David Liss - The Ethical Assassin

“The Smiths,” Melford said. “The album’s called Meat Is Murder. ”

I laughed.

“Something’s funny?”

“It just seems a little strong,” I said. “I mean, if you want to be a vegetarian, that’s fine. But meat isn’t murder. It’s meat.”

Melford shook his head. “Why? Why is it okay to expose creatures who have feelings and wants and desires to any pain we choose so we can have unnecessary food? We can get all the nutrients we need from vegetables and fruits and beans and nuts. This society has made the tacit decision that animals aren’t really living things, just products in a factory, due no more consideration than automobile parts. So the Smiths are right, Lemuel. Meat is murder.”

I probably wouldn’t have said it without the beer, but I’d had the beer. “Okay, fine. Meat is murder. But you know what else is murder? Wait, let me think. Oh, yeah. I remember now: murder. Murder is murder. That’s right. Killing a couple of people who are minding their own business. Breaking into their home and shooting them in the head. That’s murder, too, I think. The Smiths have an album about that?”

Melford shook his head as if I were a kid who couldn’t grasp some simple idea. “I told you. They were assassinated.”

“But I’m not ready to know why.”

“That’s right.”

“And I’m a bad person for eating meat.”

“No, you’re a normal person for eating meat, because the unchecked torment and painful slaughter of animals has become the norm in our culture. You can’t be judged for eating meat. Up to this point, anyhow. On the other hand, if you listen to what I tell you, if you think about it even a little, and then you go back to eating meat- then, yes, you’re a bad person.”

“Torment my eye,” I said. “It’s not like they drag the cows off to dark cells and wake them up for mock executions. The animals stand around, they moo, they eat grass, and when the time comes, they get killed. Their lives are a little shorter than they would be otherwise, but they don’t have to worry about starvation or predators and disease. Maybe it’s a decent trade-off.”

“Sure, that sounds great. Farmer Brown comes out once in a while to pat their rumps or maybe pick a little on his banjo while he chews on a stalk of hay. Wake up, friend. That idyllic farm doesn’t exist anymore, if it ever did. Small farms are being absorbed by giant corporations. They’re building what are called factory farms, in which the maximum possible number of animals are warehoused in dark buildings, pumped full of drugs to make it possible for them to survive in these unnatural conditions. They’re given growth hormones so they’ll get big and meaty, even though they don’t want to eat. They’re given antibiotics so they won’t get sick, even though they’re spending their whole lives on top of each other. And then you, my friend, nibble on your big, juicy porterhouse, and you know what? You’re eating antibiotics and bovine growth hormone. Eat enough beef, and who knows what’s going to happen to you. If a woman eats beef and pork and chicken when she’s pregnant, what is she passing along to her baby? Besides being unspeakably cruel, this is a public health disaster waiting to happen.”

“Yeah, if the public is so threatened, then how come the public doesn’t care?”

“The public.” He let out a dismissive sigh. “Remember ideology. The public is told meat is safe and good and healthful, and so the public complies.”

“So, what do you live on- eggs and cheese?” I asked.

He laughed. “No way. I’m a vegan, man. I don’t eat any animal products. None.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t stand to exploit the labor of a chicken?”

“If you could prove to me the chickens didn’t suffer, I’d eat their eggs,” he told me. “But you have no idea. Those chickens are packed into cages so tight, they can’t even turn around. Their beaks and feet get infected, and they’re in agony. Maybe even more than cows and pigs, chickens suffer unspeakable torments, probably because they’re birds and we care even less what happens to them. We are talking about animals that never experience a single moment of life without pain, fear, or discomfort. And those are the females. The males born to egg-laying populations are just tossed into sacks until they’re ground up alive and fed to the females. You want me to tell you about how dairy cows live?”

“Not especially. I want you to tell me how you live. What is there to eat?”

“At home, my kitchen is very well stocked, and I eat fine. But the truth is, if you’re going to be vegan, and you will be, you can’t eat out a whole lot unless you’re willing to be creative. But you can look at yourself in the mirror and know you’ve been doing the right thing. Plus, you get the added bonus of feeling more righteous than others. And it makes a great conversation at parties.” He gave me a knowing nod. “Women love vegetarians, Lemuel. They’ll think you’re deep. You get to college, start fussing about what you can and can’t eat, believe me, the women will start conversations about it and they’ll swoon over your sensitive soul.”

We took another pass by the trailer and saw it was now abandoned. No sign of cops or crime scene, so Melford turned down the stereo and parked at a strip mall lot with a closed convenience store, a dry cleaner, and something that called itself a jewelry store but looked, through the lattice of metal grating, more like a pawnshop. Taped to a phone booth next to the car was another missing pet flyer, this one for a brown Scottish terrier called Nestle.

It was only three blocks, cut mostly through the backs of other mobile homes, to Bastard and Karen’s house. The temperature had dropped to the mid-eighties, but the air was still thick with humidity, and the trailer park smelled like a backed-up toilet. None of this seemed to bother Melford, who knew where to find breaks in fences, where to cross over to avoid barking dogs- all of which told me that he had spent a fair amount of time casing this route. So maybe killing Bastard and Karen hadn’t been just some random act of violence.

We reached the back of the trailer- which, in fact, had no yellow crime scene tape- and Melford pulled out something that looked like a cheap ray gun from a Dr. Who episode- some kind of a handle with multiple wires of a variety of thicknesses protruding. “Pick gun,” he explained. “Very handy thing to keep around.” Eyes narrowed in concentration, he went at the back door of the trailer for just a moment before we heard a click. Melford pushed the door open while he slid the pick gun back into his pocket.

Now he took out a pen flashlight, which he flipped around the kitchen for a moment. “Huh,” he said. “That’s funny. Check it out.”

I hadn’t wanted to look at them again; in fact, I’d taken comfort in the blackness of the room, which allowed me to shield myself from the sight of the no doubt stiff bodies, but I glanced over anyhow, knowing that it was what Melford expected of me. I stared, thinking that Melford’s deployment of the word funny didn’t quite cut it.

Bastard and Karen still lay there, eyes open, stiff as bloody and bloodless mannequins.

By their side was a third body.

MAYBE IT WASN’T FAIR, but I blamed my stepfather for everything bad that happened that weekend. And sure, it was at least partly Andy’s fault, but the odd thing was, it all played out the way it did because of the only two good ideas Andy had ever had, the two ideas that changed my life for the better.

He’d had countless bad ideas- that I should get new clothes no more than every two years, that I should wait until I turned sixteen before getting a learner’s permit, that I should clean out the barbecue each time he used it so the best pieces of charcoal could be salvaged for reuse. This one filled me with the most resentment, because when I came in from the garage, covered with sweat and soot, nostrils caked with black powder, coughing up gray phlegm, I found it impossible to deny the Dickensian bleakness of my life.