Page 8 of Long Pig

“She’s a nice lady who’s had a rough time of it. I helped her out with her good for nothing ex. What can I say, she likes me.” He gave Willow a smile.

“How old is Molly?”

His cheeks reddened. “Not old enough for me, if that’s what you’re asking. Her kids are still in grade school. She’s simply a nice lady.”

Willow put her teasing aside. “What did all that mean with the deputy?” she asked to change the subject.

“Predator cop. There are more out there than I like to admit. When he arrives, stay beside me. Or maybe we should take it one step further and have you put the dogs on a leash. That will keep him from even shaking your hand.”

“You haven’t met him yet,” Willow said.

“The ladies in dispatch hear everything. If Molly says he’s trouble, he’s exactly that. Predators come in all shapes, sizes, and uniforms.”

Willow smiled tightly. “There were prison guards we all knew to avoid. I’ll leash the dogs.” All humor had left her voice.

Chapter Four

Blood on the Floor

Larry

Larry began working weekends at the butcher shop when he was eight years old. Most of his job consisted of cleanup in the front area, so customers only saw an unsoiled environment. Clyde paid off the state regulators so they didn’t breathe down his neck. This allowed him to operate the cutting room, where the wet work took place, in less than sanitary conditions. The government was one of Clyde’s few complaints.

“They’re out to get us, son,” he would say after an inspector raised his bribe fee.

Larry hated the government too. He took pride in his mopping job, and the moment a customer stepped inside the shop, the sensory illusion began. The air cooler was set so a deliberate chill preserved the product, but also added to the atmosphere. The scent was a complex bouquet of liquid cleaner and a savory mix of fresh meat and the faint, briny smell of refrigerated seafood they carried.

The most prominent feature in front was the gleaming glass display cases, filled with an organized array of marbled steaks, neatly tied roasts, plump sausages, and meticulouslyarranged chicken breasts. Each piece was showcased under bright, cool lights that highlighted its freshness.

Clyde always wore a clean white coat and kept a friendly demeanor as he worked behind the counter, offering advice, and sometimes a quick joke. The walls were adorned with chalkboards listing daily specials or cuts of the week. The floor was sparkling clean, and when it rained, Larry would mop it several times throughout the day.

To get to the cutting room, you walked through a swinging door and entered a hallway with a small room off to the side. It was his father’s office, where papers littered his desk, pinned notes stuck to the wall, and a tall filing cabinet rested in the corner. The only chair was the one behind the desk. His father spent minimal time in his office unless it was the beginning of the month when he paid bills and issued invoices to local eating establishments and stores.

Larry’s favorite thing about the shop was the cutting room. He loved everything from the large swinging doors at the entrance that made noise as the rubber seals swung against each other and kept the odor from reaching the customers, to the overall change in atmosphere from life to death. The air was even colder, but the smells were much more intense. The dominant aroma was the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood and bone, mixed with the heavier, earthy scent of raw animal tissue.

The room was dominated by a heavy, stained butcher block table that stood in the center and bore the scars of countless cuts. This is where the real work took place: large carcasses were broken down into smaller cuts with saws and knives wielded with practiced precision. Hanging from hooks on the ceiling were large sides of beef and pork, slowly aging and waiting to be processed.

The floor was wet and gritty, a mixture of bloodied water and small bone fragments. The thud of a cleaver, the whir ofa bandsaw, and the scrape of a knife being honed were Larry’s favorite sounds. Unlike the pleasantly aesthetic showroom, the back was a place of death and intense physical labor.

Clyde always had a friendly welcome for customers, but Larry got the feeling that he didn’t really like them. His father knew how to manipulate people, and that was more important. Manipulate was a big word for an eight-year-old, but Larry knew exactly what it meant. He did it with his teacher and school friends all the time. He disliked them as much as his father disliked the customers. Like his father, he kept his repugnance to himself.

By eight, Larry hated his mother. Her verbal attacks over touching himself and his general wickedness had grown even worse. The only time his father intervened was when she fisted him in his private place, and he fell to the floor in pain.

He grabbed her arm.

“You will not touch the boy again. Do you understand?”

His mother shot Larry a look of disgust, but nodded. Since then, she hadn’t laid a hand on him, but her verbal assaults grew worse.

“You’re young,” his father said. “You don’t know about sins of the flesh, but your mother thinks you do. Your sinful days are coming.” He placed his hand on his son’s head. “Remember God is watching you always.”

Larry didn’t know about God. He’d tested him several times, and when nothing changed, he began to think God was a lie.

His mother also complained about the amount of food he ate. Larry did eat a lot because he was always hungry. His father gave him extra lunch money for school so he could buy a second tray. The food wasn’t very good, but it helped him so he didn’t take seconds at the dinner table.

“You’re like me,” his father told him. “One day you’ll grow into your body and be bigger and larger than I am.”

Larry equated “larger” with being tougher. He couldn’t wait.