The crazies were out tonight, all screams and spit and empty threat. Self-defence, he mused. Look at me, I am a person, I exist. But stay away.
The Butcher walked across streets and up avenues and to the restaurant called Oral Pleasures. He walked past it on the opposite side of the traffic, thought through the implications of what he was about to do. But this was no moral pause, this was maximising the pleasure, the thrill, the horror that would soon be delivered. He glanced through the front windows, saw just sides of beef hanging there in the cold room, some indistinct faces beyond. Decent crowd. Good.
Frigid memories of Idaho grasslands.
He carried on, watching one ranter in particular, a youngish guy who was banging on about Jesus right on the corner of 52nd and Broadway. It was his regular spot. He screamed into the individual faces of the theatre crowd, ranted about repentance, rebirth, hell, all the usual comfort stuff. His victims, fresh out of Jersey Boys - musical, Frankie Valli, Four Seasons - just wanted to sing Big Girls Don't Cry, hold on to the hundred dollar memory.
The ranter was clean, visually normal. So he made his move, went up to the guy, looked him right in the eye. Guy’s name was Paul and all he wanted to do was save some of these souls, y’know, just save them.
‘You served?’ asked the Butcher, nodding at Paul’s army coat, didn’t look bought from a stand down on Canal Street.
‘Afghanistan,’ he replied. ‘Dirty sons of bitches. I did my duty for my country and it drove me crazy. VA won’t even give me a goddamned doctor’s appointment. You?’
The Butcher pushed up a sleeve and showed his Rangers tattoo with campaign ribbon.
‘We almost got that mother in Tora Bora.’
Hell took on the form of cold, dusty caves then.
‘Spin Ghar? Shit,’ Paul's eyes opened. ‘That was too close. Still, we got the fucker. Eventually.’
‘Eventually.’
Got you.
So they smoked Marlboros and traded war stories and the Butcher told him about the man in the restaurant opposite, just over there, who's made homosexuality not just legal, but almost mandatory.
‘And he's made it a criminal act to criticise the Koran. The Koran! 9/11, I mean, is this how we remember the good Christians who were cut down on that day? How are we supposed to just tolerate that filth?’
Paul loved this.
‘Who is this guy? I want to kill him.’
Then he glanced uneasily in every direction. Was this some kind of trap, set by the liberals? Damn them all.
‘He's right in that restaurant and there's a way that you can hurt him, but without becoming a martyr yourself.’
‘Okay. I'll do it.’
The Butcher took a small package from the pocket of his leather jacket.
‘Deliver this to the congressman. You won't get near him, just make it to the bar, get a drink -’
‘I don't drink.’
‘Get a Coke, watch the congressman, he’ll be at his usual table just beyond the far left corner of the bar. See who his waiters are, then choose one them. Offer him fifty to deliver this to the congressman.’
‘I don't -’
‘Take this fifty for the waiter, and one more to get your Coke. Okay?’
‘Thank God for bringing you to me. What's in the package?’
‘Better you don't know. It’ll ruin his night, trust me. Maybe his whole life.’
‘Praise the Lord.’
‘As soon as you pass on the package, get out of there. If the cops stop you or track you down, tell them a guy with a beard gave you a fifty to drop a present off for him. You needed the money. He looked legit. Actually, he looked a bit like a Muslim now that you think of it. That clear?’
‘Clear. How do I get past those cops on the door?’
‘Tell them you’ve got a reservation. Name of O’Malley. Too late for service, but the name’s on tonight’s list so they’ll let you in.’
‘Okay. Then what?’
‘What?’
‘After this?’
‘If this goes smoothly, I'll be in touch. We are an army of two now.’
The Butcher smiled warmly then, put his hand on Paul’s shoulder and squeezed fondly. His first lieutenant.
‘I’m always here,’ he said, pointing at the sidewalk. ‘Hey,’ he added nervously, his voice catching, ‘I’m not going to get in any trouble, am I?’
‘What for? Your prints are on the outside of the package, but that’s it. You needed the fifty, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Kill twenty minutes before you make your move. I need to get part two done before they get the scent.’
The Butcher grinned as he straightened Paul’s hair, winked, retreated slowly. Paul waited a few minutes on the sidewalk. Then he made it past door security and the game was on.
The Butcher hurried back to the girl.
