Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition

by Andrew Sutherland

  Bud didn’t know the particulars. Generally, someone had killed the Judge’s baby. Some other fucker had killed someone else’s baby. The guy who’d killed his kid couldn’t pick up the tab, so as long as this “Eric Bannerman” was alive and breathing, he would continue to suffer for this other man’s crimes. The judge had been given this much justice because it was all there was. As a man of the law, sometimes you didn’t get what you wanted, but in the end we all got what we needed.

  He kept driving and thinking all the way back. He was having one of those “Remember the bladder of your youth” days and was making surprisingly few stops in spite of all the coffee today. All he had to do is get all of his evidence and all of Al’s evidence, and sit with Eric--hopefully over some rare lamb--and work out a loose thread to start pulling on. It wouldn’t take long, and in the end, a man who had done wrong but paid his debt to society would go free. Like the good old days. Some bullshit gun-for-hire asshole who was willing to put some otherwise innocent guy behind the eight-ball the rest of his life would be taken out of the gene pool.

  It would be work, but it would be good work. It would be work that helped you “get to heaven an hour before the horses.” His dad had been fond of saying that. His dad had a bunch of crazy expressions. One day, when Bud was maybe seven, he had come home, and on the way home from school, he saw a friend all worked up in a froth. His friend had written fuck (“fukk”-- no points for spelling in graffiti), but after writing it, had become convinced he should recant this particular graffiti. His bitch sister had seen it all. She took instamatic pictures of it. Bud and his friend had watched--and Bud got a sexual thrill he had never spoken of--as this young girl pulled the almost fully developed picture from her armpit. Bud had helped paint over the graffito and all was well…until his sister spilled the beans. Bud’s dad, John, called him out to their little backyard chicken coop the next morning. He figured the old man wanted some help fixing the door. He wanted the work to go fast, cuz he and Johnny Fazio had tickets to Wrigley today, and it was gonna be a freak show--hot weather, Cubbies, lots of belly buttons and budding breasts.

  “You know why we’re out here, Marlon?” Marlon was Bud’s spankin’ name. Just hearing it made his ass sore.

  “No, Sir. I don’t suppose I do know.”

  “I don’t suppose you do either, so this’ll be quick and painless. You’re little friend Rufus…” the way Bud’s shoulders took an express elevator down, let his dad know he was guilty before the story was half over. “Well it seems old Rufus tried to paint the “F” word on their chicken coop, then tried to cover it up with your help.”

  “Yes, Sir. That’s true, Sir.” Bud’s dad had served in Korea. You called him Sir. Always. “How did you know, Sir?”

  “His sister threw you out in traffic after you fixed it. Some dames are like that.” John was always straight with Bud. He’d always be straight with Buster. It was how it was, and it was good. During this, John Smythe had been taking off his belt. “Now I gotta punish you, but you were up front with me, honest like you always are. So two whacks. One for the job you done, and one to spit in the devil’s eye. Drop ‘em.”

  So, Bud dropped and got two none-too-enthusiastic whacks across his butt cheeks. His dad gave him $7--a king’s ransom. “Seven dollars’ worth of two-cent advice. You paint over another guy’s mistake, be ready to take the fall. Be ready because it’ll come and, well, the cause had better have been worth it. You remember that for me. Now you better get moving to Wrigleyville, or you’ll miss out.”

  Bud uncharacteristically hugged his dad after he’d pulled up his pants and asked on impulse if his dad wanted to come along.

  “Busman’s Holiday? I would if I could, but your mom’s got my nuts in a wrench all day.” Bud laughed. “But here,” he took a flask out of his back pocket, “Have a snort of this. It’s rye and it’s a good girl-watchin’, ball-watchin’ drink.” Bud tried it. His dad was right. He took a second sip when his mom called down for him. His dad made a “Shhhhhh” gesture and yelled up, “Just missed him, Miriam. I guess I’ll have to do.” John ruffled Bud’s hair, which would be reviled in two years, but for now, it was pretty swell with Marlon “Bud” Smythe.

  He pulled into the police station with that odd expression, “You paint over another guy’s mistake, be ready to take the fall,” rattling around in his mind and figured it was pretty true. Painting over someone else’s “fukk” up didn’t help anyone in the long run. No, sir, not in the long run.

