Thomas Perry - The Butcher's Boy

Then he noticed three men who didn’t look right. Two were wearing business suits like junior bankers or insurance men, and the third was dressed like a cowboy in a magazine ad—boots and jeans and a blue shirt with snaps on the pockets. They all came in together, but sat alone in different corners of the bar. He couldn’t decide whether they were inspectors from the Nevada Gaming Commission or the troubleshooters the casino planted to keep the whores from hanging around and distracting the gamblers.

And then he spotted the old man crossing the lobby toward the elevators, his accountant in front of him to shield him from the possibility that anyone could come within eight feet of him, his lawyer beside him, eyes sweeping the surrounding area for any sign that something was out of place, and then, five paces behind him the porter pushing the luggage cart. It didn’t matter who paid the men in the bar for watching the old man. Just the fact that Carlo Balacontano was here was enough reason to be somewhere else. The old man was an industry. There would be bodyguards, courtesy envoys from the semiretired Dons in the area, influence peddlers, favor seekers, business partners, all trooping in to get an audience with Carl Bala. And probably there would be cops, here to be sure he wasn’t in town because he had a secret interest in a casino; and just as much, to be nearby if any of the people who hated him finally managed to have him killed—not to stop it, but to clean up afterward so the public order wasn’t derailed too brutally or for too long. It wasn’t a good place to be.

The old man had passed through and disappeared in a moment. He waited while the three men finished their drinks and left, then finished his own more slowly. He headed out through the aisles of jangling, buzzing, winking slot machines toward the side entrance to the parking lot.

ELIZABETH WAS NOT FULLY awake and it was ten o’clock already in Washington. It was her third time zone this week; the fact that this was the one she was supposed to be accustomed to didn’t help any. And being pulled away from her activity reports before she’d had fifteen minutes to burrow into the three-day backlog destroyed any illusion that she was settling back into the routine. As soon as he’d noticed her, Brayer had said, “Drop that. Padgett needs your help.”

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, 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 of the 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, 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).