That feeling, that good feeling at the end of a busy, smooth service. Uneventful but for the trainee chef dropping his spectacles into the pot of boiling water and the customer who didn’t want to pay for his steak. Sophie put her hand into the water to retrieve the glasses without thinking. ‘All the nerves in your hands will become numb over time. And get a cord for the spectacles, yeah?’ Steak guy said he didn't like it. ‘He should’ve realised that before he ate the whole damned thing. He even licked the T-bone clean! Now tell him that we’ve got police officers on the premises and I can get them to sort it out for us.’ So he paid and apologised. It reminded her of the time the diner complained that her Vichyssoise was simply freezing. This kind of stuff happens every single day. Part of the reason she loved the job. It was all about meeting the key primal need for food, which comes even before sex and shelter in terms of daily importance.
Her dad, who brought his French culinary skills over during the War, always impressed on young Sophie the importance of food as a business. People can put off buying a new car or a coat. They can never put off eating lunch and dinner. And, in the end, hunger will make them kill for food.
So just some desserts going out, then a gushing sliced thumb, ‘You using my Global knife again, Jimmy? So don’t. Back in my knife bag before you get the first aid kit. And never cut towards yourself. Really’. Definitely a first generation cook. The busboys fiddling with the fancy coffees, the waiters counting out and divvying up the tips, the kitchen staff eating the family meal at the table by the kitchen, a hot Thai curry tonight, or drinking Peroni beer from coffee cups or smoking cigarettes or grass joints out in the back alley by the stinking trash and the sodium street lamps and the fat rats and the pure, clean night air.
Sophie pointedly ignored the drug and alcohol abuse that went on among the staff. It was defined by economic class, from the crack-smoking dishwashers to the pot-smoking busboys to the alcoholic waiters to the coke-snorting managers. It came with the territory. When you go out to a restaurant on a quiet night, you will likely deal with a staff that’s collectively off its face. Busier nights are better. Less boredom, less time to be filled with narcotics.
‘Table four sends their compliments, boss,’ says Ramon, a good waiter, union rep.
‘Four? Okay, thanks,’ she muttered. Odd. And he hasn't been out for his smoke with the help yet. Something’s up.
She washed her hands, slapped some cold water on the back of her neck, dried off. Then she carefully applied some lipstick, poured a glass of house red, a decent Californian Pinot Noir - Ingrid’s - good berry and chocolate tingles. And so, to meet her audience.
The restaurant was still full of customers but calmer now, all baked New York cheesecake, Colombian coffee and French brandy. The congressman spotted her and stood, grinning broadly. That spark in his eye, that curious, irresistible molecular reaction in her, like strawberries meeting balsamic vinegar. How did it happen, the two of them? He loved his food and the restaurant was near his campaign office. Was that it? Was that what brought people together, the coincidence of the mundane? No. Her food was definitely not mundane. That’s why her stake in Oral Pleasures was worth at least a million, so the accountant said. She glanced at the couples sharing desserts with single, long-stemmed spoons. Eight out of ten would certainly get in the neighbourhood of sex tonight, the condom machines in the bathrooms proved that. The minds would be willing, the bodies less so. Have more sex, then you won’t get so fat. One hundred and four covers, two seatings per night. Sometimes three. Hundred bucks a head. Do the math. Turnover last year: eight million. Surely this was something to be proud of?
So why the unease, the slithering emptiness?
Sophie’s typical day: Lie in bed awake until the alarm bings at 7.30. Green tea and salty olives and French cigarettes on the terrace, feed the dog, the Bijon Frise in her little house outside on the balcony (she rarely gets in the apartment), morning noises and smells, honking cabs and muffled shouts and the aromas of toasting bagels and street coffee drifting up from Bleecker Street below. The Village. The pulsing heart of Bohemian New York. Nigella sniffs the air, cocks an ear. Beautiful. Okay, she gets inside when Sophie's home. Shower. More tea, more smoke. Set up Nigella’s feeder, top-up her water. Then stroll up to West 4th St, catch the E up to 50th Street or, more often than not, walk, walk fast. Impossible to do that now without thinking back to that day, that crazy rush uptown with the bewildered thousands on The Day The Planes Came.
In the restaurant by 9.30, checking that the night cleaners had done a perfect job. Oversee the prep for lunch and dinner and the deli counter. How many potatoes peeled and diced? How much pesto today? Ten gallons, ten! It also sells by the half-pint to take away out front, nice little side earner. Sophie helps out a little during lunch service, but doesn't run the show. Her assistant, Carl, a little rough around the edges but talented and getting better, he manages lunch. She monitors, rolls her sleeves up when required, say when a tour bus with thirty jaded Japanese tourists turns up unannounced, all facemasks and Nikons. This happens. It's the pesto and the Facebook page.
