Frieda started walking toward him. “So?” he said loudly and a bit petulantly. All of the heads in the room turned toward her.
Frieda smiled at Marty then opted for public address. It would make Marty’s mini-outburst seem planned. Always the good personal assistant. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know you’re all still in shock about what happened with Dirk. We are all going to grieve his passing in our own ways. Things on The Rivals set are back to normal now and all is being taken care of. We’ll take care of arrangements for some sort of service or tribute to Dirk.” There was a sob from Sophie, one of the three witches. Frieda thought it was mostly for effect and let it slide. “Now, I have some good news. We’ve secured an actor from California to step in and be our Mackers.” It’s bad luck to say “Macbeth” in a theatre. Actors are superstitious folks. “He’ll be in at 10:00 tonight and will be here for work tomorrow morning. He worked in Chicago quite a few years ago. His name is Al McNair.”
The actor playing Macduff said through a mouthful of bacon and beef, “Wait. Who? Al?”
“Yes, Gill, Al McNair. Do you know him?”
Gill was one of the original members of Wildhorse. He was the right vintage to have at least run into Al when Al was an actor in Chicago. “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit! Alistair McNair! Fuck, yeah!”
A buzz of conversation started, and Marty stopped it with an abrupt, if not a bit forced, attempt at excitement. “Yes, Gill, that Al. I must tell you I am overjoyed to have Al with us. He was the first one I thought of when this unfortunate event caused a void to appear in our cast. Al is a consummate professional. He’s a certified teacher of stage combat and has logged more hours doing physical theatre than just about anyone I know. He has also taught voice and diction at the university level. So tomorrow, we have our Mackers. Frieda? Can you send out an announcement to all of our internal people? We’ll do a press release about poor Dirk today and one about Al coming in a few days from now. I want to give Dirk’s situation the consideration it deserves.”
Frieda couldn’t help but think that Marty was one slick son-of-a-bitch. He’d get twice the press, and twice the free publicity, by splitting up the news about the death and the replacement. He’d told her earlier he wanted to get ahead of the Dirk situation, and a press release had already been drafted. “Well, that’s all the news I have. Now, have a great rehearsal, and if we in the front of the office can do anything for you, please let Sunny know, and she’ll get it right to me.”
Frieda clicked softly across the room in her utilitarian-yet-classy heels. She had a pile of work to do before tonight. She was up for the challenge and she secretly loved the adrenaline rush. The fact she thought Dirk was an asshole was just icing on the cake.
As she was rounding the corner, she almost ran into one of the guys from the janitorial place that primped and maintained the cleanliness of the theatre. She had called earlier to make sure everything looked as clean as ever. The police had been tracking dirt and got who knows what else in and out all night.
“Lenny. Did you get the carpets shampooed, or did you just decide to give them a thorough vacuuming?”
“I just vacuumed the carpets real good. I think we should come in on Monday, you know, when you’re dark, and we’ll shampoo ‘em then.” He had a deep voice and when he said dark a chill went down her spine.
“That’s great, Lenny. I have your personal cell number, and I’ll just call you if anything comes up.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be free for you during all this stuff. Poor guy. Bet he didn’t know he was gonna die…I mean pass away where he worked.” He wiped his right eye with a handkerchief. Frieda couldn’t tell if it was emotion or dust. He didn’t wipe his left eye. He wore a simple patch on that eye. A scar ran diagonally from the middle of his forehead, behind the patch, presumably through the eye, and came to its terminus just below his left cheek bone.
“Thank you, Lenny. We appreciate your help and professionalism.” With that, she turned on her heel and went back to her desk to slog through the endless paperwork that would keep the lights on and the people paid.
5
“You may now turn on and use your cell phones or other hand-held devices. Please keep your seat belt fastened until we arrive at our designated gate.” The voice behind the announcement sounded tired. He guessed the young woman who had worked so diligently to make his first-class flight experience great was going to catch some sleep as soon as all of the geese were off the plane. He turned on his phone and waited for it to reboot. Now that the big plane’s wheels were on the ground, he reset his wristwatch’s time two hours ahead to Chicago time. He kept it on California time until landing. He always did that, but had no idea why.
