As usual, he had bought the prizewinning beef steer from the local show, and its awards and rosettes were displayed in the window, while after hanging for more than 28 days, its carefully butchered joints were on display on the counter. No, there weren't any sweetbreads, it had lost those long ago, but there was an amazing amount of meat from just the one animal. The blatant advertising clearly did his reputation as a quality family butcher no harm; he had opened up the shop at seven that morning, and his wife said that it had been packed out with customers collecting their orders ever since.There were four of them behind the counter, his school-age daughter handing out the orders being collected and crossing them off in the book, and Mr Johnson himself and an assistant serving those customers who hadn't ordered in advance, or who had been tempted by the display and decided on the spur of the moment that maybe another small joint in the fridge might help them get through the. This guy lived a pretty good life. But I was getting paid good money to find some dirt on this guy and so after I had the paper research done on him, it was time to put him under the microscope and see what he didn't have written down. I packed my very ordinary Toyota Camry with the things I would need for an evening of surveillance and headed over to Manhattan where Paul's office was. Beverly had given me a call that morning telling me that Paul had said he "had to work late that day and wouldn't be home till later that evening." Yeah, right. So I went over there and parked a little way down the street and on the other side and waited. About 20 minutes later, I saw Paul pull out of the parking lot of the office building. I started to follow him, staying a couple cars behind him so I wouldn't be too obvious. He drove over to Hackensack to a small house on fairly nice-looking neighborhood street where he pulled into the driveway there and into a small detached garage and shut the.
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