tapestries and pictures decorated the walls.

"How's a bottle of beer sound?" Andy said.

"Fine," Ben said, wobbling, not knowing if he should sit down on such an elegant sofa.

"Why don't you help yourself?"

"What?"

"Cold beer in the Frigidaire. Help yourself. I'll get us some whiskey and we'll put our own boilermakers together."

Ben nodded, smiled. "Sounds good."

He wandered on shaky legs down the hallway, past several closed doors, into the small, very clean, very white kitchen; the grayish-white linoleum floor glistened. This guy had money. Trusting soul, too, Ben thought, sliding a hand into this pocket, fingers on his jackknife. It would be easy to take this joe for everything he had. There was money in this place. There just about had to be.

But, drunk or sober, Ben just wasn't that kind, and he knew it.

He snorted a laugh and opened the refrigerator door, and Betsy looked right at him.

Betsy's head, that is.

Her eyes were open, and so was her mouth. Bottles of Hamm's beer sat on the shelf on either side of her.

He was frozen there, for a moment, mouth dropped open as wide as Betsy’s, and just as his drink-clouded mind was forming the thought that he must get the hell out of here, he felt fingers grip the hair atop his head and something thin and cold and sharp pressed against the back of his neck.

The last thing Ben saw was Betsy’s gray face.

Just as Andy's words were the last thing he heard: "Ben… I have a knife, too."

By midmorning Thursday, Ness had tied up the loose administrative ends, which would allow him to go out in the field, and was explaining to his executive assistant, Robert Chamberlin, what the setup would be over the coming weeks.