Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

  Japeth made a notation in his notebook and clicked the stopwatch. “Ain’t that supposed to be ‘Trattoria’?” he asked.

  Elihu motioned at the sign that sat at the edge of the lot. “Take a look.”

  Japeth squinted. “Huh. Musta got a discount.”

  “What, you get a special price if the guy who painted the sign can’t spell?”

  Japeth shrugged. “What the hell do I know?” he said. “Maybe it’s like some kinda government program to hire bad spellers. Or the sign’s a factory second or somethin’. The fuck do I know? I ain’t in the restaurant business.”

  “The dimwit business is what you’re in,” his brother muttered. That ended all conversation for a while as they slouched in the car and watched the truck. The driver got out and was met by a short, roly-poly black man in an apron. The two conferred for a moment, the driver consulting a clipboard in one hand. Then the driver pulled a long silver metal ramp out of a compartment beneath the cargo bay and extended it to the ground. He leaped up into the truck and began sliding boxes down the ramp, the rollers built into its surface rattling as the big boxes slid to where the chef awaited with a hand truck.

  “Think we can take him?” Elihu said.

  “Shit yeah, bro,” Japeth answered, “guy’s a pussy.” But inwardly he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know if the muscles that bulged beneath the truck driver’s uniform shirt came from lifting all those heavy boxes of food and condiments or if the guy pumped iron, but he was willing to bet there were some steroids involved somewhere down the line. Given the caveman look of the guy’s prominent jaw and forehead, maybe some human growth hormone as well. Japeth swallowed nervously as the driver stepped off the truck, then hoisted a huge box onto one broad shoulder as he followed the chef into the restaurant. If they were going to take this guy out, even temporarily, it was going to involve tire irons. At least.

  The delivery took twenty-five minutes and fourteen seconds by Japeth’s watch. He made a note as the truck pulled away. They repeated the process at a number of different restaurants, ranging from fancy glass-and-stone bistros to hole-in-the-wall dive bars. They worked their way from the suburbs into the downtown area, the streets getting more crowded and more difficult to navigate. At some places, the driver didn’t bother finding a parking space; he just stopped in the travel lane and did his unloading there, ignoring the irate motorists stacking up in the blocked lane or trying to inch around the big truck. Anyone who honked too loud or stuck his head out of the window to shout a complaint was silenced by a glare from the driver. We may have a problem here, Japeth thought.

  It was at a medium-sized diner called Bobby’s that they got their break. The place had a narrow alleyway behind it, a space between two buildings where the truck could pull in. This time it was a woman who came out to greet the driver. She was a large woman, with flaming red hair pulled back in a tight bun, and the way she greeted the driver was quite a bit different from any of the other proprietors or chefs. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a hard, sloppy, wet kiss. The driver wrapped his own big hands around her jiggling buttocks and squeezed them roughly.

  “Looks like he’s gonna be deliverin’ some extra salami at this stop,” Japeth said.

  “With special sauce,” Elihu agreed. “Think that’s Bobby?”

  “Could be. Or Mrs. Bobby.” Still locked in their embrace, the couple moved awkwardly, the woman stepping backwards through the rear door and nearly stumbling as the driver manhandled her. When they disappeared inside, Elihu said, “Start the clock.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Japeth clicked the stopwatch.

  “Hopefully, this boy ain’t gonna be one of them seven second wonders. If he takes his time, we got a window to grab the truck in. An’ I’m bettin’ it’ll be a while longer before he figures out how he’s gonna explain losin’ his truck while he plays slap and tickle with Ms. Two Tons O’Fun in there.”

  As it turned out, it was one hour, forty-two minutes, and eleven seconds before the driver reappeared, shirt untucked and hair disheveled. The woman followed. Her hair was out of the bun and fell in wild curls around her shoulders. Both were smiling broadly as they opened the back of the truck, extended the ramp, and began unloading boxes. Elihu gave an ironic salute. “He likes big butts and he cannot lie,” he quoted.

  “You other brothers can’t deny,” Japeth agreed. “I got to give the man credit where credit’s due, though. He’s got stamina.”

  “True that, brother. So, we got a plan?”

