Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition

by Andrew Sutherland

  “If you’ve got the money, honey, I’ve got the time.” He sauntered into Marty’s office. He felt like today would be a sauntering day. Tonight would be a different pace altogether, but this Monday morning was made for the saunter. As he passed Marty, he heard him say to Frieda, “No calls.” It sounded curt, cold, and, well, douchey.

  “What was decided about Robbie and tonight?” asked Marty without even the slightest polite preamble.

  “I’m meeting with him at eight tonight. You should make plans. Go someplace public, where you’ll be recognized. Make a toast or something between 7:45 and 8:15. Be conspicuous.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing Marty. Not a goddamned thing. McGruff the crime dog would say, ‘Hey, kids. Always have an air-tight alibi.’ Remember McGruff? I loved him when I was a kid, though I never really believed in the stranger-danger bullshit.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I suspect I’ll be drinking espresso with my new friend Edith and maybe even with my other new friends Detective and Mrs. Smythe of the Chicago PD.”

  “Oh, my God! Did you tell the cops, Al? Tell me you didn’t tell the cops.”

  “Calm down, man. You’re gonna suck your underwear up your ass. Here’s the short story. Robbie’s going to go away. I’m going to restructure your concessions and bar set-up, and everything is going to be practically legal. The bad news is, you will have a new person to deal with. The good news is, it’ll be an associate of mine. That just means they’ll ask my permission before they throw you in the Chicago River. On the whole, you are coming out ahead.”

  “But I thought he was a…mob guy.” He whispered this last part theatrically but with no lack of sincerity.

  “You were supposed to think that. Did you check it out or just take his word for it?”

  “Well, he had money, and that creepy guy that was always by his side.”

  “You just described half the couples living in Manhattan. No Marty. He’s nobody. There will be no backlash. He’ll go away, and you won’t be bothered by him again.”

  “But what if we get in financial trouble again? Who’ll bail us out?”

  “Jesus. You just went from abject fear of this guy to mourning his loss. It’s the theatre version of Stockholm Syndrome. You’ll make plenty from selling booze, and if it is a legit income problem, I have people that’ll help out. But it’ll be legal. None of this pandering to a lowlife for drug money.”

  “I didn’t know it was drug money.” He said this in a sniveling, simpering way while still managing to make it sound vaguely like he didn’t know the money he was getting was dirty. It made Al sick to his stomach.

  “Marty? Just once in your miserable, scheming life, would you just admit that you were cutting corners? You’ve done it as long as I’ve known you. During the first year of our relationship, I saw how you got people to back your shows. I remember thinking that if I had to do that to participate in theatre, I’d become a bricklayer. It’s not homophobia. I’m not gay, and I don’t think it’s dirty or shameful. I just wouldn’t stoop to such lows as sexually servicing anyone to get what I wanted.” He thought briefly about the espresso, but decided it was a different ball park.

  “Running a theatre isn’t easy, Al. You of all people should know that.”

  “And you of all people should know that there is a point at which you give up so much of your soul that it renders your art invalid. Enough philosophy. I’m handling this now. I said it before; I’m not doing it for you. I am taking this decision out of your hands. It’ll come with some change, and you’re gonna have to deal with that, too.”

  “Am I still going to be Artistic Director of my own theatre?”

  “Yeah. That part will stay the same, but you’re gonna get a new Managing Director and a corresponding cut in pay. Shit, Frieda is doing the job as it is.” Al waited for Marty to argue, but the fight was drained out of him. “You’re good at the Artistic Director stuff, Marty. You just shouldn’t be allowed within ten miles of the Managing Directorship of this or any other theatre. I think you know that. I’m going to go down and warm up. The concession thing will change for this show. It may not stay this way, but we’ll make it work for as long as Mackers runs. Deal?”

  “Deal. I guess I’ve had a good run and I guess I knew the Robbie thing was too good to be true. I’m sure I’ll be more appreciative after this sinks in.”

