Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

  It didn’t work. “I like you fine, sweetheart,” he said. “And I’d never lay a hand on you. Can’t say the same for Mario, though.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I’m just supposed to call him if I, you know, see anything.”

  “So you’re just following orders,” she said in a low, hateful voice. “Watching. Like a good little doggie.”

  For a moment, she thought she’d gone too far. One huge fist clenched, and she took an involuntary step back. He saw that and got himself under control. His smile was strained, but he relaxed his hands. “Remember what I said, Clarissa,” he said. “Behave yourself, and no one gets hurt.”

  She stood watching him for a moment, then turned on her heel and stalked off.

  Across the lobby, Zoe Piper watched her leave. Her brow furrowed. She pulled out her phone and dialed. “Chunk,” she said when he answered, “Cartwright just met with Moose Cantone.” She listened for a moment, then said, “No. Something weird’s going on. She didn’t look like she was expecting to see him, and when she did, they didn’t look friendly. They looked like they were about to go after each other.” She listened for another moment. “Look, just don’t do anything till we talk, okay? I really don’t think they’re planning anything. Not together. Okay? See you soon.”

  “SO,” GANE said, “what is it now?”

  In contrast to Paragon’s jury-rigged work space, the Enigma staff had booked several of the hotel’s most luxurious meeting rooms as their command center. Gane was seated at the end of a dark wood conference table in one of the smaller meeting rooms. A Mac laptop and three smartphones rested on the table in front of him. Chunk was standing at the far end, Zoe Piper beside him. He got right to the point. “Clarissa Cartwright met with a member of the Mario Allegretti crew in the hotel lobby an hour ago.”

  “But,” Zoe broke in, “it didn’t look like they were friendly. At all.”

  “So what are you telling me?” Gane said.

  “I think she needs to be off the show,” Chunk said.

  Zoe looked at Chunk in frustration. “And I think she needs protection.” She looked at Gane. “Look, she broke up with this Allegretti character a few days ago. Now, one of his goons is down here. I think he’s after her. From what I know, Mario Allegretti’s not a guy to take getting dumped lightly.”

  “Even if that’s true, and,” Chunk nodded at Zoe, “it very well might be, it still makes her a security risk. This guy may not be after the bra. But what if he tries to do something at the show? Something to hurt Clarissa Cartwright? To show that she can’t leave him and not pay for it?”

  Gane looked at Zoe. “What do you think of that theory?”

  She grimaced. “Yeah. That could be it.”

  “So…” Chunk said, looking at Gane expectantly.

  “So you need to make sure she’s protected,” Gane said, “before, during, and after the show.”

  Chunk’s voice was tight with frustration. “Yeah, she could be a target. But she still could be a conspirator. Just because they were mad at each other doesn’t mean they’re not working together.”

  “She acted like she was afraid of him,” Zoe insisted.

  “They could be intimidating her into helping them,” Chunk replied. “It would be better just to take her out of the equation completely. Tell people she’s sick or something.”

  “I’ve already explained to you,” Gane said, “that’s not possible. Now go do your job. Protect Enigma’s assets. And that includes Clarissa Cartwright.”

  “JUST WHAT in hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The voice came from behind him, a good ways down the hall. Chunk stopped, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. He’d known this was coming. When he’d decided to come up and check the security on the floor reserved for the models and the Enigma staffers, he’d briefly thought of delegating the job to someone else, because he knew that going up there himself was more likely to bring him into contact with Clarissa Cartwright. But he was the boss, and that meant he needed to act like one, not hide in his office. He turned to see her coming at him like an offensive lineman, her eyes narrowed to slits of rage, her hair down and wild. He held out his hands in a placating gesture.

  “Ms. Cartwright…” he began. He looked up and saw one of the men he’d placed on either side of the elevator doors to stop unauthorized intruders running down the hall after her. “Lee!” he barked. The man stopped. “Get back to your post.” Lee hesitated, his eyes on the raging ball of feminine fury charging at his boss. “I’ll handle this,” Chunk said. “Go.” Lee nodded, clearly reluctant. He backed down the hallway, never taking his eyes off Clarissa’s back.

