Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition

by Andrew Sutherland

  He walked up behind Little and, with one mighty yank, pulled his pants down to his ankles, and then jerked backward. Little went down on his face. His head bounced a little as it hit, and Al thought he’d be out of commission for at least a full minute. Fights didn’t last very long in the real world. Al usually got annoyed in movies and while seeing plays when fights went on and on. You just didn’t see that kinda thing much outside the ring. With MMA fights, you often didn’t see it in the ring.

  Little made a squawking sound that sounded like someone stomping on a Guinea pig. Medium didn’t know what was happening; his mind was set that Al was getting blown behind the dumpster, so some other, heretofore unknown, force must be at work. He made an almost comical half-turn with his mouth hanging open. He was in a perfect position to receive just about any attack that could be devised by mortal man, and many that probably hadn’t been thought of. Al made a spur-of-the-moment decision. He’d seen a YouTube clip of some guys in front of a bar. One guy was talking all kinds of smack to this other burly guy. The burly guy was either a wrestler or an “I think outside the box” type of person. He took a quick step forward bent a little, and before the smack talking dude could react, the burly guy reached his right arm between the other guy’s legs, his left arm over the dude’s shoulder, picked him up, and threw him horizontally at the ground. It was a full, unrehearsed, unrestrained body slam. Al had always wanted to try it. Now was his chance. Al stepped forward, stooped, reached, grabbed, lifted, and slammed. Middle was lying on the ground. He was breathing, but he wasn’t doing much else. Al turned to Little.

  Little’s gun had fallen out of his pants and gone skittering across the pavement during his impromptu costume change. He was now simultaneously trying to crawl, get his gun, pull up his pants, and communicate with his god, who was evidently contacted by rapidly chanting the incantation, “Goddamnmotherfuckinsonofabitch…” over and over. Al walked forward and stepped on Little’s wrist. Little started to cry out. “Shut up, or I’ll kick you in the face. Nothing personal, but I had to leave my morning coffee behind and I’m a little grumpy. If you swear you’ll be good, I won’t break your wrist.”

  “I swear. Jesus. I swear.”

  “Okey dokey.” Al took his foot away. “Now, who asked you assholes to come and thump on me?”

  “Oh, man. I can’t tell you dat, man. Dat’ll get me killed.”

  “How do you know I won’t kill you? How do you know I didn’t kill Zee? Or this guy?” He pointed a thumb at Medium, who ruined the illusion by letting out a tremendous combination snore and fart. It was an impressive use of orifical communication to illustrate evidence of life.

  “Dude’s name’s Jake. He works at Uncle J’s BBQ. South of the loop. But if you tell him I told you, I’ll end up dead.”

  Al thought about it. Looking at the “big picture,” he still had the element of surprise, and he could make it work for him. “I’m about to make you the deal of a lifetime. You wanna make a deal, or should I call a cop and you three assholes can go do some hard time for assault with a deadly weapon?”

  “Fuck man, that’s some fucked up shit. You assaulted the fuck out of us. Prolly killed Zee.”

  “I assure you my good man, I did not kill Zee. I haven’t killed anyone today, and it’s already…” he checked his watch for effect, “…almost seven in the morning. I can’t guarantee things will stay that way if I don’t get my coffee quick, though.”

  “I’m listenin’.” He was listening. He was listening petulantly, but he was listening.

  “Go somewhere and lay low. Call Jake and say you did it. You left me pretty, didn’t kill me, and delivered your message. I’ll tell you where you can find Zee. This guy and Zee held me and you worked my ribs and stomach until I promised to back off. Tell him I was a total pussy. If everything goes well, you guys will even get some street cred outta this.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Your wallet.” He said this as he was walking over to Medium, who was beginning to stir. He reached down and grabbed Medium’s wallet and gun. Al took out the driver’s license and pocketed that, as well. He took the money out of the wallet and dropped the billfold back on Medium’s belly. There was only twenty-three bucks. “Give me your ID. You get to keep your cash. You guys’ll need some ice and band aids and shit.” He walked over and got Little’s gun and his Illinois ID card. Evidentially Little, AKA Malcom Ritchie, didn’t have a driver’s license. “Now, what happened?”

