Her large eyes with her uneven pupils stared moistly into his blue ones. There was a moment of balance. No movement. No breath. Just two people with an explosive amount of love and caring for each other. “I’m still good with my other ex-girlfriends. I don’t like my ex-wife.” He paused, and she looked disappointed. “But sweet Edith, you are neither an ex-girlfriend nor an e-wife. You are someone I care about more than it makes sense to. The people I’ve talked to about you have advised me to snatch you up quick, because there aren’t that many good ones out there. They’re right. You’re one of a kind. I’ll always be here for you. Right now, I love you, too. Tomorrow will come along soon enough.” He kissed her lightly, then a little more passionately.
She broke it off. “I thought you had to punch someone.”
“Oh, yeah. Remind me where I was when I get back.”
“If I have to remind you, you don’t deserve it. Go get to it. I’ll fire up The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and microwave some popcorn. I have a bunch of big pillows and comforters; we’ll just rock it old-school. Slumber parties kick ass.”
“And I gotta go punch a smelly old Irishman.”
“He looks pretty quick. Maybe he’ll get to punch a smelly old Scotsman.”
“Word to the wise, lassie. Always bet on the Scotsman.”
“Why?”
“We cheat.” He kissed her forehead and walked her back in the main room. There was palpable tension. Sunny was reading a magazine, Gill was slouched in a chair, staring at the ceiling, and Sheena was sitting and pulling her hair out one strand at a time.
“Did you have a quickie?”
“No disrespect in the lady’s home, Gill.”
“Sorry, Al. Sorry, Miss Edith.” Gill quickly jumped from the chair and with a deftness and gentleness that seemed to come from nowhere, he kissed Edith’s hand. “Now, are we still going out, Al? I think the ladies can entertain themselves quite handily.”
Edith stepped in, “I have popcorn, pillows, blankets, and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.”
Sunny squealed. “Yay! We get to go from the weird gathering part of the evening to the slumber-party part.” She got up and did a little bump and grind dance. “What can I do, E? You boys? Go. No boys. This is a girl party.”
Al went to Edith and gave her a tasteful but thorough kiss. “We won’t be too late.”
“Ladies.” Gill tipped an imaginary hat, and the two of them were out the door, coats in hands.
61
“Where ya parked, or are we taking the train?” asked Gill once they were trudging along. There was a cutting wind, broken by their leather coats and acclimation to this sort of soul-killing climate.
“We walk for a bit,” said Al. The wind was loud; the traffic offered a good addition to the cacophonous bouquet of the streets. They were traveling south on W. Huron, vaguely headed for the Green Door Tavern, made famous by being one of Al Capone’s speakeasies back in the bad old days of prohibition. Edith’s loft apartment was in a gentrified section of the city just north of W. Huron and N. Kingsbury so the general direction made some sense if they were going to a bar.
“Green Door?” asked Gill, tucking his chin into the collar of his coat. They were very near the North Branch Canal of the Chicago River, which brought the temperature down another ten degrees through attitude alone.
“I gotta check out a place up ahead, then wherever they have club soda.”
“Not even one martini, for old times’ sake?”
Al looked at Gill. In that moment, Gill looked terribly alone. Gill wanted to share his poison with someone. He wanted to do it speechlessly, wordlessly, with the clink of ice cubes, the dull “clack” of shuffleboard, maybe a juke braying out some old Rat Pack tune. He’d get none of that tonight. Tonight was for words under a cloudless Chicago sky. A ringing line from Sandburg’s old poem ran through Al’s head, like a naked boy running down a strand of beach with a burning stick from a pit fire: Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities… No. Tonight was for words, spoken honestly, next to the river, in the middle of the spirits of the past.
“I heard something about a park up here, Ward Montgomery Park, I think. I wanna check out the view of something.”
“Well, shake a leg, man. I’m freezing my balls off out here.”
“You’ll be warm soon enough.” They walked the rest of the way in silence.
When they were a good hundred yards into the park, Al stopped by a bench and turned to face Gill. “The fuck, Al? You bring me out here to kiss me?”