His flight had been OK. It was a hell of a lot better than coach, but the airlines, in the attempt to squeeze as much profit from every flight they could, had decreased space in coach and were now doing it in first class. It was a shitty business practice, and Al talked about it to anyone who would listen. Before the “big squeeze,” you could recline guiltily in coach, but you could spread out in first class with an absolutely clear conscience. On this flight, the person in front of him had reclined, and, had Al brought the larger of his two laptops, he wouldn’t have been able to open it. He complained to the flight attendant, who assured him it was his paranoid imagination and first class was always this cramped. She didn’t say that exactly, but that was the take-away from the conversation.
Al really didn’t care much. He’d brought a couple of books with him. He didn’t think he’d need one of them, but had it in case he did. He brought a copy of A Shakespeare Glossary by a fellow named C.T. Onions, in case there was a word he wasn’t totally clear about in the other book. The other book was, of course, Macbeth. He was going to read it “like a book” on this flight. Try to knock the existing notions of the story out of his head and see if anything new hit him. With Shakespeare, if you read it with an open mind, you always found new stuff. He loved Shakespeare for that. There was an in-flight “meal” that consisted of a small chicken breast, small salad, small roll, and small piece of cake. It seemed small was the new flavor in first class.
His phone finally booted up and he saw a text message from Frieda. Meet you at baggage claim. I have a sign and you are hard to miss. He wrote back, Thank you…I think.
He climbed out of his seat when they had arrived at the gate and it was his turn to get out. He grabbed his bag and his jacket from the first-class coat closet. He’d brought a buttery leather jacket, bomber jackets they used to call them, because even this time of year, nights in Chicago could get a wee bit chilly.
He walked into O’Hare and was, as always, impressed by the sheer size of the airport. He loved that when you got off your plane in Chicago, you felt like you had arrived in Chicago. Lots of large metro airports didn’t have that feel. You felt like you were in a place where people got on and off planes. Chicago was different. There was this vibe in O’Hare that said, “Hey there, pal. You’re in Chicago. Now have a beer and a brat and shut the fuck up.” He loved it. He walked at a leisurely pace toward baggage claim letting his legs, arms, back, and shoulders loosen up after the semi-cramped flight experience. When he was coming down the escalator toward baggage claim, he saw a very attractive blonde standing with a sign. She was past thirty but wouldn’t see forty for years. She was fit, curvy, and had a playful little smirk on her dark red lips. Her dress was a close-fitting knit material, and her hair was pulled efficiently back into a ponytail.
The sign she was holding said “Gumshoe” at the top. Directly below was a picture of Tom Selleck in his Magnum P.I. days. It made him laugh. He finished his smooth descent into baggage claim.
“Mr. McNair, I presume?”
“Frieda. Nice to meet you.” He stuck out a hand that was relaxed enough to take a soft handshake but was also ready in case she had one of those really muscular handshakes. The handshake game had always been a curiosity of Al’s. It was said you could tell a lot about someone from thei
r handshake, but he didn’t know what the hell it was. Her grip was firm but not aggressive. He noted her hands were well manicured, but she had slight callouses built up on the pads of her hands. He glanced down and saw the prominent bulge on her right middle finger, just past the knuckle closest to the nail on the inside of the finger. It was the tell-tale sign of someone who used pens or pencils often. He liked that.
“Likewise. You check a bag?”
“I checked one. I travel light. Figured I could buy some clothes while I’m here. I like the sign, by the way.”
“I got a little punchy around 7:00, so I decided to do an art project.” She chucked it in a waste barrel as they passed it. “The driver is out in the car. If they hassle him, he’ll do the loop and come back around. Was your flight OK?”
“It was fine. The airlines have made first class smaller. They jammed in more seats. It makes me a little cranky.”
