Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition Page 8

  Al went to the bar and got the barkeep’s attention. “I’d like to settle my tab. What’s your name, anyway? You sound like you’ve been America-side for a while, but I’m betting you’re from south of Belfast, maybe close to the Northern Border.”

  “My name’s Patrick, but people call me Paddy, and I’ll be damned if you aren’t right. Ballybay was my home, but we left because of the Troubles. How’d you know?”

  “I’m a theatre guy. I study dialects. I love the way they talk in the north. And I’ll be back. You have one of the best pubs I have ever had the pleasure of being in. I’ll tell the good people I meet to come here and drink; I’ll send the bad ones to Dave and Buster’s.” They laughed as Al laid entirely too much money on the bar and headed out into the cold breath of the big-shouldered city.

  12

  Al stepped out of the shower and shaved his face. He usually shaved in the morning, but he wanted to have a smooth, clean face for Frieda. He put on his shaving cream and started to go at it with the big five-blade razor he had. He used to shave with an old-fashioned single blade, but had forgotten it once on one trip and bought one of the fancy five-razor deals. He never looked back.

  His workout in the hotel gym had been good. It was a decent-sized gym for a hotel and even had some free weights and a big machine with adjustable pulleys and stacks of weights. He’d have to get a membership someplace soon, but this place would do, and they had an elliptical trainer for his cardio work. He liked to think on the elliptical trainers. They were good places to turn off the world and let his brain untie the knots that inevitably formed when people interacted.

  He ran on the machine and thought about the situation he was in, the entirety of the situation. He was about to go out on stage for the first time in years in a huge theatre with a great reputation. He would have killed for this when he was twenty-something. Now, more than twenty years later, it was cool, but it wasn’t the coolest thing in the world. It wasn’t his life goal or aspiration. He had changed. He just wanted to help people who needed help. It was some big cosmic, karmic blowjob. He helped people by hurting other people. No. It wasn’t that simple, but that’s what it came down to. He stopped bad people any way he could. The situations were usually beyond the point that the police could do much to help, anyway.

  He was here helping Marty out of a jam, but now that he was here, he could smell something else. There was blood in the water, and Al was pretty certain it had been caused by the bite of some malign and dangerous shark. There were only two deaths. So far…two deaths so far and only two that I know about. He’d find out more about Mary, but Dirk’s demise was already forming a pretty clear picture in his head.

  Somehow, Dirk had been stabbed by someone who was really fucking strong. The killer then wiped the grip of the weapon (or maybe he didn’t, because maybe the killer was wearing gloves) and put Dirk’s fingerprints on the grip. He may or may not have thought about the orientation of the prints. If he did, he knew he couldn’t yank the blade out, put Dirk’s prints on the blade, and then put the blade back in Dirk’s chest. The crime scene would have been a mess. Either way, he laid a nice clean set of prints on the grip then put Dirk’s gloves back on Dirk’s hands. He’d have to ask if they found any trace evidence on or in Dirk’s gloves, but that was pretty fucking thin. On TV, people were always finding trace and doing DNA searches and finding bad guys. Oh, and they did it all in about five seconds. In reality, DNA was tricky, and it took a long time.

  Whoever had done the deed was strong. That was certain. They also had to know where to stab someone so they would die quickly. The steel had gone through Dirk’s aorta. Someone had said that. Was it a figure of speech? He needed to check. If it was the aorta, that meant two more things: the killer knew anatomy, and the killer could aim the point of a sword.

  People really don’t know how hard it is to get any kind of proficiency, let alone mastery or accuracy, with a sword. Swords like these theatrical broadswords were cumbersome, heavy bastards to sling around. Stabbing with them was tough work. They were best suited for bludgeoning someone to death. All of this led Al to another part of the rabbit hole. The killer was trained to use European weapons. Now, some martial arts training will clearly translate to using a European weapon, but not that well, and not like this. This was a kill committed by someone who understood broadswords in a way you can only understand them if you have spent hundreds of hours holding, swinging, fighting, and practically sleeping with the goddamn things.