  “We got a plan.” They bumped fists.

  THE SPRAWLING brick structure had been an old factory or possibly a warehouse. It stood alone on a huge tract of land in an industrial area off Georgia Highway 139, just across the Chattahoochee River from the Fulton County Airport.

  The space they were in was cavernous, with a high ceiling held up by rusting steel beams and dimly lit by the sunlight coming through the spaces where windows had once been, just below the ceiling. Those windows were mostly gone now, shattered by rocks thrown by vagrants who’d left an old campfire over by one wall or by bored teenagers who’d tagged three of the four walls with brightly colored and ornate graffiti. There was a large opening in the other wall where a large metal garage-type door was stuck open, leading out to the cracked and overgrown concrete parking lot. At some point, someone had apparently planned to renovate the old place, but the plan had fallen through, leaving stacks of construction materials piled here and there among the weeds in the concrete expanse, slowly rotting under ragged and weather-beaten tarps.

  “Perfect,” Rafe said. “Room to stash the truck and our exit vehicles, and close enough to a major artery to get to the hotel and back in…what, ten minutes each way? And the parking lot’s in the back, along with the gate. You can’t see it from the road, so no casual passerby will observe our comings and goings.”

  L.B. didn’t answer. He went over to the abandoned campfire and kicked at it. “This weren’t here last time I saw the place.”

  “We won’t be here that long,” Rafe said, “and I suspect that our presence will keep the wretched detritus of humanity at bay for the time bein’.”

  “Will you for Chrissakes speak English?” L.B. said.

  “The bums won’t come in if they think there’s someone else here,” Rafe translated. “But if you’re still worried, we can put a new lock on that chain-link fence out there.”

  L.B. nodded. “I just don’t want no witnesses pokin’ around.”

  “We’ll deal with that in whatever way seems most salutary,” Rafe assured him. At L.B.’s annoyed look, he amended his statement. “We’ll deal with ’em however we need to. Don’t worry.”

  “I’d like to not have to kill nobody,” L.B. said. “I mean, if we have to, sure, but I’d rather not have to.”

  “Me too,” said Rafe, “but we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

  THE SMALL ballroom-turned-dressing-room was packed wall to wall with people, tables, mannequins holding the Birds of Paradise collection, and lights. Lots of lights. There were bright lights on the makeup mirrors that sat on a dozen long tables covered in white tablecloths, even brighter silver ones set up at two separate backdrops where sweating photographers were posing the models for publicity shots, and track lights above, illuminating all.

  Branson blinked as he entered, carrying a pan of egg noodles meant for the buffet that lined the back wall. He didn’t know why they’d bothered setting it up. Everyone was clearly too busy to eat, and it didn’t look like an egg-noodle kind of crowd. The few makeup artists, manicurists, and hairstylists who had gotten themselves plates had set them aside, forgotten, as they focused on making women who were already pretty into goddesses. Each model sat in a director’s chair in front of one of the white tables, looking stoically ahead as her personal team of technicians applied the potions, creams, and gels contained in a bewildering array of bottles and jars that crowded the tables the way the people crowded the room. The din was incredible. People shou
ted back and forth as the models and their teams kept up a steady stream of conversation. Someone had apparently decided that the room needed a musical boost and the sound system was blasting and fast, thumping electronic instrumental with stuttering synthesizers and a heavy bass beat.

  Branson struggled his way through the crowd, carrying the heavy pan. A bearded young man with an iPad in one hand and multiple piercings in ears, nose, and eyebrows nearly collided with him. In moving aside, Branson bumped a big man with a shaved head and leather pants who was working on one of the models. “’Ere now,” the man growled in a deep bass voice with a pronounced Scots burr, “you wanna watch whirr ye’re goin’.”

  “Sorry,” Branson muttered. He noticed whose makeup was being done at the same time she noticed him. “Hi, Branson,” she said with a smile. The red eyes and disheveled hair of the night before were gone. She looked like the pictures of her in the lobby and on the posters, too perfect to be quite real.

  “Hey,” he answered. “You look great.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “You can thank my boy Hamish here.” She reached up and gave the bald man’s arm an affectionate squeeze.

