Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition

by Andrew Sutherland

  “No. Enough for now. You’ll talk to him and figure this stuff out. Now, you call your partner, Sunny, and your parents. I’ll go get a computer, and we can snuggle and watch movies. I found A Fistful of Dollars. I figured we could give it a shot.”

  “Wow. That’s a Leone film. I should get stabbed by a madman more often. Do we have to look at modern art afterward?”

  “Nope. You get a free pass. That’s standard procedure for getting run through with any metal object.”

  “Let’s do this. Can you get me the secure phone and Sunny’s number? I have it memorized, but my brain is still a little scrambled.”

  “I’ll do that and be back before you’re done. If you want privacy with your partner, call him first. It’s a little hike to my car.”

  “Not necessary, but thank you for the gesture. Could you also grab my wallet? I should probably call Ted.”

  “Oh! I talked to Ted. Figured I should either hide your credentials or give him a heads-up. It’s why you aren’t shackled to the bed pending an investigation. You can call him tomorrow. He told you to get better, goddamnit.”

  “Good job, E. You mind if I call you E?”

  “No. It’s very James Bond. I kinda dig it. Let me get you the phone and stuff.”

  She got him the phone and walked briskly out to get her stuff, and, Al suspected, to take a few deep breaths. He scratched the lottery ticket the doc had left. Fifty-dollar winner. He’d leave the whole thing for the guy. May as well feed the karma machine.

  He waited for a moment to call Scotty Mac. He had survived again. He wasn’t sure how it happened. Somewhere, there was a star burning bright and housing the ever-present, sardonic but watchful, patron saint of gumshoe theatre people. He was a good patron saint. Al figured part of his success was his extremely limited client list.

  81

  “Marty. Open the fucking door or I’m kicking it in.” Al had no intention of kicking the door in. His body was still too sore for that kind of exercise, but he sounded convincing. The door bolt turned, but the door didn’t open. Drama queens…

  Al walked into the place with Frieda and Edith. All of the shades were drawn. There were empty bottles everywhere, bottles of prescription medication all over. Marty was a trembling wreck. “I suppose you’re here to blame me? Blame the last surviving member of the group that maniac killed? Fine. Say what you have to say, then it’s over. I’m done.”

  The air was filled with something beyond tension. It was almost vibrating. If emotions gave off color, everyone would have been giving off their own peculiar light. Marty was oozing the rotten green of shame, Frieda was smoldering in the deep red of fury and futility, Edith was swimming in the cool blue of confident worry, and Al was washed in a mellow glow of soft yellow comfort. He sat next to Marty. “Hey, man. I don’t think we need to talk about that right now. Maybe in a couple of days, but not now.” He put a hand on Marty’s knee. Marty was wearing lounge pants and a robe he looked like he had worn for a couple of days. There was a small monogram on the front pocket. It was bile-colored vomit. “I found a nice place for you to hang out for the next seven days. I checked it out, and it’s first class all the way.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Marty. You gotta put the brakes on. You’ll die if you keep doing this. You didn’t survive all this shit to die in your apartment on a mouthful of puke, vodka, codeine, and tortilla chips.”

  “You talking about rehab?”

  “Medical detox. We can talk rehab later. You aren’t there. You gotta get this shit out of your system.”

  “I can’t leave the theatre to go on a seven-day break. I have a show to open.”

  Frieda chimed in. There was a vicious undertone to what she was saying. “If it’s that important, Marty, how come you are just sitting here getting drunk and high?”

  Al flashed her a look, then looked at Edith. Edith walked calmly over to Frieda and slipped her hand into the Managing Director’s slightly sweaty one. “She’s right, Marty. I want to stop this before the board gets involved. We’ll talk later. For now, we need to get you changed, and I’ll take you to the detox place. Just you and me, Marty. Like old times. You need this. Time to let people take care of you. It’s just theatre, man. It isn’t even life.”

  “Who’ll handle the artistic decisions while I’m gone?” He was almost imperceptibly softening. Almost.