  Al headed for the door. “Hey, Mart, this guy could still kill me then things would go back to normal. The only thing is, if he worked up the juice to kill me, I think you’d be second on the list. See you at rehearsal.”

  Frieda was sitting at her desk, obviously waiting for the report. “Well?”

  Al grabbed her cup of tea and gazed into it. “I can’t tell you everything, but I see a promotion in your future, a gain in status, and a meeting between you, me, and that intern who did my shopping.”

  “Cut the Great Carsoni bit. Are you talking about Lisa?”

  “Yeah, her.”

  “What do you need her for?”

  “I’m gonna see if she wants a job. Is she twenty-one?”

  “I think she’s twenty-two.”

  “Great. Let’s meet right after rehearsal tonight. It’ll be quick, maybe ten minutes. I have another meeting tonight that I have to get ready for.”

  “Your new girlfriend?”

  “Edith. Her name’s Edith. You remember the hacker? The one at the café I hired?”

  “That’s Edith? Little young, isn’t she?”

  “Not really. She has good genetics. She’s only a little younger than I am.”

  “A little?”

  “A decade. Time is relative. An old Jewish guy told me that. I gotta go warm up. Ten after five. Here.”

  “Have fun. Kill a king or two.”

  “Will do.” He strolled off toward the stairs, humming softly as he went. He had a rehearsal to get through before he got to the fun stuff.

  46

  Bud was waiting in the car outside the hotel at exactly 7:30. Al got in and gave Bud directions. Al had had a good day--great, in fact. Everything had gone more or less according to plan. Rehearsal had gone better than he expected. They’d be ready to perform in front of an audience next week--that is, if everyone stayed alive that long.

  Marty had worked through some of the tougher scenes a few times before lunch, then they’d had a stagger-through after lunch with notes and work on the rough spots. Sheena still sucked. Gill had become increasingly quiet, pale, and strange. Al would be talking with him soon, but for now, he was holding it together professionally, and that’s all Al really cared about. The fights looked great, and right before they broke for the day, the props department came in and showed off the fake decapitated head of Al/Macbeth. It looked so real, it gave Al the creeps. Makeup had come light-years in the short time he’d been away from theatre. Some things he’d kept up on, but sculpting complete prosthetic makeup hadn’t been one of them. In the old days, you cast a fake head out of liquid latex. It was a pourable rubber that was kinda like skin. The downfall was it was opaque, not translucent. Skin was translucent, which gave it that unique life-like appearance. They had cast the head out of something called “geleffects.” It was a kind of latex, but had a wetter, more alive look. He’d ask to keep it after the show. He could scare the shit out of his dog with it.

  After show and tell was over, Al went to Frieda’s office and met with Frieda and Lisa. Marty was already gone. He ran off after rehearsal was released. Al was pretty sure he’d be nursing a king-sized hangover the next day.

  “Hey, Mr. McNair. Is everything OK?” Lisa was looking apprehensive, like someone who’d been called unexpectedly to the principal’s office.

  “Everything is totally cool. I have a business proposition for you, but I need to ask you a couple of questions first.”

  Lisa looked at Frieda as if for permission. Frieda said, “Relax, girl. Al’s OK.”

  “Yeah.” said Al. “Al’s OK.
And for Christ’s sake, call me Al. So, what is it you want to do in the theatre? Frieda says you’ve been doing some ‘gofer’ stuff and some paperwork stuff.”

  “I think I want to get into theatre management. I thought I wanted to be an actor, but I’m not that good at it. In fact, I kinda suck.” She giggled when she said this. “Shrek says I’m not to use anything that is sharp or has moving parts. I’m allowed to paint as long as it’s one color and will remain backstage. I’m kinda a mess, but I love theatre. Frieda says I’m good with the front-of-house stuff, so I figure that’ll be where I’ll gravitate. Someone has to keep the trains running on time, am I right?”

  “Right as rain.” Al paused for a second. “You ever work in a bar?”

