Butcher's Road by Lee Thomas

papers that should have been filed weeks ago. When this turned up nothing, he walked across the station to his sergeant’s desk.
    “I’m looking for a file on Lonnie Musante.”
    “Conrad may have it,” Palmer said, gruffly as if his time were too valuable to be wasted on his job.
    “It’s not on his desk.”
    “Maybe he took it home.”
    “Conrad doesn’t take work home.”
    “Then it’s a mystery. Don’t detectives solve those?”
    “Fuck off, Palmer.”
    “Kiss me first.”
    On his way back to his desk, he waved a rookie uniform over and told the kid to run down to records to see what he could bring back on Musante. He also wanted whatever they had on file for Cardinal. Then Lennon went into his office and made a phone call.
    All the paperwork in the world wasn’t likely to get him close to an answer, but every now and then useful information showed through the dreary veneers. More times than not, the real information, the raw skinny, came from the streets, and Lennon was more than happy to dredge the gutters for bits of shiny fact, even if he had to wade through filth to get it. Which was the only reason he was making an appointment with a man he so thoroughly loathed.
    “Hey, Valentino,” Lennon said. “I need a word.”
    “Is this Lennon?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Heard you took a good knock. Went out like a kitten.”
    “I’d be glad to discuss that face to face.”
    “Can’t do it, Lennon.”
    “And then I say, you will, and then you say, there’s no way, and then I remind you of all the prison time you could do and you whimper and grumble and we dance for five minutes on the phone, and I don’t have the patience for that shit, so meet me at Cucina Napoli in thirty minutes or all of the bad things I always have to threaten will happen.”
    “I hate you, Lennon.”
    “Why wouldn’t you?” he said and hung up the phone.
    • • •
     
    Cucina Napoli was an upscale Italian eatery with the best pasta in Chicago, and an extensive wine list available to patrons who could afford to eat in one of four private dining rooms. The restaurant catered to a clientele certain to be discreet about the serving of spirited beverages, as the customers were the men who profited from their distribution. Lennon was led to a booth at the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen. He always got lousy tables when he came in, but he always got seated, even if the lobby was swarmed. The place had red velvet wallpaper and white tablecloths and tiny lanterns—wicks burning in oil—in lieu of candles.
    Henri Fiori arrived ten minutes after Lennon. Fiori was a Corsican who passed for Italian. He was uncommonly handsome, if on the feminine side, which was how he’d earned the nickname Valentino. Despite having a soft and pretty face and mannerisms not altogether masculine, Valentino was no fairy. He had been considered a prize by the socialite ladies of whom he’d made a career. These days his addictions to opium and cocaine were drawing deep and dark lines across his face, but in dim light, like the restaurant’s, he still carried a movie star patina.
    For the most part, Lennon despised the man and his vices. The gigolo was a dope fiend and a gambler, and he tossed other people’s cash around like rose petals in a ritual of constant seduction like a charming virus that had stricken Chicago years ago and continued to infect. But he was useful.
    “I really do have some place to be,” Valentino said, sliding into the booth across from Lennon.
    “Then let’s not waste our time together. Tell me about Lonnie Musante.”
    Valentino laughed and shook his head. “Are you off your nut? Why would you care about a freak like Lon?”
    “Well someone must care. Your boss declared war on the Bug’s crew because Lonnie was killed.”
    “A baby cries if you take away a toy, even if he doesn’t like playing with it anymore.”
    “What did Musante do for Impelliteri? Or was he lined up with Ricca and Nitti?”
    “He was all