Thomas Perry - The Butcher's Boy

She caught sight of herself in the mirror and shuddered. She must have been sleeping on her face; her eyes were puffy and her skin a sickly pale color she couldn’t remember seeing on anyone who wasn’t ill. A little makeup helped, but not enough, she thought. And if Brayer saw she’d taken the extra seconds to apply it—but that was something he’d have to let her decide. If he wanted her to be inconspicuous he’d have to wait.

When she came back to the bedroom, Brayer handed her a set of keys. “Take the rented car,” he said. “It’s parked almost at the side door by the casino.”

“Aren’t you going?” said Elizabeth.

“No. I’ve got to make the arrangements from here. And it’s less likely to attract attention, just the two of you.”

She was about to argue, but she stopped herself. She couldn’t say she didn’t want to go alone because Palermo gave her the creeps. He wasn’t dangerous; she was his best hope of living the year out. And she couldn’t ignore the fact that Brayer was doing her a favor, giving her a chance for a major coup.

At the car Palermo said, “I’ll drive.” When she hesitated he said, “Look, I know the way to Carson City. You don’t even know the way out of town.” It wasn’t until he had established himself in the driver’s seat that he added, “Besides, my nerves are shot already.”

She resented it silently. In a way it was comforting. It seemed right that he should be thoroughly unpleasant.

He drove down a network of back streets. When he emerged on the highway she was surprised, but refused to be impressed. After all, he lived here. And this was the last driving he’d do for some time, she reminded herself.

Suddenly he said, “You don’t care much for me, do you?” The formality of it seemed incongruous.

She was caught off-balance and only managed, “I don’t know you.”

He said, “I know. I’m a stool pigeon. Nobody likes a stool pigeon, even if it’s a stool pigeon who gets them a promotion. I don’t blame you. But I want you to know, I wouldn’t have done it if they hadn’t left me out here on a limb.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Elizabeth. She wondered how far away Carson City was. The world was supernaturally dark. She imagined desert on all sides, but could see nothing but the road.

“Damn right,” said Palermo. “When Old Granddad was killed—”

“Old Granddad?”

“Castiglione. When he was killed they said they’d protect me. Told Ferraro that too. They protected the shit out of him, didn’t they? Then I find out they’ve pulled out all the soldiers they had for some important project Carl Bala had on his mind. Nicky Palermo can go fuck himself. Well, we’ll see.”

“So you feel betrayed,” said Elizabeth.

“Betrayed?” said Palermo. He drove in silence, staring off into the darkness. “Yeah, I guess that’s the word for it. For years it was Nicky, you’re terrific, Nicky you’re a real friend, Nicky, I owe you. All of a sudden the roof collapses and what do I hear? Who’s Nicky Palermo?”

“What do you mean, the roof collapses?”

“Lady,” said Palermo, “I don’t know what you people do all day, but it must not be much. You must know about Castiglione, right? It was in all the papers, for Christ’s sake.”

Elizabeth said, “Of course.”

“Well, he was the old consigliere. He kept the young bulls in line—Carl Bala, Toscanzio, Damon, Lupo, DeLeone, all of them.”

“But I thought he was retired.”

“He was, in a way. He had everything he wanted, so he wasn’t interested in getting more. What he was interested in, I guess, was keeping the world quiet so he could hold on to it.”

“But if he was retired, how could he do that? He didn’t have any soldiers, did he?”

Palermo chuckled. “Neither does the Pope, honey. Or the head of the United Nations. When he made a decision it stuck. If it needed to be enforced, he’d get word to all the families and they’d do it. The smaller, weaker ones would be afraid the bigger ones would eat them up. The big guys like Toscanzio and Bala and Damon weren’t interested in having twenty families come together against them. Besides, they couldn’t trust each other. Castiglione they could trust. He didn’t want anything but peace and quiet.”

“So who wanted him dead?” asked Elizabeth.

Palermo drove on, shaking his head. “Figure it out for yourself, like I did. Who stood to gain anything? The little guys like Bellino or Lupo? Hell, they only existed because Castiglione kept the big fish off them. They’re all scared shitless. It had to be somebody who was big enough to think he could step in and take over, gobble the small operations up.”

“Then you think it was Toscanzio or Bala who did it. Or maybe Damon.”

“No, I know who did it,” he said. “There was supposed to be a meeting this week. Castiglione had called it. The only reason I knew was because it affected me in a way, or would have. I’d dealt with FGE a few times, and Castiglione wanted to talk about FGE.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t like it. It was practically in his backyard, and it had been used for some things he hadn’t agreed to. Things that might bring a lot of weight down on him.”

Elizabeth detected the slight shift in his tone. They were nearing some point he wasn’t going to talk about: something he was planning to sell. She knew she had to steer him away from it or he’d stop talking entirely. She said, “So they killed him rather than give it up, and killed Ferraro and Orloff and would have killed you.” He didn’t react, so she took a stab in the dark. She had to get him back on the subject he was most interested in, himself. “Because you killed Senator Claremont and that man in California.”

“The hell I did,” said Palermo. “For Christ’s sake, look at me. I weigh two thirty and I’m five eight. I’m over fifty years old. For the last twenty years I’ve cleared over two hundred thousand a year. Do I look like somebody who takes on wet jobs? Hell, they hired somebody to do that. A specialist.”

“Who hired him?”

Palermo laughed. “I’m not going to tell you that,” he said. “At least not now. Maybe later when I see what arrangements your boss made in Carson City.”

“But these are the people who are trying to kill you,” said Elizabeth. “And if you don’t get them, they’ll get you.” She had stumbled into the spot he was protecting; all she could do now was pursue it until he refused to go on.

“No,” said Palermo, “what they did was kill Castiglione and leave me alone in the open when the war started. They didn’t warn me, they didn’t protect me. Nothing. It was the other families who killed Ferraro and would have killed me.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” said Elizabeth. “When they know you’ve come to us, won’t they send this specialist after you?”

“They might, if you let them know,” said Palermo.

“But we don’t know what to do about a professional like that,” said Elizabeth. “Look at all the assassinations. We can’t protect you from that kind of killer unless we know who he is, or at least what to look for.”

Palermo shook his head, solemnly. He said, “Jesus, you must think I’m stupid, pulling that on me. The specialist? Shit, him I’d give you for free if I could. Problem is, I can’t. I never saw him, and I don’t even know his name. When they talked about him they just called him ‘the butcher’s boy.’ ”

“Nice name,” said Elizabeth.

“Yeah,” said Palermo. “Isn’t it?”

28

What he was most worried about was time. Las Vegas was probably the most difficult place in the world to hide in. It was full of people who were in the business of noticing every new face and searching it for the means of extracting a profit: greed, lust, gluttony, stupidity. Plenty of them had seen him before, and whoever noticed him first would feel fortunate—they didn’t have to cajole or deceive him or cater to his sexual appetite. All they had to do was mention that he was there. The only things in his favor were the huge number of newcomers that arrived each day—tens of thousands of them—and the fact that he wouldn’t be expected.