He let himself in, briefly checked the place out, and started setting out his things for the morning. I think I made a friend tonight. I think she might be a special friend. He could hear his mentor from graduate school saying to him when he was thinking about dating someone in his grad class, “Al? A word of advice; don’t shit where you eat.” He thought becoming entangled with Frieda might be unwise but super fun. He’d give it some thought.
He set out his things, took a hot shower, and lay down with his script. He read a little more and turned off the lights. He’d be up at 6:30am. He wanted to be ready to do this thing. It was nice to be working a job where no one was going to have to die.
At least no one else…
6
The sun coming up over the lake was nothing less than spectacular. The breeze was fresh and moist. It wasn’t humid yet, but give the broad-shouldered city breathing down his neck, in another month he was sure the sticky sweat of the upper Midwest would be rubbing its sweaty palms on the fabric of Chicago. His loose-fitting yoga pants, well-worn Grateful Dead shirt, and grey hoodie were not quite warm enough for the morning air, but it was close enough for comfort.
He walked north and east toward the water. He went about a quarter of a mile until he found an accessible strand of beach. He had stopped and ordered a large black coffee from a small bagel shop before going to the edge of the city. In most places, being on the edge of a body of water the size of Lake Michigan would render one helpless to the mighty forces of nature. Chicago was an anomaly. The city itself was a beast of a place. It was sprawling, huge, and full of diverse yet brisk enterprise and activity. Al thought, pound for pound, Chicago could contend with the Big Apple in a best-of-twelve-round bout. There were plusses and negatives to each place, but they were similar in one respect: they were huge industrialized forces. The mark of man was everywhere. The lake could not compete with the city; at best, it was a draw. If you stood on the sand with your back to the city, as Al was doing now, the force of nature before him was cancelled out by the force of the city behind him. He was in a neutral zone, demilitarized, where the two mighty forces had agreed to disagree on a million tiny pieces of ground-up rock.
He’d done his morning stretches, some Qigong, and commenced to work through a Tai Chi form. No one seemed to notice him, or if they did, they didn’t give a shit if he was doing Tai Chi or dancing with an invisible butterfly. Big cities held lots of crazy, and the locals just let it flow over them, through their pinfeathers, and into the foam wake of their lives.
He liked doing Tai Chi because it bored the piss out of him. In three minutes, he was bored. In five minutes, he was going out of his mind with boredom and he could start asking himself questions.
“OK. You’re bored. That’s not new. What is new? How do you feel?”
“Jet lagged.” He had these conversations with himself when he did Tai Chi. It was as if his body had become so boring, his mind took off to some other place and started to chat with itself about other things. It was some kind of weird voiding of his subconscious. Al did not love it, nor did he hate it. He just did it. He just let it all flow.
“No shit. What else is going on?”
“That Frieda is a nice girl.”
“You wanna hump her.”
“Yeah. But, I think that might be a bad idea.”
“Might? OK. What else?”
He thought for a moment. “Something isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on it, but something is wrong.”
“Dirk?”
“Yup. That’s it. The loose screw that’s been rattling around in my head for the last ten hours or so.”
“What’s bothering you about it?”
He was right in the middle of the move White Stork Cools its Wing and he stopped. He stood frozen for a moment then said out loud, “How the fuck do you stab yourself through the chest with a weapon that isn’t even sharp?”
That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? He knew he could take a theatrical weapon and ram it through someone’s chest. They were steel. They tapered to a gradual yet somewhat dull point. With enough force, it could be done, but it would take a hell of a shove. Dirk could have tripped and fell on it, but that would be complex, if not impossible. He would have to fumble the blade and somehow, as he was falling forward, the blade would have to turn one hundred eighty degrees and brace itself against the ground as Dirk drove his entire body weight against the up thrust tip. Possible? Sure. Likely?
He gave up on doing more of the form. He knew how he felt. The word for his emotional state was “hinky.” It wasn’t hinky-nervous, it was hinky-suspicious. Something had fucked up seriously here, and he was curious about it.
