Butcher Page 19

  ‘It’s a sweet eighty in the shade. You gotta come over some time, Rube. I’ll lay on a barbecue to end all goddam barbecues.’

  ‘One day. Call me when you’ve made the deposit.’

  Chuck said goodbye. A barbecue, burning dead animals and brushing them with brown sauce. He sat with his elbows propped on Lombardo’s desk, which was strewn with glossy body-building magazines. The models on the covers were all steroid cowboys. Restless, he tried Glorianna’s two numbers again with the same results. Was this the morning she took off for her voice lessons? He checked the date on Lombardo’s desk calendar.

  No. She went Mondays. This isn’t the day.

  He felt a touch of depression. All this death was disturbing. He wondered how much of it he could absorb and what he’d have to do to offset it in karmic terms. He needed to see Baba and get himself centred. He needed a quiet presence, a reassuring spiritual encounter.

  He made another phone call, this time to Dysart’s number.

  ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Dorco, how did you and Glorianna get on?’

  Dysart said, ‘G-get on?’

  ‘Did she relax you, Dorco?’

  ‘Oh, ah, y-yes.’

  ‘What time did she leave?’

  ‘I d-don’t remember. I fell asleep.’

  ‘I presume she got a taxi.’

  ‘I woo-would think so, Mr Chuck.’

  ‘Hard to find taxis out there, is it?’

  ‘I n-never use them.’

  Reuben Chuck was silent, trying to imagine Glorianna looking for a cab in the wilderness. Maybe she phoned for one. She’d have more sense than to walk the streets in that part of the world.

  Chuck changed the subject. ‘Incidentally, Dorco, my man was delighted with the last shipment you delivered.’

  ‘Oh, that’s g-great.’ Dysart giggled.

  ‘Just keep the stuff comin.’

  ‘Definitely I w-will, I will.’

  Chuck hung up. Dysart’s giggle pestered him. The giggle, the stutter, the chopped sentences: Dysart was definitely odd. He needed to be odd in his line of work.

  Chuck got up. He had a memory of himself and Glorianna making love in the toilet of a plane on the way to Corfu. She’d been pressed up against the wash-basin, her dress hoisted up and her panties down to her ankles and he saw his face in the mirror behind her. He could recall the jet roaring in his head and how the image in the mirror was no longer himself but that of a man experiencing ecstasy … Wonderful, out of this world – but brief, too brief. That was the problem with sexual rapture. It died about as quickly as it flowered.

  Never mind, he missed the intimacy and the thrill of mutually explosive release, and the clinging together after and the pleasure he felt in satisfying her and seeing that dizzy outerspace look on her face. He pictured her massaging Dorco.

  He couldn’t see it somehow.

  Ron Mathieson drove him through the red sandstone tenements of Hyndland. Outside the Temple of Personal Enlightenment, Chuck told Mathieson to wait, then he went inside.

  The place was empty. He noticed Baba’s big pillows on the floor and saw that Christ’s broken eye had been repaired and that the leak-catching bucket was no longer around. What did he do now, just wait for Baba to materialize? He walked to the pile of cushions and stared at the curtains drawn across the wall a few feet further back.

  He circled slowly round the room. I ordered the deaths of three men, Baba. I instructed a man to supply organs ripped from human beings. How much simpler it all was when you could say twenty Hail Marys and go off to the pub with a clear conscience. You don’t even have the escape route of booze anymore.

  He heard a sound from behind the curtains. Baba was probably back there, maybe meditating. You don’t interrupt a meditating man. Often the Baba retreated back there when he meditated with a group of acolytes – mainly peely-wally spotty young men and women who looked like vampires had been drawing their blood. Chuck didn’t like that young crowd, tended to avoid it. They were even more intense than Baba.

  Wait a minute.

  What was that crunching sound?

  He wandered close to the curtain and listened. He caught a smell he knew, but he discounted it because its presence here was incongruous. He touched the curtain.

  He heard Baba’s voice, pitched quietly. ‘I am in no position to pass judgement.’

  Another voice, almost as low, asked a question: ‘Is he truly serious?’

  Baba said, ‘Many people come to me in times of despair, when their souls are endangered.’

  ‘Seeking refuge, taking flight?’

