Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition

by Andrew Sutherland

  The judge also made a point of saying over and over again that there was no one to speak for the deceased family Bannerman had killed. That was how he put it every time. It was in the transcript of every parole board meeting. No one is here to speak for the family that the prisoner [Bannerman] has capriciously slain. What a fucker. Bannerman screwed up, sure, but this MacFarlane had a titanium hard-on about this case.

  At 10:00, Bud went out to get a cup of coffee and went by Charlie’s desk. “What was the deal with the judge that kept coming by the parole board hearings? Was he related or something?”

  “You know? That made my dick itch, too. I checked into it. It seems that MacFarlane had caught the case while he was still on the bench. He’d just come back from compassionate leave. His daughter had been put in a coma by a drunk driver. Her husband and kid had been killed. His compassionate leave had ended after they pulled the plug on his little girl. Bannerman was the first DUI with enhancement that had come through his court since the incident.” An enhancement was something that ramped up a DUI from “fucked” to “twelve-cylinder, fuel-injected, turbo-fucked.” It was usually when there was a death or serious injury.

  “Why didn’t he remand himself?”

  Charlie looked at him like he’d just ripped a really juicy fart in church when he was supposed to say “…and also with you.” He knew the answer before Charlie opened his mouth. “You know why, Smythe. Chicago. You let police and judges do their thing. If shit gets super outta hand, maybe you do something, but this old guy had lost his family, the guy who did it had died in the accident, and here was a surrogate asshole ripe and ready to receive the wrath of the old bastard. A couple of years after Bannerman went in, the judge retired. His wife killed herself. He used to go hang out at the shore of Lake Michigan and gill-net smelt. He didn’t drink, but he smoked non-stop. The only thing on that bitter old man’s calendar was making those hearings and making sure Bannerman did all of his time--every last second of it.”

  “How did Bannerman get out early, then?”

  “Judge MacFarlane died. He had a heart attack. He hadn’t ever taken care of himself, and his heart finally just quit the game. When Bannerman came up for parole the last time, there was no dissenting opinion. They approved early release based on his exemplary record.”

  “Thanks. I’m just gonna go finish reading the biographical stuff. The stuff about the judge, that helps. Thanks.”

  “Hey, Bud? You gonna tell me what you’re lookin’ for, here? Maybe I can help you find it.”

  “Charlie, if I knew, I’d tell you. I’m looking at an adjacent case to this one. It has nothing directly to do with Bannerman, so don’t give him any grief. Don’t even let him know I’m here looking into him. If he sees me and asks why I’m hanging around, tell him I’m planning on becoming a PO. I’m tired of being a city cop. He won’t ask, doesn’t know me from Adam. It sounds like this kid’s been through enough.” Bud walked back to the stuffy little room with his bad coffee.

  There wasn’t much here that Bud didn’t know already. There were just more details. There were over a hundred pages about his work helping others get their GEDs. He also took college courses by mail and over the internet. He wasn’t trying to get a degree of any kind, though he could have. It wasn’t the lack of a goal that concerned Bud, it was the subject matter. Bannerman was learning everything he could learn about theatre.

  Theatre.

  He spent all of his yard time going through what looked like some kind of martial arts moves. He was written up once by a guard for taking a mop handle off of a mop and pretending it was a sword. This had elicited a meeting between the lawyer and everybody else under the judicial sun. It was found in the end that Bannerman, in the pursuit of his studies, could train with simulated foam weapons two times a week in a supervised environment. There was a file picture of his arsenal. It was a table covered with an assortment of Nerf weapons. All the weapons looked to Bud like medieval weaponry for the Muppets: swords, battle axes, and shields.

