Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition

by Andrew Sutherland

  Without missing a beat she said, “The four major food groups are coffee, Gino’s pizza, ice cream, and bacon.”

  “I think you just won a trip to the South, little lady.” He leaned over and gave her a peck where her shoulder joined her regal-looking neck.

  28

  While Al and Edith were narrowing their search, Eric was waiting to talk to a couple of people who he’d been introduced to through a common friend, a jail friend.

  Jake was a super light-skinned black dude who ran with the white guys, woods as they were called, as in “peckerwood” Eric supposed. One day, while Eric was in the library as he was just starting his rotation as the library trustee, Jake had asked him for a favor.

  “Yeah, man. I heard you was smart, like book smart. I wanna get my GED while I’m in here. Make something outta myself.”

  Eric had looked at him for a moment then asked, “Do you really think it will help you get out of here earlier?”

  Jake looked at him in silence.

  “Let me guess. You were thrown in here after a few petty crimes and probably one final assault. Maybe it was drugs, maybe it was a strong-arm robbery. I don’t think it was armed robbery or I’d have heard.” Eric made sure to get info on the people in here that were to be, perhaps not feared, but aware of. “So you strong-armed some dude, beat the shit outta him maybe, and got a vacation here. At least tell me if I’m hot or cold.”

  “Pretty fuckin’ warm.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll help you. I don’t have shit to do in here anyway, and I got some studying to do myself. If I help a few folks get educated, I can order some books I want, and it’ll look good for my release time. I think I’m going to do the bulk of my time, though. I fucked up pretty hard.”

  “I only know rumors and, like they say, my name is Chuck…”

  “…and I don’t give a fuck. Well, Chuck, when you get out, where you headed?”

  “Back to Chi-town. Where my people’s at. And it’s Jake. Jake Johnson.”

  “Well, Jake, when you get out, I want to know where you land. I might need a favor when I get out. Nothing illegal, but I have some plans for when I get out, and I ain’t got nobody nowhere. Might need a neighborly hand.”

  “And you gonna help me get my GED on a promise?”

  “Jake. All I got is my word. All you got is your word. Oh, and we both have time. I can make you pass that test. I can actually make you learn something. Can you read and write?”

  “What kinda shit is that?” asked Jake, but his reaction was answer enough.

  “Do you know your letters and numbers?”

  “Yeah. I suck though. I’m stupid. My mom always told me I’d just be a stupid n-… no account like my daddy. He left when I was real small.”

  Eric looked at him appraisingly. He noted the slightly broad nose, the vaguely full lips. He figured if Jake hadn’t self-identified as a wood, he’d have been with the blacks for sure. That was cool with Eric. He was color-blind when it came to people. People were the sum of their actions. The only thing he knew for sure was everybody was pink on the inside and everyone bled the same color blood. He lowered his voice, “If you were part black and anyone in the woods found out, there’d be trouble. I don’t give a fuck. I know it’s how people get by in here. Jackson, huh? Did you know that’s Scottish and English?”

  “No.”

  “So I’ll teach you some Scottish shit to slip in about your grandparents. In case it comes up. No need to get stabbed for being a light-skinned African.”

  “Jamaican.”

  “Right on. Same, same. So we got a deal, Jake? I’m gonna need help when I get out of here. Nothing anyone will get busted for, just some help time to time.”

  “You get me my GED, I’ll get you people on the outside. My word’s good. It’s all I got.”

  “Indeed, Jake. So let’s test you out and see if you’re missing information or if you’re a moron. Either way, I think we can get you the sheepskin.”

  So Eric had worked with Jake. They worked on and off for two years. Eric, who had to teach himself to assess where Jake was, assess where Jake needed to be, and then perform the necessary magic tricks to get him there, was good. He was very good. If he hadn’t slaughtered a woman and her kids, he might have made a good teacher. He liked it. He thought when everything in Chicago was over, when the slate had been wiped clean, he might just become a teacher. He could never teach in the US with a felony on his record, but he’d heard of people teaching English in China and thought it sounded pretty good. As a matter of fact, he could teach during the day and do expatriate theatre at night.