  ‘These are one and the same thing.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  I know that fuckin voice, Chuck thought. He parted the curtain and peeped into the spartan room beyond. Baba, squatting on the floor, turned his face to look at him with a small smile of surprise. Chuck’s attention was drawn from Baba down to a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken that sat on the floor between the guru and his visitor, who stood with a greasy drumstick in his hand.

  ‘Scullion,’ Chuck said. ‘Well, well.’

  ‘I’m here to question the diverse ways of God, Reuben.’ Scullion nudged the bucket toward Chuck with the tip of his shoe. ‘Leg? Wing?’

  ‘I’ll pass,’ Chuck said, annoyed and troubled finding Scullion in the Temple.

  Baba said, ‘Mr Scullion has questions, Reuben.’

  ‘Has he now.’

  ‘I’ve been telling him how generous you are.’

  ‘Practically a saint,’ Scullion said.

  ‘I said no such thing. I simply told Mr Scullion how much you give to our Temple and how hard you strive to find the way.’

  ‘Because you’re a lost soul, apparently,’ Scullion said.

  Reuben Chuck looked at Baba. ‘He’s a polisman, Baba. He’s tryin to pin some crimes on me.’

  ‘Is that what I’m doing?’ Scullion looked innocent.

  Baba said, ‘He mentioned no crimes to me, Reuben. He was making a general inquiry about what we practise here, and your name came up, as names sometimes do.’

  ‘So this cop’s a student of religion and my name just sort of popped up, did it?’ Chuck looked at the KFC bucket. ‘You actually eat that crap, Scullion? You know it’s poison, don’t you?’

  ‘Most polismen don’t have time or money for top dollar bistros. Some of us make do with quick takeaway shite.’

  ‘I am detecting tension, an unpleasant vibration,’ Baba said.

  ‘Not from me,’ Scullion said.

  Chuck said, ‘You come in here pretendin to be interested in the Temple and all you’re doin is sneakin into my private life gatherin information, Scullion.’

  ‘Your paranoia’s showing, Chuck. Baba was telling me you donated a special bus to the Temple. Very worthy of you. I take it you’re the rightful owner of the vehicle?’

  ‘Come again? Of course I am.’

  ‘Do you have legal title to the bus, Chuck?’

  Chuck felt flustered. ‘What are you tryin to pull? I just telt you I was the owner.’

  Scullion said, ‘You’ll have a document of ownership then.’

  ‘It’s with my lawyers, because they’re preparin transfer of the vehicle to the Temple.’

  ‘Roman, Glebe and Hack, right?’ Scullion bent, nabbed a wing, bit into it like a wolf into a lamb’s throat. ‘Smart boys. Slick movers.’

  ‘You want to see that document, talk to them,’ Chuck said. How much pryin had Scullion done into my life? What does he know behind that smug polis face?

  Had Baba slipped, and told him too much? What did Baba know anyhow? Not the secrets of Chuck’s life, not the blood-lettings. Chuck had never revealed these.

  Scullion held the relic of the chicken wing in his hand. A slick of grease dripped to the floor. ‘Where’s the rubbish around here?’ He asked this question of Baba, but he was looking at Chuck.

  ‘There’s a receptacle at the side of the building,’ Baba said.

  ‘Fine. I
’ll take my bucket and my bones and I’ll be off.’

  Baba said, ‘Thank you for calling in.’

  ‘I enjoyed our talk,’ Scullion said. He looked at Chuck as he parted the curtain to leave. ‘See you around.’

  ‘Not if I see you first,’ Chuck said.

  Scullion stepped out, the curtain fell back in place. Chuck was furious. Some days begin bad and just get worse. He thought of the fleet of buses he’d ‘inherited’… what the hell, it was only a matter of paperwork. Gerry Hack could eat Scullion for a bedtime snack.

  Baba rose. ‘Trouble with the law, Reuben?’

  ‘Not me, Baba.’

  ‘You’re stressed, I see.’ Baba touched his shoulder. ‘Always remember: everything you think permanent is transitory.’

  ‘Including a bus?’

  Baba smiled as if answering a child. ‘Yes, including a bus.’

  ‘Right,’ Chuck said, disturbed. He knew where Scullion was coming from. If he can’t nail me for somethin big, he’ll sneak in the backdoor sniffin for somethin small. Paperwork, legal documents, deeds, tax returns, bank statements.