  He also studied art. He was interested mostly in sculpting. He studied stage makeup. There was another meeting regarding Bannerman’s access to makeup for a correspondence course he was taking. He worked on something called prosthetic makeup. There were a couple of file pictures of Bannerman wearing his creations. He’d ask Al about this stuff. Bud took pictures of the makeup pictures with his phone camera, as well as of the weapons pictures. There was one photo that was a composite of four of Bannerman’s makeup projects. Two were skin effects: a burn and a wart. They looked real. The other two interested Bud more. They absorbed his full attention for at least five minutes. One was a lizard mask, only it wasn’t exactly a mask; Bannerman looked like he’d changed into a lizard. It was creepy how real it looked. Bud figured the fullness and absolute grandstanding of the lizard was why no one had noticed the fourth picture. Bud stared at the face, set the picture aside, flipped through several pages in the files and pulled out a picture of Bannerman’s lawyer. He put it next to this fourth makeup job. It was the real showstopper. The lizard was artsy; the fourth face was an exact match of his lawyer. The picture of the makeup job had been taken up close and in normal lighting. Bud thought if he saw it on the street, it would have been hard to recognize it as a “fake face.”

  There were other things Bannerman studied as well: mechanical things, industrial things, business classes, “how-to” studies, and clippings about theatre people and happenings. It said that the whole time Bannerman had been in Joliet, he’d subscribed to any and all Chicago theatre magazines, as well as a publication called The Fight Master and a few other periodicals of interest. He’d donated them to the prison library when he was released. Evidently, he didn’t need them anymore.

  Bud looked at the clock. It was 10:50. He got up, placed his hands in the small of his back, and pressed, producing a long string of cracks. It sounded like New Year’s in China Town. He put all the papers back in the box and put the lid on it, then went out to Charlie.

  “Interesting guy.”

  Charlie looked at him. “Yeah. He’s a really nice kid, too. He’s still got that Midwest-nice thing all over him. I feel bad for him. I’ve checked up on him at home a couple of times, but I think he really just wants to coast through his parole and then disappear. I don’t blame him. Do you wanna sit in on our meeting?”

  “Where do you usually meet?”

  “Sometimes we meet in here at my desk. If it’s noisy, we go in one of the interview rooms like the one you were in. Why?”

  “Can you take him in one of the interview rooms? Tell him they’ve been doing duct work off and on today and the noise is hurting your head.”

  Charlie looked at him with the twinge of suspicion that people who drink a little too much often have lurking under their friendly public faces. “Sure, man. You wanna watch and listen?”

  “If I can. I won’t use anything he says, I just need to get a feel for the guy.”

  Charlie laughed. “Sure. I’ll get you set up in the viewing area.”

  “Why did you laugh?”

  “It’s nothing? Fuggedaboutit.”

  “No, man. What is it?” Bud was trying hard to sound normal, not forced.

  “You said you wanted to get a feel for the guy? I’m still trying to get a feel for the guy. He’s nice. He’s polite. He says the right things in the right places. But…”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s probably just me, but I have a feeling if you pulled the layers off that guy, peeled him, you’d end up with nothing. There’s nothing to get a feel for. The guy’s a shell. He’s not dangerous, I just think Joliet kinda, like, ate him from the inside out. Stupid, huh?”

  “Not at all, Charlie. We all gotta go with our guts on this job.”

  “And for me, that’s a big feeling to go with.” He slapped his large palm on the side of his gut. It sounded like a primitive drum. “I’ll show you where you can listen in.”

  Charlie led him into a room and he waited for the in
terview to start. While he waited, he sipped his shitty, cold coffee, and thought about everything he’d learned in the last hour and a half. He didn’t have anything in particular, but there was a whirlwind in Bud’s head that was forming into one hell of a tornado.

  53

  When Al walked into the studio, one of the three witches, Sophie, came over to him and said, “It’s just awful, isn’t it?”

  Al thought she was referring to the situation with Lance, but he played dumb. “What are you talking about, Soph? It’s a fine day, and we’re getting ready to go into tech week and open this badass play. Whatever could be wrong?”

  “Oh, my God, Al, didn’t you hear about that action star, Lance Henderson? He got killed while filming in Utah. It has literally been on every station.” He wanted to explain to her what “literally” meant but squelched the impulse. “He was one of the original members of Wildhorse. He came in and saw a show here less than a year ago.”

