Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition

by Andrew Sutherland

  “Probably $25,000-ish. That’s usually the ballpark we’re strolling through when this sorta shit goes down.”

  “Enjoy the tea, Frieda. If you can find a lemon wedge for it, it’ll be transcendent.” He walked around her and through the outer office door. She was at his heels like a Jack Russel terrier.

  “Al. Al! You can’t go in there! You can’t. It’ll fuck everything up. Big time.”

  “Piece of cake.” And his hand was reaching up and rapping on the door.

  “Fuck off!” Marty snarled. “The fact that you touched my fucking door means Frieda’s unemployed!”

  Al waved his hand frantically at Frieda to duck out of sight then simultaneously knocked and opened the door at the same time. “Hey Marty, I’m in a helluva bind and I need your help…” He trailed off, the very picture of surprise. “Oh, shit. I interrupted you right in the middle of something. Sorry. I’m such a putz sometimes.” He said this last to a man sitting in one of the leather wing-back chairs in Marty’s office. There was a man beside and slightly behind the guy in the chair. He had none of the cool continental attitude of someone standing It was an art form unto itself. This gentleman’s style was probably most prominently on display while giving someone a manicure with a hatchet.

  The man sitting regarded Al and stood. “I understand you are Dirk’s replacement. Al, right? I’m Robbie. I’ve heard good things about you. Dirk was an asshole at times, but he was our asshole, as they say.”

  “Yeah. How do you kill yourself with your own sword? What an asshole! I was going to ask Marty, here, I have an old back injury and I tweaked it this morning working out. Nothing big, but if I’m going to be 100% Monday, I’ll need to take care of it. Nothing narcotic. A guy told me about some stuff called Tizanidine. It’s nothing you can abuse, and it’ll get me back in business. We don’t wanna miss any opportunities because we can’t produce. Is there something I can do to help you guys in here for right now? It seems a little tense.”

  “Marty was just saying we can’t hold a gala here on Monday. We really need to get some cash together, about $30,000 dollars, to pay for permits and stuff on a building that’s set to break ground soon. It’ll be another entertainment venue. Good to have those in your portfolio.”

  “Yeah, my accountant and business partner is always talking about diversification. He likes business that always seem so labor-intensive. Businesses where you have to pay so much attention because it’s never quite clear where your revenue stream is coming from. He handles a bunch of big stuff. Hey, if we could work out getting you the money in another way, would that get things back to normal here? This show is gonna be great, and I’m sure we’ll sell, sell, sell. I understand you run the concessions--such as they are, yes, Mr. Robbie?”

  “When could you arrange this transaction? I assume you are talking about a loan?”

  Al reached in his coat pocket, pulled out his phone, and hit a preprogrammed number. Scotty Mac picked up on the third ring. “Al? You in trouble? I was loading up the jet skis.”

  “Oh, no. Everything is going great. I’ll call and check in with you later today. This is a business call. Some fellows here need to borrow some cash. They’d pay us back in…” he looked at Robbie with his eyes raised. Robbie mouthed calmly ‘one month’ while holding up a manicured index finger. “One month, Scotty Mac. You can work out terms, but let’s give them the friends and family discount. Always good to make new friends in new cities. Maybe your friend, Treat, could help with the background paperwork and such.” He didn’t say Trevor’s name because he’d been told to never, ever, do so, but Trev could check these guys out and maybe figure out what’s going on here. “Uh, huh. Yup. I will. Ok, sir, I’ll call later. Flying down to Mississippi later tonight. Long story. Have a good ski, and watch that damn knee. Later.”

  Turning to the others, he added, “He’ll get back to me with the number he’ll be working from. Should be able to get this worked out by Tuesday, if that’s all right, Robbie...”

  The man extended his hand. “Robbie McGee. I take it you don’t act for a living?”

  “No. I handle security for people. Mr. Mac and I solve problems for interested parties.” He turned back to Marty. “I hate to be rude, but I have to go warm up. Marty, if you can get those pills, or Soma for my back. I’ll need them by the time we break at the latest, because I am otherwise engaged the rest of the day. By eleven o’clock would be better. By ten o’clock, my faith would probably be restored in the Lord Almighty.”