  “Handle this?” she shouted. She stood in front of him, hands on hips. “You think you can handle me?”

  She really was beautiful when she was angry, but Chunk knew that mentioning that would probably result in his being maimed in some painful and terribly personal way.

  “Ms. Cartwright,” he began again.

  She overrode him. “What did you think was going to happen? Gane was just going to pull me off the show?”

  Chunk saw heads popping out of doors up and down the hall. The commotion was beginning to draw attention. He spotted a blond looking out of a door a few feet away with a look of malicious glee turning her pretty face ugly. He kept his voice level. “I saw a potential threat. Not just to the show, but to you.”

  “Oh, I’m supposed to believe you had my best interests at heart? Please.”

  “Believe it or not, Ms. Cartwright,” Chunk said, “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “Excuse me,” a female voice said from behind him. “Is there a problem?”

  Chunk turned. Hermione Starr was standing behind him. They’d been introduced briefly when the models had arrived at the hotel, and she’d been helpful with the background checks on “the flock,” as she called the models under her charge. She’d used the word with a humorous twist to her mouth that let Chunk know she didn’t take the term seriously. Chunk hoped she’d help him defuse the situation.

  “Mr. McNeill,” she said, and the formal, slightly frosty way she said it made him wonder if she was going to be an enemy or an ally here. “May I have a word?” Before he could answer, she looked past him at Clarissa. “Go on, dear,” she said kindly, “and let me deal with this. And make sure you get some rest. We have another rehearsal tomorrow morning.” She looked around. “And what are the rest of you doing, sticking your heads out like little prairie dogs?” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Run along now. Nothing to see here. Scoot!” Doors began to close along the hallway. She gave Chunk a brittle smile. “This way, if you would.” She’d defused the confrontation, all right, but he felt like he was being sent to the principal’s office.

  SHE HAD a suite, a sitting room-bedroom combination. She took the seat by the desk built into the wall and crossed her legs. He couldn’t help noticing that she had great legs. She motioned him to the easy chair. “Please,” she said, “sit down.”

  He sat, perched a little forward toward the edge of the chair. She smiled at that. “I understand,” she said, “that you and your people think there may be some threat to Clarissa.”

  “It’s possible,” Chunk said. “We found out about her connection with Mario Allegretti.”

  She made a face. “Mario,” she said, in the same tone as one might say “running sores.” “I knew he was bad news. I tried to warn her but…” She shrugged.

  “And another member of his crew is in the hotel.”

  She sat forward, her eyes narrowing. “Which one?”

  “Aldo Cantone.”

  “The big blond idiot?” she said. “The one who looks like he couldn’t tie his shoes without help?”

  Chunk nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The one they call ‘Moose.’”

  “Good name for him,” she said. “And you can drop the ma’ams. Call me Hermione. We need to work together here. Which is why I wanted to talk to you.” She gave him a penetrating look. “If there�
��s a threat to these young ladies, I need to know about it. Their safety is as much my concern as yours.”

  “With all due respect…Hermione,” he began.

  She cut him off. “When someone begins a sentence ‘with all due respect,’ Mr. McNeill, what follows is almost always disrespectful. The only difference is a matter of degree.” She leaned back and regarded him coolly. “You think I’m some sort of glorified chaperone. It’s true, keeping the sillier ones out of trouble and out of the tabloids is part of the job. It’s also true that I used to be a model like those young women out there. But back in my modeling days, and ever since, I’ve kept in shape in a way I thought would be far more useful than Pilates. I have a fourth dan black belt in Aikido. I also have a Sig Sauer P226, and I know how to use them both. So I can help you protect these women, Mr. McNeill. If you let me.” She looked at him and burst out laughing. “Oh dear Lord, if you could see the look on your face!” He found that he liked her laugh as much as her legs. More, even. She smiled at him with the pitying look she might give a slow child. “You have a habit of underestimating women, don’t you, Mr. McNeill?”