  Al’s mental sketch by the time he got off the elliptical trainer was

   Strong-probably male

   Familiar with the theatre in general

   Familiar with this theatre in particular

   Trained to use a sword

   Driven (it took some real motivation to kill someone with a sword instead of just shooting the fucker)

  Al had some guesses to add to the list as well:

   Vendetta?

   Did Dirk know him? (Check for defensive wounds-there would be none.)

   If he was a theatre guy, was he in technical theatre or performance?

   If this was connected to the St. Claire situation, what was Dirk’s connection to Mary?

  He finished shaving and put on his last clean dress shirt and a pair of relatively clean Levi’s. He’d talk to Frieda tonight about having someone shop for him. He hated to do that, but he didn’t have the time to do it himself. He had just finished slipping on some comfortable walking shoes when there was a knock at the door. It was 8:28. Mules. These shoes are called Mules, but I have no idea why. He’d add that to a list of things to look up.

  He opened the door and there was Frieda looking fresh and lovely. “Still have an itch to scratch?”

  “Several. The first one is a ten-minute cab ride from here. We’ll eat while we’re out. Sound good?”

  “It’s a bit more ‘travelly’ and a bit less athletic than I’d hoped, but, sure, I’ll bite.”

  “Biting comes later. I need to find a graduate student to do a little research for me. We’re going to Roosevelt. Think of your favorite place to eat near there, and we’ll go. The Roosevelt thing will take twenty minutes, tops. We’ll be tucking into a meal and some conversation by 9:15 at the latest.”

  “Promise? I’m hungry, and when I’m hungry I get cranky.”

  Al said in a southern drawl, “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”

  “You bet your ass. Now let’s get moving. We have lots to talk about, and I want to get the busy-work out of the way early.”

  He held the door for her and let it swing shut behind them. They went down, he hailed a cab, and Al began the first of his many nocturnal adventures.

  13

  They climbed out of the cab a half a block from Roosevelt University in front of a place called The Artist’s Deli. Al knew it from trips he’d taken to Chicago over the years. They made a pretty damn good pastrami sandwich, or had when mammoths still roamed the earth. Al paid the driver cash, and the guy spun off looking for another, hopefully longer, fare.

  “Why are we here? Roosevelt’s down in the next block.”

  “Is that crankiness seeping in?”

  “Sorry. Long day, and I’m starved. I want to go to a place a little further south of here. We can walk. It’s called the Chicago Curry House. I hope you like spicy Indian. This place kicks ass, but it’ll burn you a new one.”

  “I love Indian and spicy. You need to stop liking all the same stuff as me. It’s distracting.”

  She put her arm through his and said, “Yes, sir,” blinking doe eyes that hung over a barracuda smile.

  Al and Frieda strolled along outside the restaurant. They were looking in at the patrons, and Al saw what he was looking for. There was a girl with pink and green hair sitting in a booth at a laptop with another non-descript looking girl who also had a laptop. The colorful girl’s computer was covered with stickers proclaiming things that only college students can get behind or really
understand. “If meat is murder, what is your justification for salad?” That kind of thing.

  “There. At that table. Let’s go in. It won’t take long.”

  “You’re sure they can help with your research?”

  “I’m sure she can,” said Al, nodding his head toward the window.

  They walked into the diner. It was made to faintly resemble an old café car. There was a counter and lots of chrome. Old movie posters adorned the walls. There were two chairs by the front register. “I’ll wait for you here. You’re intimidating enough. I think the two of us going over and accosting them will be a little severe.”

  “Five minutes, tops.” Without thinking, he leaned over and pecked her on the cheek.

  He approached the girls’ table and said, “Excuse me. Do you two go to college?”

  “Your mom goes to college.” Said the non-descript one with black hair and they both laughed.

  “Napoleon Dynamite. Funny movie. Do I pass the cinema knowledge test?”