  “We got you behind Gino’s. They held you, I beat your body. You were a pussy.” He flinched when he said this, as if he were scared he’d get slapped. “We went to see a movie after.”

  “Good thinking. Say you stashed your guns before all this so shit wouldn’t get outta hand if things went south. When you got back, they were gone. They weren’t registered in anyone’s name, were they?”

  “Fuck, no.”

  “Good man. Give me a couple of minutes’ head start, then get this douche to help you untie Zee. And Malcom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I see you three together or separately breathing my air, I’ll cut you up and throw your ass in the lake. We clear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Say, ‘Yes, Al. We are crystal clear.’ I want to make sure there’s no confusion.”

  “Yes, Al. We are crystal clear. And Al? You a pro, man. They ask us to come do you wrong again, I’m gonna be hard to find.”

  “Thanks, man. Word to the wise? Pull your fuckin’ pants up. That was way too easy. Have a nice day.”

  He found a couple of shopping bags wadded together. He picked them up and put the guns in after wrapping them in some discarded newspaper. He didn’t think he’d get stopped by a cop between here and home. Al strolled back toward the hotel. He needed to change his clothes. He’d gotten a little filthy rolling around in the alley. He’d go to his room and break the guns down. He’d throw their working parts in a few different places, then bring the rest of the gun guts to Ted. It would be a good conversation-starter.

  33

  Al got out of the shower and felt a twinge in his upper back. He’d broken a vertebra there when he was in graduate school. Some old lady wasn’t paying attention and had hit Al as he rode his bicycle back from school. He’d been co-teaching a big Tai Chi workshop that day, so when the woman his him, he was loose as a drunkard. He’d flown for a little while, tucked and rolled when the ground came up to greet him. She had paid for his bicycle to be fixed and his medical bills, and she gave him $700 cash money to keep her insurance company and the cops out of the loop. He was fine until about a month later, after he’d signed papers with this lady’s lawyer saying he wouldn’t sue. He’d been doing some grappling work on the ground for a fight scene in a stage combat class, and suddenly he couldn’t move his arms without excruciating pain in his arms and upper back. He’d been studying at SMU, and a friend of a friend got him into see one of the trainers who worked with the Dallas Cowboys. X-rays showed a hairline crack in his T-5 vertebra. They had worked with him and given him some muscle relaxers. It worked at the time, but the problem lingered. These days he had problems with it about once or twice a year. Usually after getting hit in the upper back or doing something stupid while lifting.

  This morning he had been steamrolled by a 260-pound troglodyte, then snatched a fully grown man off the ground while twisting and stooping. In short, he’d done all he could to irritate his old back injury. As he was toweling off, he actually winced from a sudden twinge of pain and knew if he didn’t get some light-duty muscle relaxers soon, the muscle tension would start to compound the injury. Usually, if he could treat it with heat, ice, rest, and drugs in the first 24 hours, he could be out of the woods in two days, tops. If he fucked around and didn’t take care of himself, his pain would be close to incapacitating within four or five days. He’d done this dance too many times.

  He checked his shaving kit for any drugs. He usually carried some light prescription muscle relaxers for this kind of thing. A f
ew months back, before he’s gone to Portland, he’d been in a deep depression, bordering on thoughts that lived very close to the dreaded “harm to yourself or others” neighborhood. Being an ex-alcoholic, he didn’t drink during this period, but he’d started to lightly abuse Carisopridol, a fairly potent, non-benzodiazepine muscle relaxer. He’d dumped what drugs he had.