  “Hold still, girl,” Hamish grumbled, picking up a small brush and a white pot of some sort. “We’ve a lot to do here.” He gave Bran a stern look. “And so does he, right, laddie?”

  “Yeah,” Bran said. “Well…um…break a leg.”

  She laughed. “I think that’s for theater, but thanks.” He nodded and turned. The woman who he’d met upstairs was standing in his path. She didn’t look like a model. In fact, she didn’t look old enough to drive, and it didn’t help that she was blowing a bubble-gum bubble. Bran drew up short.

  The bubble popped and the girl sucked it back into her mouth. “You again,” she said. “What’s your business here?”

  Bran was too startled to answer at first. “Um…” he said.

  “Um,” she repeated back to him. “What language is ‘Um’? Albanian? Lebanese?”

  “He’s fine, Zoe,” he heard Clarissa call out from behind him. “He’s a waiter.” The Scottish makeup man said something in an exasperated voice.

  The girl looked him up and down. “I know that,” she answered. She turned her attention back to Branson. “Okay,” she said. “Beat it.”

  Branson nodded and headed off through the crowd. He tried to control his shaking. Who the heck was that girl? She looked young, but she had a look in her eye that suggested she’d break him in half if he tried any funny business. And she still had that weird pink Taser. He felt his stomach knotting. If they’d put someone on Clarissa Cartwright as a personal bodyguard, this was going to get a lot harder. Maybe impossible. He thought of backing out again, but his uncle’s words came back to him. You’re not backing out. Not now. He kept moving.

  Some of the models, hair and makeup done, were getting up and donning their costumes. Each one seemed more outlandish than the last. One dark-haired woman in heavy eye makeup and black leather bustier was carrying a pair of jet-black feathered wings in one hand. They were huge, at least four feet long each. “If I put these on,” she was complaining to a harried-looking young male production assistant, “I won’t be able to get through the goddamn door!” Another model’s outfit was covered in bright green, yellow, and orange feathers like a parrot’s. It wasn’t the wings that was causing her distress; that was seemingly the fault of the absurdly large sombrero she held in her hands. “I am from BRAZIL!” she was screaming at another PA in heavily accented English. “I am NOT wearing a fucking SOMBRERO!” A determined-looking older woman was heading their way. Bran kept moving.

  When he got to the buffet, as expected, very little food had been touched. He swapped the pan out anyway. As he turned holding the old pan, the music abruptly stopped. Conversation slowly trickled off. A tinny, metallic voice came over the PA system. “MODELS TO THE RUNWAY. MODELS TO THE RUNWAY.”

  The pierced man with the keyboard started moving through the crowd, clapping his hands, the iPad stuck beneath his armpit. “Lets go, ladies. Showtime. Let’s move!”

  Showtime, Bran thought. He pulled out his cell phone and hit a number on the speed dial. He heard it ring on the other end and broke the connection.

  RAFE VALENTINE was seated in the passenger side of a badly dented white Dodge van parked inside the deserted warehouse. A nondescript Ford Focus sat a few feet away, empty. L.B. was slumped in the driver’s seat of the van, his eyes closed. Three cell phones were lined up on the dashboard in front of them. Rafe jumped slightly as one of them erupted with the opening chords of the Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up.”

  “Okay,” L.B. said. “The show’s startin’.” He leaned out of the window and waved at the delivery truck at its parking place near the open door. He heard the big motor fire up and leaned back in his seat, smiling. “Here we go.”

  ELIHU WAS behind the wheel, and he steered the big truck carefully toward the open doorway in the back of the building. The truck slowed to a crawl long enough for Japeth to leap up onto the running board. He rode there, clutching precariously onto the mirror as they approached the fence. Japeth jumped down again, rolled the gate aside, then rolled it back as soon as the truck rumbled through. Only when he’d climbed into the truck cab did Elihu turn the headlights on. Japeth picked up the handheld police scanner they’d picked up at Radio Shack. “Anything?” he asked as they pulled out onto the service road.

  Elihu shook his head. “Nothing about any big-ass stolen delivery vee-hicles.”