  “I will. There’s a bunch of very positive funding news and other positive news for the theatre and the whole organization. You can’t take part if you’re like this. I’ll let you chill for three days, then I’ll start filling you in on some information. You’ll be detoxed in seven days. You’ll feel bad. You’ll punish yourself enough just riding through the first few days, but they give you meds to keep the withdrawals under control. Whattya say?”

  Marty looked at him with a mixture of drug-and alcohol-induced drama, but underneath it was guilt, shame, and fear. Al had been here, and you couldn’t beat up someone in this condition. It served no purpose. “I don’t want to be the last man standing. I don’t want to live with the guilt of what we did to that kid, I don’t want to deal with detoxing. Oh, my God, I am so sorry, Al. I am so sorry.” He began to sob.

  “You may not want to, Marty, but you get to. Now let’s get you ready. Just the bare minimum for now. I’ll bring a bag with your sundries later. I might even bring you some clothes of your own and some reading material. Don’t worry about anything. Let’s get you right; then we’ll talk.”

  Had Edith not already been bowled completely over by the mass of contradictions that was Al McNair, this would have done it. Her eyes were brimming with tears from the display of empathy and kindness coming from a man who had been released from the hospital earlier today. What was more, it was being freely given to a guy that, at best, had done questionable things to himself and others. She felt like a sap until she felt Frieda moving. She saw out of the corner of her eye that Frieda was wiping the tears from her eyes. Her mascara was smearing, and she looked like a raccoon.

  Al got Marty up. He said over his shoulder to Edith, “You two estimate his alcohol consumption, then look at all the pill bottles. Every new drug you see, pick up the bottle and stick it in a bag. No duplicates, I just want to be able to give a full report on what Mr. Man here has been dumping in his system. OK?”

  “Sure, baby,” answered Edith.

  “Free? You on board?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. How come I can never be the hard bitch I want to be?”

  “Because you have the poor taste to love me,” said Marty over his shoulder. Frieda smiled in spite of her resolve. The two women started pharmacy-mining while Al got Marty changed. It was easy to find clothes to change into. He was a clothes horse and a stay-at-home drinker. Plenty of lounge clothes. When Al came out with Marty, he sat him in a chair and went to Frieda. “I’m taking him by myself to the med place. E? Can the three of us gather at your place? Order some food in. We need to have a tactical meeting. I think it’ll go over better with food, drinks, and maybe some coffee. You up for that, Free?”

  “Come on, Free. Al has good news of sorts, we have some problems to sort through, I should say you have some problems to sort through, and you must be tired and hungry. Al said you like Indian. We can get that or anything you want. You can even sleep over. I have my car. Let’s get some estrogen bonding going. Please?”

  “Of course, Edith. Let’s swing by the hotel and the Indian place.”

  “Settled. I’ll see you guys in an hour or so.” He turned to Marty in time to see him up-end and drain a huge vodka tonic. “Jesus. Marty? You’re going to fucking detox, man. That’ll just add hours to your stay.”

  “I just figured I may as well have one while I could. I doubt this place has a bar.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  Al checked Marty into the Positive Recovery Association. It was located close to the theatre, on the 15th floor of a building on North Lake Shore Drive. Compared to the detox Al had att
ended, this place was the Ritz.

  He came to the front desk with Marty. He put the ample bag of pharmaceuticals on the counter. It sounded like a bag of maracas. There was a woman of about fifty with kind eyes and a knowing smile. “Hi. I’m Millie. How can I help you?”

  Al told his story briefly, with his sobriety time, etc. “My friend here has been drinking a fair amount and chasing pills with vodka.”

  “Is he stable enough to be here?”

  “You have a med staff, they can call it. I think he’s messed up, but I don’t think there’s a toxicity issue. I do think you are going to have a good case of the jitters and jives on your hands in about eleven hours. I want to check him in for seven days. If he needs a rehab, we’ll figure that out. For now, we just need to spin-dry him and see what’s under the hood.” A lot of people in recovery referred to medical detox as “spin drying” people. The idea was that they purged all the bad, got out, and went to the nearest bar. If that was the case, he’d have a psychiatric hold put on Marty, offer once to pay for a thirty-day program, then, if refused, Al would walk away. People have to want to get sober. He knew that far too well. “So we can wrestle through the paperwork out here or in a room. But he’s staying. I’d love it if it was a locked unit so he needed permission to go run down Lake Shore Drive. You never know when someone is going to have a sudden urge to stop by the Drake Hotel, ya know?”