Al answered this with a big, wide-swinging, open-handed slap to Gill’s left cheek. It sounded like a firecracker going off in a Pepsi can.
Gill was pissed and surprised, but essentially unharmed. “You better have a fuckin’ good reason for that you fuckin’ ape…” Crack! This was a backhand to Gill’s right cheek. It was harder and louder. It was a story unfolding. Those two slaps said this was going to escalate. Al had kept his hand open because he essentially didn’t want to break Gill, and slapping a man in the face is the same thing as calling them a little bitch. It says, “You aren’t worth the energy of me doubling my fist.”
Al knew what the next move would be before it even happened. He settled his weight evenly, centered on the balls of his feet. “First one was free. That second one is gonna cost you, though, boyo.” Gill made a decent feint with his left fist toward Al’s face, then he tried to kick Al in the right kneecap. Al was fighting southpaw. He was predominantly right-handed, but he thought having a strong jab out in front with Gill would be a wise move.
Al quickly moved his right foot from the ground and withdrew his knee from proximity, then quickly replaced his foot after the danger of Gill’s foot had passed. It looked like a man delivering a swift heel kick to his own ass, but it did the job. Gill had bet all his money, and balance, on that kick finding something. When it found only air, he was at the mercy of gravity, momentum, poor body position, and Al.
Al pivoted forward on his right foot and hammered his left fist into the center of Gill’s chest. The little man went down like a single stalk of grass encountering a high wind. “Now, we talk.” Gill started to scramble up, but Al kicked him in the side, like you would some stray dog. It was a graceless move, disrespectful. But Al had no time or patience for respect and niceties. “We’re gonna talk, Gill. Don’t make me put this chat off until it’s a bedside chat at the hospital, because it will come to that. So spill it.”
“Spill what, you big fuck?”
Al thought of kicking him again, but did something far worse. He simply said, “Eric Bannerman. You may remember him as Cyclopes.”
The reaction from Gill was the same as from the first slap. He fell back on the grass as if in tremendous pain. He stayed still for a few seconds then started to chuckle. The chuckle turned into a laugh, the laugh into hideous sobs. “Aw, fuck. Aw, man, fuck. Jesus, we fucked that kid so hard, and all for a few laughs. I was the one that came and talked to him in the jailhouse. I was an emissary from the group. We’d decided to take the strong approach. We told him if he mentioned any of us by name, we’d shame him for lying and sue him for slander. He recanted every bad thing he’d said about us. They sent him to Joliet. Fucking Joliet at seventeen years old. Can you imagine? And he was a little bitty shit, too. They threw the book at him, and he caught it square on the chin.”
“And all this death, you thought it would go away?”
“When it started looking like there was a method to the deaths, I talked to Dirk. He said no fucking way he was copping to anything. All he’d say is the guy came by sauced, and we sent him packing. Sheena wanted to come forward, and Odd Bill, but if we came forward and contradicted each other, it would just be a clusterfuck. Besides, someone was killing the people from the party. Not sending hate mail or threats. We were just dying, man.”
“Why not go to the cops? Maybe an anonymous tip?”
“Because it
didn’t matter. Not to me. I fucking had this kid chug Goldschläger, then poured him into his shitty ride. If it came, I had it coming. So did every fucker at that party. So I kept my mouth shut. The others had their reasons. It doesn’t matter for a cold beer and a hot fuck now, Al, does it? All but three of us are toast. I expect if I finish Macbeth, it’ll be my dying opus.”
“Gill, I’m going to say this once then I’m done. I suggest you be done, too. First, and you know this part, you are a jackass, a coward, and I’m embarrassed I ever called you friend or broke bread with you. When this is over, I don’t know you. Next, we are going to set the rest of this right, as right as we can. It might put your ass in the slammer, it might not. It might stop you from getting killed, and it seems up till now saving your miserable hide is all you’ve really been interested in, so you may get your chance. The last thing I want to tell you is, while I’m fixing this, you are going to help in any way I ask. A long fucking time ago there was a solid guy in there. I’m hoping he isn’t completely gone.”
“If I don’t help?”
