Hog Butcher: 2nd Edition Page 9

  She laughed, and they bartered about what to order. He let her have her way with everything, but he insisted on getting an order of the lamb Vindaloo, extra spicy. She clapped her hands and told him he’d lose his ability to speak, it was so good.

  The waiter took the orders, left, came back with food, and all the while they talked. It was small talk but nice. He asked her what she wanted to do when she grew up. She asked him what an educated guy like himself was doing as a small-town shamus. It was good talk, easy talk.

  After the meal had slowed, Al asked about the Dirk situation. He got the same story from her as he’d gotten from Bud. He found out the position of the body, but he’d have gotten that from the crime scene photos. It was nothing helpful to him, but he felt her lighten up a little after telling the story.

  “Is that the first time you’ve told someone everything, I mean, actually articulated the story?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a touch of wistfulness. “How did you know?”

  “You seem like you just got something off your chest. Feel better?”

  She thought about it. “I do. I feel quite a bit better, actually. I am, however, stuffed to the gills. What did you think?”

  “Outstanding. I’ll be coming back. I could swim in a vat of that Vindaloo. Do you want to box up what’s left? There isn’t much.” He wasn’t lying. They’d done good work, and there wasn’t even a full meal left.

  “Nah. I’ll just eat it in bed, and no one needs that. You want it?”

  “No. Same reasons. I try not to keep food around. Food and I have an adversarial relationship. The mere existence of food makes me want to defeat all of it in mortal combat.”

  The waiter brought the check, and Al left a bunch of cash in the long, hard, brown folder that held the bill. He remembered to pick up the receipt. He was getting better at keeping receipts for tax purposes, but he still forgot half the time.

  “Cab or walk? Cab gets us back faster, but then I’ll be full longer, and right now I’m a touch uncomfortable.” She looked at him appraisingly.

  “You warm enough for the walk? There’ll be a bite in the air with the wind blowing.”

  “You might have to put your arm around me, but I think I can manage.”

  They walked through the breezy, almost-cold night back to the hotel. They were quiet as the elevator door opened and let them in.

  “So, am I getting off on floor 19 with you, are you going to floor 23 with me, or are we going to have an awkward handshake and call it good?”

  He looked at her, brushed her hair away from her face, cupped her small face in his two large hands, and gently kissed her. “I’m here for a while, and I am interested. I want to take it slow. I’m still getting my sea legs.” The door opened on 19. He pushed the door closed button. “I’ll walk you to your door while we finish talking.”

  “OK,” she said. She didn’t sound disappointed. She sounded interested in what his plan was. He was pleasantly surprised that this wasn’t going to get uncomfortable, or what he liked to refer to as “icky.”

  “I’m very attracted to you, and I really dig your company…”

  “Dig?” she chuckled.

  “A friend once told me it’s the duty of all people to keep the slang of their youth alive and active in the lexicon. Just doing my part.”

  “It’s all good, dawg.” She laughed again.

  “You catch on quick. I like that. It’s sexy. I think we are going to have more than a few of these little nighttime appointments. Some will be snooping or checking stuff out. Some might just be dates. I think you can be helpful in sussing out some of this stuff. You also know the theatre scene here in Chicago. All of my information about this town is ancient history.” They were at her room. “Whattya say?”

  She stepped close to him and put her arms around his neck. “So, this is like a series of real dates with no expectation of obligatory sex, but the chance of honest connection. That scares the shit out of me, but I’m in.” She kissed him once, deeply, and he kissed back. Then she took her key card, inserted it in the slot, and said, “See you in the morning. If you need me, you know…”

  “I know. Goodnight, ma’am.” He turned back to the elevator, not aware that she was watching him walk away from her until he turned around.

  “You change your mind?”

  “No. I totally forgot something important. I need clothes. I’ll be out of clean stuff after rehearsal tomorrow. Can I rent an intern for a while? If they meet me twenty minutes before rehearsal, I can give them a list with sizes and a wad of cash. I really don’t care what I wear as long as I don’t look like…”

  “Marty?”

  “I was going to say a total ass hat, but I think your way sums it up nicely.”

