Thomas Perry - The Butcher's Boy

In a moment she was back. “What did you find? I warn you, no more hamburgers.” He was starting to feel a little foolish. They hadn’t eaten anything since they’d left Buffalo.

“This place,” he said. “The King’s Coach. It’s just down the road, and it looks okay.”

Then she took on a look of concern that amazed him. “Can we afford it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It doesn’t look too fancy. But hell, we’re on vacation now, you know.” He felt even more foolish, like a man who had been enticed out of the audience to blurt out a single line on stage.

“I won’t argue,” she assured him, already making for the door. “Come on. I’m starving. We can bring the bags in later.”

He locked the door and joined her in the car. “What the hell was that all about?” he said. “Weren’t we alone?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Get us moving.” He started the car and pulled onto the road. She said, “I checked as well as I could, and didn’t find anything. But we can’t afford to stumble into one of those places that they wire to blackmail businessmen getting a little on the side. The best way to listen in is through the telephone or the TV, especially if the TV is on a cable instead of an antenna; but they’re practically impossible to check unless you take them apart. A video camera is harder to hide. I don’t think they have one in there, but they might.”

“If you thought they could be listening, why did you talk in there?” he asked.

“I had to make sure you knew enough to act the part. The TV will cover a whisper, but if you’d blurted something out in there we’d have been taking a chance to go back. If the place is a trap they didn’t see or hear anything unusual yet. They’ll pay attention to somebody else.” Then she laughed. “Maybe a suspicious-looking couple who really are a real-estate agent and his wife.”

He said, “You know a lot about it.”

Her brightness faded again. “I didn’t ask you where your money comes from, did I?”

“Okay,” he said. “Then tell me about Prentiss. How much money do I make selling real estate? What can I afford to order in a restaurant?”

She thought for a moment, staring judiciously at him, and said, “Well, you’re pretty good at it, but no world-beater. I’d say you make between twenty and thirty thousand. You can afford to eat just about anything on the menu if it’s the kind of place I think it is. But don’t be too imaginative. You don’t want escargot, for instance, because you don’t eat things like that. As long as you stay on the steak-and-potatoes side of things you’re safe. Wine is okay, but not anything extraordinary if your natural inclinations are in that direction. And take it if it’s good or not. And don’t overdo it on the other side either. Don’t try to mispronounce the name of it while you’re ordering. You’re an ordinary guy, not a dunce. Just use your head. And straighten your tie.”

When he pulled into the parking lot at the King’s Coach, Maureen said “Perfect. Pretty ordinary and there are plenty of cars in the lot. Maybe the food will even be good.”

He nodded. It looked safe enough.

“One more thing,” she added. “If we have to wait for a table we’ll go into the bar. I’ll have a martini and you’ll have a bourbon and water, or Scotch, if you like that better. Do you feel up to talking about our kids, or do we have to invent something? I don’t imagine you’re up to much real estate, are you?”

“I think I can handle a little of each if I have to. What are the kids’ names?”

“Tom is four and Jo Anne is two, so no talk about Tom being the captain of the football team or anything. Now let’s eat. I really am starving.”

The meal proceeded uneventfully. They talked for a time, staying with their two subjects. By the time the waiter brought the check, he was reasonably comfortable as William Prentiss. That was the major part of a cover, Eddie had always said. “You have to be who you say you are.” But he wasn’t used to working with a woman, and it worried him a little. There were too many ways to get caught in the open.

At the car he said, “All right, you’re in charge. Back to the motel?”

She thought for a second, then said, “Yes, I guess so. But be careful. When we go in I’m going to check the place out to see if anyone’s been there. If they have, it’ll probably be bugged. If I brush my hair with my right hand, it’s probably all right. If I use my left, watch out. The next thing I do will be to walk over to the place where I think the problem is. Watch me and do anything I say to do. In any case, don’t say or do anything out of character.”

“How will you know?”

“The usual things. You sat on the bed when we came in. There were wrinkles on the bedspread. I balanced a hair on the bathroom doorknob, inside. When I closed the curtains I left them a thumb-width apart. The first thing a small-time blackmailer will do is close them the rest of the way. He may remember to open them a little bit before he leaves, but he won’t measure it. When I turned on the TV I put a smudge on the screen with my other hand. If they’ve put something in there they may change it, or even wipe it off.”

“Anything else I’ll need to know?”

“Only the commonsense things. I’ll have a gun in my purse. Use it if you need it.” She smiled. “I know. I’m putting you through a lot when the chances are a million to one against trouble. But you know it’s not wasted effort.”

“I know,” he said. The practice was never wasted. He had to learn to work with her, and it would have to be her way, if she was to provide the cover.

At the door to the motel room, Maureen prepared to enter first, her hand shuffling busily in her purse as her eyes darted about. He carried the bags, but set them down at the door to search for the key. He watched Maureen as she settled her eyes on the slightly opened curtains behind the window. She nodded and he opened the door, and then she pushed in ahead, her hand still in the purse. He breathed a sigh that he fancied could be the sigh of a husband setting down heavy luggage. He locked the door, regretting that there was no chain, then watched as Maureen made her inspection. She brought a hairbrush out of the purse, walked over and knelt in front of the television, and turned it on. Then she began the talk again, stood up, and walked into the bathroom, still carrying her purse.

He listened to her, waiting for some signal that all was well. “And that waiter,” she was saying. “I was waiting for him to pour your coffee all over the table and wipe it up with your tie. How can they always get the orders switched when there are only two people at the table?” The bathroom door closed.

He forced a chuckle, and stared at the screen, where a detective was grandly wrapping up his case, as he did weekly, by accusing his client of the crime. The client, as always, produced a pistol from nowhere, and jeered as he admitted everything in detail. In a moment the client would be running away from the detective, stopping occasionally to fire a shot or two in the general direction of his pursuer, then turning to run again, always up a stairway or fire escape, higher and higher until he was trapped. At the top he would run out of ammunition, hurl his pistol at the head of the detective, and lose the ensuing fistfight. In any case he would be on the pavement below in time for the commercials. He glanced idly at the bed as he took off his coat and loosened his tie. There were wrinkles on the bedspread. Were they the same?

In a moment the bathroom door swung open and Maureen came out, her head cocked to the side. She said, “I’d like to have the recipe for the stuff they put on the asparagus, though.” He didn’t bother to answer. As he watched, she gave her head a toss, and began brushing her hair with her left hand. He had to force himself not to whirl his head around to look for it. What was it? A microphone? A camera? What? Watch her. He grunted and waited for her to move.