3
“…so this guy ends the conversation with do you wanna come to Chicago and do a show. I told him I’d think about it and call him back in about an hour. Whaddya think?”
Scotty Mac took a big pull from his Miller Genuine Draft. He was walking on his treadmill to loosen up after an early morning of jet-ski fun on the dwindling surface of nearby Folsom Lake. California had been in a drought for a couple of years. If things kept on this way, California would be the next Dust Bowl. “You wanna do it? I mean, do you want to act again? We’ve talked about it. You’ve said everything about acting from shit to heaven and back. I think you talk about acting like an old girlfriend you never got over.”
“Yeah, I think I’d roll in the hay for old times’ sake if I got the chance.”
“And this theatre, this Shakespeare on the Boardwalk, it’s legit, right? I mean it’s big-time in the acting world?” Scotty Mac had no idea what acting was about. He thought that Dwayne ”The Rock” Johnson was damn near as good as that old English fart who played Gandalf in the Hobbit flicks. Al hated that attitude about acting, but knew it was the attitude of the greater part of the population currently walking the planet. Al referred to them as “the great unwashed” for a reason.
“Yeah, Scotty Mac, it’s up there with a lot of off-Broadway theatres, bigger than some.”
“Would you go back?” He punctuated this question by tossing his empty beer can into the large trash bin in the corner of his home gym.
“To acting for a living? Not on a fucking bet. I prefer getting shot at. As a PI, you only die once. As an actor, you have the opportunity to die a thousand deaths and still continue to suffer. But to do Macbeth one more time before I get too old to do it? You bet your ass.”
“There’s your answer. It opens in what, twenty days? And you say it keeps going for six weeks? Fuck. Nine weeks is nothing. I’ve done that much time in county jail standing on my head.”
“It won’t be like county. It might be worse. We’ve got plenty of money, and there’s no bad guys to go crush right now, so…”
“Can’t dance, too wet to plow.” Scotty Mac said sagely.
“…and the fish ain’t biting.” Al finished his Styrofoam cup of coffee and chunked it in the waste bin.
“That can’s for aluminum. Fuckin heathen.”
“Hire someone to pick through your recycling. How’s the money flow, by the way?”
“Good. We are looking good. You’re making money with your PI business, Party Tyme is making money. I think it’s time to find another place to launder some more cash. We still have more money than we’ll ever get through, but we can start rolling in big money in the next year or so. By this time next year, our little corporation should be drawing profit in the six-digit range.” The money from Anguilla had been from a scum-of-the-earth, human-trafficking, drug-dealing piece of human filth. Scotty Mac and Al had agreed to live off the money and do some cases pro bono. They’d put the word out to some people that if there was someone who needed some help with a situation, and Johnny Law was a little too bogged down to handle it, Al would come have a look. The PI business wasn’t making any real money, but they were generating paperwork and hiding behind a thin veil of confidentiality. They could make it look like they had a solid positive cash flow from entirely fictitious clients.
“The problem with that fucking doughnut shop is it makes too much money. If we put much more money on top of the real money that is coming in, it’ll look funny. We need to buy a bar.” Scotty Mac said this with a smile. Al was a recovered alcoholic.
“Yeah, I should own a bar.”
“The most successful drug dealers don’t do drugs. Just sayin’.”
Al laughed at this. “Look into it. We’ll see. You got this other shit handled while I’m gone?”
“Zero perspiration, my friend. I expect a good review.” Scotty Mac stuck out a meaty hand.
Al shook the hand. “I expect one, too. Is it illegal for me to kill a critic?”
“Only if you get caught. See ya, man. Call me from the Windy City. Rent a nice ride, too. We can write it off. It may be free money to us, but paying taxes still chaps my ass.”
Al left Scotty Mac’s place and walked back toward his parents’ house. It was only a block and a half away. He pulled out his phone.
“Wildhorse Productions, how may I direct your call?” It was a woman’s voice. Sexy. It sounded like a voice that had been lightly trained by good whiskey and an occasional cigarette.
“I am assuming you’d be Frieda. This is Al.”
