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  The Butcher's Boy

  ( Butcher's Boy - 1 )

  Thomas Perry

  The Edgar Award—winning novel by the "master of nail-biting suspense"(Los Angeles Times)

  Thomas Perry exploded onto the literary scene withThe Butcher's Boy. Back in print by popular demand, this spectacular debut, from a writer of "infernal ingenuity" (The New York Times Book Review), includes a new Introduction by bestselling author Michael Connelly.

  Murder has always been easy for the Butcher's Boy—it's what he was raised to do. But when he kills the senior senator from Colorado and arrives in Las Vegas to pick up his fee, he learns that he has become a liability to his shadowy employers. His actions attract the attention of police specialists who watch the world of organized crime, but though everyone knows that something big is going on, only Elizabeth Waring, a bright young analyst in the Justice Department, works her way closer to the truth, and to the frightening man behind it.

  Praise for The Butcher’s Boy

  “Brisk energy and confidence in the telling … complicated twists.”

  —Sunday Times (London)

  “A brilliant suspense thriller, reminiscent of Graham Greene.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  “Clever, knowledgeable, inventive and suspenseful.”

  —The New York Times

  “Thomas Perry has hit the mark his first time out with the skill at storytelling that promises more successes to come.”

  —The Houston Chronicle

  “Original, clever, intricate.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An ingenious crime thriller.”

  —Library Journal

  THOMAS PERRY won an Edgar for The Butcher’s Boy, and Metzger’s Dog was a New York Times Notable Book. Perry’s novel Vanishing Act was chosen as one of the 100 Favorite Mysteries of the Century by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association, and his novel Pursuit was a national bestseller. Perry lives in Southern California with his wife and two daughters.

  ALSO BY THOMAS PERRY

  Metzger’s Dog

  Big Fish

  Island

  Sleeping Dogs

  Vanishing Act

  Dance for the Dead

  Shadow Woman

  The Face-Changers

  Blood Money

  Death Benefits

  Pursuit

  Dead Aim

  Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Perry

  Introduction copyright © 2003 by Michael Connelly

  INTRODUCTION

  Michael Connelly

  It used to be that the quickest way for me to descend into a creative depression would be for someone to approach me and identify him- or herself as a fan of my work, but to then add the dreadful line “But your first one is still my favorite.”

  It didn’t matter if the approach was in person at a bookstore or on the street, or through the U.S. mail or the Internet. I always took it very badly, and the compliment would serve to make me question what I was doing. This of course was completely unknown to the cheerful giver of the supposed compliment, because I was always able to maintain a frozen smile or the distance of mail, electronic or otherwise.

  There was a time when I would actually respond, hoping to dissuade the reader of his or her own words, saying things like “That’s impossible!” or “You don’t really mean that!” But I soon realized it wasn’t impossible and they did really mean it.

  And that is the source of the depression; that’s the rub. Writing, whether you consider it a craft or an art or both, is something that should get better with practice. It stands to reason. Writing comes from experience, curiosity, and knowledge. In short, it comes from life. The writer must improve with age and experience and life. So too the writing. Therefore, if I were to accept the compliment of the reader, wouldn’t I be accepting the decline of my work? As of this writing, I have published twelve novels. If my best work was my first, what am I doing here?

  Well, I don’t feel that way anymore. I don’t get depressed. It took me a long time, but I understand something now. First novels are like first loves. They are moments of discovery and celebration of things hopefully to come. They are windows. They carry with them the long reach of promise. Now when readers tell me they still like my first novel the best, I can take the compliment. I don’t argue. I smile and say thank you.

  All of this leads me to say that The Butcher’s Boy might be my favorite novel by Thomas Perry. I say might because I am not certain—the man has written several very fine novels. (And of course I don’t want to be responsible for making the author depressed in case he has not made the same journey and come to the same conclusion I have.) And I say might because I know there is still much good stuff to come from this writer.

  But in rereading The Butcher’s Boy in order to prepare for the writing of this introduction, I was struck over and over by the assuredness of this work and by its long reach of promise. I was amazed by what Perry knew when he knew it. I see it in the prose, the pacing, the choices. It’s taken me a long time to learn what the cornerstones of this craft are, and yet there they are at work in Perry’s first outing. Hey, sure he has gotten better since. But he sure started out near the top floor of the building.

  Over the years and the millions of words, I have come to learn that it is all about character and velocity. A book is like a car. It pulls up to the curb and the passenger door swings open to the reader. The engine revs. Do you want a ride?

  Once you get in, the car takes off, the door slamming shut and tire rubber burning in its wake. Behind the wheel the driver’s got to be highly skilled, heavy on the pedal, and most of all, oh man, most of all, somebody you want to be with. He’s got to drive near the edge of the cliff but never over. He’s got to turn sharply just as you think you know where you are going. He’s got to gun it on the final lap. And he’s got to tell you the story all along the way.

  If not, it is going to be a short ride.