  Jake was a great student, and he spread the word about Eric. Pretty soon, the powers that decided such things let Eric have the “job” of teaching people to pass their GEDs. He was the book-cart trustee and worked with his students in the yard and on different common time. He was eventually given access to a room and supervised classroom time. His success rates were good, and it made the prison look good. There was grant money available to prisons that had people getting their GEDs while incarcerated.

  Jake got his early parole and, although he wouldn’t consider himself a friend of Eric, for Eric had no friends, they were on good terms. When Jake was set to get out on his early parole, he hunted Eric down. “You hear the news, man?”

  “Yes, Jake, I did. I knew you’d get it. My first and best pupil. What are you gonna do when you get out?”

  “Moving to a half-way house on the South Side. Got a job waiting for me at my uncle’s BBQ joint.” Eric gave him a look. “I’m slinging pig and slaw half the time and the rest of the time, I’m his accountant.” Jake had showed a surprising aptitude with numbers and had shocked Eric by taking correspondence courses in accounting and money management. If he wanted, he could have a business degree in two or three years.

  “Well, I say, goddamn on the pusher-man. I’m proud of you, Jake. Keep your nose clean.” He stepped closer. “I do need you to keep some of your old connections handy. Just in case I need something when I get out. I’ll be getting out in just about three years.”

  Jake shook Eric’s hand and gave him a chest bump, two pat hug. “Yo, G. My word is my bond, right?”

  “If it’s good enough to be the motto of the London Stock Exchange, it’s good enough for me. Jake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I will call in this chip. Send me how to get in touch with you. Don’t get thrown back in here. In here, you’re no good to me. Go make a future. You’ve earned it.” With that, Eric walked off.

  Jake had kept his word, and though Eric had never used the contact information Jake had sent, he was now sitting in a van outside of Uncle J’s BBQ on the South Side. He waited in the van for a while, watching. There were no white people in the place. A large black man stood over an old northern-style square smoker, flipping chicken and hot links. The smell was an absolute assault on the senses. Eric was going to go in and he was going to order a plate of slaw and burnt ends. He didn’t care if he got shot. The smell was killing him.

  He stepped out of the van and crossed the street, hands in his pockets, and saw a familiar pale face poke in from the door in the back. He shouted something, was answered by the large man working the smoker, and everyone in the joint busted out laughing. Found yourself a home and a life. Good for you, Jake. Now it’s time to pay up.

  Eric went into the place, and the conversation, though it didn’t stop completely, diminished in volume by at least half. He walked over to the cash register and addressed a skinny woman with coal-black skin and a mouth that looked like it was dripping venom. “Ma’am.” He said with a nod.

  “Whatchu want in here, marshmallow? You look lost.”

  “Fella I know, or knew a few years back, told me the slaw and burnt ends here were enough to make you want to slap your mama.”

  “And who might this fella have been?”

  Before Eric could answer, a resonant tenor voice said from off to his left, “Eric Bannerman! Shoot me where I st
and. Little Lizzie?” The venom lady turned to look at Jake, “This here is Mr. Eric Bannerman. He gave me the most precious gift one man can give another. He taught me to read and write like a college man. He taught me to do my numbers. He gave me my life.” Jake walked over to Eric and wrapped his arms around him. “All y’all! This here cracker helped me pass my GED and got me outta the big house years earlier than I should have. Treat him like family, or you ain’t welcome in here no more.” Then to Eric. “Whattya have? On the house.”

  “You never stopped talking about the burnt ends and slaw, so I think that’s what I’d like. Need to talk with ya, too. Someplace quiet, if we can.”

  “It ain’t much, but I got a small office in back we can use. Tanisha?”

  “Yeah, Jakie?”

  “Will you make this good man a huge plate of slaw and burnt ends? Set us up two iced teas, as well. I gotta settle accounts with this man, and I’ll be damned if he’s leaving here anything but stuffed to the gills.”