“I’ll duct tape you with two rolls of the shit, find an old refrigerator, and put you in it. There’s enough trash in this town, you’d never get found. From what I hear, you wouldn’t be missed much anyhow. You’ll talk to my cop friend, Bud, as well. I intend to catch a killer. I won’t be stopped.”
“What if I bolt?”
“You won’t. You have no job skills. You’re too old, and I’d find you. Believe that: I’d keep looking for you. Then I’d just find an old refrigerator in Des Moines, West Terra Haute, or Yuma, Arizona. The game’s over. Time to pay your bill.”
“What about the show?”
“We play defense till the show is over, but if I’m right, whoever is doing this will be in the joint or a pine box in the next few days.”
“Woman’s intuition?”
“Gill, I know it’s your way, but don’t taunt me right now. I feel like breaking your bones one at a time just to see how many I can get through before you pass out. I’m thinking eleven or twelve if I start with your fingers. Now, get up. We’re going back to Edith’s and making a plan. It’ll be a shitty plan, but it’ll be a plan. Now get up. I’ve wasted enough breath on you. And Gill?”
“Yeah?” He was getting up now, slowly.
“You fuck with me, getting killed is your least worry. Understand?” Gill just stood staring. “Answer me, damn it, Gill, or I start on your fingers.”
“I get it, and I believe you.”
“Good. Let’s move. I’m getting cold, and I’m tired of talking to you.”
Gill got up and they started walking. They walked in silence back to the loft.
62
“You want this on the rocks or just in a glass?” Eric was asking Bud, while Bud, devoid of his little brown bag, was shedding his jacket.
“Two ice cubes would be great, and a splash of lemon or lime if you have it.”
“I have lemon. Make yourself comfortable. You can set that box on the table.”
Eric took the bottle of rye into the kitchen got down two glasses. One was for Bud’s rye. The other was for water for Eric. He’d lost a lot of sweat working today, despite the wind coming across the freshly harvested corn.
He called to Bud to look around. He had 5 mg of GHB powder dissolved in about 7 ml of water. The GHB would make Bud pass out. It was a bit salty, but he’d put in the lemon, say it was the lemon from the plastic thingy, and that would be that. If Bud was a “normal” habitual drinker, he’d get through number one quickly then number two would be a slower sipping affair. Bud would be asleep by the middle of drink number two.
He poured his water and some rye in a tumbler for Bud. He put in a little more than ½ the GHB and a generous shot of lemon from the little plastic lemon. He brought it out with Bud’s drink and his water. “Hey, man, I used this bottled lemon--all I got.” He added some to his water, which he had put a small pinch of salt in. “Here’s your rye. The only thing I don’t like about the bottled lemon is it’s a little salty. You wanna taste my water?”
“Eric. Calm down, man. It’s OK.”
“Sorry. Just don’t ever entertain. I’ll chill out. I can be a little hyper.” They both chuckled and clinked glasses. As predicted, Bud ran through his first pretty quickly. Eric smoothly grabbed his cup. “Refill?”
“Sure.” He was feeling a bit groggy. “I may need some coffee after dinner, though. All this driving, I’m whooped.”
“No problem. Back in a sec.”
He made the second drink in a hurry because he knew the stuff was coming on fast, and he needed to get more in Bud’s system before he figured out he was screwed. He came back with the drink, squirted some lemon in, and handed it to Bud. To Eric’s surprise, Bud knocked this one back in almost one pull.
“You musta needed a break.”
“You bet. Been working this murder case, and it’s busting my balls. I like that salty flavor. I may have to get some of that squeezy lemon.” He was beginning to slur a little, but Eric didn’t think he’d heard the slur in his own voice yet. The GHB was coming on hard and fast.
Eric noticed that, when Bud came in, he had taken off his main holster. It was hanging across the room, next to his jacket. He’d never get that far if he tried. Eric was a little concerned about the idea that Bud might be high as a kite with a second gun on him. He decided his back-up plan as insurance would be fine idea. “Hey I got a book back here I think you’ll like. Hold on. Put your feet up if you like. I’ll be right back.”