  “You a cop? You feel like a cop.” The pink and green girl said. She said it with the air of someone who had seen way too many Bruce Willis films. That was OK. He liked Bruce Willis.

  “I’m not a cop, I’m a private investigator, and I’m actually interested in seeing if I can get your friend here to do some research.” He nodded to the non-descript black haired girl.

  The black haired girl pulled her eyes away from the keyboard for the first time and he noticed that her pupils were not the same size. The right pupil was much larger than the left. It was a rare-ish trait, but Al always found it stunning for some reason. One of his first girlfriends had the condition. “What makes you think I can help you, and what do you need help with? I saw you are with that woman over there. I don’t do kink, so if that’s it, try further north.”

  “No kink. Nothing sexual.” He realized he was staring a little too raptly into her eyes and said, “Anisocoria.”

  There was a pause. “Yes. My pupils are different sized, and no I am not on drugs, nor do I have a head injury.”

  “I know. About, what, fifteen percent of the populace has a bit of that?”

  “Twenty percent. I’m just an extreme example. You still didn’t say what I could do for you.”

  “I need some research done. Some stats mostly. I may need something a bit deeper. I have some people in California who can do this for me, but I’m taking a little vacation here and want to check this out locally. It’s probably nothing.”

  “If you can answer one question satisfactorily, I’ll discuss rates with you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why me, not her?”

  “Several reasons. First, I noticed the several clever stickers on her laptop, but yours only has one: I like LINUX, now fuck off. People with a little more computer savvy usually look to Linux. Second, you were typing easily a hundred words a minute and not stopping to make any serious corrections. Third, you have several folders on your table here with different names on them. You finished a paper when I was looking through the window. The name on the paper was Felix Miles. You opened a folder and wrote ‘done’ after Felix’s name. I assume you are writing a paper for him, cuz it sure as shit didn’t look like a simple edit. And last? Everything about you says ‘I fly under the radar.’ Everything. Black, not too form-fitting clothes; a splash of muted color; short, well-kept nails. That’s what caught my attention at first.” He had taken a chair at their table during this.

  “A hundred and twenty.” She said with a small but very amused smile. She looked like someone who had just enjoyed a very slick parlor trick.

  “Excuse me?” Al said, not following.

  “I type about a hundred and twenty words a minute. I could probably try to knock down all of your observations Mr…”

  “Al. Al McNair”

  “Edith. Just Edith. Anyway, I could probably try to blow all of your theories to shit, but why try? We’d both know I was lying. What do you need researched? If it’s busy work, I’ll charge you about $60 an hour. If I have to hack into any data bases, I can’t help you. Hacking is illegal. I’d imagine illegal stuff might cost you as much as $150 an hour. That’s if you could find someone who could do something like that, which obviously I can’t.”

  “Yes. Very clear. I like LINUX, now fuck off. Crystal clear.”

  “OK, Mr. Al. What do you need researched?”

  “Here’s my card. My e-mail and phone are on there. E-mail me tomorrow with a little story about me. It doesn’t have to be exhaustive, just background stuff. Call it an audition. I’ll pay for your time. If it works out, I’ll have a list of stuff for you to look up.”

  Pink and green had put her headphones back in and was bopping her head to Green Day while most likely failing an English assignment. “That sounds good, Mr. Al. I could use a little keyboard work. Writing papers for Freshman Comp gets a little old.”

  “As an ex-professor, I should tell you that’s unethical, but unethical is sort of what I’m looking for.”

  “Shut up, Al!” She whacked his arm. “No more giving me information about yourself, or it’ll make it harder to impress you.”

  “I somehow think that part is going to be a piece of cake for you.” He stood up. “I’ll look for your e-mail. I have to go. If I don’t get that lady over there to an Indian restaurant tout suite, she’ll castrate me.”

  “Chicago Curry House. About a thousand feet south of here and about a thousand miles past yummy. OK. Blow, dude. I still have five more brainless papers to write before tomorrow.”