  ‘You look weary,’ Baba said.

  ‘Unclog my head, guru.’

  ‘I am not the instrument, Reuben, only the guide. Sit. Close your eyes. Do the deep breathing exercise I taught you.’

  Chuck sat cross-legged. He sucked in air slow and deep, filling his lungs, then expelled slowly. He blanked his mind, a condition he managed to maintain for a mere ten seconds before he began thinking about Glorianna. If she left Dysart’s place in a taxi, he could locate the driver easy enough. Make a few calls. And then Montague came waltzing into his head, babbling to the cops. Then Scullion. Before long, Chuck’s head was a cauldron bubbling with all kinds of rabble – chlorine, bowling-alleys, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Montague in polis custody, hired gunmen, old geezers on sportsbikes, the bistro, Zondra’s tight white shorts, Glorianna and what it had been like to fuck her and how much he’d love to do her again, possess her, never let her go …

  ‘Escape yourself,’ Baba said.

  O, I’m tryin, Chuck thought.

  30

  Perlman entered The Triangle Club in Cadzow Street, where he was greeted by Rhoda.

  ‘Can’t stay away?’

  ‘Moth to a flame, love,’ Perlman said. ‘I just want a wee word with Jackie again.’

  ‘Oops, wrong night.’ Her skin was silvery under the mirrored disco balls. ‘Jackie’s off.’

  ‘Where could I find her?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to give out personal details.’

  He winked at her. ‘I’ll never tell.’

  ‘She’s not in trouble, is she?’

  ‘Do I look like trouble?’

  She laughed. ‘You look like my grandfather. Same hairstyle.’

  ‘You call this a style? I’m honoured.’ Perlman smiled, although the grandfather word niggled him. He didn’t want to look like anyone’s grandpa.

  Rhoda went behind her desk and tapped a computer keyboard. ‘Here, check for yourself. Then nobody can ever say I told you.’

  Perlman looked at the screen and memorized Jackie Ace’s address. He thanked her.

  ‘Visit us again,’ she said.

  ‘Be sure of it.’

  Perlman left. Outside, the sky was turning toward evening, leaving behind a few melodramatic streaks of the afternoon sun. He drove in this crepuscular light up through the city centre, crossing Sauchiehall Street at the Dental Hospital, where he cringed at a bad memory of the old Jab and Stab dental college that operated years ago out of a Victorian building round the corner in Renfrew Street. He fantasized about Latta putting in long hours at this place of torture, spending painful afternoons at the hands of cack-handed students who bludgeoned your gums using ancient rotating drills that rattled every bone in your body, and injections that froze your mouth for days afterwards. You always departed the old dental college worse than you arrived. You went for a filling and left with three extractions.

  He turned up Hill Street. He found the tenement he was looking for, dark stone, sombre as a funeral director’s face. He parked his car. He was close to the Art School where Miriam used to teach. He thought of her paintings hanging unnoticed in the empty loft—

  Fucksake, banish the woman or be haunted all your days—

  He checked the doorbells, saw J Ace on a typewritten slip of paper, and he pressed the buzzer. A voice came through the intercom.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Perlman. Got a minute?’

  A pause. ‘I’ll buzz you in. Second floor.’

  Perlman pushed the door open when the buzzer sounded and entered the narrow tiled passageway leading to the stairs. He climbed quickly. The door to Ace’s flat was glossy rich red wood with bright Rennie Mackintosh stained-glass inserts.

  He saw Ace’s outline on the glass before the door opened. ‘Come in, Sergeant.’

  Perlman tracked Ace down the corridor. The living room was simple – a turn of the century writing-bureau, a couple of nineteenth-century upright chairs, two lilacs in a thin blue vase, quietly poetic. A slatted red blind hung at the window.

  Perlman lowered himself into one of the chairs. It was uncomfortable. He leaned forward.

  ‘Awful chair, right?’ Jackie Ace smiled. ‘How did the Victorians ever get comfy?’

  ‘Think this is hard? Try my Aunt Hilda’s biscuits.’

