Flame by John Lutz Page B

calm, Deep South voice that held a hint of Spanish, “He talks like a real rough man, don’t he, though?”
    “Not actually,” Ogden said. “But I hope he’s a sensible one. What I’d sure like to know, Mr. Carver, is why you went to Wesley Slaughter and Rendering and represented yourself as someone else. And why you just attended the memorial service for a man you never met.”
    “Didn’t stay for the service, actually.”
    “Smart fucker,” Butcher said. Then to Ogden: “Sometimes them kind’s the most fun. Don’t take ’em long to realize they ain’t so smart, though, then they’re like all the rest. People an’ hogs; ain’t none of ’em more’n just blood, guts, an’ bone.”
    Carver thought he saw Courtney shiver. Genuine revulsion? Or more playing for effect?
    Ogden, using a more reasonable tone of voice, said, “It’s this way, Mr. Carver. Wesley Slaughter and Rendering’s in a very competitive business, and there’s some delicate negotiations going on that will continue despite Mr. Wesley’s death. We don’t want anything happening that might upset those negotiations.” He smiled. “This all clear to you?”
    “Sure. You think I’m an industrial spy.”
    “I think it’d be smart of you not to show your face around Wesley Slaughter and Rendering again. Not to ask any more questions about poor Mr. Wesley. Not to trespass on private property. Spy on grieving widows. That kinda thing.”
    “Or?”
    Butcher smiled. Carver like him better leering.
    Carver said, “Your buddies tried to scare me off this case down in Florida. They the ones aimed you at me?”
    Butcher stiffened. Drew invisible little circles in the air with the point of the knife. Ogden seemed genuinely puzzled. “What buddies in Florida?”
    “You know the two. Down in Fort Lauderdale. Black guy and a Hispanic.”
    Courtney drew in her breath sharply.
    “Their act wasn’t nearly as frightening as yours, though,” Carver said. “Guns and tough talk was all. Gun can do more damage in a second, but there’s something unsettling about a knife.”
    Butcher said, “Ain’t there, though?”
    Ogden said, “Well, you shoulda listened to those fellas, Mr. Carver. Been best all around.” He reached into his suitcoat and drew a fat white business envelope from an inside pocket. “Here’s the way we can do it,” he said. “There’s a lotta money in this envelope, and I’m gonna leave it down at the desk for you. Come morning, you and that envelope be gone. You understand?”
    Carver said, “People don’t run other people out of town anymore. Not even very often in the movies.”
    “Ain’t no movie,” Butcher said.
    “If I reclaim that envelope tomorrow, you’ll wish you’d beat me to it,” Ogden said. “We clear on that?”
    Still looking at Ogden, Carver pointed with his cane at Butcher. “Didn’t you just hear Butcher say this wasn’t a movie?”
    “Think on it,” Ogden said. “Whatever it is, it’s up to you whether it has a happy ending.”
    Courtney stood up from the bed. She was shorter than Carver had imagined. Nicely built but thick through the waist. She drawled, “You better listen and do, Mr. Carver.”
    “He’s been given time to consider,” Ogden said. He started toward the door. Butcher followed. Then Courtney. Like ducks in a row.
    As he passed Carver, Butcher reached into his pants pocket and held up what looked like a rawhide necklace strung with about half a dozen tiny misshapen beads of leather. Said, “I carry this here for luck, Carver.”
    “They’re earlobes,” Ogden explained. “Real ones, you can be sure. He’s got him a little eccentricity and sorta collects them.”
    Courtney looked bored but slightly ill.
    Carver said, “They bring you luck, Butcher?”
    “More luck than the folks I cut ’em from,” Butcher said logically, grinning and slipping the leather loop back into his pocket, He smoothly inserted the long-bladed knife into its sheath beneath his