  They’d taken the truck in late afternoon, hours ago. “Reckon Lover Boy was too embarrassed to report someone had run off with his truck?” Japeth wondered.

  Elihu shrugged and shifted gears. “Or he figgered he was goin’ to lose his job anyway and decided to have one last goin’ away party. Either way, there must be a hundred o’ these trucks out there. With the switched plate, no one’s gonna know this is the one.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Japeth said.

  “Not to worry, little brother,” Elihu said. “This is gonna be smooth sailin’.”

  “THIS IS a disaster,” Gane moaned.

  “Didn’t anyone check out his routine beforehand?” Chunk asked. He didn’t look at Gane as he spoke. His eyes were scanning the crowd, moving constantly.

  They were standing together in the wings, watching Ricky Vandella’s monologue. “So I was checkin’ in to the hotel,” he was saying, “an’ the nice lady was explainin’ the telly channels to me. ‘This one’s got the adult movies,’ she said, ‘but if you like, that channel can be disabled.’ ‘No thanks,’ I said, ‘regular porn’ll do fine.’”

  “We did check it out,” Gane said. “But this isn’t the one he submitted.”

  Vandella plowed on. “So, after I checked in, I went down to the pub. I met one of the Enigma birds. We started talkin’, one thing led to another…”

  “No,” Gane whispered. “No, no, no…” The audience was tittering nervously.

  “An’ we ended up in my room. I told her I’d picked up some of those condoms, you know, with the ribs and all on them for extra pleasure.”

  “Bastard,” Gane said. “Bastard.”

  “Now can I shoot him?” Chunk asked.

  “If we weren’t on live TV,” Gane said, “I’d give you the green light in a second.”

  “Hope they’ve got a fast hand on the bleep button.”

  “So we’re shaggin’,” Vandella said, pumping his hips and arms in crude simulation, “an’ we’re really goin’ at it. She looks up at me an’ says”—Vandella’s voice became a girlish falsetto—“‘Ricky, I don’t feel anything different.’ I told her, ‘Well see, I’m a selfish bastard, so I put them on inside out.’”

  The laughter was a little stronger this time. Gane began speaking into the microphone on his headset to the stage manager in his booth at the back of the room. “Cut him off. Bring the music up. Start the runway walks.” He paused, listening to the response. “I don’t care if he’s supposed to have fiv
e more minutes. We’ll figure out how to stretch it. Just shut. Him. Up.”

  A pumping, bass-heavy electronic music track started up. Ricky looked startled at the interruption, then annoyed, then he scowled with determination. “And now,” the backstage announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system, “Enigma presents…the BIRDS OF PARADISE COLLECTION!”

  The first model strode onto the stage, a long-legged blonde. She was dressed in a pink bra and panties set, adorned with pink flamingo feathers. Vandella hadn’t left the stage or put down his mike as he was supposed to do when the music started. He raised his voice to be heard over the music, which had segued into an electronic-dance version of “Pretty Flamingo.”

  “Isn’t she gorgeous, folks?” he shouted. “I hear she has a tattoo of a seashell on her inner thigh. Put your ear to it and you can smell the ocean.”

  “Mr. McNeill,” Gane pleaded, “do something!”

  “Our job is the bra, Mr. Gane,” Chunk said. “And the models. Your problems with the ‘talent,’” he turned the word into a sneer, “aren’t our problem.”

  Gane was practically sobbing. “Please,” he said.

  Chunk sighed. He keyed his own headset. “Zoe,” he said. “You back there?”

  She came back immediately. “Yeah. I’m on Cartwright.”

  “You see what’s going on with Vandella?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “What an asshole.”

  “Roger that,” Chunk said. “How close are you?”

  She hesitated a second. “Fifteen feet. Give or take.”

  “Got your Taser?”

  Another hesitation, longer this time. “Boss,” she said, “I know what you’re thinking. But these things only have one long-range shot.”

  “I know. Get one of the other guys to give you his. After you take Vandella out.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The model in the flamingo costume was swinging back down the runway, the smile frozen on her face tinged with panic as she saw Ricky Vandella waiting for her, leaning on his podium, a deranged leer on his face. Chunk didn’t know what he was planning, but he knew it wasn’t good.