  Muscle relaxers came in three basic types. NSAIDs--nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs, drugs known as spasmolytics (Carisoprodol was one of these), and benzodiazepines like valium. Al took NSAIDs for his arthritic joints. Years of lifting had made him creaky and would, ultimately, lead him to hanging up his weightlifting gloves for good. NSAIDs did little or nothing for Al’s back condition. Benzos were central nervous system depressants, like alcohol. One of Al’s few relapses was while taking valium for his back (when he took them he called himself Prince Valium). Prince Valium had a habit of falling asleep at awkward times, like at dinner with his face literally in a plate of pasta. They had an effect that was too much like alcohol. So he was stuck with the spasmolytics. He’d heard from someone at the gym that a drug called Tizanidine had worked very well his shoulder spasms. The guy, Bam-bam (his real name was Martin) had been a pretty severe alky but reported no desire to pull a cork while taking it. He’d ask Frieda while he was at the theatre.

  He was walking to get another cup of coffee and a large Earl Grey for Frieda and started thinking about this situation. Situation, nothing; this is a fucking case. It was true. He’d gone on a vacation to do a little art and get a little cultural fix and had just undone three thugs and confiscated as many weapons before even starting his day in earnest. It had always been this way for him. He was shitty at relaxing. Even when he tried, his life conspired against him. In these moments, he understood what a drag his marriage must have been for his ex-wife. She thought he was a normal and stable guy, and he was--most of the time. Occasionally, he got obsessed about things. More often than he cared to admit, he’d spent too much time drinking and not enough time worshipping the ground she walked on. He wasn’t a particularly good ground-worshipper, but could have done a better job. Just another thing he’d have to try to make amends for.

  He pushed the coffee shop’s door opened and got a fairly severe twinge in his back. He’d really done a number on it. On the heels of this thought, he got a rather good idea that had some rather unpleasant ramifications. Someone had found out that Detective “Alistair Holmes,” Sherlock’s punch-drunk brother, had stumbled onto another case: the case of the limp Dirk. Walking with both steaming beverages, he started to trace the people that knew he was onto something. There was Bud, but the detective was looking into this, and hiring three street thugs from a guy who worked for a guy that ran a BBQ joint wasn’t Chicago PD’s style. The only other people were theatre people and Edith. Edith having a dog in this fight would be too much of a coincidence. Choosing her had been more than random and smacked of some kind of divine intervention on so many levels. Frieda? Marty? Sunny? Shit. All of them knew he was looking into it, but he hadn’t told any of them to play it close to the vest. Everybody in the Christing building probably knew he was looking into it. He’d think about it, but probably wouldn’t figure it out without some more good, old-fashioned sleuthing. The good idea, however, was still lurking in his crafty little brain.

  He was going to be moving poorly, at least for a few days. His back would see to that. If, and it was a big if, he was being watched and reported on by someone, he’d look like he’d gotten his ass kicked. His movement, without any pretending, would corroborate the story he’d had the Billy Goat Brothers perpetrate. It was good luck that came from acting like a jackass, but jackass luck was better than no luck at all. He got to the building and found the side door unlocked. He pushed the elevator button and waited for the car.

  When it came, he pressed the button for the offices. He smelled, faintly, something spicy with a hint of coconut. Sunny had either been in the lift going up to the offices or coming down from them. He was excited to see her--Frieda, as well. Something had happened because of his interaction with Edith. He had been under some strange brand of social pressure. There was sexual tension in the air, and it was waiting to be cleared up. He could let the two of them know he had started dating someone who was a non-theatre person. He’d even add that he thought it would be better for the show. It would be honest, and he thought it would be well received, if not appreciated.

  The elevator doors opened and Sunny was standing there, ball cap on her head, clipboard in her hand, and frazzled look on her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Al said, instinctively lowering his voice. The door to the office was closed.

  “Good morning to you, too.” She said, still looking flustered but starting to regain her footing.

  “Sorry. Good morning. You want a coffee? I have this one here. Still hot. You’ll have to get your own cream and sugar. It’s OK. I got a coffee earlier today.” That wasn’t really a lie. He just hadn’t had a chance to drink it.

