By the time it reaches four o'clock, the sun has moved away from its oppressive midday height, and the temperature is more tolerable.
Bishop slings his shoes over his shoulder, runs a bit of water through his hair and sets out to meet this man what wants to hire.
Bishop's features slip into a low scowl, the sort of tired and weathered expression that one might find resident here.
The warehouse squats like a dead carcass in its pen, lengthening shadows cast by the setting sun making black pools around it. There is a barbed wire fence, of course, and signs of human activity. Swearing, the sound of machinery, the smell of blood and sweat and dust.
Bishop mutters. "Note to self, pave over the breadbasket. Middle America now a festering wound. Grange movement gone to pot." He kicks up dust in his wake and makes his way to the gate. "Hey."
There isn't anyone actually guarding the entrance at the moment. By the warehouse itself is a heavy-set man in a string vest and stained jeans, marking off something on a clipboard. He belches, and ignores you.
Bishop kicks his way towards the man. "I said hey."
Bishop says "I was told I could find work here?"
"What do you do?" The man does look at you, jowls quivering. He looks bored.
Bishop shrugs. "This and that, odd jobs. Whatever needs doing."
Bishop says "How hard can it be to shove a chicken in a box?"
The man grunts, and makes another mark on his sheet. "We c'n use laborers. You don't look the type. We pay piecerate, so if you can't keep up, no pay."
He glances over Bishop, evidently measuring him up against the other labourers.
Bishop nods. "What've you got here if not laborers?" He squints into the warehouse.
The man guffaws. "Meat," he says.
Bishop smirks. "And barely that, I bet. So, a life of sweat and toil it is for me, then."
Bishop says "What now?"
He looks you up and down again, and shrugs. "Whatever. Go down there and tell the big nigger with the clipboard that Ted sent you, as a temp worker. He'll show you what to do, and see that you're paid when the shift is done."
He shoves a fat thumb in the direction of the back of the warehouse.
Bishop nods. "At once. I'm inspired to work already." He trots down in search of said fellow.
The supervisor is easily found. He also shrugs, gets you to sign a disclaimer, and shows you where the other poor sods who are shifting boxes of chicken carcasses are toiling away. The work is _hard_, especially for someone who isn't used to it. The smell in the warehouse is worse.
Bishop mutters curses under his breath. "The very height of investigative reporting this is. You'll win your pulitzer for sure. Handfuls of chicken innards - that's the path to glory." He keeps up a running rant to himself as he works, sweating profusely. He does keep his eyes open, however; that's why he's here, after all. He watches the flow of bodies, the machinery and the men.
It's a couple of house of backbreaking, soul-destroying laboring work before there is even a faint chance of slipping away. In that time, most of the other workers don't have a thing to say to Bishop, beyond grunts and muttered instructions. It is only after the supervisor calls him over and asks him to fix the forklift that he has a chance to spend some time away from the others/
Bishop rubs his hands on his pants - moving dirt around rather than truly removing any of it. He wanders over to the forklift, making a token effort to examine it before waiting for the right moment to slip away - investigate.
You get the machine working, after a fashion, soon enough, but it is easy enough to fake industrious activity. You can duck behind the forklift truck, then the on into the back of the warehouse.
Bishop does just that, resisting the temptation to actually sneak. He strolls nonchalantly towards the back.
The warehouse is large, filled with rows of boxes of chicken carcasses that are stacked up to the ceiling. Having hauled the boxes around for a few hours, you feel an intimate attachment to them, and it isn't pleasant. There are some doors leading out of the back of the warehouse, where the various supervisors have their offices. The place is grim and stinky. Some of the boxes are marked with their place of origin, others have illegible squiggles.
Bishop checks to see where the boxes are coming from, first - always good to confirm. And then it's an ear to the door to the offices and, if all is clear, in we go.
Boxes are marked with origins in states all through the midwest. Have they emptied the chicken population of the entire USA to fill this place? Or is this fowl play?
The first office that Bishop checks is empty. At least, he is 90% sure it is empty after having listened at the door. He can hear very faint sounds of a conversation from the office next door to it, though.
Bishop tests the door handle and, assuming it's unlocked, ducks in.
The office is dusty inside. The only furniture is a battered table and a row of filing cabinets, which do provide some cover. A large map of the US is pinned to one wall.