“Al, I don’t know if you are being polite for my benefit, but let me break the ice: fuck, shit, piss, goddamn, pussy, dickhead, assholes. There. Now I don’t know if you are a swearing man, but if you are, I know all of the words, and not one of them turns me to stone.” She smiled her playful little smile again. I’m gonna have to watch my ass around this one.
“Very good. The butt-sniffing human terriers that run the airlines have ruined the last bastion of civilized flying. It’s a dick move by a bunch of profit-seeking assholes, and it pisses me off. Better?”
“Now you’re in Chicago.”
The flashing yellow light on the baggage carousel started to spin, and the electronic beeping started. It was as if the baggage conveyor might start shooting bags at people instead of letting them trundle gently along on the belt and onto the luggage merry-go-round. The bags started to march up the chute and slide onto the circling oval of stainless steel. His golf bag came out seventh in line. He walked forward and grabbed it. It was heavy, but he lifted it with ease.
“Full set?” Al looked at her quizzically. “The clubs. Did you bring a full set? We can get you in to golf while you are here, if that’s your thing.” She looked disappointed. In fact, she was. In her experience, most golfers were boring.
“Oh, no. Not one golf club, as a matter of fact. I’ve found that a hard-sided golf bag is the best way to travel with weapons. It keeps your swords from getting damaged, and, so far, TSA hasn’t shit a brick about my toys.” He grabbed the top handle and used the case like a little drag-behind dolly cart.
“You brought ‘toys.’ That’s cute. Can I grab your bag?”
“I got it.”
“I know you’ve got it. I’m not carrying anything, and I’m not made of glass.” She was looking at him with one hand on a cocked hip.
“No, ma’am. You definitely do not look like you are made of glass or any other kind of cold, rigid material.” He held out the bag.
“Ma’am and a compliment. You seem like a fun guy, Al. Maybe you’ll shake things up a little while you’re here.” They were out on the curb now, and within thirty seconds, a limo pulled up. A stout Middle-Eastern man hopped spryly out of the cab and walked around to the open trunk of the vehicle. “You want your bag up front or in the trunk?”
“I’ll keep the bag with me, but the clubs can go in the trunk.” He stood the bag up, and the driver swooped in and put it in the trunk like it was a sack of eggs.
“Hop in, Al. I’ll give you the tencent version of the storm you’re walking into.”
They got in the back of the limo and Frieda said to the driver, “Smed? Can you close the privacy window? We’re going to the Double Tree, and we are going to talk dirty for a while.”
“Yes, Miss Callow.” And the smoked glass window partition was gliding up into place.
“Can I make you a drink?”
“Sure. Tonic on the rocks. Twist of lime might be good.’
“Vodka or gin? We have both. This is a well-stocked limo.”
“Neither. I don’t drink alcohol. It’s not a religious thing. When I drink, it tends to ruin my life. You can feel free, though. As a matter of fact, if you drink, I insist. You’re putting in a long day Miss…Callow? You have to be shitting me. Frieda Callow? As in the painter?”
“C-a-l-l-o-w. Not K-a-h-l-o. My dad liked the name Frieda and had a sense of art and humor. So yes, Frieda Callow, at your service. You can call me Frieda or Free. Make up a new one if you want. I will have a drink”
“Sit back; I’ll play bartender.”
“But you don’t drink.”
“You can’t retire from drinking without making a few drinks during your career. Let me guess, either Chardonnay or Scotch, neat.”
“Scotch. Two fingers, please. And a club soda on the side wouldn’t hurt. It’s been a bitch of a long day.”
“Kick off your shoes and let’s chat. As I remember, we have about forty-five minutes to burn before we hit the hotel area.”
So she took off her shoes and curled her feet under her. She took the hair band out of her hair and ran her hands around in it like she was shampooing it. When she was done, she looked like she should be curled up by a fire. The drink completed the picture.
“I’m sure we’ll get to the HR bullshit tomorrow, unless you want to do that tonight. Please say no.” said Al, who wasn’t in a business mood right now.
“I was planning on the contract and PR stuff tomorrow over coffee and bagels with Marty. You do bagels?”
