The Butcher's Boy

the same journey and come to the same conclusion I have.) And I say might because I know there is still much good stuff to come from this writer.

But in rereading The Butcher’s Boy in order to prepare for the writing of this introduction, I was struck over and over by the assuredness of this work and by its long reach of promise. I was amazed by what Perry knew when he knew it. I see it in the prose, the pacing, the choices. It’s taken me a long time to learn what the cornerstones of this craft are, and yet there they are at work in Perry’s first outing. Hey, sure he has gotten better since. But he sure started out near the top floor of the building.

Over the years and the millions of words, I have come to learn that it is all about character and velocity. A book is like a car. It pulls up to the curb and the passenger door swings open to the reader. The engine revs. Do you want a ride?

Once you get in, the car takes off, the door slamming shut and tire rubber burning in its wake. Behind the wheel the driver’s got to be highly skilled, heavy on the pedal, and most of all, oh man, most of all, somebody you want to be with. He’s got to drive near the edge of the cliff but never over. He’s got to turn sharply just as you think you know where you are going. He’s got to gun it on the final lap. And he’s got to tell you the story all along the way.

If not, it is going to be a short ride.

I’m here to tell you that The Butcher’s Boy is not the short ride. No matter whom you are cruising with in this story, you’ve got your hands braced on the dashboard. There is not a single throwaway character in this book. They are all real, they are all captivating. Perry approaches his people with a less-is-more philosophy, never confusing description with character, cutting all of that away and leaving only the telling details that open a window onto a true world.

This economy creates momentum. The story gathers speed and moves with an unalterable urgency. All characters, all action, relentlessly moving toward the same vanishing point on the horizon. They asked me to write a few pages here, but I think I could have covered it with one word: relentless. This book is a relentless journey in a car with no mirrors. No looking back.

This velocity is also created by the masterly intertwining of multiple narrative tracks. Perry came out of the gate with a narrative that would offer a great challenge to any writer. How do you bond the reader to a professional hit man? How do you get the reader to get in the car with a killer? Perry answered the call by creating a character who is meticulously detailed in all ways but his name. The telling details of life on the road and on the run connect him to us. His ingenuity and skills win the day.

Perry also balances the outlaw portrait with another strong character, that of the heretofore deskbound crime analyst Elizabeth Waring. She’s unsteady in her new surroundings yet just as professional as her quarry. The juxtaposition of these two characters as they move separately but ultimately closer and closer is the gasoline that drives this car. It is rare that I have seen this pulled off successfully, and never with such success in a first novel.

Riding along all through this journey is Thomas Perry’s command. The authenticity is on display on every page, in every paragraph. From how hot desert air feels on the skin in Las Vegas to how paperwork is shuffled in the Justice Department to how a hired killer slips into a locked hotel room to fulfill a contract, the author’s skill in creating his world repeatedly awes the reader. Verisimilitude. Every page is absolutely authentic, and that creates a velocity of its own.

Character, control, and momentum. Perry has pulled off a wonderful trifecta in this novel. It is a rare accomplishment. So unusual is a book like this that it reminds me of how its own character Elizabeth Waring viewed her search for an unnamed, unknown hit man.

It was like trying to capture an animal that was so small and rare and elusive that you sometimes doubted that it existed.

Well, Thomas Perry captures the rare animal with this book. It exists. There are no doubts.

When The Butcher’s Boy was first published, twenty years ago, it received many accolades. Among them was the Edgar Award for best first novel. This award is bestowed by the Mystery Writers of America and is not taken lightly. I think the book you are about to read deserved that honor hands down.

Time now for you to start the story. The car is at the curb, waiting. The door is open and the engine is thrumming as high octane moves through its heart. Get in and ride.

MICHAEL CONNELLY’S first novel, The Black Echo, which introduced detective Hieronymus Bosch, won the Edgar Award for best first novel from the Mystery Writers of America. Other Harry Bosch novels include The Black Ice, The Concrete Blonde, The Last Coyote, and, more recently, City of Bones and Lost Light. Among Connelly’s other novels are The Poet, Blood Work, and Chasing the Dime.

For Jo

1

The union meeting, thought Al Veasy, had gone as well as could be expected, all things considered. He had finally figured out why the retirement fund was in such trouble all the time, when everybody else in the whole country with anything to invest seemed to be making money. And he had explained what he knew, and the union members had understood it right away, because it wasn’t anything surprising if you read the newspapers. The big unions had been getting caught in similar situations for years. Low-interest loans to Fieldston Growth Enterprises —hell of an impressive name, but zero return so far on almost five million dollars. If the company was as bad as it looked, there would be no more Fieldston than there was growth. Just a name and a fancy address. When the union started to apply pressure some lawyer nobody ever heard of would quietly file bankruptcy papers. Probably in New York or someplace where it would take weeks before the union here in Ventura, California, heard of it. Just a notice by certified mail to O’Connell, the president of the union local, informing him of the dissolution of Fieldston Growth Enterprises and the sale of its assets to cover debts. And O’Connell, the big dumb bastard, would bring it to Veasy for translation. “Hey, Al,” he would say, “take a look at this,” as though he already knew what it meant but felt it was his duty to let somebody else see the actual document. Not that it would do anybody any good by then.

Or now either. That was the trouble and always had been. Veasy could feel it as he walked away from the union hall, still wearing his clodhopper boots and a work shirt that the sweat had dried on hours ago. He could smell himself. The wise guys in their perfectly fitted three-piece suits and their Italian shoes always ended up with everything. The best the ordinary working man could hope for was sometimes to figure out how they’d done it, and then make one or two of them uncomfortable. Slow them down was what it amounted to. If it hadn’t been Fieldston Growth Enterprises it would have been something else that sounded just as substantial and ended up just the same. The money gone and nobody, no person, who could be forced to give it back.

He kicked at a stone on the gravel parking lot. There probably wasn’t even any point in going to the government about it. The courts and the bureaucrats and commissions. Veasy snorted. All of them made up of the same wise guys in the three-piece suits, so much alike you couldn’t tell them from each other or from the crooks, except maybe the crooks were a little better at it, at getting money without working for it, and they smiled at you. The ones in the government didn’t even have to smile at you, because they’d get their cut of it no matter what. But hell, what else could you do? You had to go through the motions. Sue Fieldston, just so it got on the record. A little machinists’ union local in Ventura losing 70 percent of its pension fund to bad investments. It probably wouldn’t even make the papers. But you had to try, even if all you could hope for was to make them a little more cautious next time, a little less greedy so they wouldn’t try to take it all. And maybe make one or two of them sweat a little.

Veasy opened the door of his pickup truck and climbed in. He sat there for a minute, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew a puff out the window. “Jesus,” he thought. “Nine o’clock. I wonder if Sue kept dinner for me.”