The Butcher's Boy by Thomas Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

maybe not so much, at least until tomorrow night.

    He knew what he had to do now. There just wasn't any other way. As he dried himself he walked out into the bedroom. He picked up his watch from the dresser and put it on. Eleven thirty-nine . It would be a long night, no matter 26

    what. If only this had happened when he was working on something normal. He could call them and ask them to send somebody else, or even farm it out himself to someone he knew—Eddie Mastrewski had done that with him a couple of times. That reminded him of something Eddie had said, and it brought back the nervous anxiety: "Never work when you're hurt, kid. If you don't feel good you won't think straight, either. And if people can see it they'll remember it. I don't mean major surgery either. I wouldn't work with a pimple." Eddie was full of reasons not to work.

    He put on clean clothes and carefully combed his wet hair. There was one consolation, he thought. If anybody saw him and he did get away, what they'd remember about him was the bumps and bruises, and they'd be gone in two weeks with any luck.

    The whole thing would have to be changed now. He had planned to get a high-powered rifle with a scope, and get him through a window in his hotel. That was the way the crazies whose fantasies didn't include getting their pictures in the newspapers all did it. There wasn't time for that now, and he didn't have a gun, and—no use even thinking about it. He'd just have to live with the situation as it was.

    He went to his suitcase and rummaged around for a few seconds, collecting some things. A pocket knife, a ballpoint pen, a clean handkerchief, a pair of sunglasses. He tried on the sunglasses and studied his reflection. It wasn't great, but it was something. He made a mental note to get a pair with bigger lenses, maybe the wraparound kind. Then he sat down to read the newspaper.

    There was an article on the front page about the Senator's return. He studied it, but could find nothing that would tell him where the old man was staying tonight. He flipped through the paper until he came to a second article.
    This one had pictures of the old man and his aide getting out of a limousine in front of a building. Only part of the facade was visible, but it was a hotel, all right. They had said the old man had never lived in Denver . He had started out as a state assemblyman in Pueblo and still owned a place there. He studied the picture for clues. There was a doorman wearing one of those ridiculous comic-opera costumes, but no insignia on it, and nothing on the marble facade of the building except a number. He smiled. That would do it. 1905.

    He picked up the telephone book and leafed through it until he came to a page marked Hospitals-Hotels. There were dozens, but it didn't take him long.
    The Constellation Hotel. 1905 19th Street . He went through the rest of the list to see if there was another one with a 1905 number—he had been the victim of enough coincidences for one day—but there wasn't. So that was it. He studied the section carefully, looking for the hotel's ad. There wasn't any. So he turned to Restaurants. In a few seconds he'd found what he needed.

    He got up and packed his suitcase, then tore his bed up a little. He set the key on the dresser, and looked around one last time to see if he'd left anything before he turned out the lights. He walked down the back stairs and through the 27

    alley. The cold made his knee stiffen up a little, but he was walking better now.
    A few blocks down there was another motel, and a telephone booth at the gas station across the street.

    When he came to it, he called a cab company.

    "I'd like a cab, please."

    "Where are you now?"

    He read the sign across the street. "The Wee Hours Motel on Colfax."

    "Where do you want to go?"

    "The Pirate's Cove Restaurant on Alameda ." He'd almost said Alameda and 19th. Never work tired or hurt.

    "Right. He'll be there in about five minutes."

    They always said