Eric went to the back room and grabbed a bottle of starter fluid he bought at Wal-Mart. Starter fluid used to be primarily diethyl ether, the same as the medical sedative. Now it was a mix. The stuff he had was fifty percent ether, and with Bud already in the bag, wrestling a rag over his face would be a piece of cake.
When he came back in the room with the stinking rag, he was moving fast. Just as he placed the rag over Bud’s nose and mouth, he realized Bud was already snoring. Eric pushed the rag on him anyway and held in place for about a minute.
Eric searched for Bud’s second gun, finding it and a knife. He found keys, some other sundry materials, and Bud’s cell. He turned it on and scrolled through the contacts. He hadn’t thought he’d find Al’s number under “Al,” but there it was, as big as life and twice as nice. He left it on for the next few minutes then went to work on Bud with zip ties and duct tape. He loaded him on a dolly, dropped him in the trunk of his car, and took off toward the place in Malta.
The truth be told, cell service was excellent in this and all the surrounding areas. He was just throwing out a red herring when he’d said that. No tech had a homier feeling. Plus, it felt safer, more comforting in some way.
He hopped in Bud’s car. It needed gas, but Bud would be beyond making any noise or fuss for at least an hour. He filled the tank on the way out of town. He was getting close to Malta when Al and Gill were leaving on their walk. Eric stopped the car next to the old barn on the property. He opened the double doors, backed in, and stopped under a chain-fall that had been attached to one of the old cross beams of the barn. He had rigged Bud into a duct tape harness of sorts so he wouldn’t get hurt. He didn’t want any accidental damage. All the injuries caused tonight had to be purposeful. He hoisted Bud into a semi-standing position. The beam above Bud made a faint creaking protest, but settled after the weight had transferred. Then he went to work checking everything. Once everything was checked, he’d make a call, and all the fun would begin. It was in this exact moment Eric knew that “Eric Bannerman” was going to die tonight. He just wanted to make sure he got everyone else first. Lenny would get Marty for him.
63
Al and Gill had been back at Edith’s when Al’s cell had starting vibrating in his pocket. It was always an unsettling feeling. He pulled out the phone and saw that is was Bud’s cell. He figured Bud just had a question about some little detail or other. He hit the ignore button and put the phone away.
They had
just turned off the movie (much to Sunny’s protests) and had gotten everyone sitting up, ready to talk out some kind of a plan. Gill was looking sullen but resigned. He wanted to put this together. Sheena looked owlishly, glassy-eyed at Al, knowing what was coming up, but not wanting to hear the realities that were coming. Sunny was listening eagerly. Al had begun to suggest she hit the bricks, and Sunny just said, “Fuck that,” crossed her arms, and sat. Edith looked like a candle burning twice as bright, but instead of any fear of lasting half as long, she seemed to have grown. Her attention to everything was electric. She told Al later she could have described everything in that room in perfect detail in that one instant.
“So, I think the only person who doesn’t know about this party/incident/whatever is Sunny. Sun, forgive my brevity, but the details don’t matter much,” Al started, then his phone began to ring again. He pulled it out and checked the caller ID. Bud. Shit. He hoped it was important and not just more babble. Al answered, “Hey, pal. Hope this is important.”
“Oh, Al. Is that a kind way to speak to someone? Is it friendly?” He held the “ee” sound of the last word a little too long.
“That depends, pal. My caller ID says Bud, but this ain’t Bud. So in addition to being curt, as I had other shit to do than answer my phone, now I’m kinda pissed. You wanna fill me in on who this is?”
“No. Not really.” Elongated “ee” sound again. “I can give you a hint, but you’re supposed to be this great detective, so you should be able to detect. I’m the guy who has killed all the poor little defenseless theatre people. Not defenseless in the sense that they couldn’t defend themselves, but defenseless in the sense that there was no defense for their actions. What say you, sir?”
“You really want me to detect? I need to write shit down. I have a shitty memory.”
“Al. That was lie number one. I have very little patience for people who lie. You get two more lies then I hang up and you have to use dogs to find Bud. His wife and kid won’t like him as much when they find him, but it’s really up to you. Can you tell the truth?”
Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition Page 37