The Butcher's Son Read Online Free PDF

embarrassed.
    “Well, uh,” I mumbled, hoping I didn’t sound as flustered as I felt, “let’s say it’s both.”
    I felt not unlike a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and I could have kicked myself for not having been more diplomatic. But, then, tact was never one of my strong points.
    “That’s okay,” Tom said, sensing my awkwardness. “I’m still glad you called.”
    “Me, too,” I said, and meant it. I guess I’d forgotten just how well the two of us had gotten along. “Listen, why don’t we get together. Maybe you can come over for dinner some night this week?”
    “Yeah, that might be nice. But I tell you what. I’m free later this afternoon. Would you and Chris like to join me for a drink? You know I’m not much of a bar person, but I’ve got to come into town, and I’ve been having the urge to stop in somewhere. I hate drinking alone.”
    “Sounds good. Let me check with Chris.” I put my hand over the receiver and yelled to him in the bathroom. “You feel up to going out for a drink with Tom this afternoon?”
    “Can’t,” he called back. “It’s bowling day, remember? You go ahead if you want.”
    I shrugged and took my hand from off the mouthpiece.
    “I forgot Chris has bowling this afternoon. But I’d still like to get together, if we can make it fairly early. Tomorrow’s back-to-the-grind day.”
    “Sure. It’s…what?…one-thirty now?”
    I checked my watch. He was right.
    “How about three-thirty, four o’clock?”
    “Fine with me,” I said, cradling the phone under one ear while lighting up another cigarette. “Where?”
    “Calypso’s? About three-thirty?”
    I might have guessed. Calypso’s was very popular with those who, for whatever reason, have one foot in the closet—businessmen, rising young executives, up-and-coming arson investigators. Three-piece suits were de rigueur weekdays during cocktail hour, but on Sundays the dress code was a bit more relaxed. The Sunday brunch crowd was almost exclusively although discreetly gay, the clientele switching to almost completely straight by mid-evening.
    “Great,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”
    Fortunately, I’d already performed my hour-long shower ritual. I usually tried to get up before Chris even opened his eyes so I could be more than halfway through before he started pounding on the shower door complaining about the water bill. Like our Saturday night dinners, it was one of those little family rituals we’d developed over the years.
    Chris had joined a gay bowling league a few months earlier; I think maybe in part because he knew I didn’t care for the game, and it gave him a chance to flirt without having to feel guilty. I also suspected he might be chalking up a few strikes with at least one of his teammates.
    But as I said earlier, our relationship had reached the point where it didn’t bother even an old Scorpio like me nearly as much as it once would have.
    *
    I was, as usual, early.
    Even at three-fifteen on a Sunday afternoon, the bar was fairly crowded. There was a strong contingent left over from brunch getting progressively but discreetly smashed as the afternoon wore on. Although things were beginning to loosen up, discretion was still the better part of valor. Should the G-word be spoken audibly enough for others to hear, stern looks would be cast in the direction of the offender. I found the whole elaborate charade more than a little silly, which probably accounted for my seldom coming into the place.
    Tom did not arrive until my second Bloody Mary was pretty well gone. I was watching for him in the mirror behind the bar and spotted him as he wove through a clot of goodbye-sayers at the door. Of course, his red-blond hair would have stood out even if he wasn’t nearly six-foot-six. Not having seen him for five years, I was struck by the fact he was still as attractive as ever, and that his hair was thinning noticeably.
    He spotted me watching him in the mirror, gave a big