  Al wasn’t playing into the drama of the situation. “Wow. You sure are taking it hard. You two must have been close, huh?” He looked into her eyes, pinning her to the spot and inviting her to talk about her personal story of loss.”

  “Um. Well, I didn’t know him that well. I’d just met him that time he was here.” The truth was Sophie hadn’t even been at the theatre the night Lance had come in to see a show. A friend had told her about it. She rushed on to get the focus off her non-relationship with Lance and get into the “terrible loss for all of us” part of the gossip. “They still don’t know what happened. All that’s been released so far is that there was an accident on his newest movie, Bloody Moon. They locked down the set and are seeing if there was any foul play.” She dropped the last two words down to a whisper for dramatic effect. Al was reminded how annoying actors could be.

  “Well, thanks for the heads-up, Soph. If you find out anything else, you be sure to let me know. You should check TZM’s website. They’re always such a reliable source.” TZM was a tawdry gossip operation. They had a TV show, a magazine, and a website with some free stuff and some pay information only. It was the stinky underbelly of Hollywood. They paid for pictures of celebrities who had choked to death on their own vomit and things of that ilk.

  “Good idea, Al. I’m gonna check online right now.” Then conspiratorially, “I have a paid online subscription.”

  “Of course you do,” Al said, almost salaciously. “Clever girl.” She trotted off to where her bags were and pulled out her iPad.

  Al was starting to loosen his body up. He was humming and stretching the muscles in his face and body. He looked in one corner and, partway behind a curtain on the stage, Al could see Gill and Sheena enmeshed in a deep and private conversation. They were talking about Lance, for sure. The two never talked to each other and today, right after the announcement of Lance’s death, the two of them are off in a corner having a private chat. It could have been a coincidence, but Al knew it wasn’t. Gill made a point about something. He was whispering harshly, and Al could see veins popping out of Gill’s neck. Sheena looked shittier than usual. Al figured she was on a regular dose of Xanax of some other anti-anxiety drug. She always had a half-glazed, half-aloof quality that Al had seen among people who used and abused the mild sedatives. Today, she had the glassy look, but it was accompanied by dark circles under her eyes and an overall impression of someone who hasn’t slept in about twenty-four hours and hasn’t bathed in about seventy-two.

  Gill didn’t look much better. His eyes were blood-shot, and Al guessed that, even though Gill probably hadn’t had a snort this morning, he still had a measurable amount of alcohol floating around in his bloodstream. Al kept mildly stretching while he crossed over toward where the little tête-à-tête was taking place. Sheena saw Al first and bolted toward the women’s dressing rooms with a final word to Gill. Gill looked at Al and rolled his eyes as if to say, And on top of everything, I gotta deal with this sanctimonious prick? Al strolled up next to Gill and stopped.

  “Hullo, Gillan. How’s it hangin’?”

  “What do you want, Al? We have fifteen minutes until fight call.”

  “I’ve been checking some shit out, and I think you and I finally need to have that private chat. I think enough shit has hit enough fans, and it’s time to get all the cards on the table.” Gill started to deny any knowledge of what Al was talking about. Al stopped him. “You know, you used to be brighter than this. I’m not requesting this; I’m telling you we are going to talk tonight after rehearsal. I think I have everything figured out, but I need to spill it to you so you can corroborate.”

  “Corroborate? Jesus, Al. You are such an asshole. You don’t need me to corroborate jack. You just want to tell me I’m a coward and a fuck-up. Well, I’ll save you the trouble: I’m a coward and a fuck-up. I’m just waiting my turn.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. If you’ve got this figured out, you know exactly what’s happening.”

  “Why haven’t you done anything about this? You’re in danger.”

  “I’m where I deserve to be.”

  “You could have warned some of the others.”

  “The others should have had it figured out. I knew something was going on two weeks before Dirk stabbed himself. Ha. Stabbed himself. That’s really pretty funny. It’s a fuckin’ laugh riot.”