Split shift. The afternoon is all about the accounts, with Wang, who runs the back office for her. Numbers, account balancing, debtor and creditor management, payroll, taxes. The dullest but most important part of the restaurant business. Sophie enjoyed it. As much as cooking even.
This was why she was so successful, why she was sometimes hard to live with. She cared passionately about the little details, wouldn't let stuff slide. When things were in a smooth groove, she'd have some time to work with Lucy, the young marketing graduate who looked after the ads, the coupon deals so-loved by the rich, the public relations, the website. Green tea and cigarettes and a bowl of fresh pasta with butter and black pepper at six. Maybe a few prawns fried in olive oil on top.
On sticky summer days, she would sneak up to the rooftop herb garden and sunbathe naked for an hour. This made her feel like she was being naughty, a feeling she relished. Of such tiny revolutions are interesting lives made.
5pm. Send a busboy out for another pack of Marlboro Gold, then sleeves up and dinner service. Four manic hours, wind down, maybe sit with some guests for a while, depending on who's in: movie star, politician, fashion designer, or anyone old rich. Sip a glass of wine. Maybe another. Pass the baton to her business partner Rod, the general manager and maitre d’, the perfect front of house man, who was rich (old money, very old), interesting and had the connections that mattered in business. Cab back to Greenwich Village. Balcony. Cigarette. Shower. Cigarette. Bed, to lie there, stare at the cracks in the ceiling, process the day. It seems like her eyes just slow-blink and she's awake again, waiting on the alarm.
‘Sophie!’ called Congressman Sam Walsh, the third most powerful man in American politics.
‘Mr Speaker. Enjoy your meal?’
‘Did you get my compliments?’
‘You normally do it in kind. What's up?’
‘Later, honey. Don't bust my balls, okay?’
That vague edge of menace to his syrupy voice, not strong enough to put a finger on, just the subtle ring that made you do what you were told. The congressman was not a super-wise man, not especially charismatic, so go figure how he became so powerful. Family. Tradition. Wealth. Connections. No real ability, yet just two heartbeats from being the most powerful man in the world. Sophie felt this enigma from the beginning, chose to ignore it. And here she was, his piece on the side when he was up from Washington, typically at weekends. No doubt he had a woman, maybe more than one, down there too. She often wondered whether he’d make a good president, wondered if she’d get to see the Oval Office.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said then. ‘It’s all this war talk.’
He embraced her and kissed her cheek wetly, caused her glass to lose a drop or two of red, which trickled down her grubby whites. Then he turned to his party. Sophie knew them all, especially the congressman's permanent detective escort, Danny O'Brien, a decent Irish-American cop from Woodside, over in Queens. Those wet lips proposed a toast to the best chef in New York City.
A wild-eyed man eased off the bar stool.
They sat and talked and spooned dessert and drank and then the guy showed up at the table. He wanted to keep both fifties. Everything slowed down as the congressman’s security got to their feet and reached inside their jackets. The congressman grabbed a wine bottle by the neck. Sophie's crazy alarm went off as the guy loomed over her. He looked familiar, somehow. But how could a guy like this be familiar, with his shining blue eyes, his shaved head and his tattoos? The street, he's off the street.
‘This is for you, sir,’ he said in a strong voice, more of a bellow, as he thrust a little parcel towards the congressman. Sophie thought that it looked like a lover’s gift, wrapped nicely in golden paper with a white bow. Maybe a pearl necklace inside.
The background buzz of slurred conversation stalled, died.
One of the other plainclothes cops grabbed the guy from behind while Danny snatched the parcel from his outstretched hand. A tableful of drinks went flying crashing. Sophie instantly calculated the replacement cost. Bastard.
The package fell apart, exposed its contents. The congressman saw the flash of gold, remembered, knew. It has to be a real surprise.
The spilling light startled the girl, shook her from her drug-addled funk as the door to the apartment opened. It was dark outside and she didn't know who, where or why she was. Just this cruel pain. Then she saw his face and she tried to gasp.
The Butcher seemed to be in a hurry as she watched him arrange his knives and tubes and phials on the glass coffee table.
‘Don’t bother getting worked up,’ he said. ‘I’m going to give you a little something now to take away the pain. When you wake up in a few hours, I’ll be gone and so will your gag. Then you can scream like hell.’