“Hi, Al. Yeah. Been looking at your mug shot. Found one online for your business. You look like you’re about to lift the car you’re leaning against.” The picture was of him leaning against a low-slung grey sports car. He was wearing a tight thermal Henley and looked like he was wearing foam Superman muscles underneath it. He wasn’t.
“I’m sure we’ll have time to get new head shots while we are doing all of the publicity shit.”
“So you’re in?” It was a question, but one asked strictly out of formality.
“I’m in. Tell Marty to loosen his sphincter. I’ll fly out on a red-eye tonight. I can read with the script in hand tomorrow, nap, and have a fight call tomorrow night.”
“We’ll have to run this all past Sunny. She’s our stage manager and watches the AEA rules like a hawk.”
“I know the rules pretty well myself. After eight hours, I’m free to do what I want. If I want to play with weapons on my own time, it’s my business.”
“OK, Mr. Al. Marty said you could be a bit of a maverick. I’ll let you slug it out with Sunny. You feeling weird about the circumstances?”
“Not weird. Curious. I knew Ralph, I mean Dirk, about a million years ago. He was a tool, but not the kinda guy I’d think would fall on a sword and kill himself. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around how someone does that sort of thing.”
“Hey, man, shit happens in this business. You know that. Text me your e-mail. I’ll e-mail you my e-mail, then you e-mail me flight information. We’ll have a limo at the airport, and we’ll put you up at one of the nicer hotels.”
“Don’t tell Marty, but I’ve made a pretty good deal of money on my investments, so I may upgrade myself beyond the basics you are required to provide through AEA. We’ll work out the contract there. I only have a few stipulations, and none of them are deal-breakers. Even if they are, you guys sound a little up against it right now.”
“We’re a lot up against it right now. This will put everyone more at ease. We’re working the non-Macbeth scenes today. We’ll hammer out a schedule once you hit Chicago dirt. Hitch up your britches, Al. It’s going to be a hell of a ride.”
“I’ll text you my stuff, and I’ll be on a plane tonight, come Hell or high water. I look forward to meeting you, Frieda. You sound like an interesting gal.”
She tittered briefly. “Gal.” More tittering. It wounded like someone skipping a tiny sapphire across the surface of a crystal pond. “Marty said to watch my ass around you. Said you’re too charming to be trusted. We’ll see you tonight.” The phone went dead, and Al stood in the suburban street for a moment, staring at his phone, pondering possibilities before shooting an e-mail off to Miss Frieda. Or was it Mrs.? Ms.?
He walked home and thought about the adventure to come. It had been too long, and he was feeling the nervous apprehension he always had when approaching a new role. He’d played the Scottish lord before, but he was a younger man then, a different man.
He spent the next few hours packing--lightly. He’d buy appropriate clothing there. He packed a hard-sided golf bag with weapons and instruments of mayhem. He did this more out of habit than anything else. The theatre would have its own swords, but he had a few stage-worthy broadswords that were in very good condition. He would practice with these because they were old friends. They felt good in his hands. He also packed his sword cane, Szco Damascus Bowie knife, and a few handguns. He always brought a handgun. The knife had been given to him for
safe keeping after his adventure in Portland, and he’d bought a 40-caliber Chiappa Rhino after that trip. A friend had introduced him to the ugly, nasty, two-inch-barrel monster of a gun, and he had to get one. The unique characteristic of the Rhino is that it fires from the bottom cylinder instead of the top. Most revolvers fire from the top of the cylinder and as a result “kick” up in front after shooting. The Rhino’s kick went straight back into your hand. It was a bit painful at first, but it kept the barrel pointed in more or less the same place. You could get off six shots with tight grouping in a big hurry.
He’d managed to get a one-way flight on Virgin Atlantic for $88 dollars from San Francisco. He upgraded to first class for $300, and it was well worth it. It left at 4:30 pm and arrived at 10:30pm. Much better than the red-eye. Plenty of time to get some sleep on the plane and at the hotel. He sent Frieda the details, saying that he would pay the difference between coach and first class. She wrote a brief e-mail confirmation back and said there would be a car at the airport in Chicago to take him to the Double Tree, and if he wanted to upgrade the room, he could do that at the desk, but she assured him the Double Tree was nice and it was within walking distance of the Theatre.