He started walking toward the boardwalk. You’re just stuck in PI mode, man. Take a vacation. It was true. He had a habit of looking for wrongdoing. The problem he was having now was that he had a habit of finding wrongdoing as well.
He finished his cup of coffee two blocks before getting to the theatre. He looked at his watch: five minutes early. He’d be three minutes early when he got to the building and texted Ms. Callow. He liked being three minutes early. People either noticed he was a little early or perceived he was punctual, but no one ever got three minutes early confused with being late.
He got to the building and stood looking at the place. He realized in his research he’d never looked at a picture of the outside of the building. It was beautiful. If nothing else, Marty had chased the dragon of theatre and caught its tail in his teeth. The young entrepreneur he’d known with a rakish grin and an appetite for handsome young men had done it. In a dog-eat-dog world, Marty was wearing the Milk Bone underwear. Good for him.
After waiting a moment or two, Frieda came to the door. She was hearing a pair of black stirrup pants, sensible heels, and a light argyle sweater. The sweater had a large pattern of grey and subdued purple diamonds with a thread of mellow gold tying the shapes together. The fabric looked soft and draped her frame in a way that walked the razor’s edge between “business-casual” and “jaw-dropping sexy.” She wore the outfit well, without an iota of self-consciousness or any hint of attention seeking. He got the feeling this outfit probably reflected who she was, not who she wanted to be. He liked that.
“Good morning, Frieda. The accommodations are splendid. I think the Double Tree will make a fine home for the next few weeks. They do, however, have to stop offering me those goddamned cookies. Fresh, hot, chocolate-chip cookies are worse than heroin.”
“Ugh. Tell me. I told the desk people to stop offering them to me. Sometimes I catch myself thinking about them. Funny. You look comfy. Good. We’ll be jumping right into this, so be ready. You know Marty, so I don’t have to tell you he can be a bit of a worm at times. He seems to be on good behavior this morning. Truth be told, I think he is genuinely excited to see you again.”
“Lead the way. I’m ready to speed read some contracts, sign some papers, make some fairly reasonable demands, and get to work. I need coffee. I always need coffee.”
“One of your reasonable demands?” She said this with a mischievous smile.
“It is actually something of a stipulation. Let’s go see Marty, and we’ll get down to it.”
They went up a large spiral stairway to a balcony. She stopped him and directed his sight back down and out the front doors. “This view was in Architectural Digest a few years back. I come up here sometimes and look. The way the lobby blends into the Boardwalk then into the lake is really soothing. I love it here.” They continued to an elevator that went up one more level. It felt like they went up a little more than one floor, but it was hard to tell how far or fast you were moving in an elevator.
The doors opened on a short hallway that dead-ended into an office suite. There was a large plate glass window next to the door. The window read “Wildhorse Productions.” Underneath it said in italics, Ars Gratia Artis. “Art for the sake of art,” said Al automatically. “I like it.”
“I always heard art for art’s sake,
but I like your wording a little better. I think I’ll steal that, if you don’t mind.”
“Feel free, ma’am. Brilliance creates, genius steals.”
She laughed her delicate laugh. “You’re funny, but you have to stop with the ‘ma’am’ stuff. It makes me feel all school-girl giddy and I’m not sure I like feeling that way.”
“Not liking something and not being used to something are entirely different beasts, wouldn’t you say, Miss Callow?”
“I agree entirely, Mr. McNair. Now cut the bullshit, and let’s see Marty. We have a lot of ground to cover before 10:00.”
They went through the front door past a desk heavily laden with paperwork. It was a busy desk, but not untidy. Al noticed right away there was some kind of system at work there. System or no, it was a bit chaotic. There was a large door at the end of another small hallway with a frosted glass panel proclaiming “Martin Mitchell-Founder, Wildhorse Productions.” Al thought it was a bit pompous. There was a door in the left-hand hallway wall with a frosted glass panel that looked like it used to say something, but the lettering had been scraped off.
