Thomas Perry: The Butcher's Boy

“I hope you’re right, Billy,” said the old man. “But I’d have felt a lot better about it if we could have gotten it all out on the floor this session. You know, I got a letter today from a woman who makes fifteen thousand dollars a year after twenty years working as a secretary. Her husband makes twenty-five thousand, so the first dollar she makes is taxed at forty-three percent. No tax shelters for them. By the time you figure state taxes, social security, and sales taxes that woman is losing over half her income. Maybe eight thousand dollars. Of the fifty richest people in my state, not one of them pays eight thousand a year in taxes. A lot of them don’t pay anything and never have. And the recent tax bills gave the rich the biggest subsidy yet. We’ve got to make some changes.”

“I know, Senator,” said the younger man, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ve been with you on this since I got here. It’s what got me elected. I said I’d try to work with you on income tax reforms that would help the average citizen, do whatever you wanted. They didn’t vote for me, they voted for you.”

“That’s bullshit. You got here because you were the best governor they’d had in twenty-five years. And you’ll get reelected because you’re the best senator for the last thirty. If something happens to me before we get this bill passed I’m counting on you to ramrod it. Remind a few people of what they promised us. You know who I mean.”

“Well, here’s my office,” said the senator from Illinois. “Don’t worry. We’ll both be here to remind them, and we probably won’t have to. Most of them will get an earful while they’re home for the break. I leave myself in two hours. First speaking date is tonight.”

“Oh, to be young again,” said the old man. “See you in a few weeks, Billy.” The younger man watched the older senator walk down the hallway toward his office. The familiar blue suit was hanging from the old man’s stooped shoulders, but the white head was still held erect. The Honorable McKinley R. Claremont, senior senator from the great state of Colorado. He wasn’t fooling anybody with that frail elderstatesman routine. Anybody who was interested could check his schedule and see he had a press conference set for eight fifteen tonight in the Denver airport.

“YOU’RE SURE ABOUT all this?” asked Brayer.

“Of course I’m sure,” said Elizabeth. “I’m sure of the facts, that is. I’m not sure about what interpretation to hang on them, because there aren’t enough of them. Veasy was carrying two hundred-pound sacks of nitrate fertilizer in his pickup truck. He must have bought them that day according to the Ventura police, because nobody saw them before that. Somebody apparently came along while he was in a union meeting and did something to the fertilizer so it would explode. And the FBI agent said that was perfectly possible for somebody who knew how.”

Brayer leaned back in his chair and tapped his pencil absently on the glass desk top. He stared off into space. Finally he turned to her and said, “I’m afraid I don’t know what to make of it either, but it’s sure not ordinary. Whoever did it was fast on his feet. He’d have to ad lib, if the fertilizer was only bought that day.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Elizabeth. “Does it warrant an investigation or not?”

“I’m not sure I know what warrants an investigation these days. We’re supposed to be keeping an eye on organized crime, not giving an Academy Award for the most imaginative performance by a murderer. Do you have any reason to believe this fellow Veasy might have had anything to do with the Mafia?”

“He didn’t have a record, if that’s what you mean, and his name didn’t come up when I had Padgett run the Who’s Who program on the computer. But who knows? Maybe he borrowed money, maybe he smuggled something for them—Ventura’s got a harbor. Maybe anything. It could even have had something to do with the union. We just don’t have anything to go on.”

“Except the fact that whoever snuffed him was clever about it.”

“Right,” said Elizabeth. “Clever enough to be a professional?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a world-class amateur, maybe a lunatic with beginner’s luck. But there’s always the chance it’s the real thing. Lunatics and beginners usually spend some time planning. They’re not up to working with what they find.”

“So you’re going to dispatch an investigator?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’m not even sure if I have anybody I can send right now. What was that FBI agent’s name, again?”

“Hart. Robert E. Hart. Extension 3023. Why?”

“I’ll see if I can con his boss into sending him. If he’s as good as the Treasury man said and I haven’t heard of him, he’s young enough and new enough to be eligible for legwork.” He picked up the phone, then looked at her expectantly.

“You mean I have to leave?” she asked.

“ ’Fraid so. It’s hard to lie, cheat, and steal in front of an audience. Close the door on your way out.”

5

Just one more before payday, and then a little vacation. Sometimes he wondered how long he would keep it up. At the beginning he’d thought five years was a long time, but now it had been six—no, almost seven, and still going strong. Living in motels and rent-by-the-week cottages could get to be pretty old after a month. It would be nice to be back in Tucson, where he could relax a little and get the old edge back. Eating in fast-food places and spending half your time traveling wasn’t so good for your body. It had to catch up with you sooner or later.

Denver wasn’t bad this time of year, though. Cold and clear. Later he’d take a walk down Colfax Avenue and see a movie. The plane wouldn’t arrive until tonight, and the press conference would make the eleven o’clock news. For the first day or two the old guy’d be surrounded by reporters and hometown minor-league political hacks anyway. After that, when the rosy glow faded, there’d be time to work something out. Just a matter of seeing your best shot and taking it, like pool.

He turned off the television and walked to the dresser. He leaned over his suitcase and peered at the face in the mirror. A little tired from the plane ride is all. No lines, nothing, he thought. It would be ten years yet before it was the kind of face people remembered.

BRAYER OPENED THE door of his office and beckoned to Elizabeth, who was sitting at her desk glancing at a newspaper. She brought it with her into Brayer’s office.

“Get down to Disbursement and pick up your travel vouchers,” Brayer said. “There’s a plane at eight that’ll get you to L.A. International by ten o’clock Pacific time, and a hop to Ventura that’ll get you in by eleven.”

“Me?”

“Do you see anybody else?”

“But I’m an analyst, remember? Good old Elizabeth? I’m no investigator. I haven’t been out of this office since—”

“You’re going, Elizabeth,” he said. “You’ve got the rating and the qualifications. Just because you haven’t done it before doesn’t mean you can’t do it, or if it comes to that, that I can’t order you to. I checked it with Martin Connors. So you’re going.”

“So the FBI wouldn’t do it?” she smiled slyly.

“Yes, they will. But they’ll only guarantee to let us use Hart for two days. They can pull him back any time after five o’clock Wednesday afternoon. And they’ll only send him if he’s there to investigate explosions, not handle the whole case by himself. Now get down there to your friendly local travel agent in Disbursement so they have some chance of getting you both on that eight-o’clock plane.”

“I’m on my way,” she said, heading for the door. “I hate snow anyway.”