The drip narcotic was connected to the tube and into her arm and she was out in seconds. After switching on a desk lamp, the Butcher reviewed his notes, taped a thick pad below the work area and made an incision. It was twelve inches across, below the ribs on her right side. He quickly cut through her flesh, chunks of it thudding into a porcelain serving bowl, until he could see the kidney. He cut away her ureter, the tube that carried urine to the bladder, then hacked off the blood vessels. He removed the kidney and placed this into the dish with the flesh. He was sweating. He wiped the blood from his gloves, then clumsily stitched the ureter shut. There was some bleeding in the void, so he stitched it up and taped a dressing in place. She moaned a little but the drugs were powerful. He checked the time. One hour gone. The congressman would have his first gilded dish by now and the police would be working hard to find his child. The FBI would have been contacted already and their first contact agents would be framing their response to a possible terrorist atrocity.
Two black jeeps flashed blue, sped towards Sophie’s restaurant.
They will find her within hours, that's according to plan. So, to complete the main course. He gave himself thirty minutes, that would be time enough.
He took the bowl of flesh and went to the kitchen. He removed his gloves and washed his hands and forearms well. The fake tattoo turned the water black. He eyed his ingredients, all lined up in order, worked through the recipe for Irish stew with kidney. This would be an unforgettable dish.
He quickly chopped the girl's beautiful flesh into bite-sized chunks then put the meat on to fry in butter. The carrots, onions and potatoes were peeled and diced in minutes, he timed every step. He added the veg to a pot of boiling water, along with some aromatic thyme. He heard a moan from the other room.
‘It’s okay, honey. Just rustling up something special. You have a little Irish in you, don't you?’
As the meat sizzled and the vegetables simmered, he worked on the gravy. The easy answer would be to stir a can of condensed beef soup into the water, but this man was a professional. Insane, but still a professional. He crumbled lamb stock cubes into the bubbling water then cursed when he realised that he'd forgotten to bring the Worcestershire sauce, the descendant of the Romans’ liquamen, their ubiquitous salty rotted fish sauce. He looked through the cupboards until he found the one with the rarely-used condiments and he rooted, and there, in at the back, was the little red and white-labelled bottle that hides in almost every kitchen with the Tabasco sauce and the red wine vinegar. A good squirt, two, three.
With care, he sliced the girl's kidney into thin slices. This would give the dish the je ne sais quoi that every gourmet meal must have. Using the chopping knife’s broad blade, he lifted the kidney slices, then slid them into the frying pan for just a few seconds. Perfect. He carefully lifted the meat and kidney pieces from the pan and added them to the pot. The pan was taken off the heat, to preserve those spine-tingling meat juices. He seasoned the pot with salt and pepper then got to work on his roux, to thicken everything up nicely. In a mixing bowl, he whisked equal parts butter and white flour into a paste. He added this to the pan, back on the heat and it browned beautifully. Some of the water from the pot was ladled into the roux and juice mix so it wouldn't go lumpy when added to the stew. Then the roux went into the pot and voila, simmer for a few minutes - or an hour in the oven if there was time - and the dish was fit for a king. Or a congressman.
He checked on the girl. She was still out. Good. Dawn was creeping across the mirrored faces of the sleepy buildings outside. Time to move. He ladled the steaming stew into two bowls. One he set aside, with a plate and a Post-it note on top. The other bowl was too good to waste. He found a spoon and sat beside the girl. He marvelled at the golden display outside the window and savoured every mouthful of the delicious stew of which any Irish mother would be proud. Sated, he placed the bowl and spoon and the cooking utensils into the otherwise empty, rarely-used dishwasher. Then he found the large gauge syringe in his bag, the kind they used for sucking the fat from rich women. He made a small incision in the girl’s buttock. She mumbled, beads of sweat on her face and neck now. He filled the syringe with her white and pink and lumpy goodness and sealed it with a plastic cap.
The Butcher had crossed the moral line of the last great taboo. He perceived the meat and kidney in his dish as simply of a different animal, the treatment of the girl morally no different to the treatment that any lamb - the typical meat in a hearty Irish stew - could expect in an abattoir, just weeks after its birth. No, the girl was in a much better position, for she would live.
At least until the final course.
The Butcher packed his tools away in a doctor’s black bag, prepared to leave, to progress the plot.
He put his clothes back on, fantasised about the congressman’s mistress. Oh, the things he would do to Sophie.