  “You got it. I’ll add my opinion and where they should go before they leave. I’ll have Smed drive them, as well. I’ll get little Lisa to go. She’s been working her ass off and has the sense to make it back alive with good stuff and receipts.”

  “Thank you, Frieda. And thanks for making me feel comfortable. It’s a rare condition for me to be in.”

  “Enjoy it. It won’t last long. You’re back in show business, Buster. Being comfortable in your own skin isn’t the normal state of affairs. Goodnight.” She closed the door, and he commenced walking toward the elevators. Being comfortable in your own skin isn’t the normal state of affairs. Ain’t that the truth?

  15

  Al was dog tired when he got to his room. It would be a long day tomorrow, and they were going to start to really work. Today they had covered a lot of ground, but it was mostly foreplay. Tomorrow, the dance with the Muses started in full. He would have to be in step, find the rhythm, and get his ego out of the way if he was going to do a decent job at this. He wanted to do a decent job. At some point in this little experiment, he’d become invested.

  He checked his e-mail. There was a message from Edith. The subject line said, “Read this when you get it. It might be important.”

  He opened the e-mail and read, “Al. I did your bio/ background and have attached a copy. You’re an interesting guy. Call me when you get this. Any time. I think it may be important. E”

  He opened the attachment and started to scan it. It was over twenty pages long. She had done her homework quickly and thoroughly. He figured she’d do nicely. She had included a phone number in the e-mail. He picked up his cell phone and called.

  “Is this Edith?”

  “Go to the lobby and call this number back from the courtesy phone. Make it quick.” And she hung up.

  Al only stopped to think for a second. If she was fucking with him, he’d have a little egg on his face. If she wasn’t, it was worth the gamble.

  He took the stairs, figuring the extra cardio wouldn’t hurt and would probably be as fast as the elevator. He got to the lobby, headed for the courtesy phone, and dialed.

  “Hello? Edith?”

  “Hey, Al. I checked you out. I know you couldn’t have read the whole report yet, but please do. I’m really pretty great at this stuff. I wanted you to know that some of your information is being watched by someone or something. There is an automatic ping set to go off when someone accesses some of your personal data. I don’t think it’s governmental. It doesn’t look like their gear. I’m afraid I may have set off one ping. I really wasn’t looking for it.”

  “That’s OK. Any idea who’s looking?”

  “Nope. Not a fucking clue. Do you?”

  Al gave it some serious thought then said, “If it’s not governmental, then no. I’ve pissed some folks off, but I think most of them are…maybe not so much in a position to look into much of anything. It could be automatic. There could be some kind of hangover from some previous business.”

  “So you’d be OK with governmental folks looking into your doings?”

  “For the most part, yeah. I’d want to know who was looking, but if it was the US Marshal or Oregon Law Enforcement, I’d be cool with it.”

  “You a Marshal?�
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  “Nope. I wouldn’t be a Marshal anyway, I’d be a deputy, and I’m not a deputy. I’m just a PI. You figure they’re accessing my phone?”

  “Probably a good guess. Can you have someone pick you up a phone at like Duane Reade or something?”

  “Duane Reade?” He didn’t know what Duane Reade was, but it rang a distant bell.

  “It’s like a Walgreen’s. Have someone pick you up a Jitterbug or something. Buy lots of minutes. I’ll dead drop a secure line number at your hotel tomorrow. It’ll be waiting at the desk under room 1919.”

  “You know my room number?”

  “Al. I’m good at what I do. You seem pretty good at what you do as well. I want to work with you a little. It feels like it might be fun, and I’m bored out of my mind right now with school. It’s like waiting for a bus that never comes. My classes are a joke. I already know more than most of my teachers. I’m just doing time to get my sheepskin. So come play with me? Pretty please with sugar on top?”

  He was laughing, “OK. No problem. I’ll get a burner phone and I’ll call you at the secure line with the number you leave. I’ll read the report, but I’m not sure I want to know my cholesterol numbers right now.”

  “High HDL, low LDL. You’re good. HDL is the good cholesterol.”

  “No shit?”