  I’m here to tell you that The Butcher’s Boy is not the short ride. No matter whom you are cruising with in this story, you’ve got your hands braced on the dashboard. There is not a single throwaway character in this book. They are all real, they are all captivating. Perry approaches his people with a less-is-more philosophy, never confusing description with character, cutting all of that away and leaving only the telling details that open a window onto a true world.

  This economy creates momentum. The story gathers speed and moves with an unalterable urgency. All characters, all action, relentlessly moving toward the same vanishing point on the horizon. They asked me to write a few pages here, but I think I could have covered it with one word: relentless. This book is a relentless journey in a car with no mirrors. No looking back.

  This velocity is also created by the masterly intertwining of multiple narrative tracks. Perry came out of the gate with a narrative that would offer a great challenge to any writer. How do you bond the reader to a professional hit man? How do you get the reader to get in the car with a killer? Perry answered the call by creating a character who is meticulously detailed in all ways but his name. The telling details of life on the road and on the run connect him to us. His ingenuity and skills win the day.

  Perry also balances the outlaw portrait with another strong character, that of the heretofore deskbound crime analyst Elizabeth Waring. She’s unsteady in her new surroundings yet just as professional as her quarry. The juxtaposition of these two characters as they move separately but ultimately closer and closer is the gasoline that drives this car. It is rare that I have seen this pulled off successfully, and never with such success in a first novel.

  Riding along all through this journey is Thomas Perry’s command. The authenticity is on di
splay on every page, in every paragraph. From how hot desert air feels on the skin in Las Vegas to how paperwork is shuffled in the Justice Department to how a hired killer slips into a locked hotel room to fulfill a contract, the author’s skill in creating his world repeatedly awes the reader. Verisimilitude. Every page is absolutely authentic, and that creates a velocity of its own.

  Character, control, and momentum. Perry has pulled off a wonderful trifecta in this novel. It is a rare accomplishment. So unusual is a book like this that it reminds me of how its own character Elizabeth Waring viewed her search for an unnamed, unknown hit man.

  It was like trying to capture an animal that was so small and rare and elusive that you sometimes doubted that it existed.

  Well, Thomas Perry captures the rare animal with this book. It exists. There are no doubts.

  When The Butcher’s Boy was first published, twenty years ago, it received many accolades. Among them was the Edgar Award for best first novel. This award is bestowed by the Mystery Writers of America and is not taken lightly. I think the book you are about to read deserved that honor hands down.

  Time now for you to start the story. The car is at the curb, waiting. The door is open and the engine is thrumming as high octane moves through its heart. Get in and ride.

  MICHAEL CONNELLY’S first novel, The Black Echo, which introduced detective Hieronymus Bosch, won the Edgar Award for best first novel from the Mystery Writers of America. Other Harry Bosch novels include The Black Ice, The Concrete Blonde, The Last Coyote, and, more recently, City of Bones and Lost Light. Among Connelly’s other novels are The Poet, Blood Work, and Chasing the Dime.

  For Jo

  1

  The union meeting, thought Al Veasy, had gone as well as could be expected, all things considered. He had finally figured out why the retirement fund was in such trouble all the time, when everybody else in the whole country with anything to invest seemed to be making money. And he had explained what he knew, and the union members had understood it right away, because it wasn’t anything surprising if you read the newspapers. The big unions had been getting caught in similar situations for years. Low-interest loans to Fieldston Growth Enterprises—hell of an impressive name, but zero return so far on almost five million dollars. If the company was as bad as it looked, there would be no more Fieldston than there was growth. Just a name and a fancy address. When the union started to apply pressure some lawyer nobody ever heard of would quietly file bankruptcy papers. Probably in New York or someplace where it would take weeks before the union here in Ventura, California, heard of it. Just a notice by certified mail to O’Connell, the president of the union local, informing him of the dissolution of Fieldston Growth Enterprises and the sale of its assets to cover debts. And O’Connell, the big dumb bastard, would bring it to Veasy for translation. “Hey, Al,” he would say, “take a look at this,” as though he already knew what it meant but felt it was his duty to let somebody else see the actual document. Not that it would do anybody any good by then.

  Or now either. That was the trouble and always had been. Veasy could feel it as he walked away from the union hall, still wearing his clodhopper boots and a work shirt that the sweat had dried on hours ago. He could smell himself. The wise guys in their perfectly fitted three-piece suits and their Italian shoes always ended up with everything. The best the ordinary working man could hope for was sometimes to figure out how they’d done it, and then make one or two of them uncomfortable. Slow them down was what it amounted to. If it hadn’t been Fieldston Growth Enterprises it would have been something else that sounded just as substantial and ended up just the same. The money gone and nobody, no person, who could be forced to give it back.

  He kicked at a stone on the gravel parking lot. There probably wasn’t even any point in going to the government about it. The courts and the bureaucrats and commissions. Veasy snorted. All of them made up of the same wise guys in the three-piece suits, so much alike you couldn’t tell them from each other or from the crooks, except maybe the crooks were a little better at it, at getting money without working for it, and they smiled at you. The ones in the government didn’t even have to smile at you, because they’d get their cut of it no matter what. But hell, what else could you do? You had to go through the motions. Sue Fieldston, just so it got on the record. A little machinists’ union local in Ventura losing 70 percent of its pension fund to bad investments. It probably wouldn’t even make the papers. But you had to try, even if all you could hope for was to make them a little more cautious next time, a little less greedy so they wouldn’t try to take it all. And maybe make one or two of them sweat a little.

