Max Collins - Butcher's dozen

The old man shrugged, digging out more butts for his pipe. Not terribly interested.

"If you know who he is," Curry said to the vet, "why don't you call the cops or something?"

"The cops," the vet said, "work for the rich. Fuck 'em all, I say."

"I seen the newspapers," the old man said, getting his pipe going again, "and the two corpses they put names to, neither of 'em is our people."

"A faggot and a whore," said the vet.

"But the other victims might be hobos," Curry said. ''The fact that they weren't identified-"

"Look," said the clean-shaven one forcefully. "I know who the Butcher is, and he's moved on. I don't think we'll see him again.

That seemed to satisfy the others-except for Curry, who was stewing in his own frustration, not being able to follow up harder on the matter without blowing his cover.

"Think I'll sack out," the bright-eyed kid said suddenly, and he headed for a nearby shack, then disappeared inside. The clean-shaven war vet got up after a while, too, lugging his bottle of rubbing alcohol.

That left only the old man. He smiled with patience and wisdom and bad teeth. He said, "Be careful tonight, son."

Curry smiled back at him. "I thought you weren't worried about the Butcher."

"I'm not. But watch yourself-there's thieves among us. Guys who are nice to your face, waiting till your back is to 'em."

Curry nodded. "Thanks."

"I'd sleep out in the open."

"Well, actually, I'd rather have a roof over my head."

"Up to you," the old man said, and began undoing his bedroll near the dwindling fire.

Curry found a small, vacant shack; you could stand in it, but then you can also stand in a closet, which this was barely larger than. The "floor" was well-worn earth, and Curry unrolled his bedding-two blankets, which held an extra set of clothes, a tin cup, fork/knife/spoon, several pots, a frying pan, and a small, hard block of salt. He wrapped these items in one of the blankets and spread the other out like a tablecloth and placed himself on it like a meal he was serving up; he stuffed his shoes under the blanket as a pillow. The hard ground was uncomfortable, but he didn't mind. This shelter was more than he'd had at the other shantytown. He felt more secure here than he had there. He might even be able to drift asleep.

The man was on top of him, the knife blade pressing against his throat.

Curry's eyes snapped open; he didn't know if it was seconds later or hours. He only knew he was looking up into the clean-shaven face of the war vet who'd been so friendly at the fire. He only knew the point of a very sharp jackknife was poking him in the throat, right under the Adam's apple.

"Give me your grubstake or I'll kill you," the man said.

"I don't have any money," Curry said.

"You been harvesting," he said, lip curling into a sneer, rubbing alcohol on his breath. "You got money. Hundred bucks, you said!"

"Okay, okay. Take the knife away and I'll get it for you; it's in my shoes." He jerked a thumb at the lump behind his head.

The vet pulled back, the blade eased off, and Curry's hand found the frying pan handle and he swung the thing and the guy saw it coming and pulled to one side, catching the impact on his arm. He howled and pitched to one side, no longer atop Curry, but the knife was still in his hand. Curry's hand dropped the frying pan and he fumbled at his pant leg, pulling it back to get at the little revolver in the ankle holster; but the guy was diving at him with the knife again so Curry ducked to one side and kicked, like Ness had showed him, jujitsu-style, and the guy went crashing through the side of the shanty. The little building caved in on Curry, who found himself flailing against the pieces of wood and cardboard and tar paper, a joker caught by a collapsing house of cards.

By the time Curry had shaken himself free from the disassembling shanty, the war vet was running into the darkness of the Run, toward the train yard.

The noise had roused a good deal of the shantytown populace, and the first one to approach Curry was the old man, who was again smiling. "I told you to be careful."

"Damnit!" Curry said. "He got away!"

"Good thing for him he did," the old man said, matter-of-factly. "Hijacks get whipped or kilt in a jungle, if they get ketched."

"He came at me with a knife!"

"Well, sure."

"You don't understand… he could be the Butcher."

"No, I don't hardly think so," the old man said, taking Curry by the arm.

"And why not?"

"Remember how he said he knew who the Butcher was?"

"Right-and he was talking about himself!"

"No, no, no. I know who he was talkin' about. Lot of us do."

"You do?"

"Sure. Who do you think told him? I can even show you where he lived."

Now, Curry thought, I'm getting somewhere.

"Where did lie live?" Curry asked.

"He lived in a cave he carved out, just up the hill. Kind of a hermit type of tramp."

Maybe, Curry thought, these days undercover have all been worth it… maybe I can hand Ness the Butcher on a platter.

"But we don't have anything to worry about," the old man said. "He never bothered none of us. And besides, he seems to have lit out. Ain't seen him in days."

"Do you know his name?"

The Butcher's name!

"Ben," the old man said. "He just went by 'Ben.'"

Ness wore a gun, a Colt revolver, in a shoulder holster under the left arm of his tailored gray suit; he also wore a gray-and-white-speckled tie and a white handkerchief in his breast pocket. A snap-brim fedora shielded him from the Friday-afternoon sun, except possibly from its reflection in the fifty-cent shine of his shoes. He seemed out of place, standing before the run-down, two-story brick building on Central Avenue, like someone who'd taken a wrong turn from downtown, or better times. If he felt uneasy, however, his wardrobe had nothing to do with it: the gun did. He rarely carried one. Diplomacy was, after all, his preferred ammunition.

Today his ammunition was thirty-eight caliber.

Detective Albert Curry, also wearing a suit and gun, his face clean-shaven, came around the corner and up to Ness, saying, "Merlo has the back stairs covered."

"Good." Ness motioned across the street, where their car, a black Ford, was parked in front of a vacant lot and near a three-story, paint-peeling frame rooming house. "Sit on the rider's side. Pretend to read the newspaper."

"All right," Curry said. "What time do you expect him?"

Ness checked his wristwatch. "It's not quite four. It'll probably be after six. He works till then. You have some waiting to do."

"All right," Curry said again.

"Go on, then."

"Mr. Ness, I still think-"

"I know. You came up with two suspects on your undercover, and they're good suspects. You did good work. But we have no name on one of them, and nothing more than a first name on the other… 'Ben. Both have apparently taken off for parts unknown."

"If I go back in," Curry said, face tight with eagerness, "I might find out more."

"You or someone else will indeed go back into shantytown, " Ness said with a gentle smile and a hand on Curry's shoulder, "no matter how today works out. We have a long list of killings, and the M.O. shifts enough that we may have more than one killer."

Curry nodded, smiled ruefully, said, "So you really figure this fellow Dolezal for our Butcher?"

"It begins to look that way. I had enough to get a search warrant for his premises, and I've got enough to arrest him when he comes home after work."

"You're going up there alone?"

"Yes, but you're to follow him up, when he gets back, remember.

"And I'm to honk the horn twice before I do."

"Right. Once long, once short."

Curry sighed. "Okay. Myself, I think you ought to take a couple uniformed men up there with you."