After he’d sent the information to Frieda, he checked the time. It was just 10:30am. He’d take the train to San Francisco International Airport. No chance of a traffic jam screwing up his schedule. Besides, he liked the train. It was a great place to think and read. He packed a copy of Macbeth, a couple of pencils, and a yellow highlighter. He’d done a shit load of stuff already today. He explained the situation to his parents. They were happy to watch his English bulldog, Petunia, while he was away. They were surprised he would be acting again and said they might even try to fly out and see it.
“It would be nice to see you act again. You’re good.” His father said this with a grin. His dad had been in theatre all his life and knew it has a hard, cruel mistress that always owned a piece of your soul.
“I’d like you both to come. You can leave Spitty here with Scotty Mac. He’ll give her beer, but she’ll live.”
He ended up with his rolling golf bag full of weapons, a small backpack with his toiletries, and enough clothes to last him two days. He also packed two thousand dollars in cash. He’d have Scotty Mac wire more if he needed it, and he had his business banking card, which would allow him to withdraw $500 a day if need be. He’d gear up in Chicago. It was one of the perks of killing international kingpins. You could pack light and buy what you needed when you got to where you were going.
4
Like many professional theatres, Shakespeare on the Boards had a season of several plays scheduled throughout the year. Occasional hiatuses were built into the season selection and scheduled months, if not years, in advance. On a given production, curve balls and twists of fate (like losing your lead actor to a tragic self-inflicted broadsword injury) were expected. In those situations, you tried to roll with the tide and make things work.
Marty was the Managing Director and the Artistic Director of the company. It was an unusual situation. The company was structured as a not-for-profit, which meant an advisory board had to be appointed. Marty had done fairly well keeping the board stacked with people who cared deeply about the art form, had money, and knew that they didn’t know anything about theatre. It was rare to have a board that would sign off on just about anything. Two years ago, the Managing Director, an unstable and difficult man, had resigned mid-season. Marty didn’t want someone coming in mid-season as a temporary replacement. He didn’t want to have to deal with a search at the time. He suggested to the board that he take on the responsibilities of both the Artistic Director and the Managing Director. He magnanimously agreed to accept only three-quarters of the Managing Director’s salary.
In the theatre, as in most places, shit rolls downhill. Marty got overburdened and delegated to people who delegated to yet other people. He was a lucky man in that his personal assistant, Frieda, basically did all of the Managing Director duties. He offered her one-quarter of the Managing Director’s salary to do this. It gave her the freedom to work exclusively for Wildhorse Productions. She didn’t have to supplement her income with a second job, a definite luxury for a single woman living in an expensive city like Chicago. She was offered perks (she lived at the Double Tree in a two-bedroom suite with kitchenette for free), and she had all of the regular benefits a steady job offered, like health and dental. Life was good for her, and she was happy. Marty knew that if Frieda was happy, his life would be that much easier.
There were two other key players in the organization who kept things working like they should. Michael Martin, the Technical Director, was in charge of all technical operations of the theatre. There were designers, carpenters, electricians, painters, stitchers, and an army of other folks who took care of everything but the acting. Michael handled, arranged, and managed all of the technical areas. He was a large man of Nordic descent, with a wide, open, strong face, and an aura of peacefulness that made people think of Michael as a gentle giant. Most of the regulars there called him Shrek. He liked that. The larger problems in the technical area were sometimes kicked up to the Artistic Director or the Managing Director. There were unions to deal with on the technical side as well, and Michael had to keep a wary eye on conditions relating to contracts, lest they get shut down by the Teamsters. No one wanted a beef with the Teamsters in Chicago. No one.