  55

  “Hey, Bud. Talk fast. I’m on a short beak, and I have to change the world during the rest of my lunch break.” Rehearsal had been smokin’ good, but Al had ducks to get lined up before they started back up. He needed to do a bunch of prep work, but he wasn’t in a prep-work mood. He was in an action mood. Sucks to be Batman when you’re working at the AM/PM.

  “I stayed through the PO checkin with Bannerman. I also read his file. Thing’s a fucking novel. The upshot is, if he did this, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “What?”

  “Sure as shit. I thought about it. I love this hat.”

  “Tick tock, motherfucker.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Forgot. Just pumped. I don’t know if anyone would have the discipline or fortitude to pull off something like this. It would take years of not just planning, but focus. And he seems like a nice guy, a really nice guy. I don’t buy it. I’m working on a second theory. I should know a bit more by tonight.”

  Al had stopped walking and was standing in the hallway. Everything else in the world had stopped. “You are not going back up to talk to him, and you are not going back up un-escorted. Give me an affirmative, or I leave the theatre, find you, and break your legs to make you stay put.”

  Bud thought about it. He had no doubt that Al could break his legs. He thought it would be a long bit of work, but in the end, Al could take him. He turned to option number two: lie. “Fuck, no. I figured I might do that in a day or so. I need to do some more thinking before I do that. And I’m not enough of an asshole to go up there by myself.”

  “Yes, you are, but I have too many fish to fry to come and kick your ass in case you might be lying to me. I’ll say this, then I’ll shut up. You may be right. This guy might be as innocent as Mary’s little lamb. But if he is a psychopath, a real psychopath…” Al was thinking about an asshole he’d met in Portland. He’d never met a pure, crazy, evil, asshole, psychopath before, but the guy in Portland was enough for Al. One of that variety was enough to know you never wanted to be there again. “…he’s had the time. If he’s had the patience and the focus to go along with the time, he’s a book with a very bad ending. He’ll kill you, Bud. He’ll kill your family. Before he kills your wife and kid, he’ll buy them a puppy, wait two weeks, and then slowly kill the puppy in front of them.”

  “Jesus, Al.”

  “Hey, man. Stay safe, and stay alive. The worst guy I’ve dealt with was that bad, but he was an overachiever. Just go slow. Don’t make any mistakes. Mistakes get puppies killed.”

  “And old fat detectives. I got the message. Thanks, pal. How’s stuff going there?”

  “Now that I’ve killed your high?” Al chuckled. “It going fine. It’s just gonna be a pile of work, and my business partner is gonna shit his pants. Seriously. I’ll be telling him all of this, and he is just going to fill his pants. But that’s the fun of being around me. Hugs and chuckles all the time. I gotta jam. Keep me posted.”

  “Will do. Having some quiet time with the wife tonight, so I may be otherwise engaged, but I’ll return any calls.”

  “Lucky you. I’m going to be dangling an old friend off the roof by the ankles.”

  “Don’t drop him. Unless you have to. Then go down and put a bullet in his head, so they don’t disturb me.”

  “Your sense of civic duty is nothing short of awe-inspiring. Gotta go.” Al hung up and put the phone back in his pocket.

  He was heading off to find Gill. He’d taken care of more of the bar business. That
fucker, Robbie, must have been making a killing. This was going to be a great gig. The theatre would make a ton of money, and if intern-cum-bartender Lisa didn’t fuck up in Technicolor, she’d be doing fine in the money department, as well.

  He was going to go to Gill’s tonight after rehearsal. They would hash it out. Gill would spill what he knew, or spill blood. It would be that easy. Getting invited to bury the hatchet with the little fucker might be a little more complicated. As long as Bud didn’t do anything stupid tonight, everything would be OK. He was pretty sure Bud would play it safe. He didn’t think anyone would ever be as crazy as the Portland Asshole, but he had some doubts about that. He couldn’t worry about it now. He had shit to do.

