Read Online The Butcher's Son by Dorien Grey - Free Book Online Page A

Bacchus’s Lair.”
    He grinned. “Ah, another convert!”
    “That okay with you?” I asked.
    “Sure! And you can steal me one of those bunches of plastic grapes as a souvenir.”
    “How about me just putting up a little memorial plaque saying ‘These are Chris’s?’”
    “Chicken!” he said as the waiter returned with our doggie box.
    *
    We called ahead from the restaurant to reserve a t a ble and were informed we would be first on the waiting list. We decided to risk it anyway and arrived at Bacchus’s Lair about twenty minutes before the second show.
    I only then remembered hearing somewhere that the Dog Collar, located about a block down on Arnwood, was having a weekend-long anniversary party. As a result, parking was impossible; we had to drive around the block looking for an available space and finally found one about two doors down from the Salvation’s Door shelter.
    I was a little hesitant about leaving the car there, but the street was lined with other vehicles, so I thought we’d be fairly safe. I pointed the shelter out to Chris as we walked past.
    “Love what they’ve done with the place,” he commented, indicating the blocked-over windows.
    When we’d climbed the stairs to Bacchus’s Lair, we were amazed to find the place only half-full. So much for being first on the waiting list. We were even able to specify a table near the exit. I’d checked as we walked up to the place and noticed there was a narrow passageway between the bar and the building next door, just wide enough for a fire escape.
    Well, it was better than nothing.
    We sat down and ordered drinks.
    “How come so quiet tonight?” I asked the cute-and-knew-it waiter.
    He shrugged.
    “Last two nights,” he explained, “everybody’s been over at the Dog Collar—they’re having a male stripper marathon. Which would you rather see? Hot, sweaty naked guys or overweight drag queens?” Without waiting for an answer, he left.
    “He has a point,” I said.
    “Maybe we can drop by there after the show.”
    “Sure.” I reached into my pocket. “Shit! I left my cigarettes at the restaurant! Where’s the machine?”
    “Down the back hall near the john. Need some change?”
    I checked my pockets.
    “Yeah, you got two quarters?”
    Chris dug into his pocket and came up with a fistful of coins.
    “Here,” he said then hoisted up his hip to reach his wallet as he saw the waiter approaching with our drinks.
    “Be right back.”
    I went through the maze of mostly empty tables to the hallway leading to the john. As long as I was there, I decided I should stop in so I wouldn’t be tempted later.
    The cigarette machine was in a small alcove next to the bathroom door, over which was a dim light. Under the dim light was a bunch of those godawful plastic grapes. They had apparently fallen off at one time and been reattached to the light with a piece of string.
    I reached up and yanked them off the fixture, stepping quickly back into the bathroom. They were made of several small “bunches” twisted together at the end. I untwisted them and separated them into two separate clumps, which I barely managed to fit into my pants pockets. One bunch wouldn’t have looked bad—sort of like the pair of socks a lot of guys are known to shove down their pants to make it look like they’re really, really hung. Two such bulges were a tad obvious.
    Nonetheless, I didn’t have much choice, so acting as nonchalant as possible, I made my way back to our table. Chris had watched my approach with raised eyebrow.
    “What the hell …?” he asked as I sat down at an angle on the chair.
    I fished out one of the bunches of “grapes.”
    “Here,” I said. “Put this in your pocket. I’ve got another one.”
    When he saw what I was giving him, he pressed his lips together so tightly I thought he was going to cry again.
    “What’s wrong now? I thought you wanted them.”
    He made a quick swipe of his eyes with his free hand.
    “I did, damn it!