  Tanisha, now that she knew Eric wasn’t just some cracker asshole, smiled a beautiful smile and said, “I’ll have it back to you in a second.” Then she said to Eric. “Thank you for bringing my man home safe, sound, and smart to me. You are always welcome here.” She took two steps over and kissed Eric on the cheek. He blushed, and for a second, he was just some small Midwest kid with big city dreams. “Now, you two go catch up. Tanisha got your back, child.”

  They walked through a narrow door into a room that wasn’t much bigger than a broom closet. It was neat and organized, just small. Jake gestured for Eric to sit in one of the cast plastic chairs, and he took the one by the desk. Eric pushed the door closed with his foot.

  “Jake, I just need one favor and everything is paid in full. It’s not a big deal, and I highly doubt anyone will get hurt or arrested. I need three or four guys and about fifteen minutes of their time.”

  Jake pulled out a notepad. The top said I like pig butts and I cannot lie. “Now, you tell me how old Jake can help.

  Eric laid it out for him. Where the three or four guys would need to be, when, and what they’d need to do. He showed Jake a picture of Al. “He’s a big fucker, but your guys should be able to handle him. Four against one and the element of surprise. Sometime during it all, someone needs to impress upon this Al guy that he needs to spend less time detecting and just concentrate on the acting job he’s here to do. If he does that, he won’t get seriously injured.”

  They continued to talk about the plan for the batter part of a half an hour. The food came with huge glasses of sweet tea. When Eric left he knew two things: by tomorrow morning, Al would know to keep his nose in his own business, and his new favorite meal was burnt ends with coleslaw.

  29

  “Holy shit.” Al was staring, expressionless, arms crossed, at the paper-strewn wall of his hotel room.

  “You can say that again.” Edith was unconsciously mimicking Al’s physical demeanor.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Just a theory.”

  “Right. Just a coincidence. Nothing to look at here. Move along.”

  Edith turned and looked at Al’s profile. He was clenching and relaxing his teeth. It was a bad habit that he’d had his whole life. His mom told him he had done it as long as she could remember, at least since he had teeth. “What’re ya thinkin’, Daddy-O?”

  “We’re missing a big piece, but we’ve established a victimology and a timeline. I don’t think this is over. It doesn’t feel over.” He turned his head toward her, “Does it feel over to you?”

  “I don’t really know about feel, but this seems like a…finite situation.”

  Al sat in the office chair that was pushed a few feet back from the desk. “Talk to me about that.”

  Edith came over and sat on his lap, casually slinging an arm around his neck. “I like the way you put things. You didn’t ask me what I meant; you asked me to talk to you about this. It may be a small difference, but it feels good. It feels inclusive. I feel like I’m on the inside looking with you, not just feeding you information.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I guess I am.” She looked back at the sheets of paper. There were two groupings. One grouping was of the people who fit the profile they’d come up with for “people who were definitely victims of a common opponent.” The other group were “people that could have been done in by the same common opponent,” but there were anomalies.

  Al had asked her to think of it like that, a common opponent, because they weren’t trying to come up with the nature or identity of the murderer, murderers, fascist cult, or the like. This was about the victims, so it was better to not put the author of the mayhem into the equation yet. That would come later.

  “OK. We’ve drastically changed the timeline pool. If we stick with a cluster of deaths within the sub-group ‘Chicago theatre people,’ the only one we get in the last three years is the cluster that started just under a year ago. There’s been about one murder a month if we average it out, but they actually are happening a little closer together as time wears on.” She looked at him.

  “Go on.”

  “You have the most gorgeous eyes, did you know that? They kinda scared me when I first met you. I think it’s because you are such an intense fucker. You’re like seventeen kinds of focused.”

  “Thanks, E. Tell me the rest of your story…about these.” He waved a hand generally at the papers.