Al nodded his head at the blank frosted glass. “Someone get pink-slipped?”
“Managing director quit. Long story.”
Directly across the hallway was another door with a frosted glass panel that said simply “Conference.” Frieda tapped the glass with her index finger knuckle twice, perfunctorily, then led him into the room.
Standing at the head of the conference room table was Marty “Hoover” Mitchell. Al thought he’d aged well. He was always sort of an angular, weaselly little shit. He looked much the same, though gravity and time hunched over a desk had taken their respective tolls. He was slightly stooped and had a small pot belly. He wore blue khakis, a coral-colored polo shirt, and Top-Sider boat shoes. It seemed as if the “preppy” look was either coming back into chic or Marty just didn’t give a fuck.
“Al.” He paused with his head cocked a little to the side as if to say Oh, my wayward child, you have come back into the fold. Welcome back, my prodigal. “It is so nice to see you.”
Al extended a hand, and Marty took it. “Long time, Marty. I gotta say I wasn’t really sure about doing this, but now that I’m here, I really want to. I think it’s kismet. It’s good to see you perpendicular to the grass, old man.” To Al’s surprise, he meant this last statement sincerely.
“Always had a way with words. Get comfy. We have all the contractual paperwork to slog through, then a break, then we will read through with the cast at 10:00. The cutting I have runs about an hour and forty-five minutes. With one intermission, the audience will be out in two hours flat. After the read through, we’ll break for lunch, get you familiar with the set, and speed-block you through the show.” Marty was referring to “blocking,” the movement patterns an actor walks during the show. “The blocking for now is pro forma. If something feels wrong or you have a different impulse, we’ll tackle it in rehearsal. This just gives us a blueprint.”
It was perfect. That was how Al liked to work as an actor, and it was how he worked as a director. If you had a form, you could rapidly adjust it. If you worked without a plan, which some assholes called working organically, you ended up yanking your pecker for the first two weeks of rehearsal. “Sounds great.”
“I’m going to duck out and grab the coffee,” said Frieda, and she glided out of the room like a puff of sea breeze.
“She really is something else, Marty. Smart.”
“I’m lucky to have her. She saves my bacon about five times a day. Do you have any requirements I should be aware of?” He had moved directly into a bargaining position. It was calculated so that demands could be made and met or countered without anyone listening in. The negotiation could be done without anyone losing face. Classic Marty.
“Black coffee. Available to me at all times. Water as well. I don’t like to carry a water bottle, and if I am making demands, I may as well make the shitty little ones first. I also want artistic control over the fight choreography. I won’t change it to be a dick, but if I think something might work better, I’m not afraid to step on any toes. Who is the Fight Director?”
“Dirk. I don’t think he’ll mind if you change things. Can we leave it in his name or co-credit him? I think he deserves that much.”
Al thought Marty wanted that because it would make him look like a magnanimous Artistic Director, but he kept his opinion to himself. “He can have it. I don’t need the credit, and I’m not an ego guy anyway. You do remember that much, don’t you Marty?”
“I remember you being an excessively proud man, but not an egotistical one. Sometimes your scruples were a pain in the ass, but I always respected your moral fiber. Anything else?”
Marty was trying to close early on him. He figured as much, so he laid out his last demand. “You know I’m a PI now. I’m good at it. That’s just a simple fact. I’d like access to all of the particulars of Dirk’s death. I’d like to have the contact information on the detective covering the case. If it’s OK with you, I don’t really want to deal with you on this. I want Frieda to fill me in on any details. She can show me around and tell me the who, what, where, when, and why…if she can.”
“I think it would be more appropriate if you spoke with me about this.”
“And that is why I don’t want to. You are already thinking about appropriateness. That’s called spin. I don’t want spin; I want facts. The reason you have done so well, Marty? You know how to spin news. You can subtly turn the facts of a situation into something they are not. You have a dog in this fight, and I’m not interested in which dog wins. I’m just curious. Besides, it’ll keep me busy in my spare time. I’m from out of town, I can only study lines so long every day, and I don’t have any hobbies. Is that cool?”