“Chicago is a dangerous food town. I love all the food here. All of it. I don’t want to be a pain in the ass, but if you could arrange a low-carb wrap, it would be great.”
She looked mildly impatient. “Please say you want dead animals and cheese in it. If I have to cater to another high-maintenance diet, I’ll go bonkers.”
“Dead animal, cheese, bacon, mayo. Carbs kill me. Everything else is fair game. And my coffee is always black. I can take cold, just don’t put milk or sugar in it…”
“…or you’ll have to kill me?”
“I won’t want to, but yes. I’ll have to.” She laughed at this and took a big sip of her Scotch. Al could see the tension slipping away. He liked her. She was smart and funny. The drop-dead gorgeous thing was a nice perk, but Al loved a woman who knew how to laugh. “So my first question is blunt and callous, but it has to be asked.”
“Shoot.”
“How the fuck do you impale yourself on a stage sword? Was it a stage weapon?”
“Oh, yeah. We get our stuff from Rogue Steel. Totally safe.”
“I love Rogue. Those people kick ass. So if it was a stage weapon, how did he impale himself on it?”
“Marty was the only one who actually saw it, I mean, the results. He didn’t go into much detail. I can tell you Dirk was working on the stage in front of the set that’s up for The Rivals. There are plenty of steps and platforms to trip on and fall down. It’s been bugging me a little, because Dirk was good with weapons, been doing stage combat for years.”
“Yeah.” Al said. “I met him once for about five seconds at a stage combat workshop. I was teaching quarterstaff, but he was there for the steel. Kinda a douche, but he was competent with a sword. I can’t imagine it was foul play. There are easier ways to kill an accomplished swordsman. Anything else I should know going in?”
“You know Macduff. Gillan Murphy. He said he worked with you some when you were an actor here.”
“Outstanding! I love Gill. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but, God, we had some good times! I remember about half of them. It was the bad old days, and Gill and I were dedicated to keeping them that way. Who else would I know?”
So they drove and gossiped. It seemed like about ten minutes had gone by when Smed said over the intercom, “Excuse me, Miss Frieda. We’ll be at the hotel in five minutes.”
“Thank you, Smed.” She hung up the intercom phone. “Well, almost there. I live at the Double Tree. I have a suite with a kitchenette. I got you a room with a kitchenette in case you get sick of eating out all the time. I’m available at
work, either through Sunny or if you poke your head into my cave, so to speak. You can usually catch me.”
“I’m not sure if I know you well enough to poke my head into your cave yet, but I will strongly consider doing so.”
She met his gaze without flinching. “You will soon enough. Everybody knows everybody way too well in theatre. We’re just one big dysfunctional family.”
“And I’m the new addition.” They pulled up at the building. Frieda had put her shoes on while they were wrapping up their chat. Smed had the club bag on the sidewalk before they got all the way out of the back. Al palmed a twenty and shook Smed’s hand. “Thank you, Smed.”
“Thank you, Mr. Al. We will meet again soon.” He walked up to the driver’s compartment, got in, and drove off into the night.
“I’ll walk you to your room. You’re already checked in. Some of the other actors are staying here, but none are very close to your room.” They went to the elevator and Frieda pushed the button for the 19th floor. On the way up, she got his pass key. They walked a short distance to room 1919. “This is where I say goodnight. Do you want a car to pick you up or do you want to hoof it?”
“I’ll walk. I already researched the area and know where I’m going. Besides, I used to live here and I like to walk. I’ll meet you at the theatre offices. What time?”
“Be there at 8:45. Call or text me when you get there, and I’ll walk you up to meet with Marty to do all the happy horseshit. I’m in 2315. If you need me, ring my room.”
“Thank you for picking me up, Free. It has been a pleasure. I look forward to working with you.”
He started to turn to put his card key in the door when Frieda put her hand on his shoulder, kissed his cheek, and squeezed his arm through his supple leather jacket. “Jesus, please-us. You have some big arms under that coat. Hmm.” Then she smiled and walked back to the elevators, humming a little tuneless tune to herself.
Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition Page 3
