With his earplugs in place, Salvatore wasn't troubled by the noise as he traversed the kill-floor area of the slaughterhouse. He approached Mark Watson, the line supervisor, and got his attention.
"We got one more animal coming through," Salvatore yelled over the din. "But it's only for boneless beef. There'll be no carcass. Got it?"
Mark made a circle with his thumb and index finger to indicate he understood.
Salvatore then passed through the soundproof door that led into the administrative area of the building. Entering his office, he hung up his bloodied coat and construction helmet. He sat down at his desk and went back to his daily forms.
Concentrating as hard as he was, Salvatore wasn't sure how much time had passed when Jed suddenly appeared at his door. "We got a slight problem," Jed said.
"Now what?" Salvatore asked.
"The head of that downer cow fell off the rail."
"Did any of the inspectors see it?" Salvatore asked.
"No," Jed said. "They're all in the locker room with the SME for their daily chitchat."
"Then put the head back on the rail and hose it off."
"Okay" Jed said. "I thought you should know."
"Absolutely," Salvatore said. "To cover our asses I'll even fill out a Process Deficiency Report. What's the lot and head number of that animal?"
Jed looked down at his clipboard. " Lot thirty-six, head fifty-seven."
"Got it," Salvatore said.
Jed left Salvatore's office and returned to the kill floor, He tapped José on the shoulder. José was a sweeper whose job it was to sweep all the filth from the floor into one of the many grates. José had not been working there very long. It was a chronic problem keeping sweepers because of the nature of the job.
José didn't speak much English and Jed's Spanish wasn't much better, so he was reduced to communicating by crude gestures. Jed motioned that he wanted José to help Manuel, one of the skinners, to heft the skinned cow's head from the floor onto one of the hooks on the moving overhead rail.
Eventually José caught on. Luckily José and Manuel could communicate without difficulty, because the job required two steps and significant effort. First they had to get the hundred-plus-pound head up onto the metal catwalk. Then, after climbing up there themselves, they had to hoist the head up high enough to secure it on one of the moving hooks.
Jed gave a thumbs-up sign to the two panting men, who at the last second had almost dropped their slippery burden. Jed then trained a jet of water on the soiled skinless head as it moved along on the rail. Even to the hardened Jed the appearance of the cataractous eye gave the skinned head a gruesome aura. But he was pleased with how much of the filth came off with the high-pressure water, and by the time the head passed through the aperture in the kill-floor wall on its way into the head-boning room, it looked relatively clean.
ONE
Friday, January 16th
The Sterling Place Mall was aglow with the marble, bright brass, and polished wood of its upscale shops. Tiffany competed with Cartier, Neiman-Marcus with Saks. Mozart's piano concerto number 23 was piped in through hidden speakers. Beautiful people milled about on this late Friday afternoon in their Gucci shoes and Armani coats to survey the offerings of the post-Christmas sales.
Under normal circumstances Kelly Anderson wouldn't have minded spending a part of the afternoon at the mall. As a TV journalist it was a far cry from the gritty beats she was usually assigned around the city while putting together in-depth pieces for the six or eleven o'clock news. But on this particular Friday, the mall had not provided Kelly with what she wanted.
"This is a joke," Kelly said irritably. She looked up and down the expansive hall for a likely candidate to interview but no one looked promising.
"I think we've gotten enough," Brian said. Brian Washington, a lanky, laid-back African-American, was Kelly's cameraman of choice. In her mind he was the best WENE had to offer, and Kelly had maneuvered, cajoled, and even used threats to get the station to assign him to her.
Kelly puffed up her cheeks before blowing out her breath in an expression of exasperation. "Like hell we've got enough," she said. "We've got diddly-squat."
At thirty-four, Kelly Anderson was a no-nonsense, intelligent, aggressive woman hoping to break into national news. Most people thought she had a good chance if she could find a story that would catapult her into the spotlight. She looked the pan with her sharp features and lively eyes framed by a helmet of tight, blond curls. To add to her professional image she dressed fashionably and tastefully, and groomed herself impeccably.
Kelly transferred her microphone to her right hand so that she could see her watch. "And to make matters worse, we're running out of time. I'm going to have to pick up my daughter. Her skating lesson's over."
"That's cool," Brian said. He lowered his camcorder from his shoulder and unplugged the power source. "I should get my daughter from day care."
Kelly bent down and stowed her microphone in her sizable shoulder bag, then helped Brian break down the equipment. Like a couple of experienced pack rats, they hoisted everything over their shoulders and started walking toward the center of the mall.
"What's becoming obvious," Kelly said, "is that people don't give a damn about AmeriCare's merger of the Samaritan Hospital and the University Med Center unless they've had to go to the hospital during the last six months."
"It's not an easy subject to get people fired up about," Brian said. "It's not criminal, sexy, or scandalous, and there are no celebrities involved."
"They ought to be concerned," Kelly said with disgust.
"Hey, what people ought to do and what they actually do has never been related," Brian said. "You know that."
"All I know is that I shouldn't have scheduled this piece for tonight's eleven o'clock news," Kelly said. "I'm desperate. Tell me how to make it sexy."
"If I knew that, I'd be the talent rather than the cameraman," Brian said with a laugh.
Emerging from one of the radiating corridors of the Sterling Place Mall, Kelly and Brian arrived at the spacious epicenter. In the middle of this vast area and beneath a three-story-high skylight was an oval skating rink. Its frosted surface glowed under the glare of klieg lights.
Dotted around the rink were a dozen or so children along with several adults. All were careening across the ice in various directions. The apparent chaos resulted from the recent conclusion of the intermediate lesson and the imminent commencement of the advanced lesson.
Seeing her daughter's bright red outfit, Kelly waved and called out. Caroline Anderson waved back but took her time skating over. Caroline was very much her mother's daughter. She was bright, athletic, and willful.
"Shake a leg, Chicken." Kelly said when Caroline finally neared. "I gotta get you home. Mom's got a deadline and a major problem."
Caroline stepped out of the rink, and walking on the toes of her figure-skate blades, she moved to the bench and sat down, "I want to go to the Onion Ring for a burger. I'm starved."
"That's going to be up to your father, sweetie," Kelly said. "Come on, chop, chop!"
Kelly bent down and got Caroline's shoes out of her knapsack and put them on the bench next to her daughter.
"Now, there's one hell of a skater," Brian said.
Kelly straightened up and shielded her eyes with her hand from the bright lights. "Where?"
"In the center," Brian said, pointing. "In the pink outfit."
Kelly looked where Brian indicated, and it was immediately apparent whom he was referring to. A girl, around the same age as Caroline, was going through a warm-up exercise that had now caused some of the shoppers to pause and watch.