  “No more talking here. I’ll grab a cab and we’ll cab it back to your place after rehearsal tonight. I have some paperwork and pictures to show you. You don’t even really have to talk if you don’t want to, just nod your head, yes or no. This is all going to be over very soon. Can you make it through rehearsal?”

  “Fuck you, Al. Yeah. I’ll be fine. I gave up caring about if I lived or died a while ago. The only time I don’t feel like a twenty-four carat asshole is when I’m acting, so yeah, I’ll be ready. I gotta warm up. Probably go puke. Fight call in twelve.” Then Gill turned out toward the room, smiling a smile that looked as false as forty assholes. “Fight call in twelve, fellas and girls. Let’s make it look right. Al is on the war-path today!” And he walked off at a fast pace toward the men’s dressing rooms. Al let him go. He hated watching people puke, so he opted not to follow Mr. Murphy to the dressing room.

  He was almost finished with his own warm-up when Marty floated through. He looked stressed, but he also had one of those “Marty” looks. He spotted Al and came over to chat. It must have been a fake smile day, because the expression on Marty’s face was even more bogus that the one that had been parked on Gill’s mug a few minutes ago.

  “Did you take care of business last night? Do I want to know?”

  “Concessions will be run from now on by Lisa. If she does well this first show, it’ll be her new gig. It’s all contingent on her getting through Mackers without totally fucking everything up. Robbie will be out of Chicago for good and all by 10:00 this morning, never to return again. You have nothing to do with that end of all of this, just like before. The company will have money going into the general fund, but you’re not running that part. Remember, you are stepping down as Managing Director. Frieda is going to be the new Managing Director. I’ll have some investors get in touch with her. Who knows, Marty? You may end up better off than before. We have another matter to discuss, but it’ll wait until tonight or tomorrow. Go do your thing. I’m almost done doing my shit. Fight call is in six minutes, and I need to deliver some keys to Frieda.”

  “OK…and Al? Thanks. I mean it.”

  “Thank me if you live through the next couple of weeks. Hey, there’s Lisa right now. I’ll give her the keys to give to Free.” Al trotted off away from Marty with no more thought or consideration. He wouldn’t publicly disrespect Marty, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to kiss his ass for appearance’s sake.

  “Yo, Lisa!”

  “Hey Mr. Mc…I mean Al.”

  “Here.” He handed her the keys. “Go up and give these to Frieda. We’ll all meet together soon to get the details worked out, but I want to m
eet on my first fifteen-minute break to tell you where to drive the van to pick up a rather large supply of booze for your new business arrangement. Sound good?”

  “When’s your break?”

  “Frieda knows; I get fifteen at 10:45. I’ll give her a ring on the phone and we’ll meet in her office. Now scoot. We gotta throw some steel around.”

  “Awesome!” Lisa exclaimed, then squealed, kissed Al’s cheek, and went running off at an unsafe speed toward Frieda’s domain.

  Al went and got the rolling weapons cabinet. He wheeled it out onto the stage floor, and all of the people who were doing fights in the show came over to grab weapons and start fight call. They’d run through all the fights three times each. It was the only way to make the fights feel safe to the actors but still look dangerous and deadly to the audience. The time for detecting was over for now. Al had a throne to usurp, a king to kill, and the supernatural world to battle to the death.

  54

  Bud was finishing his burnt coffee when Charlie and Bannerman came in for the interview. Charlie had been right. Bannerman was a substantial guy, well over six feet and looking hard as a rock. It was the kind of muscle you got from doing manual labor or lifting your own body weight. He looked like he could do two hundred pushups and not even break a sweat. He was wearing a tee shirt and bib overalls with one strap hooked and the other dangling. His clothes were clean and in good shape. He was wearing some leather Red Wing work shoes. Even dressed like a shit-kicker and wearing the big clod-hopper boots, Bannerman moved smoothly across the small room. He was economic in his movements. He didn’t waste his movement, but did everything with a purposeful and subconscious grace. He had excellent posture and bore himself with the attitude of someone who was contrite but still respected himself.