  Millie smiled the smile of an insider and said, “I’m familiar with that, yes. Marty, are you feeling ok to talk with someone about your details? We can have you lay down while we get your information.”

  Marty said sheepishly, “Yes, ma’am. I’m a little buzzed, but I know where I am and everything.” Millie called a couple of people and said a few sentences into the phone.

  A doctor, name tag and all, came in and introduced himself. When the niceties were over, the doc said, “Mr. Mitchell? Would you like to come with me? Would you care for a ride? We have some comfy wheel chairs around here.”

  “I can walk.” He got two steps away, stopped, turned, and walked quickly back to Al. “Thank you so much, Alistair. For everything. You are such a good man. The best of the bunch.” And as Marty turned to go with the doctor, Al thought about the ball peen hammer sinking twice, efficiently, into the skull of someone driven mad by the idea that not everyone was good and not all dogs went to heaven.

  Al finished all of his paperwork, laid a cash down payment on the counter and said he’d be in the next day with the rest in the form of a cashier’s check. Millie said it was odd for them to get cash here. Al just stated that it would be better if this didn’t go on any of the company’s credit cards or his private card. Millie smiled and nodded again. While she was writing the receipt, he said, “You seem like you know what you’re doing. Been at this a while?” It was a polite way of asking how long she’d been sober.

  “Been a receptionist for fifteen years. Been sober for sixteen. Don’t worry about your friend. He’s in good hands.”

  “I trust he is. I’ll either be in tomorrow or one of these people will.” He wrote down Sunny, Edith, Frieda, and himself as visitors. “I’ll call tomorrow morning to see how he is. I’ll come in tomorrow afternoon after he’s started his detox drugs. I don’t really want to see him quivering like a freezing puppy.”

  “We’ll expect to hear from you, Al. Thank you for your care and concern.”

  Al turned and left. He was musing on how he had become independently wealthy only after he had to drag himself through mud and garbage to get sober. Sometimes life just gets ugly.

  He grabbed a cab out in front and headed to Edith’s. He got there, and the women were having a civilized drink and eating some pakora appetizers. Edith was having a White Russian, and Frieda was enjoying a Merlot. Al got a seltzer and winced as he shut the fridge. “You want a pill? You haven’t had anything today.”

  “I think I’d like half a hydrocodone. That doesn’t mean you can take advantage of me. I’m going to be out of commission for a few days.”

  Edith delivered a pill she had broken in half to Al and whispered to him, “I think we can figure out a low impact solution.” And kissed his cheek.

  “So you said you had a plan. I’m all for it. I have people that are ready to walk. I have a show with one huge hole in it. Dirk was an asshole, but he was reliable as a Westclock Scotty. He was the only one that wasn’t understudied. So we called you in, and now you’re broken. Honestly, Al, you won’t be healthy enough to do those fights for at least three weeks, am I right?”

  “Yes. The understudies you have for Sheena and Gill are really quite good. I have some old ties to the fight and acting community here. Let me call my friend Giuseppe. He’ll know someone who has played it, is a good actor, Equity, and a quick study with fights. All of this will set us back one week.”

  “That’s dandy, Al, but we’re out of money. We need to open on time or we’ll be out of money. The cash in and out of this place is like clockwork. How are we going to make our monthly nut without income?”

  “I found you an investor. He has a bunch of money and, frankly, needs a way to clean some of it. It isn’t exactly dirty money, ill-gotten or anything, but it just sort of appeared. The government frowns on magic money. So he’ll float a month for a good-faith gesture. Every month he’ll give you a sum of money; you need to get him back 75% of the money he gives you. I’m putting you in touch with him and you’ll do the foot work. It’s free money, and it will continue to be an income stream. Now, this is an illegal dealing, but will look legit once Scotty Mac deals with it. You should be able to maintain plausible deniability. I may also be able to keep you from getting audited too closely for a few years.”