The final part of the puzzle was Stage Manager Sunny Taymore. Most people who worked with Sunny said she was the best in the business. She was a Jamaican-American. Her mocha skin and soft lilting accent put people at immediate ease. Two things made her the best in her field. First was that kind, soft, demeanor. There were times people forgot she was in the room because she knew how to let the river of life flow around her or through her without causing a ripple. She could see a problem coming three days before it happened and bend the situation so the problem never materialized. Then there was the other side of Sunny that no one expected, but everyone respected. She was five feet, two inches tall and weighed one hundred fifteen pounds, but when it was time for her to be in charge, little Sunny became seven feet tall and bulletproof. She ran rehearsals like clockwork and no one dared to give her shit about anything.
In the theatre world, the Stage Managers seem like they should be on the technical side of theatre. They are, in fact, members of AEA, the actor’s union. They are the conduit through which flows all information between the acting side and the technical side. They are masters of communication. More than a few productions had failed because of terrible stage management. That had never happened on Sunny’s watch.
The current curveball--namely the premature demise of Dirk--affected almost every part of production. A new Macbeth would be different in every aspect. Changing a lead actor late in the game made everyone have to re-do work. Most of it fell on costumes, hair, and make up, but all areas felt the change. A theatre production is like a living organism. Replace one part of a healthy living organism, and you could have an unhealthy organism on your hands in a big hurry.
Macbeth was currently being built in the scene shop and rehearsed in a rehearsal space that was the same rough dimensions as the set. The theatre was currently running a production of The Rivals by a fellow named Richard Brinsley Sheridan. The play, a comedic romp of misguided alliances and jilted lovers, was first produced in 1775. It was a play from the “comedy of manners” period and it was still funny more than 200 years later. The show was going well and was trouble-free at the time. It would close and be loaded out shortly before Macbeth opened. After The Rivals was loaded out, Macbeth would be loaded in from the adjacent scene shop. This was all planned and timed out by Shrek, and the changeover was going to be smooth.
The designer had built a small model of the Macbeth set. Sunny had taken the floorplans and taped out the playing space onto the floor of the rehearsal studio. Steps were marked on the floor, along with any platforms, elevation changes, obstacles that had to be maneuver
ed around, etc. The idea in doing this was to provide the actors with enough information that when they got on the real set, the period of transition would be minimal, if not completely unnoticeable. At 12:55pm on Tuesday, March 7th, Frieda came scurrying into the rehearsal space.
“Hey, Free! What’s shakin’, sweet thang?” Sunny was really trying to keep everyone’s spirits up. Dirk had died on the set of The Rivals. Shrek was losing part of a build day to repaint the floor and patch the hole left in the stage floor by the pommel, the large knob at the end of the broadsword. He hadn’t been able to get to it until 10:00am because the fucking cops were still in the building. Actors tend to be dramatic. That’s why they are actors. The building was full of funky, non-productive energy. Sunny’s work for the day was to keep everyone light, bright, and focused. Frieda was, once again, amazed at the woman’s vitality and facility when situations were shitty at best.
“Hey yourself, Sunny Bunny. Is Marty around? I know you guys are about to be back from lunch, but I have news he’s going to want to hear.”
“The guy from Cali? Did he bite?” She was excited now. The level of energy in the room bumped up a notch. There were several actors in the corner finishing small boxes of food ranging from vegan/ lactose free/ gluten free stir-fry to a cheeseburger with thick bacon. They were all turning their attention subtly but noticeably toward Frieda.
“Yes. He’s here tonight at 10:00pm, our time. I’m having a Town Car pick me up to go to O’Hare and check out the merchandise. Marty says he’s a quick study and has played the part before, so it should go well. I wanted to let you know, he’s an experienced AEA actor who knows the rules and has no reason to be a pain in the ass. I think it’s going to go well. I only talked to him once on the phone, and he sounds like a good guy. Wait. That’s not it. He seems like a bullshit-free guy.”
“We could use a little more of the no-bullshit thing here. There’s Marty.” Sunny indicated with her head over Frieda’s shoulder. Marty was rushing in. He’d obviously grabbed some kind of a wrap or a burrito, because he was armed with a clipboard in one hand and a tinfoil tube in the other. Marty was the director of this particular show, in addition to his other duties. He was stretched pretty thin before the Dirk thing. Now he looked like a deranged version of Bella Lugosi.
Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition Page 2