  He walked back into the rehearsal studio and spotted Gill in the corner, looking out through the iron-caged windows, and contemplating some vile self-absorbed deed. Gill had gotten really dark in the last couple of days. He was like a Sith Lord wearing a skinned-My Little Pony robe. Al walked up and stood looking out the window near where Gill was brooding.

  “How’s the view?” he asked Gill, conversationally.

  “I should ask you. Probably have a better view from your moral high-ground.”

  Al was seriously tired of Gill’s shit. He’d made the mistake of not slapping down the pup a few days back, so now he would have to beat the full-grown dog. No problem. He just hadn’t wanted it to come to this.

  “Hey, Gill. I don’t know what’s going on with you. I’ve decided I’m giving up on the shit with Dirk. I’m too busy. We open in a little more than a week, and I need to be present. Part of that is getting OK with you. So I am officially burying the hatchet. How about I come over after rehearsal; I’ll bring the booze, we can order pizza, and clear the air. Come on. I don’t have many friends who’re still alive from the old days.”

  Gill looked up, and the surly expression lingered on his face for just a second. Then he said, “You mean it?”

  Ordinarily, Al would have felt like a shit for lying in this situation. Here was an old friend who was involved in something that was none of Al’s business, and it was causing him pain. It wouldn’t cost Al anything to just be there for a friend.

  But the guy was scum, old friend or not. He sat on his fucking hands while someone lost their life. They’d lost their life because of Gill’s cowardice and self-centeredness. He’d been suspicious of people from his past dying for a while and had said nothing. In the big book of Al, that earned Gill a big ride on the fuck-you-cycle.

  Gill finally broke into a smile. “You mean that, man? I could use a friend and a little less stress.”

  Al felt like a 500-carat shit-heel when he heard himself say, “Sure, man. Bygones. Lots of water has gone under the bridge. I don’t have that many friends left, like I said. I’d hate to lose another one over some stupid shit.”

  “Elegantly put, my man. I think you’re kicking some serious ass on this, by the way. And the fights, I was gonna tell you before I decided to stop talking to you, the fights are breathtaking.”

  “Thanks, Gill. You still move pretty good for someone who’s half-pickled.”

  “Some of us got it, baby!” He reached up his hand, and Al pulled him into a standing position as easy as pulling a dandelion out of his lawn. They enjoyed a guy hug. Gill broke it off. His eyes were a little damp. “I’m going to go wash my hands; then you wanna run that last fight in slo-mo? I have an idea or two. I haven’t brought them up because I was too busy being a fuckhead.”

  “Wash up; I’ll have the swords up on stage when you get back. I’ll clear it with Sunny.”

  “Are you hittin’ that yet? Man, you should. She’s hot and barely crazy at all.”

  “Sorry, man. Seeing someone else. But what a ringing endorsement, ‘barely crazy at all.’ Nice to know there are still some gentlemen in the world. Pig.”

  “Two minutes.” Gill jogged off to the bathroom, and Al started toward the weapons cabinet.

  He yelled at Sunny from across the room. “Sun! Gill and I are going to slo-mo through a couple of thoughts about the last fight. Not rehearsing. Just…noodling.”

  “I’ll administer your Equity spanking after rehearsal. Heard you got rid of that little shit, Robbie. I hope they find the fucker floating in the river.”

  “I have an alibi. Thanks, Sun!” He continued his walk to the weapons cabinet.

  His morning meeting with Lisa and Frieda had gone well. At the first part of lunch, Al had checked on the upstairs progress.

  “We’re gonna need new guns and shit. All the soda guns from under the bar were growing hazardous waste. I showed Frieda, and she puked.”

  Frieda was standing next to Lisa and slapped her in the arm. “I told you I had an upset tummy, anyway.”

  “Don’t worry, Free, I don’t have a poor opinion of your gag reflex.” Al was saying this and laughing at the same time. Lisa was starting to howl.

  “Am I going to have to prove my point, Al?” She said this with a definite note of innuendo.

  Lisa fell on the floor, holding her stomach. She had totally lost it. She was cackling and snorting. Between all of her noises, she was managing to get out, “She…filthy bar guns…puked…blow job…” At blow job, she stopped being able to articulate anything; she just rolled around, screaming with laughter.

  “Do you see what I have to work with?” Frieda asked Al.

