“Lots of work back there?” Joe asked.
“Jesus, you have no idea,” the man said, shaking his head. “I think we took in something like thirty deer and seven elk today. I’m worn out from lifting those things from the back of pickups and carrying quarters to the butcher tables, I’ll tell you. I couldn’t wait until closing time.”
“I’ll bet,” Joe said as the worker finished the beer, crushed the aluminum can as if pronouncing it dead, and started to reach for another.
He paused: “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Joe said. “I’m going out early tomorrow and I don’t want to be hungover.”
“I wouldn’t come to work any other way.” The man laughed as he slid another beer toward him from Joe’s collection.
His name was Willie McKay, he told Joe over the next half-hour and three beers. An unspoken deal was struck: he’d keep talking as long as Joe provided the free alcohol. It was a part-time job, he said, that supplemented the limits of his EBT card, and it was a good deal for him, tax-wise, because he and the other meatcutters were paid off the books in cash. He’d once been a logger, McKay said, before that industry went “all to shit.”
Joe brought the conversation back to the facility. He said, “I’m considering bringing my elk here if I kill it tomorrow. Between you and me, if it were you, would you bring game here to be processed? I’m real particular about how it turns out.”
“Shit,” McKay said, “I’d bring my kill here in a heartbeat, and I don’t even hunt. You can’t do no better than this place, I swear it.”
“What about keeping track of my elk?” Joe asked. “It wouldn’t get thrown in with someone else’s animal?”
“Not a chance in hell,” McKay said, slightly offended at the question. “Part of my job is to tag the quarters of every carcass that comes in. We make damned sure we never mix the meat — even the hamburger. You get back what you brought in, one thousand percent.”
“That’s good to hear,” Joe said. “So your hours are from six in the morning to eight at night?”
“Long fucking day,” McKay said, sighing and reaching for Joe’s last spare beer. He didn’t feel the need to even ask anymore. As he did, Joe signaled the bartender for two more.
McKay said, “If you want one-inch steaks and chops, that’s what you’ll get. If you want the steaks butterflied, well, it’ll cost you a little more in labor, but that’s what you’ll get. And if you want some of the trim ground into burger, sausage, or jerky, well, we make the best there is.”
“Is it just the three of you?” Joe asked, nodding toward the other two meatcutters who had set up a few stools down.
“Sometimes there’s as many as seven,” McKay said. “We were supposed to have more help today, in fact, but the guys they hired didn’t even bother to show up. That’s why I’m so beat. What is it with young people anymore?” he asked. “Don’t none of them have a work ethic at all? They’d rather play video games or jerk off to their iPads or whatever it is they do, because they sure don’t want to work hard.”
Joe shrugged.
“Hey,” McKay said suddenly, as his new beer arrived, “you want to see the shop? You’ll see I’m not blowing smoke.”
“You mean a tour?” Joe asked.
“Like that,” McKay said.
Not really, Joe thought. But when he saw through the crowd of milling hunters that Bill Critchfield and Gene Smith had entered the saloon by way of the lobby, he said, “Let’s go.”
“Now?” McKay asked, with the beer halfway to his mouth.
Critchfield and Smith seemed to be very well known among the hunters, and several stepped forward to shake their hands and tell them about their day — as if seeking approval from them. Joe realized why: most of the men in the room had booked their hunting trips through the two local men who had access to Templeton’s game-rich private land.
“Now,” Joe said to McKay, quickly turning on his stool so his back was to Critchfield and Smith. He didn’t think they’d recognize him without his uniform shirt but couldn’t afford to take any chances. “Bring your beer along. I’ll pop for another one when we come back.”
“Hell of a deal,” McKay said, turning and dismounting from his stool. He hopped down with more energy than he’d shown when he entered the saloon, Joe thought, as if the beer had served as nutrition.
Joe kept his back to Critchfield and Smith as he followed McKay through hunters toward the south door. The red-bearded meatcutter raised his eyebrows as they passed by, and McKay said to him, “He wants a tour.”
“Don’t mess anything up,” the bearded man said. “And make sure the lights are off and everything’s locked back up when you leave.”
As the door wheezed shut behind them, Joe let out a long breath of relief.
The wild game — processing facility was larger than he had anticipated, and as clean and sterile-looking as advertised. Long stainless-steel counters ran along the side walls, and a stout steel table stood in the middle. A worn but spotless butcher block bristled with knives and cleavers, and an assortment of bone saws hung from hooks on the wall. It smelled of ammonia from being wiped down, and there was an absence of the metallic meat and blood smell in the air that lingered in similar shops Joe had experienced. The large accordion door to the receiving dock outside was closed tight and locked with a chain and padlock, Joe noted.
“What do you think?” McKay asked with pride as he lowered his beer.
“Impressive,” Joe said. “You guys seem to take a lot of pride in your work.”
McKay shrugged. “We don’t have a choice, really. It gets crazy during hunting season sometimes. But somebody complained to Mr. T. himself, and he showed up here one night a couple of years ago and he ripped each one of us new assholes and fired the foreman. He said he wanted this room to look like a surgical suite in a hospital from then on, and we never know when he might pop in and start firing people — or worse — if we screw up.”
“That would be Wolfgang Templeton?” Joe asked.
“Yeah, he’s the owner of this whole operation: the rooms, the restaurant, and the wild game — processing facility. Like I said, he pays in cash and he pays well. I don’t want to lose this gig and neither do the others, so we keep the shop spotless.”
“What did you mean when you said or worse?” Joe asked.
McKay leaned close enough to Joe that Joe could smell his beer breath. He said, “Did you happen to notice those two guys who just came into the bar out there a minute ago? Guys wearing cowboy hats and acting like fucking lords of the manor or something?”
“I saw them,” Joe said.
“They work for Mr. T., running the guiding and hunting operation, and throw their weight around. I don’t think Mr. T. knows what assholes they are.”
“Like how?” Joe asked.
“They’re thugs,” McKay said, shaking his head. The alcohol had loosened his tongue. “It ain’t unusual for them to take somebody outside and whip their asses if they think he ain’t doing his job or if he gives them any lip. That’s one reason, I think, it’s getting harder and harder to get new employees. The word is out that if you screw up, you might get your ass kicked.”
Joe shook his head in sympathy.
McKay said, “I keep my nose clean around those yay-hoos, I’ll tell you.”
“Probably a smart plan.”
“You bet it is. Hey, do you want to see the whole plant?”
Joe figured Critchfield and Smith were likely still in the saloon, so he agreed.
He followed McKay through the refrigerated meat-hanging lockers while the cutter kept up a nonstop dialogue. Joe was astounded at the quantity of hanging skinned carcasses. There were so many, and they were packed together so tightly, that he couldn’t wade through them without thumping his shoulder into meaty hindquarters, which bumped into adjoining quarters and set them all rocking slightly. The exposed meat and tallow had taken on a veneer like translucent wax due to exposure to air, but beneath the dry exterior the lean muscle had plenty of give. He noted the multiple tags on each carcass indicating who had brought it in, just as McKay had said.