  Jackie Ace smiled. She wore eye make-up and lipstick and her hair was long. It didn’t look like a wig, Perlman thought. It was too loose, too natural. She’d grown out her own hair. She was dressed in a simple maroon cashmere dress; he, she, Perlman wasn’t sure how to think of Jackie Ace: a halfway person. She looked a little more angular, a little less feminine, than she’d done at The Triangle Club – but not by much. The word castration popped into Perlman’s head, and he crossed his legs, imagined the act of gelding. I wouldn’t let them have my balls, he thought. He wanted to ask Jackie Ace about the strenuous surgical procedure that lay ahead, but some places you just didn’t poke your nose.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  Jackie Ace plucked a cigarette from a red cardboard box. A du Maurier, a brand Perlman hadn’t seen in years. She didn’t light it. He remembered she’d told him in The Triangle that she didn’t smoke. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not at liberty,’ Perlman said.

  ‘A mystery? How inscrutable you are. Now you’re here, what can I do for you?’

  ‘A couple of questions I need answered. Then I’m off. Tartakower mentioned a guy who used to hang around you in the old chop-shop days.’

  Jackie Ace appeared surprised. ‘One in particular?’

  ‘All I got is he was desperate to learn, skinny, wore glasses and attached himself to you.’

  Jackie Ace stared at the unlit cigarette. ‘No bells ring.’

  ‘Think a minute. Take your time.’

  ‘What else did Tarty tell you?’

  ‘Just you and this kid were close. I got the impression he worshipped you.’

  ‘An unknown disciple? I think I’d remember somebody like that.’ Jackie Ace moved to a rack of stainless-steel shelving where a sound system had been installed, and pressed a button. The music was solo jazz piano. Perlman recognized it immediately.

  ‘Monk.’

  ‘You’re a fan?’

  ‘Years.’ He listened to Monk plink out a simple version of ‘Dinah’.

  Jackie Ace smiled, as if she detected some little surprise, hitherto unnoticed, in the tune. She looked more feminine when she relaxed into the smile. Perlman could see her as she would be in the future when, with all the procedures behind her, she’d pass without problem as a woman. In clothing emporia, at hair-stylists, or experimenting with make-up and perfumes the way women did in the House of Fraser and all the big department stores.

  She looked at Perlman and shrugged. ‘Sorry, I just can’t think who this mystery person might be.’


  Drawing a blank, Perlman thought. Everything Tartakower says, it’s a wrong turning. Was he capable of opening his mouth without lying? Even when he yawns, I bet it’s a lie. But he’d been so scared of enclosure in Perlman’s car, so spooked by the idea of going down to Force HQ, that Perlman was convinced he’d been telling the truth. So if he wasn’t lying, then Jackie Ace was. To what end? People lied for protection. So was Jackie protecting herself, or the alleged old friend, or both?

  Jackie Ace put the unlit du Maurier back in the box.

  Perlman got up from his chair, sighed, straightened his back and looked at her for a moment. She wants me to leave, he realized.

  It’s in her position, the arms folded tightly across her chest, the fingers of the left hand kneading the biceps of the right arm, as if to suppress a tic. Also the smile’s gone stiff, too fixed, and a slight impatience was forming ice in the eyes.

  ‘I’m thinking of something that would be really helpful to me, Jackie … A meeting between you, me and Tartakower, clear the air. Your story. His story. I’m uncomfortable with discrepancies, always have been—’

  ‘There’s absolutely no way I’d want to meet Tartakower again.’

  ‘It would make my investigation a whole lot easier. If he sits down with you, maybe he can fill in some details of this kid. Refresh your memory.’

  She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my memory.’

  ‘You’re not afraid of meeting the harmless old duffer, are you?’

  ‘No, certainly not.’

  ‘I didn’t imagine you would be. Somebody like you, facing serious life-altering surgery, you’ve got to be brave.’

  ‘Who told you that? Tartakower?’

  Perlman nodded. ‘It sounds rough.’

  ‘It’s no picnic.’

  ‘You’re seriously going through with it?’

  She had a bright pride in her eyes when she spoke, and a determination. ‘You’re damn right I am. I’ve been serious for years. Oestrogen. Electrolysis. Female facial construction. Castration. I’m going for it the whole way.’

  ‘Like I said, you’re a brave man—’

  ‘Woman. Soon to be.’

  ‘Woman, aye, sorry. So meeting old Tarty for a few minutes might help me take a step down the road to solving this case – and it shouldn’t be hard on you.’