  “Well, we have eight people over in our ‘definitely’ list. All of them were in Chicago about twenty-five years ago. All have moved away at some point, but all came back. All identified themselves as locals. Most died in ways that were funky, but could have been accidents. The victim’s sex doesn’t seem to be statistically viable. Five males and three females, so that could be random. Probably is random. Then, we have the factoid that the group of people who have died seem to have done it in an increasing order of financial success…more or less.”

  “Whoa. What?”

  She smiled. She’d surprised the guy with the big brain. That made her happy. “I’m guessing on this, but look at the financials. The first one was in debt up to her nipples, shared an apartment, and worked a second and sometimes third job just to make ends meet. All the way up to Dirk, then Aquaman. They owned their own places, both of them.”

  “Dave Parcel.”

  “Huh?”

  “Aquaman. Dave Parcel. I hadn’t thought about the success thing, but that’s an interesting angle and could point to something about the opponent. You don’t think it’s over and done, though. Why?”

  “There is something that ties these people together. Something old. And the thing that ties them together didn’t hold them together. Some of them still knew each other, but there are no mentions in anything I found on any of the eight victims that cross-reference them to each other, except occasional reviews or programs. I’m sure they saw each other and worked together occasionally, but so far, there’s no information that ties them together presently. I also think if they were still close, the people in this group would be getting nervous. I would have contacted the cops by now, unless I hadn’t put it together. These folks were also statistically a little too young to be habitual obituary readers. There’s a good chance they just haven’t heard about all the deaths.”

  Al was nodding his head. His dad read the obits every day, but that hadn’t started until he was about sixty because that was when people in your cohort are supposed to start dying. Dying in your forties sucks because it’s unexpected.

  “Can you get on my computer and try to find the original members of Wildhorse Productions? They’re the ones that make their home in the Majestic now.”

  “The company you are working with?”

  “Yep. They were just a couple years old when I got to the city. I worked with some of them. That’s how Marty, the director, knew to phone me. Another guy from back then is in the show as well. Gill Murphy.”

  She made a disappointed little noise. “OK, I’ll get up and
check, but I want my spot back when I’m done. I was getting comfy.”

  Edith got up and started to push keys at an alarming rate. They had worked hard for about forty-five minutes; then the pizza had come. They fell on it like starving animals. Thirty minutes later, they were back at it again. She was easy to work with. She was funny and smart in equal portions and at appropriate times. She’d stopped at two and a half White Russians, so he didn’t have to worry about her being a drunk, at least not presently. She had a great laugh, a superior smile, and an unquestionable eye for detail. He would ask her again to come to Hattiesburg. He’d decided to when she took the first bite of the meat lover’s pizza and started to dance around making happy yummy noises. He’d been wrong. She wasn’t a Corvette Stingray. She was a 1969 Karmann Ghia. Sporty. Classy. Fun. Smart. He liked her, but most importantly she wasn’t a member of the theatre tribe. He’d had problems finding sane people in that tribe, at least in the area of romance. Too much impulsiveness and passion. It could get explosive and ugly.

  Edith interrupted his reverie. “Here you go.” She carried the laptop over and sat on his lap again. “Since I don’t think you have a gun in your pocket, I’ll just assume you’re happy to see me?” She wiggled around a little. He didn’t think she was trying to get comfortable.

  “What am I looking at here?” She had handed him a slightly pixelated picture of the original Wildhorse Productions company on the laptop screen. It was an archived story about a new theatre who had done some interesting work and had just renovated a small space. They were going to do cutting-edge theatre. Blah, blah, blah. “Where’d you get this?”

  “There’s an archive you can access of a defunct theatre rag called Windy City Players. It was big about twenty-five years ago. It finally went under about five years ago. Lots of good old production pics. Here…” She grabbed the laptop, opened a new window, clicked a few buttons, and turner the screen back to Al. There was a picture of a fight from a studio production of True West by Sam Shepard. In the picture, a much younger Al McNair was choking another smaller actor by the name of Shelby Silverstein with a phone cord.