When he was a little kid, the old man had brought him to work at his butcher shop two or three times a week in the summer. This went on from the time he was six until he was eleven, when it ended. The shop took up the ground floor of a two-story redbrick building on Quentin Road and East Thirty-sixth Street. Kevin Sullivan, Butcher was known for having the best meats in all of the Flatlands section of Brooklyn, but also for his skill in catering not just to the Irish but to Italian and German tastes.
The sawdust on the floor was always thick and swept clean every day. The glass in the windows of the cases sparkled. And Kevin Sullivan had a trademark – after he presented a customer's meat for inspection, he smiled, and then took a polite bow. His little bow got them every time.
Michael, his mother, and his three brothers knew another side of his father though. Kevin Sullivan had massive arms and the most powerful hands imaginable, especially in the eyes of a young boy. One time he caught a rat in the kitchen and crushed the vermin in his bare hands. He told his sons he could do the same thing to them, crush their bones to sawdust, and their mother seldom went a week without a purplish bruise appearing somewhere on her frail, thin body.
But that wasn't the worst of it, and it wasn't what had woken Sullivan that night and so many other times during his life. The real horror story had begun when he was six and they were cleaning up after closing one evening. His father called him into the shop's small office, which held a desk, a file cabinet, and a cot. Kevin Sullivan was sitting on the cot, and he told Michael to sit next to him. "Right here, boy. By my side."
"I'm sorry, Dad," Michael said immediately, knowing this had to be about some dumb mistake he'd made during his chores. "I'll make up for it. I'll do it right."
"Just sit!" said his father. "You have plenty to be sorry for, but that's not it. Now you listen. You listen to me good."
His father put his hand on the boy's knee. "You know how badly I can hurt you, Michael," he said. "You know that, right?"
"Yes, sir, I know."
"And I will," his father continued, "if you tell a single living soul."
Tell them what? Michael wanted to ask, but he knew better than to say a word, to interrupt his father once he had begun to speak.
"Not a solitary soul." His father squeezed his son's leg until tears formed in Michael's eyes.
And then his father leaned forward and kissed the boy on the mouth, and did other things that no father should ever do to his son.
Chapter 32
HIS FATHER HAD BEEN DEAD for a long time now, but the creepy bastard was never far enough away from Sullivan's thoughts, and in fact, he had devised unusual ways to "escape" from his childhood demons.
Around four the next afternoon he went shopping at Tysons Galleria in McLean, Virginia. He was looking for something very speciaclass="underline" just the right girl. He wanted to play a game called Red Light, Green Light.
During the next half hour at the Galleria, he approached a few possible game players outside Saks Fifth Avenue, then Neiman Marcus, then Lillie Rubin.
His pitch was straightforward and didn't vary. Big smile, then: "Hi. My name is Jeff Carter. Could I ask you a couple of questions? You mind? I'll be quick, I promise."
The fifth or sixth woman he approached had a very pretty, innocent face – a Madonna's face? – and she listened to what he had to say. Four of the women he'd hit on before her were pleasant enough. One was even flirty, but they all had walked away. He had no problem with that. He liked bright people, and the women were just being cautious about the pickup game. What was the old saying? Don't pick that up, you have no way of knowing where it's been.
"Well, not exactly questions," he went on with his sales pitch to the Madonna of the Galleria. "Let me put it another way. If I say anything that bothers you, I'll stop and walk away. That sound fair enough? Like Red Light, Green Light."
"That's a little weird," said the dark-haired girl. She had a truly gorgeous face and a nice body from what he could tell. Her voice was somewhat monotone – but hey, nobody's perfect. Other than maybe himself.
"But it's harmless," he went on. "I like your boots, by the way."
"Thanks. It doesn't bother me to hear that you like them. I like 'em too."
"You have a nice smile too. You know that you do, right? Sure you do."
"Careful now. Don't lay it on too thick."
They both laughed, hitting it off okay, Sullivan was thinking to himself. The game was on anyway. He just had to avoid getting a red light.
"Okay if I go on?" he asked. Always ask their permission. That was a rule he had whenever he played. Always he polite.
She shrugged, rolled her soft brown eyes, shifted her weight from one booted foot to the other. "I guess. We've gone this far, haven't we? "
"A thousand dollars," Sullivan said. This was where you usually won or lost the game. Right… now.
The Madonna's smile disappeared – but she didn't walk away. Sullivan's heart started to pound. He had her going, leaning his way. Now he just had to close the sale.
"Nothing funny. I promise," Sullivan said quickly, pouring on the charm without being too obvious about it.
The Madonna frowned. "You promise, huh?"
"One hour," Sullivan said. The trick here was how you said it. It had to sound like no big deal, nothing threatening, nothing out of the ordinary. Just an hour. Just a thousand dollars. Why not? What's the harm?
"Red light," she said, and walked away from him in a huff, never even looked back. He could tell she was pissed too.
Sullivan was mad, his heart still beating hard, and something else was rock hard as well. He wanted to grab the Madonna and strangle her in the middle of the mall. Really mess her up. But he loved this little game he'd invented. Red Light, Green Light.
Half an hour later, he was trying his luck outside the Victoria's Secret at the nearby Tysons Corner Mall – he got to "one hour" with a dreamy blonde in a "Jersey Girl" T-shirt and short shorts. No luck though, and he was really getting hot and bothered now. He needed a win, needed to get laid, needed an adrenaline hit.
The next girl he approached had beautiful, shimmering red hair. Great body. Long legs and small, lively tits that moved around in rhythm when she talked. At the "one hour" prompt, she folded her slender arms over her chest. Talk about body language, wow! But Red didn't walk away from him. Conflicted? Sure. He loved that in a woman.
"You're in control the whole time. You choose the hotel or your place. Whatever you want, whatever seems right. It's all up to you."
She looked at him for a moment, silent, and he knew that she was sizing him up – they stared right into your eyes at this point. He could tell that this one trusted her instincts. It's all up to you. Plus, she either wanted, or needed, the thousand dollars. And, of course, he was cute.
Finally, Red spoke in a quiet voice, because nobody else was supposed to hear this, right? "You have the cash on you?"
He showed her a roll of hundreds.
"They all hundreds?" she asked.
He showed her that they were hundreds. "You mind if I ask you your name?" he said.
"Sherry."
"That your real name?"
"Whatever, Jeff. Let's go. The clock is running. Your hour's already begun."
And off they went.
After his hour with Sherry was over, closer to an hour and a half actually, Michael Sullivan didn't have to give her any money. Not a thousand, not a nickel. All he had to do was show Sherry his picture collection – and a scalpel he had brought along.