  “What was the name of the stuff again, Al?” asked Robbie McGee.

  “Tizanidine. Bigger ones-4 mg tabs I think. I can snap them. I think 20 should more than do it. I don’t drink or take drugs, so when I do, they work nicely.” Al stuck out his hand. “So nice to meet you, Robbie, and your large friend there.” He turned to Marty. “I hear we have exciting dagger rehearsal. See you there, Mart.” He dropped Marty a wink, left the room, and walked into the outer room, where Frieda sat looking like she might just yell “Goodbye, cruel world!” and make a mad dash at the closed window. She saw him and said, “Well?” Her voice sounded a bit shaky.

  “Pressure is off. Saved Marty’s bacon. My drugs will be hand-delivered by ten am, and I’ve decided I’m having bacon and chicken-fried steak for dinner tonight.” He strolled off to the elevator singing “Hallelujah,” Leonard Cohen-style.

  34

  By the time Al had finished with his warm-up, he was feeling marginally human. He’d pounded a cup of coffee before his warm-up and another during. He knew he should be drinking more water now that he was heading toward performing, but the coffee was an addiction that had to be dealt with. He got bad headaches when he didn’t have his java. He’d have plenty of time to drink water in the next couple of days. He’d also made a lightning-quick call back to Scotty Mac to give him Robbie’s last name for research purposes.

  He was just finishing up his articulation exercises (today he was reciting Fox in Sox from memory) when Marty blew into the rehearsal hall looking like he’d just had an espresso high colonic. He scanned the room, found Al, and made a beeline straight at him.

  “Al?” Marty was trying to sound pleasant, but it came out sounding like his bowels were moving. “Can we speak in the hallway? It’s nothing big, just some ideas that I’d like to discuss. Things Mackers might know, but no one else.” He looked at Sunny. “We might run about five minutes into rehearsal talking. Just get everyone rehearsal cloaks and get set for the opening of the speech.” He turned and walked back toward the door he had entered through. Al thought he looked a little like one of those Olympic walk-racer people. Either that or he was trying to clamp a live smelt between his butt cheeks. Al followed him out.

  “Can you tell me just what the fuck you thought you were doing?”

  “Well, I usually do something a little more orthodox, but over the years I have found the work of Dr. Seuss, AKA Theodor Geisel, to be of surpassing brilliance when warming up…”

  “AL!” Marty exclaimed. He seemed to gather his faculties then said, “You know very well I was referring to you stepping into my little meeting upstairs. Mr. McGee has been very good to us over the years. We have an understanding. I let him do his thing, and he keeps us afloat when times are hard.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Hoover, would you like me to call the little shit and tell him I won’t look into loaning him the money?” Al was taking out his cell phone.

  “NO!” Marty yelped, then in calmer, more composed voice, “No. I think him getting the money temporarily from another place is going to work fine, but don’t fuck this up for me, Al.”

  “Marty, this situation is pre-fucked. You have a dead lead actor and I find out you are in bed with some low-rate gangster wannabe. What the fuck happened to you?”

  “I. Got. Tired. That’s what happened, Al. I got tired of chasing sponsorships every fucking year. I got tired of worrying about audiences. I just got tired. I saw an opportunity and I took it. It comes with some risk, and it can be inconv
enient, but it keeps the doors open and the heat turned on.”

  “Yeah, Marty. When I came into that little meeting, it looked like the thermostat was turned way the fuck up. You wanted the heat on, well the heat is on. Let me tell you a couple of things, Mart. I’m sure you know them already, I mean deep down inside. But let’s just bring these issues into the light. First, you are in business with organized crime. If they go down, the chances are that you go down with them. That doesn’t mean, ‘Poor, Marty. He has to find another place to do theatre.’ That means, ‘Poor, Marty, he’s been sold to that big white supremacist for two packs of cigarettes.’ Because you are going to end up in the penitentiary as someone’s bitch. You might end up dead if these guys don’t like how you treat them. I got a whiff of that in your office. It’s a bad smell. You still with me here, Marty?”