Bishop squints at the map. Any markings on it? Any shipping routes, points of interest? He examines the place, wondering if it's so dusty as to imply complete disuse.
The map does show shipping routes, as best you can tell. There are little post-it notes affixed to some of the routes with numbers marked on them.
There's a faint murmur from the conversation again, barely distinguishable as, "... the full half a million -- and a little more, just in case."
Bishop's ears perk, animalistic and comical. He scuttles over to the wall closest to the conversation and cheerfully eavesdrops.
Another (male) speaker yawns. "Yes, yes. And the surprise?"
The first (male) voice says, "All under control. I'm picking up the painting later. We might even be able to reuse it, assuming that it doesn't get destroyed when -- well, you know."
Bishop makes a fist. -I- don't know, he thinks to himself. Out with it you buggers.
"Fabulous," the bored man says. He still sounds faintly bored. "And we have the cooking facilities arranged?"
"We do," says the other man. There's a faint air of suppressed nervousness to his voice, badly smoothed over and covered with a pleasant oiliness. "Of course, most of it will be straight frying, but we've made preparations for other methods as well -- roasting, soup, barbecue -- just in case He wants some variety." There's a definite stress on the pronoun.
One of the speakers sniffs, or sniffles, even.
Bishop checks his watch and curses - it's probably getting perilously close to the point where he'll have to return to work.
"I'm wasted here," the other man declares dramatically. "What happened to the coq au vin, the poussin serviette avec jus muscadet, the dressed crab, and the honey-glazed sweetbreads ...?"
Bishop squints. "Honey-glazed sweetbreads? In Arkansas? In the Squickopolis Inc. warehouse?" His thoughts ring loud against his ears.
"We can make arrangements," the other blurts, a touch too hastily. "Your work has always been an inspiration to me. You know I appreciate your advice here. I only wish that I could have called you in on it earlier, but you understand, I wanted to get my hands on the painting first..."
The bored man says lazily, "Always a pleasure, Adam." He sounds as though it might even be true. "I believe those of us who have risen (or fallen) to the greatest heights (or lowest depths) have a duty to spread ourselves around, as it were. I shall ... very much look forwards to seeing this painting of yours."
The first voice takes on a pleased undertone. "The choice of subject gave me particular pleasure."
"Mmmm, I can imagine."
"Will you be staying for dinner tonight?"
Bishop pencils 'Adam' into the notebook in his mind and then scrambles off to the chicken belt lest he be missed and found out.
You're able to sneak out of the empty office without much noise, and hopefully without attracting any attention. Certainly no obvious attention.
Bishop releases a breath. Curiouser and curiouser. He returns to the pleasingly normal stench of - oh who's he kidding. He returns to the abominable stench of dead and rotting poultry.
Work continues much as before. It isn't very difficult to make a plausible excuse for the brief absence. The back-breaking work seems worse than ever, and it goes on forever also. You can see the quality of the light failing at night falls, and the yellow flickering emergency lights of the warehouse light up.
Bishop looks up and around. Surely it's got to be time to go. No human being can work like this. No cigarettes? No bourbon? What's the bloody point of life?
There are other laborers around who would know when the shift ended.
Bishop nudges the guy next to him. "When do we get out of here, bub?"
The man puts down his box momentarily and shrugs at you with sweat-soaked shoulders. "They work through the night, here," he rumbles. "We leave at 6, but you can do overtime."
Bishop says "Man, now that -is- tempting. I mean, I love poultry. Ever since I was a - sorry. Fumes getting to me."
Bishop nods back to the office. "How about the guys back there?"
He shrugs again. "They go out. They come in. Who knows?"
Bishop nods. "You know any of 'em at all? They have names?"
The man brays like a donkey when he laughs. "Boss 1, boss2. How the hell should I know their names? Never seen a one of them lift a finger to do any real work."
Bishop nods. "Fuckers," he says with some feeling.
There is a glimmer of feeling in the other man's eyes at that. He nods, glances round, and leans back against the pile of boxes. "Yep. I've worked in some shitholes in my life, but this place is fucking inhuman. I've seen guys drop, actually drop where they stand."
Bishop nods. "Why do they stay, then?"
"Good money," the man says.
---