  She stepped closer to him, lowered her head, and leaned straight forward, the top of her head crashing directly between his pecs. Her voice was a little muffled. “Deal.” She held her hand up with her fingers in a “C” shape but did not look up or move. “There are some guys here who run all of our booze sales. They kick back to Marty, but they have 100% control over the bar and concessions. We don’t see the books, and they have their own employees. Christ, the only place in the building that I don’t have a key to is concessions. It would be a problem, but they always cover Marty if a show does crappy at the box office and money falls short and shit like that. They are a diversified group of folks, into all kinds of stuff. They sometime hold fundraisers here on Monday nights…” she trailed off.

  “And?”

  She leaned back and looked up at Al. “I don’t think their business is Kosher. They strong-arm Marty into doing stuff a lot. I think they might be…you know, made guys.” She emphasized the word “made.”

  “Are they talking to him right now?”

  “Yeah. There are two of them. One is a high-up guy. The other is a driver or something.”

  “Don’t worry your head over it. I’ll check with Marty. Hey, we’re doing the ‘Is this a dagger I see before me…’ thing today, right?”

  “Yeah.” She brightened up immediately. “I talked to Marty; he has some really great ideas about having all of the cast members with black hoods on running past and around you with a dagger or multiple daggers, sort of playing ghost dagger keep-away with Mackers. It sounds super cool. Marty is so good at that kind of stuff.”

  “Awesome. I have a small physical issue today, no big thing. I’ve got an old back injury that acts up about once a year. I’m going to have to spend the next day and a half alternating ice and heat, taking muscle relaxers, and resting it. If I get on it quick, it usually goes away in a jiffy. I know it’s not the 1980’s anymore, but who’s the company pharmacist? Every company I’ve ever worked with has a dad, mom, brother, aunt, sister, neighbor or something who’s a doc and will write a non-opiate scrip if someone in the show needs it.”

  “I can only get weed and the hug drug.”

  “Hug drug?”

  “Sorry, Grandpa. XTC.”

  “Well, shit in a handbag, that stuff still around? I did it back in 1986 a couple of times. I’m just looking for run-of-the-mill muscle relaxers. Not even anything heavy-duty.”

  “Our go-to guy is in having his legs broken in his office right now, but try Frieda. If she can’t help, Smed probably can. Smed’s the shit. One of the best guys around.” She kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll make sure there’s some hot for you when you get into rehearsal.”

  “I appreciate it. Hey, I was going to ask you to take a little trip with me tonight, I have to do a little business in Mississippi, and a friend is flying me down, but with my back going south…”

  “You don’t want to risk screwing up in the big game, right?”

  “People
call me a pro, I may as well act like one.” They smiled at each other. “Now go do that thing you do. I’ll be on time. Just don’t punch me in the back, or I might cry.”

  Al turned and went into the main office. Frieda saw him before he got up to the door and made a shooing-away gesture. Al did a little mime routine of smelling the tea he had brought and communicating that somehow the tea was giving him an erection. She clamped her hand over her mouth and came out to greet him.

  “Hey, doll! Earl Grey, double bergamot. Stick with me, Sweetheart. Every time you break wind, it’ll smell like Florida when the oranges are in bloom.” He was doing a viciously good Humphry Bogart impression, and she was losing it completely. He thought she was stressed out about the thugs, as well.

  She took the tea and sipped. “Wow, that is bergamot-y! Is that a word? Too late; it is one now. I’d have you come in, but you gotta scoot. Marty’s in an important meeting…”

  “…and I don’t wanna end up wearing cement galoshes. No problem, but I need something.” He told her the quick version of the bad back and movement problems. “I’ll be right as rain come Monday, but I need some muscle relaxers bad. Sunny said Marty’s the go-to guy for things like this, but he, apparently, is getting his cock fed to a crocodile.”

  She tittered. “Don’t be silly. Crocodiles don’t live in the US. We have alligators.”

  “Is he OK in there?”

  “The main guy, Robbie, wants to have an event on Monday. They launder money through this place. It seems like they are in need of some expedited money cleaning, because they have a bunch of fine and permit costs for a new building that’s going up and on, and on, and on. We can’t accommodate. They called Marty early and told him to get his ass down here.”

  “You seem to know a lot about stuff that goes on here. What do you think they need to clear? How much in the evening?”