  Frieda was thinking about it. “Should we eat and talk? I’m starving”

  “You two are always hungry. Must be this city.”

  They sat and talked about money and structure. Edith had plenty to say about the laundering operation, and it was agreed that she would be a consultant. “I’ll work pro-bono. Pay me on the books. It’ll help you send more clean money back to California. If I get short on funds, I’ll hit up Uncle Al.”

  They continued until they were all too full too move. “I have a final bombshell.” Al started. “This isn’t honest, and I’ve been thinking about how to play this. I’ve come up with a decision. I had Marty scribble his name on a piece of paper saying that I had complete artistic control until he got back. I want to negotiate his contract and yours before he gets back. Before you get up in arms: yes, it is a mercenary move, but if he really is fucked up and can’t stay clean, do you want him negotiating with you, maybe taking the theatre down with him? My way is safer. We call one meeting with the board. I stand in Marty’s stead as his proxy, and we vote in the new duties, structures, salaries, and benefits.”

  “We need a lawyer to write up the new contracts. Can you sign in Marty’s stead?”

  He turned to Edith. “Hey babe? Can we wring a little pro-bono work out of your asshole ex? He does contract law, and you said he wasn’t always completely scrupulous. We need to jam this through in seven days.”

  Edith thought about it. “We actually are on OK terms. I think he feels guilty for being such a shit to me. I’ll run it past him.”

  “So to sum it up, Free, you are going to write up some contracts for the understudies. Edith, you’ll get your ex on board and arrange a meet. Tomorrow would be great. I’ll call Giuseppe and my investor friend. Scotty Mac, that’s his name, will probably want to fly out and have dinner with you. Set up a plan. Be careful around that guy. I can’t understand it, but women fall all over that dude. So, are we set?” He could feel the hydrocodone starting to work its magic.

  The women nodded their approval and everything was settled. They talked about Shrek. He would keep getting paid, but his assistants would get everything squared away in his absence. Al would step in and finish the director’s job. They would do a lot of capitulating to people who had tickets in the first weekend, but they’d run some new
s stories about the tragic deaths plaguing the bloody Scottish play. In the end, they’d get even more people.

  Giuseppe found a guy who was like a fresh sea breeze to work with. He had just played the part, knew his lines cold, and learned the blocking and choreography in a trice. In the week they had before dress rehearsals, Al spent time with everyone, assured them things were OK, hung out with cast and crew, and worked as a general uniting force.

  The morning before dress rehearsal, he went to visit Bud. He was still in the hospital. There was a giant file box on the chair next to his bed. He was working cold cases from the hospital. They had spoken on the phone, but this was the first they’d seen each other since the fated night of the barn fire.

  Bud saw Al as he came in. He was carrying flowers, a bottle of Talisker 18-year aged Scotch whiskey, and a get-well card from Edith. “Hey, Conan. Heard you got to be shish kabob.”

  “We’re a great pair. You were almost cooked over a wood fire.” Al put the stuff on a table, went over to Bud, hugged him gently and kissed the top of his balding head. “We busted it wide open.”

  “Yeah. Only saved one person.”

  “And we got the bad guy. That’s something. To tell you the truth, I think people got what was coming to them. I don’t like how it went down, but of all the death and destruction, the only injuries I’m not totally cool with are yours.”

  “Fuck that. It was my fault. I went off-script. If I ever have another partner, I won’t go maverick again.”

  “Another partner?”

  “You’re the best one I’ve had, Al. Even though I have a bunch of healing to go through, I had a blast. You reminded me why I love being a cop. They think I may be able to go back to active duty in about eight months. I’m doing it. Betsy wasn’t happy at first, but she’s on board, now.”

  “I know you can’t make it, but I have complimentary tickets for her to see the show any night. Edith and I will babysit the prince.”

  “The show’s still going on?”