  “I believe I’m discovering that I do,” he said. “And my friends call me Chunk.”

  “Okay, Chunk,” she said. “Now that we’ve had our lesson for today, how do we keep that nice young woman safe?”

  He hated what he was about to say, but he’d decided to be honest with her, mostly because he figured she’d know if he wasn’t, and he really didn’t want to get that look from her again. “I have to tell you something, Hermione. Paragon was originally taken on here to protect the Fantasy Bra from getting stolen.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised his hand. “Don’t worry, making sure no one gets hurt is even more important. We’re on the same page there. But when Clarissa Cartwright’s recently been associated with a known thief, a guy whose crew does armed robbery and hijackings…” He shrugged.

  “Ah,” she said, “you think Clarissa might be involved in some sort of scheme by Mario Allegretti to steal the Fantasy Bra.”

  “She might not be doing it willingly,” Chunk said, “but I have to consider the possibility.”

  “Of course you have to. But you don’t know her. I do.”

  “And you don’t think she’d be capable of doing something like that?”

  “No more than she’d be capable of flapping those stupid wings they make the girls wear and flying back home to Texas,” Hermione said. “Believe me, Chunk. You can put that theory out of your mind. Mario Allegretti broke her heart. And she’s not the sort to put up with that more than once. It’s one of the reasons I like her so much.”

  “Are you sure?” Chunk persisted. “That might be part of the cover story.”

  “My, but you’re a paranoid fellow.” Her smile let him know it wasn’t meant as an insult.

  “Part of the job,” he said.

  “And you do it well. But,” the smile turned a little sad, “I know a bit about heartbreak. She’s not faking it.”

  “Okay,” Chunk said. He wasn’t totally convinced, but he wasn’t going to press the issue. “I’d like to put one of my people on her, just in case,” he said. “Close protection.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “Not one of those gorgeous young fellows you’ve got on the elevators,” she said. “The other young ladies are jealous enough of Clarissa as it is.”

  “No,” he said. “This operative’s female. Her name’s Zoe.”

  “I see,” she said. “And is this Zoe to be here as a bodyguard, or a spy?”

  “Both,” Chunk admitted.

  “Okay,” Hermione sighed. “Send her up. But you’re wrong to suspect Clarissa.” She smiled. “She reminds me a lot of myself at that age.”

  “If she’s lucky,” Chunk said, “she’ll turn out as well as you.”

  The smile brightened. “Mr. McNeill,” she said, “are you flirting with me?”

  He smiled back. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess I am.”

  She chuckled. He liked the sound. “We’ll need to continue this conversation later,” she said. “After the show is over, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “BRAN!” THE kitchen manager shouted over the noise of the dinner rush. “We got a room service order.”

  Bran sighed. He hated taking up the room service orders. Granted, it got him out of the kitchen, and sometimes he’d get a good tip, but there was always hell to pay with Corso when he got back. Even though he’d had no choice in the matter, Corso would demand to know where he’d been, why he’d taken so long, and anything else he could think of to ride Bran’s ass about. He was getting the feeling that Corso was just looking for an excuse to fire him. Well, in a couple of days, he wouldn’t have to worry about that. He’d be rich. Or at least well off enough to get out of the hotel kitchen. Assuming that he didn’t get caught. That thought always caused his guts to twist, and they’d been twisting a lot lately.

  He walked over to where the cart was already loaded with the order and looked at the ticket. “Hey,” he said, noticing the room number. “This is one of the rooms on eleven. Where all the models are staying.”

  “Yeah,” the kitchen manager said, and grinned behind the extravagant red mustache that made him look a little like a riverboat gambler. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “But…” He knew security up on eleven was tight. That big scary-looking guy that seemed to be in charge of security might even be up there. He didn’t want that guy to know his face.

