Chapter 79
T HE BUTCHER WAS in Georgetown to let off a little pent-up steam ? otherwise things might not go so well when he got back to Caitlin and the kiddies, to his life on the straight and narrow. Actually, he had learned a long time ago that he enjoyed living a double life. Who the hell wouldn’t?
Maybe another game of Red Light, Green Light was in order today. Why not? His war with Junior Maggione was creating a lot of stress for him.
The 3000 block of Q Street, where he walked briskly now, was nicely tree-lined and dominated by attractive townhouses and even larger manor-like homes. It was mostly an upscale residential area, and the parked cars spoke to the social status and tastes of those who lived here: several Mercedes, a Range Rover, a BMW, an Aston Martin, a shiny new Bentley or two.
For the most part, pedestrian traffic was limited to those entering and leaving their homes. Good deal for his purposes today. He had on earphones and was listening to a band from Scotland that he liked, Franz Ferdinand. Finally, though, he turned off the music and got serious.
At the redbrick home on the corner of Thirty-first and Q, some kind of elaborate dinner party was apparently being prepped for that evening. Assorted overpriced goodies were being transported from a stretch van marked “Georgetown Valet,” and the faux gas lamps in front of the house were being tested by the yardmen. The lights seemed to work just fine. Twinkle, twinkle.
Then the Butcher heard the click-clack of a woman’s high heels. The inviting, even intoxicating sound came from up ahead of him on the sidewalk, which was brick rather than pavement and wound through the neighborhood like a necklace laid out flat on a table.
Finally, he saw the woman from behind ? a fine, shapely thing, with long black hair hanging halfway to her waist. An Irisher like himself? A pretty lassie? No way to tell for certain from the back view. But the chase was on. Soon he’d know as much as he wanted to about her. He felt he was already in control of her fate, that she belonged to him, to the Butcher, his powerful alter ego, or perhaps the real him. Who could say?
He was getting closer and closer to the raven-haired woman, checking out the narrow alleyways that ran behind some of the larger houses, the patches of woods, looking for a good spot ? when he saw a store up ahead. What was this?
The only place of business he’d encountered for blocks. It almost seemed misplaced in the neighborhood.
Sarah’s Market, said the sign out front.
And then the dark-haired beauty turned inside. “Curses ? foiled,” the Butcher whispered, and grinned and imagined twisting a villain’s mustache. He loved this kind of game, this dangerous and provocative cat-and-mouse sort of thing in which he made up all the rules. But his smile instantly faded away ? because he saw something else at this Sarah’s Market, and that something else was not to his liking.
Newspapers were on display ? copies of the Washington Post. And you know what? He suddenly remembered that Mr. Bob Woodward himself lived somewhere in the area ? but that wasn’t the sticky part.
His face was the problem, an approximation anyhow, a line drawing of the Butcher that wasn’t half-bad. It was situated above the fold of the daily news, right where it shouldn’t be.
“My God, I’m famous.”