Marty thought about it. He didn’t like being told if he could chime in on things. This was his circus to run as he saw fit. Shit, he owned this place. “I’m not very comfortable with this, but if you insist, I’ll acquiesce. Just keep me in the loop, and don’t be a pain in the butt, OK?”
“Sounds good. Do you want to tell Frieda?”
“Yes. That would be best.”
As if on cue, Frieda came back in the room with a large tray. It held a bagel with lox and cream cheese, a carafe of coffee with condiments, three coffee cups, and a tube shape wrapped in aluminum foil.
“Marty, the bagel is for you. I left off the onions and capers for the sake of the actors. Al, this is a chicken and cheese wrap with pork belly. The wrap itself is low carb. I can get these for you any time, just ask. I have one of the boys down the street deliver them. They have a menu, but it’s not necessary. If you name the ingredients, they’ll make it. Left your onions off as well. I already ate, so why don’t we get started. I think we can be done with all of this by 9:45 if we get a wiggle on, don’t you?” Al marveled at how effortlessly she slipped into business mode.
“Right-o. Frieda? I want you to fill Al in on Dirk’s…situation. Answer any questions he has. He wants to know some things about the case, and I’m busy enough with this production without trying to help Mr. Poirot here get the gist of a weapons accident.” He said this with a smile, but Al could hear the prissy bitchiness in his voice. He remembered this part of Marty’s personality all too well.
“Sounds good.” She turned to Al. “Can we go over it after work? I really do have a lot to do between now and then.”
“No problem. So do I. How about you call me after you get off tonight, we’ll get a bite and chat about it?”
“Good.” She said with a hint of a smile. “If you want to see The Rivals one of these nights, we can give you a free ticket or two.”
“Certainly. I’d like that.”
“Alright. If you two are done doing whatever it is you are doing, can we fill out the paperwork?”
They started looking at paperwork. It was all boilerplate equity bullshit. They ate their breakfasts, drank two carafes of coffee, and were done at 9:45, just as
Frieda had predicted.
7
They finished the read-through at 11:45. There were some parts that were read through more quickly, far more quickly than they would be in performance, but all of the words were spoken. The script they were using was, indeed, written by Shakespeare. Marty had cut the text down a bit so it would run in the time he had allotted.
Few theatre companies do Shakespeare’s plays unabridged. The plays are long, far longer than most modern plays. The plays are also repetitive. Shakespeare’s plays were done on a bare stage with no settings, at least not in the modern sense of the term. Because sets are used in most modern theatres performing Shakespeare, you don’t need to say, “Here we are in the forest of Arden!” every time you are in the Forest of Arden. Some scenes are also not strictly necessary to convey the action and the journeys of the characters, and are often left out of productions. Al preferred to do the plays uncut, but if a cutting was clever and judicious, he didn’t mind. No harm, no foul. No copyright to worry about either.
Before the read-through started, Marty and Al had been escorted to the rehearsal studio by Frieda.
“Coffee?” Frieda asked professionally.
“Yes, please,” said Al. Then, quietly, he said to her, “If you want to buy a coffee maker, one of the ones that uses pods and a whole bunch of pods, I’ll pay for them. Whatever you like. I just want to make sure coffee is available to anyone who wants it. Hot water, as well, if we can swing it. I’m not going to buy everyone elderberry and kava tea, but if there’s hot water they can brew whatever they want. Just give me the receipt, and I’ll write it off as a business expense.”
“Generous and good with contracts. Duly noted.” She turned her attention to the room, “Hey everyone! I know we’re all still officially on your time, but this is our new Mackers. His name is Alistair McNair, but he goes by Al. I’m going to set him up with Sunny and leave you all to it. Come this way, Al.”
Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition Page 4