  “Come on, man,” the kitchen manager said, “get a move on. We’re gettin’ slammed down here, and we need you back, pronto. Chop chop!”

  He felt a growing sense of dread as he took the handles of the cart. There wasn’t much on it, just a covered plate and a large bottle of mineral water. He swung it around to head for the elevator and almost ran into Stephanie.

  “Oh,” he said. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she said. She didn’t smile. Her face was a closed window.

  “Umm,” he said. “Sorry about last night.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I was thinking that maybe…”

  “I’ve got to go, Bran,” she interrupted. “Lots of orders.” She walked off before he could say anything else.

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  “BRAN!” the kitchen manager yelled.

  “I’m going, I’m going.”

  They stopped him coming off the elevator. The doors were flanked by two men who looked big enough to have their own zip codes. One of them stopped the cart halfway out the door with a hand that looked as big as a boxing glove.

  “Hang on there, sir,” the man said. He had a brush cut, a square head, and a scowl that looked like a permanent fixture. His muscles bulged against the seams of his cheap suit. Bran wondered if he purposely bought his suits a size too small, just so he could look like he was about to burst out of it like the Hulk.

  “Room service,” Bran managed to get out. His voice broke on the first word, making him sound like a thirteen-year-old boy.

  Brush Cut nodded to his partner, a lean, fit-looking Asian guy. “Let’s just check this out, Hoss,” the Asian guy said, in an incongruous Texas accent. He leaned over and lifted the cover off the plate. There was nothing under it but a small house salad. The Asian security guard shook his head. “Don’t see how’n heck these girls live on this,” he said. Brush Cut picked up the bottle of mineral water and looked it over. He lifted it and looked at the underside.

  “You checkin’ for bombs?” the Asian guy said. “C’mon, Curt, let the kid go on and do his job.”

  Brush Cut put the bottle back and nodded to Bran. He went back to standing beside the elevator, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Don’t be too long, kid,” the Asian guy said. Bran just nodded. He headed down the hallway, his heart thumping in his chest. He could hear loud music and voices behind one of the doors, as if someone was having a p
arty inside. But behind the door of Room 1133 was only silence. He knocked on the door. “Room service,” he called out.

  More silence. Then, “Just a minute.” He waited, stealing a look back up the corridor to where the guards stood, now in identical poses, arms across their chests. They didn’t look at him.

  The door opened. He turned and came face to face with Clarissa Cartwright.

  The first thing he noticed was that she’d been crying. Those electric-blue eyes that he’d seen on TV and on the promotional posters for the Enigma show were red and puffy. Her thick black hair looked like it hadn’t seen a brush that day, and her face was devoid of makeup. Still, despite it all, it was definitely Clarissa Cartwright. She was dressed in one of the hotel’s thick terrycloth robes that still couldn’t conceal the curves of the body beneath it.

  “Room service,” he said again, and his voice broke for the second time that day. He hoped it wasn’t going to become a regular thing.

  She didn’t seem to notice. “Put it over there.” She gestured vaguely to a spot by the bed and turned away. He followed. The TV was on, but with the sound off. She sat down on the bed, her back against the headboard, and pulled her knees up to her chest. She stared at the screen.

  “Umm…” he said, “I have to take the cart back. Where do you want the plate?”

  She looked up at him blankly. “What?”

  “The food,” he said. “Where do you want it?”

  “I don’t care,” she said. He stood there nonplussed for a moment. Finally, he put the plate and bottle on the bedside table. The utensils and a linen napkin went on top of the plate cover.

  “Thanks,” she said in a voice so low he could barely hear.

  “Is there anything else you need?” Bran asked.

  She gave him that look again. “What?”

  “Anything else you need?”

  Her mouth quivered as if she was about to cry again. She took a deep breath and shook her head. “No,” she said. “Nothing else.”