  “I’m just fucking with you. I didn’t check your medical records. Those are kinda a pain in the ass to track. I could if you wanted me to, though.”

  “I’ll pass on that. I’ll call you tomorrow. And Edith?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for being so thorough. Keep track of your time.”

  “Oh, I will. Sleep tight, big man.” And she was off the phone.

  Al took the elevator back up to his room. He read the report. It was an amazing amount of information. There was a bunch of information on his ex-wife as well. She had their financials from before and after the divorce. Some of the court paperwork, the original note from their house purchase from the early 2000s, and tons of other little tidbits that had fallen into databases to be picked up by the Ediths of the world. Al’s hatred of modern data-keeping was reinforced. All of everyone’s information was out in the public for everyone to see. It made life harder in as many ways as it made life easier. It was a drag, and it would just get worse.

  He shucked off his clothes. He thought he should check his e-mail before passing out and shot off a quick e-mail to his parents, making sure to ask after the mutt and his mom’s latest project, writing a nursing textbook. When he’d hit send, he took a brief look at his script. They were working the first half of the first half tomorrow. He wanted the lines fresh. He was pretty sure he’d be off-book for the whole play in five days. He just wanted to wallpaper the inside of his brain with text so it could soak into his gray matter by tomorrow morning. After he was done, he put his script on the bedside table and shut off the bedroom lights. He slept lightly at first, but after an hour, he was in a deep dreamless sleep. It was good. Everything, for now, was good.

  16

  Dave Parcel was finally home. He’d driven miles and miles today and was so tired he could barely stand it. His work with Chicago Theatrical Lighting was usually designing simple lighting for small theatres in the area. He liked his work most of the time.

  This morning, however, he’d been called by the boss’s son.

  “Dave, this is Tommy. I’m jammed up. We gotta pick up a truss and a shit-load of lights from Wisconsin today, and my driver got arrested last night. Threw some dude through a bar window.” He was talking about Gene “Tiny” Toomey. Toomey was 6’5” and 285 pounds of guileless rage. It was no surprise. Tiny’s uncle Sal would bail him out. Always did. This was Chicago, for Christ’s sweet sake.

  “You need me to go, Tommy? Say the word and I’ll go.”

  “The word.”

  “Cool. How many guys are coming with me?” There was utter silence on the phone. “Tommy, are you about to fuck me without even giving me a peck on the cheek?”

  “Dave, you’ll be compensated. They’ll have a couple of guys on their end that’ll help the load out. Bring your belt, and if your back starts to hurt too much, go to a worker hangout and try to find some labor. Pay cash, and I’ll hit you back.” They all knew you could find people willing to work a few hours for money under the table. You just had to watch them so your equipment didn’t disappear on you.

  So Dave, with his bulging disks in his lower back, had driven one of the company trucks to Wisconsin and loaded up all the shit. There were enough people with pulses to get the job done, but barely. His back was singing “Ave Maria” before he got into Evanston. He called Tommy and told him if someone wanted to come pick up the truck, they were welcome to it, but he was going to go to his claw-foot bathtub, smoke a joint, and take a little Vicodin vacation in a hot bathtub.

  “No sweat, Dave. Just come in tomorrow, and we’ll get everything offloaded, inventoried, and set. I have a light design gig lined up for you. All smart lighting, and it’s all already hung. You can design the whole show from the booth with a touchscreen and a joy stick. Piece of cake.”

  So Dave got home, cracked a beer, swallowed three Vicodin for his back, and started the water flowing into his giant claw-foot tub. He loved the tub. He could submerge all the way to his nose and have everything, knees and all, submerged. It was a little slice of heaven. He rolled a blunt, fired it up, and then went to set the mood music for his little soak. He had a Bose Wave Radio with a CD changer on a shelf above the tub in the bathroom. He chose Pink Floyd’s The Wall and popped it in the system. The full, rich sound permeated his bathroom and most of his apartment. Like most life-long theatre technicians, Dave had substantial hearing loss and the music was pretty loud.

  He was filling the bath; once the water was warm, he slipped in.