  Lisa thought the question was odd but said, “Sure. My family runs a bar in Kenosha, Wisconsin. It’s pretty simple. Pour drinks, make money.”

  Frieda jumped in, “Well, our concessions people have decided to look elsewhere for opportunities.”

  “You mean that creepy Robbie guy isn’t gonna be coming round here anymore?”

  “Why do you say he’s creepy?”

  “He once offered my twenty bucks to see my tits. I might have showed him if he’d just asked.” It was some strange brand of theatre morality. Al appreciated it.

  “Robbie has decided to take his crew and split. Something about Arkansas. So we need someone to run concessions and the bar. You’ll have to hire a couple of people to help. You gotta keep good records. I’ll have a couple of ringers watching you while you work, but I’m sure you’ll keep it on the up and up.”

  “What do I get paid?”

  “For this run, it’ll be fat. I don’t have time or a frame of reference to dicker. I figured we’d do a 60/40 split for this show. You pay your people what you want. We’ll start you with a full bar and full snacks. You replace shit as you use it. It’ll work to your advantage to be a good business person.”

  “Do we do enough business for me to do all that with 40% of the drawer money?”

  “Maybe.” Said Al. “but I’m offering you 60%. We, the theatre, get 40%. There’s no rent. No overhead. Just product. There’s a kitchen back there, so you could use glass glassware, or you can stick with plastic. We have a full liquor license, but you don’t have to pour anything custom. I’d stick with martinis, gin and tonic, vodka cranberry, and Scotch. That plus beer and wine, you’ll be busier than you can handle.”

  “Fuck, yeah!” Lisa was obviously excited about it.

  “You sure you don’t need any thinking time?” Al was looking at the little girl. She seemed to be growing an eighth of an inch every thirty seconds or so.

  “I’ll make a killing. Drinks here are over-priced and sell like hot cakes. That plus no overhead? Fuck me runnin’. We sell before and at intermission, right?”

  “That’s the fact.” Frieda was smiling.

  Lisa stuck out her hand, “Deal.”

  Al shook it, then inclined his head to Frieda. “You better shake with her, too. She’ll be your direct supervisor.”

  “I will?”

  Al gave her a wink. “There are a few things that are shifting at the corporate level. Nothing to concern yourself with. I’ll fill you in.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I figure it out. Now, why don’t you two go figure out what we have up there and what you need to get started.”

  “Fuck. I don’t have keys. Robbie has all that shit.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, the keys will be here by tomorrow. You’ll have plenty of time to figure it out before we open.” And Al took off.

  Now it was time to take care of the nefarious Robbie and his man-servant. Al climbed into Bud’s non-descript sedan. “How you doin’, detective? Take us to this address. We have some hoodlums to kick out of your fair city.”

  Bud answered by slapping a newspaper down on the seat next to Al. “You hear about this, or do you theatre people concern yourselves with the news of the common folk?” he put the car in gear and started driving across town to the offices of Robbie and company.

  Al hadn’t in truth seen or heard any news today. It had been a busy one; everyone had stayed in the building during break because it was drizzly and cold out. He hadn’t turned on the TV back in his room. He’d just turned on his computer and started streaming music through Pandora. He’d been on a Cake tear. He’d made a Cake station and was listening to it every chance he got. He’d called Edith, but had gotten her answering message.

  He looked at the folded newspaper. It was folded revealing the head shot of someone who was an actor. It was an actor Al recognized. He frequented the fellow’s movies. He liked them because they made no sense and lots of stuff got blown up. It was brain candy for people with testosterone poisoning. He recognized the actor for one other reason. He’d seen his name and pictures of him recently.

  It was Lance Henderson.

  “Well, this puts a different spin on things, doesn’t it?”

  “Al McNair, master of the understatement. Read it. It’ll be faster than me trying to tell you.”

