One Good Deed(59)

The slaughterhouse was a large, one-story cement block building with hog pens on three sides, teeming with very much living stock.

When Archer asked about this, Dill said ominously, “Ain’t for much longer,” as they marched through a door after climbing off the truck. “This here is where the hogs come to die,” he added gleefully.

They were processed in by a burly foreman wearing a long white coat and safety hat. The man told Archer, “Yeah, she called. Pays five dollars a day. Get your money end of the day on Friday.”

“Look, can I get an advance, friend?” said Archer.

“You trying to be funny or stupid, or what?”

“Guess so.”

“Coat, gloves, helmet, and goggles in that room over there. Find what fits.”

“So, what’s my job? Not crushing hog skulls, I hope.”

“Naw. We got enough of those. You’re gonna be sawing up the meat and racking it. You just watch the fellers in there to get the hang of it.”

“Why the hat, goggles, and all the rest?”

The man laughed. “You’ll see why. Now beat it.”

Archer put on a long white coat that was stained with blood, and a helmet, goggles, and gloves.

Dill, similarly dressed, came over to him. “Hey, you wanna watch me bash some hogs in the head? Got a guy who ropes ’em by the neck, holds ’em steady like, then I come in from the rear, so’s not to spook ’em, and bam! Hog brains all over.”

“No thanks, Dickie, I’ll take your word for it.”

Archer was led to the room where he’d be working. There were long wooden tables all over and hog parts of all descriptions hanging from ceiling hooks connected to a powered conveyor belt.

An older gent showed him how to use the saws and knives, how to make the cuts, and then how to rack the parts on the hooks.

“They kill ’em and then slit their throats to bleed ’em out. They boil ’em next, that makes the hair and skin a lot easier to get off. Then they split ’em in half and hang ’em up for a while, let the meat get right. Then it comes our way to carve up. When the hooks are full, the belt takes ’em to the cold room.”

After watching Archer a few times, he deemed him ready to do the work on his own.

Within the hour, Archer was covered in blood, bits of bone, cartilage, and hog meat. He had to keep wiping his goggles clear from foul things and the film of humidity, for it was uncommonly warm in here. And more than once he suffered a coughing spell because of some foreign matter getting inside him. His gloves were soon soaked in blood and other unsavory detritus. By the end of his shift his arms, back, and legs ached with the sawing and slicing and the lifting of the heavy carcasses onto the hooks.

A horn sounded and the men instantly stopped what they were doing, midslice, or mid–brain bash, for that took place in the next room over. Archer had heard nothing but the squeals and terrified sounds of hogs about to die and then dying, for it was clear that the suffering beasts were not always killed instantly with the first blow from the sledgehammer.

As Archer was taking off his coat, helmet, gloves, and goggles in the locker room, he asked the older man who’d helped him, “How long you been doing this?”

The man closed the door of his locker. “Too damn long, son. Too damn long.”

I feel that way after one day.

There was a sudden commotion in the next room. Shouts and cries and the sounds of a struggle.

Archer rushed into the next room with a group of workers to find the man who had cheated Dill at craps holding his shoulder and looking pale and nauseous while Dill circled him holding a sledgehammer.

“You lying, cheating sack ’a shit,” bellowed Dill.

Archer looked around and saw the man who had checked him in standing idly by. It was apparent that no one was going to step in and help the injured fellow.

Archer pushed through the crowd and stood in front of the man.

“Dickie, I told you this was a bad idea. Now, put down the sledgehammer and just walk away. Or else your butt is going back to prison. You know what happened with your buddy and Miss Crabtree.”

“Yeah, you keep telling me that, Archer. But why do I think you got the hots for that broad yourself? You just calling me off so’s you get her all by your lonesome.”

“That’s got nothing to do with you going after this man.”

“Son of a bitch cheated me,” Dill snarled. “You said so yourself.”

Archer glanced at the man, but kept one eye on Dill. “And I think you taught him his lesson, right, friend?”

The injured fellow mutely nodded. Archer could see that the man’s shoulder had been shattered by Dill’s blow. “In fact, he needs a hospital.”

“What he needs is a grave,” barked Dill. “Now get outta my way.”

“Not going to do that, Dickie.”

“Then you’re a dead man too.”

Dill came at him, the hammer raised high. Dill was deceptively strong, Archer knew that, and tenacious as hell. But the man had not fought in a world war for years where every day was an act of survival.

Archer didn’t retreat from the attack as most would have. He sprang forward and slammed his shoulder into Dill’s gut before he could bring the sledgehammer down. Archer was a good sixty pounds heavier than Dill, and the physics of that competition meant that Dill was launched backward into a wall, and the hammer flew from his grasp.