  Hey you…out there in the cold getting lonely getting old, can you feel me?

  The water was climbing, the drugs and alcohol coming on in a nice steady rush. It was glorious to feel the muscles in his back just melt away. Melting away like so much of his life had melted away. He liked his job. He liked his life. He liked being alone. He’d been a loner for a long time now, and he didn’t think that shit would ever change, glory halleluiah.

  Hey you…standing in the isles with itchy feet and fading smiles can you feel me?

  Dave closed his eyes savoring the feelings he was having. But he was not alone. From around the corner came Eric Bannerman in a set of coveralls. He was completely bald and utterly expressionless. He wore no makeup tonight, for no one was going to see him. At least no one who was going to live to talk about it.

  Hey you don't help them to bury the light. Don't give in without a fight.

  Bannerman listened to the tune playing from the Bose radio. He’d always loved Floyd. He loved The Wall as an album but thought the movie was lame. He knew that Dave was wavering on the edge of unconsciousness. He spoke softly, “Dave. Dave?”

  “What, man? Is that you, Tommy?” Dave opened his eyes and saw Bannerman standing with a large knife in his hand. He started to draw in breath to scream.

  “Dave. If you scream, I’ll cut your fucking liver out. Do you believe me?”

  Dave did believe him. The large knife looked like it could have taken his head off. He had no way to tell it was a prop knife.

  “Good. You stay calm. I just want to talk to you right now. Just listen to me. Do you mind if I turn down the Floyd a little. I’ll leave it on as background music. I just love Floyd. And your radio makes really great sound.”

  “Um, thanks, man. I don’t have much here, but what I have is, like, totally yours.”

  “You always had a way with words, Dave. Do you remember me? I was about seven inches shorter when you knew me; I hadn’t hit my last growth spurt. And oh, boy, was I skinny. Just a skinny little shit from Iowa. I came here to work in the theatre, but no one wanted to give me a fucking break. Then, when all else was turning dark, there was this group of people at a fight
workshop, the Big Shoulder Blizzard. Remember it, Dave?” Dave’s eyes were growing wide with recognition and horror. “Well, I was the skinny little kid you guys poured booze down then sent on a little joke errand. I was hammered and you thought it was so funny. I killed a woman and her child that night. That’s what they say. I don’t remember a thing about it. I just remember the feeling that finally, finally some of the cool kids were going to include me in their little group. For about twenty minutes, I felt like I belonged. Dave? It was grand.”

  “What’re you gonna do, man? We were kids. We all had places to go. We couldn’t come forward. It would have ruined our lives.”

  “Yes. It would have. So instead you just chose to ruin mine. Now I’m back. I served my time and spent it well. Now, I’m wiping the slate clean. The only way to do that, I’m afraid, is to remove all of you pathetic cowards from the planet. After you, there are only five little Indians left. Any last words?”

  “I…” but that’s all Dave got out. Eric put his gloved hands on Dave’s shoulders and pushed Dave’s head under water. There was no place for Dave to gain purchase in the slippery tub, so he just thrashed about. Eric kept his hands on Dave’s shoulders for a full five minutes, then let go. “Is There Anybody Out There?” was just finishing on the little radio. Eric paused, unplugged the device, and took it with him. It would never be missed. He would take it to his no-frills apartment and listen to this album. Maybe he’d snag a couple more from Dave’s extensive wall of CD’s. Dave liked music, and so did Eric. Eric liked music from the 80’s and 90’s and, luckily, Dave had a nice variety to choose from. Eric ended up stuffing a small gym bag full of CD’s. Songs from the 80’s and 90’s were oldies now. This thought made him sad, but he’d listen to them anyway. He’d listen to them and cross another name off his list.

  17

  Rehearsal that day had been a blast. He still wasn’t fond of Lady Macbeth. Sheena Hummel had become a staple of the Chicago theatre scene but had a higher opinion of her work than most other people held. She also had serious entitlement issues that Al found tiresome. Marty handled her with a virtuosity and expertise that was very impressive. He had obviously dealt with divas and this particular diva, and he knew how to play his cards to the greatest positive effect.