  Al read the story. It didn’t come right out and say there was foul play, but it did say the circumstances of the actor’s death were currently shrouded in mystery. More details would be available in a few days, but the FBI and local police in Logan, Utah, had closed off the shoot site and were thoroughly investigating every inch where the incident occurred.

  Al supposed it wasn’t that odd that they were going over things with a fine-tooth comb. Movie special effects guys were allowed to ship explosives across state lines. They usually carried some pretty heavy gear. Al had known a few of these guys in the past, and they carried everything from prop guns to real, live, bullet-firing, automatic weapons, mortars, and C-4. Al had used a little C-4 on one of his adventures. It was pretty nasty stuff. Most accidents involving guns and explosives on sets were pretty immediately released as fuck-ups or malfunctions. Authorities were quick to yank people’s licenses for incompetence. This was as of yet in the “reasons unknown” file. Al didn’t like that for one simple reason: Lance was one of the actors on the hit list.

  “OK. This is fishy as a two-dollar whore. What else? You have an ‘I have a secret’ look.”

  “I did a little research today. Our Mr. Bannerman…you know about his accident, right?”

  “Yeah. I’m up to speed.”

  “The woman he killed was Imelda Garcia. She was walking with her son, Julio Garcia. She and her husband, Guillermo, had successfully become US citizens. She was pregnant. He had a landscaping business. They were just expanding the business. They were living the dream. He killed himself a couple months after his family was wiped out. No other family in this country that I could find. No one who would try to plot out revenge. No one with resources to do so.”

  “Hmmm. OK. Dead end. No pun, etc.”

  “Now, Bannerman. That’s a different story. He’s out of Joliet.”

  “What the fuck? Out! When did that happen?”

  “About two months before theatre people in and around Chicago started biting the dust.”

  “Where the fuck is he?”

  “He has a place in Freeport, Illinois. He sees a parole officer in Rockford every two weeks.”

  “Does he have a job?”

  “No. His parents left him a bunch of money. His lawyer swung a deal that as long as he keeps to himself on his little farm in Freeport and makes his checkins, everything is good to go. He was a model prisoner. If he hadn’t had the book thrown at him, he’d have gotten out sooner. As it was, he ran the high school re-entry program at Joliet. Helped over a hundred guys get their GEDs. Never had a problem. Never had an incident. Model prisoner all the way.”

  “This shit doesn’t scan.” Al’s head was starting to swim.

  “Well, it does and it doesn’t. If you were an extremely disciplined person, which I’ve noticed you are, could you sit in jail for fifteen years waiting to get revenge for some act?”

  “Yeah, but revenge for what?
What’d they do, force him to drink? Did they hold him down and force-feed the shit to him?”

  Bud didn’t reply, he just handed Al another manila envelope. “I got this from a guy in records. It isn’t a public document. This is gonna cost me a bottle of Pinch, which means…”

  “It’s gonna cost me a bottle of Pinch.”

  “Yeah, Al, but I think it’s worth it.”

  Al pulled out a piece of paper that had big stamps on it that said “VOID” and “INVALID.” “I can make out the stamps, but I can’t read this shitty Xerox in this light. What does it say?”

  “Right after Eric was getting out of the jail infirmary, right after his arrest, he gave this statement.”

  “Why was he in the infirmary? Did he get stabbed or something?”

  “Nope. It’s SOP when you’re brought in passed out with a blood alcohol of .35.”

  “How much? .35? Jesus Sheetrock, that’s lethal, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t miss a beat, Al. He was passed out for just over two days. When he woke up, he gave this statement. It names most of the people from the workshop photo. It says they made him chug hard alcohol while playing drinking games, then they stuck him in his van and told him to go to the store. The last thing he remembers is your friend Gill having him chug Goldschläger. He got a visitor a day later, I couldn’t find out who, and the day after, he recanted his statement. Said he was still drunk and didn’t know what he was talking about. He said he went and got the booze by himself and drank alone because he was lonely and feeling sorry for himself. He took full responsibility.”