  Veasy opened the door of his pickup truck and climbed in. He sat there for a minute, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew a puff out the window. “Jesus,” he thought. “Nine o’clock. I wonder if Sue kept dinner for me.” He looked at the lighted doorway of the union hall, where he could see the men filing out past the bulky shape of O’Connell, who was smiling and slapping somebody on the back. He would be saying something about how we don’t know yet and that it’s too early to panic. “That’s right, you big dumb bastard,” thought Veasy. “Keep calm, and you’ll never know what hit you.”

  Veasy turned the key in the ignition and the whole world turned to fire and noise. The concussion threw O’Connell back against the clapboards of the union hall and disintegrated the front window. Then the parking lot was bathed in light as the billowing ball of flame tore up into the sky. Afterward a machinist named Lynley said pieces of the pickup truck went with it, but O’Connell said there wasn’t anything to that. People always said things like that, especially when somebody actually got killed. Sure was a shame, though, and it was bad enough without making things up.

  2

  “Here’s the daily gloom,” said Padgett, tossing the sheaf of computer printouts on Elizabeth’s desk. “Early today, and you’re welcome to it.”

  “Thanks,” said Elizabeth, not looking up from her calculations. She was still trying to figure out how that check had bounced. Even if the store had tried to cash it the next morning, the deposit should have been there at least twelve hours before. Eight fifteen, and the bank would open at nine thirty. She made a note to call. It was probably the post office, as usual. Anybody who couldn’t deliver a piece of mail across town in two days ought to get into another business. They had sure delivered the notice of insufficient funds fast enough. One day.

  Elizabeth put the checkbook and notice back in her purse and picked up the printout. “All those years of school for this,” she thought. “Reading computerized obituaries for the Department of Justice for a living, and lucky to get it.”

  She started at the first sheet, going through the items one by one. “De Vitto, L. G. Male. Caucasian. 46. Apparent suicide. Shotgun, 12 gauge. Toledo, Ohio. Code number 79-8475.” She marked the entry in pencil, maybe just because of the name that could mean Mafia, and maybe just because it was the first one, and the other prospects might be even less likely.

  “Gale, D. R. Female. Caucasian. 34. Apparent murder. Revolver, .38. Suspects: Gale, P. G., 36; no prior arrests. Wichita, Kansas, code number 79-8476.” No, just the usual thing, thought Elizabeth. Family argument and one of them picks up a gun. She went on down the list, searching for the unusual, the one that might not be one of the same old things.

  “Veasy, A. E. Male. Caucasian. 35. Apparent murder. Dynamite. Ventura, California. Code number 79-8477.” Dynamite? Murder by dynamite? Elizabeth marked this one. Maybe it wasn’t anything for the Activity Report, but at least it wasn’t the predictable, normal Friday night’s random violence.

  “Satterfield, R. J. Male. Afro-American. 26. Apparent murder/robbery. Revolver, .32. Washington, D.C. Code number 79-8478.” No.

  “Davidson, B. L. Female. Caucasian. 23. Apparent murder/rape. Knife. Carmel, California. Code number 79-8479.” No again.

  Down the printout she went, letting the sheets fall in front of her desk to re-form themselves into an a
ccordion shape on the floor. Now and then she would make a check mark with her pencil beside an entry that didn’t fall into the ten or twelve most common murder patterns. It was Monday, so she had to work fast to catch up. One thing Elizabeth had learned on this job was that a lot of people killed each other on weekends.

  It was just after ten when she reached the final entry. “Stapleton, R. D. Male. Caucasian. 41. Apparent murder. Revolver, .45. Suspects: Stapleton, A. E., 38; no prior arrests. Buffalo, New York. Code number 79-102033.” Padgett, the senior analyst in charge of analyzing reports, would be on his morning break, she thought. The timing was always wrong, somehow. Whenever you got to the stage where you needed somebody it was either lunchtime or a break. She picked up the printout and carried it across the office to the glass-walled room where the computer operators worked.

  She was surprised to see Padgett at his desk behind the glass, frowning over a report. She rapped on the glass and he got up to open the door for her without putting down the papers he was reading.

  “I thought you would be on your break, Roger,” she said.

  “Not today,” said Padgett. “Must have been a big weekend. Four of our friends bought airline tickets in the last three days.” He always called them “our friends,” as though the years of scanning lists for familiar names had prompted a kind of affection.

  “All to the same place?”

  “No,” he said. “Two to Las Vegas, one to Phoenix, and one to Los Angeles.”

  “It’s probably the weather,” said Elizabeth. “They don’t like it any more than we do. You still have to scrape the snow off your car if it’s a Rolls Royce.”