  Marty was looking a little green but nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Next, this fucking guy doesn’t give a shit about theatre. If you don’t get to do quality theatre, they don’t care. This guy was going to take away a night of rehearsal from the show I travelled 2,000 miles to do. Why? Because he has other fish to fry, and if your show isn’t ready by opening night, he doesn’t care. As a matter of fact, he can launder more money through this place if your sales go down. He’ll make himself a stake-holder, say he sold 1,000 tickets when he only sold fifty, and in one night he’s cleaned at least $45,000 of dirty money and made it legal income. You failing would be good for this guy. I can’t fathom why he hasn’t figured that out yet. Maybe he doesn’t have the sack for it, but I sincerely doubt that.”

  Marty was looking like he’d just finished watching Old Yeller. “Oh, shit…”

  “‘Oh, shit,’ is right, Marty. ‘Oh, shit,’ is right as rain. Now, no one will believe you if you repeat this next part. I am a far scarier guy than Mr. McGee. My friends, like the guy I called, make me look like a pussycat. What I am going to do is find out what Mr. McGee does for money. If it is acceptable, he might be allowed to continue to use you as his snot rag. But if he is into anything repugnant, human trafficking, children, anything, he is going to disappear and the only thing keeping you safe, the only thing keeping you alive and out of prison, will be me. So Marty, hold rehearsal, do your fucking job, and I will try to sort all of this out. Last thing, Hoover? I am not doing this for you. You have some really dynamite people in your employ, and if you go down, they will suffer. I can’t abide that.”

  “What can I say?”

  “Say, ‘Thank you, Al. I trust your judgement.’ Try that.”

  “Why should I trust your judgement?”

  “Because you have no choice in the matter.”

  There was a short pause, and Al was about to go back to rehearsal when Marty looked at him and said, “Thank you, Al. I trust your judgement. I trust it because you care about people like Sunny and Shrek and Frieda.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Al turned and walked back toward the theatre space hating himself just a little. Part of it was his arrogance. He’d just made a decision that would affect a hundred people’s lives. Part of it was the distinction he made between Mr. McGee and himself. Why was he any different?

  The answer to that question was the third reason he hated himself a little. He was better because, in addition to caring about Sunny and Shrek and Frieda, Al cared about Marty. He only cared a little, but it was enough. He couldn’t help it. He was wired that way. He was guilty of black and white thinking, and right now, the people working at the Majestic were in the white, and this McGee and his friends were most likely part of the black. He’d work on this problem along with the killings. He didn’t think they were connected, but the scales here needed to be balanced, and Al had taken on the job of doing that. The only problem was Al didn’t have a blindfold.

  35

  “You ready?” Al could hear traffic in the background.

  “Almost. Headed to the café right now. Are YOU ready?”

  A little chill ran the length of Al’s spine. “Do me a favor and order me a pastrami, double meat, no pickle unless you want it.”

  “Al. You can’t make a set up like that so easy. Do I want a pickle? Jesus. OK. I’ll take the pickle and the preserved cucumber as well. You happy? Do you see the depths I am willing to stoop to just to take a trip with you on a private jet?”

  “You’re a diamond. I have to finish up here, but we got done a little early. Things got weird this morning. I’ll tell you a story about it. Lots of shit happened after I left you. Get whatever you want at the deli. I’ll pay when I get there. We’ll be eating tonight in Hattiesburg, but I’m starved. Get something for yourself if you want. Gotta go. Tell the peacock I said hi.”

  “Tell the bird yourself. We’ll be waiting.” She hung up but he thought he heard a smacking kiss sound before she hung up. It made him feel good.

  He’d told Sunny on a break about Edith and there didn’t seem to be any hard feelings. She actually wanted a guarantee he’d tell her the dirt when he came back.

  “You want me to kiss and tell. What do you think I am?”

  “A man-what’s more, an actor. This, of course, means you have the morals of an alley cat.”

  “You gotta admit I’m more of a gentleman than most of the people you meet in this fuckin’ profession.”

  “Aside from Shrek, you’re about the most normal guy in the building.”