  “Yes, Free. And I’ll tell you what, no blow job will be required to earn back my trust in your gag reflex.” He was starting to hitch with laugher now.

  “Al McNair, you’re lucky you’re sending me into the next tax bracket, or your ass would be so kicked right now.” She was starting to giggle a little now. Lisa was regaining control, and they did a quick breakdown of what was here and what was necessary to get up to speed.

  “Do you have an account you can funnel out of for right now? I’m sure you don’t have a concessions account, but if you can rob Peter for a little while, we can work it out within the week. I just have a lot of irons in the fire right now. We’ll reverse-cook the books later.” Al flashed a winning smile after he’d finished.

  Frieda looked at Lisa and said, “Don’t get any ideas. He’s rich, attached, old enough to be your dad, and I have dibs.”

  “That sucks” said Lisa, petulantly.

  “Tellin’ me,” Al added. “I actually am old enough to be your father.”

  Lisa walked by him slow and close. “If you change your mind, I won’t check your ID.”

  “OK. Enough of this shit. I’m going back to the theatre. Things look great. Stop sexually harassing me.”

  “Really?” Frieda and Lisa said this at the same time, looking at him like a fantasy waiting to happen.

  Al turned trying his best to sound exasperated, “Jesus Christ! Fucking theatre people are all so fucking fucked up.” He reached the top of the stairs, turned to look at them and said, “Don’t make me bring up the gag-reflex issue again!” As he swept around the corner like an opera diva, he heard Lisa hit the ground a split second before she started cackling again.

  56

  Eric actually owned three properties in Illinois. His farm in Freeport was his official dwelling as far as his PO and the rest of the world was concerned. He rented his small apartment in Chicago, but Eric, ever the planner, had two more properties. He wanted a large space to work out in, so he needed a barn in reasonably good shape. He wanted to practice with firearms, so the barn had to be secluded. He found a perfect property, but the guy selling it had tied it to a second, smaller property, fifty miles north. He said it was perfect for hunting water birds, as there was a good-sized pond on the property. Eric tried everything he could to buy the one place, but the dude had his mind set and wasn’t going to let it slide. In the end, he refinanced his Freeport home, which he had originally bought outright, then used the money to pay for fees, down payment, and some outrageous points, to get the two other properties.

  He’d done it all through his accountant friend. It would take three lawye
rs six months, and a road map to run the trail back to anyone even close to Eric. After everything was finished, he found out the home owner had moved into Indiana and bought a pot farm. Eric waited six months, then killed him. Eric was OK with greed as a sin, as long as it didn’t become a pain in his ass. His thought was when your greed becomes my problem, we need to find a solution. The solution Eric had come up with was simple. He scaled the side of the old farm-house the guy had purchased for his weed business. He was at least four months from production and had done exactly jack squat about security. So Eric climbed into the house where the guy lived alone, woke him up, gave him a lecture on greed, wasting people’s time, and generally how being a pain in the ass was a bad thing to do. Eric asked the guy if he agreed. The guy paused for the smallest second. The truth be told, he was probably just working through the fear and disorientation of being tugged rudely out of sleep at gunpoint. Eric shot him in the chest four times with a semi-shitty silenced 9mm Beretta for answering too slowly. He didn’t really care that much about the noise. He was just being careful.

  When he was done, he turned the gas on the handy chimney gas spout, plugged the chimney with trash, fixed a lamp he’d brought with him to a dial-up wall timer, set it for an hour, and put it in place. He worked up the lamp fuse at home; it sparked but didn’t blow the house fuse until it sparked hard three or four times. He figured he’d get massive gas build-up, a series of sparks, ignition, and another old barn-house would burn down cuz a newer owner hadn’t done the proper move-in maintenance.

  Eric had imagined a fire that started with a big airy “whoosh” sound and then burned steadily down to the ground. He had parked his little truck on a dirt road about a mile away with some binoculars focused on the house. The house hadn’t gone up with a little “whoosh.” The first floor had exploded. It was a big, loud explosion. Eric learned that plans are nice, but often didn’t go the way you wanted them to go. Good lesson. Great explosion. It was blamed on faulty wiring. He still owed the money to the bank, but he felt better about the payments.