  Al got up and went to where Frieda was sitting. “That didn’t take long at all. I was afraid you’d start turning on the charm, and I’d have to start gnawing my arm off.”

  “Come on, you poor little urchin. Let’s get you a bowl of gruel.”

  They walked arm in arm toward the Chicago Curry House. They were on auto-pilot as far as the walking went. It was a straight shot down the street, so no navigation was required. The area was a little sketchy, but had been cleaned up a ton since the early 1990’s. “It’s nice to walk with a guy who isn’t scared to walk around at night in a city.”

  “What’s to be scared of? I’m a big guy. We’re dressed well, but without ostentation. We don’t broadcast that tourist vibe because you live here, and I used to. If push came to shove, I guess I could shove OK, as well.”

  “Did you just say ‘without ostentation’ in polite conversation?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I believe I did.”

  “Someone is in trouble. I just can’t figure out if it’s you or me.”

  “Maybe it’s both of us.” He said looking at her as they walked.

  They were walking with traffic on the sidewalk. Years of being taught good manners had Al walking on the traffic side and Frieda walking to his right. She reached her right arm across her own body and gave his chest an assessing rub. “I think it may be both of us.”

  They finished their walk to the restaurant in a comfortable silence. He opened the door for her, and they were led to a table for two. The restaurant was nice, bright, and open. They had both Indian and Nepalese cuisine. Al was pretty sure what he wanted when he walked in, but they would do some bartering. He intended to share with her. He liked cuisines where you got a little of everything and shared. Food could be big magic to Al. It was usually just fuel for him. But under the right circumstances, food was sustenance for the mind, body, spirit, and soul. Especially when the person you were going to break bread with was easy to look at, easy to talk to, and easy to be with. He decided then and there that he would neither resist sleeping with Frieda nor push to do so. He’d take it as it came. She was desirable, but he didn’t want to roll in the sheets with her only to wake up and find he’d lost a connection with a remarkably impressive human being.

  14

  “What kind of pen is that?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Just a pen. I fiddle with it when I get nervous.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “What?”
>
  “Maybe you should take a moment and listen back to what I just said. It’s a fucking recording pen. I own one. It’s like 570 hours of recording space on a pen or some shit, right? Did Marty put you up to this? Think hard about that question. The contracts we signed? I made sure we kept in a drop-out clause. That’s the one that says if I find anything unsavory about this employment relationship in my first week, I can terminate the contract without having any reason except that I don’t want to play. So I’m asking you again, did Marty put you up to this?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK. Now keep it running for another second. Marty, if you pull any more shit like this, I walk. If it’s past the time that I can walk, I’ll intentionally put on the worst performance I possibly can. I will stink up your theatre so badly that you’ll have to close for two weeks to fumigate. Have a nice day, and see you in rehearsal. Now turn it off.” He was smiling broadly.

  She turned off the pen returning his smile. “Nice. Very believable. I think he’ll be horrified enough to just have me give reports from now on.”

  Frieda had, of course, told Al when they sat down that Marty had given her the pen and that he’d told her to record the conversation. He came up with this little ruse, after they had ordered drinks. The restaurant didn’t serve alcohol, so they had both ordered Indian yogurt-based drinks called lassi. He’d ordered the salty lassi and she’d ordered the mango. Then they did their little improvisation and shut off the pen mic.

  “I don’t know why he wants to record us.” She said swallowing a sip of her sweet, cold drink. “I know what he knows. You’re a fucking detective. You’ll find out what we know. It’s a goat fuck.”

  “Kinda guy he is. He wants to have his finger in everybody’s pie. You can tell him verbatim what we say, I don’t care. It just pisses me off a little that he doesn’t trust you to do your job. I find it distasteful as hell.” He took a long sip of his lassi. “Let’s get the ordering out of the way, then we can talk about overthrowing the son of a bitch and sailing his theatre to South America.”