  Shrek heard his name as he was walking by and threw over his shoulder, “I didn’t do it, unless I was supposed to; then I’m on it.” And he was off like a very large whirlwind. He’d have everything moved into the big space by Monday morning. Al imagined he was scared and excited at the same time. Al hollered after him, “Shrek, you eat bacon?”

  “Only on everything.”

  “I’m bringing you a gift. It’ll be here Monday, You won’t have to blow me, but you’ll want to.”

  “Far out, man.” Shrek obviously wasn’t listening.

  After rehearsal, Al went up to say goodbye to Frieda. He walked through the doors and she was up to her ass in paperwork as usual.

  “OK, babe. I’m out. I’ll be back Sunday night. Call me if anything weird happens with the McGee situation.”

  “You didn’t tell me what you were going to do. Are you going to cause bloodshed in our little house, Al?”

  “I don’t know. I’m guessing you know as much about this little arrangement as Marty does. You have any theories about it?”

  “I think he, Robbie, acts like he’s a bigger, badder guy than he really is.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll think I’m stupid.” She was gazing into his eyes. It was a paralyzing gaze to be pinned under.

  “No way.”

  “Way,” she said with a little smirk. “OK. It’s nothing. Really nothing. I’ve probably been seeing too many gangster movies, but…

  “But?”

  “He wears cheap shoes, and I’ve only ever seen him with that one guy. He talks about having lots of other guys in his employ, but I’ve never seen them. He also shows up in a cab. Smed told me. He doesn’t even have a Town Car. I mean he might have one, but why doesn’t he flaunt it. I dated a ‘made guy’ for a while. He’d take his fuckin Town Car to the corner bodega and back with two body guards. He wouldn’t even get out. His favorite expression was ‘I shit bigger than you.’ We didn’t last long. He gave great gifts, but I couldn’t get past the image of him passing a fully grown man out of his ass.”

  Al, who was almost in hysterics caused by her bluntness, finally wiped his eyes and said, “Point taken, Nancy Drew. I’m having my people look into it. If he isn’t the real deal, he’ll be relocating soon.”

  “How will we replace the secure income?”

  “If anything changes, I’ll make sure you’re on secure footing before I leave. Scout’s honor.”

  “OK.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Have a blast. Unwind. I have a feeling that’s how you figure stuff out. You know, by thinking about other stuff. It sounds lik
e you’ll be significantly distracted. You should get lots of stuff figured out.”

  “You want details, too?”

  “Heavens no. I’ll have Sunny give me the details.”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course.” He was walking out and she stopped him. “Al?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Don’t let this go to your head, but people have been talking. Everyone. Sunny told me and I peeked into rehearsal to see for myself.”

  “What, exactly, are you talking about?”

  “You’re good. Really, really good. You’re about a million times better than Dirk. Your work is unique. You aren’t trying to be anyone you’re not. You aren’t trying to impress anyone. Your work is specific and painstakingly researched. People are saying that they may be riding your coattails to a Jeff Award. There’s even talk of an Off Broadway house that is interested in bringing this thing to the big bad city.”

  “Thank you, Free. That makes me feel good. Between you, me, and the old stapler here, I’ll not be going to NYC for love, money, or fame, but it’s good to know the old fat man can still dance.”

  “What old fat man?”

  “Figure of speech. Don’t work your ass all the way off. It’s a pretty spectacular thing.”

  “Same to you. Hump well, my friend, hump well.” She said this with all the solemnity of a wizened imam.

  He laughed so hard he snorted and left the office laughing. As he came out of the elevator at the bottom, his back gave another giant twinge. It made him take a small misstep. He looked like his back hurt.

  “You OK, Mr. Al, sir?”

  Al turned and saw Lenny pushing a floor buffer toward the elevator. “Yeah, Lenny. Just having some back pains. Gotta watch that. Not getting any younger.”

  “You musta got hit hard.”

  Al’s mind sped up to light speed. He hadn’t said anything about being hit. Lenny had assumed he’d been hit. Was that a coincidence? It must have been. Lenny was a simpleton. How else would Al get hurt? The answer was about a million ways that didn’t have anything to do with getting hit. And who would pick Al to hit. He was a very unlikely target for physical violence. On a whim, Al decided to hedge his bets.