Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Yeah,” he said, “take the shot.”

  DISGUSTING.

  Demeaning to women.

  Disgraceful.

  Ricky Vandella smiled to himself as he thought about the reaction that was almost certainly spreading across the Internet right now. Twitter, TMZ, Gawker, Jezebel, Facebook…he knew there was nothing they liked better than a celebrity behaving badly, especially in front of the camera. And if there was one thing Ricky Vandella accepted as an article of faith, it was that there was no such thing as bad publicity.

  His last conversation with his agent had been depressing and demoralizing. After his sitcom had failed, TV gigs were still coming, but they were getting fewer and farther between. The TV talk shows and radio shock jocks were starting to tire of him.

  His agent had suggested he might want to think of going back on the road doing standup. The thought of another long drag through the American heartland, appearing in front of meager crowds of drunken yokels in an endless succession of nowhere towns, was unbearable. “If it’s all the same to you,” he’d said, “I’d rather put a gun in me mouth.” His agent had shrugged, said they’d talk about it after the Enigma show. Ricky could see the dismissal in the man’s attitude. He was already deep into the process of shifting Ricky onto the “B-List and going down” category.

  He’d left the office and gone out to get stinking drunk right away. He hadn’t been entirely sober since.

  Then, a few nights ago, he’d been lying on the bed in his hotel room, clad in his underwear, wondering if there was a decent escort service in this godforsaken southern burg. It wasn’t that he was particularly horny, despite the presence of all that gorgeous female flesh in the hotel. Not one of them had given him a second glance, more proof to him of his imminent decline. Women like that, he thought, can smell failure before it happens. Like those dogs who go nuts before earthquakes, even before the ground starts to shake.

  Depressed, drunk, and bored, he’d pulled out his laptop to check and see if he could find a service online. First, however, he performed his usual ritual of checking his e-mail and Twitter feeds.

  Twitter was blowing up over some outrage he’d never heard of, a former child star who’d recently released an album of what to Ricky’s ears was completely forgettable dance-pop. She’d appeared onstage at her first musical performance, staggering as if the stage was the deck of the Edmund Fitzgerald and dressed in a pair of flesh-colored cutoff shorts and matching tube top that made her look both nude and as sexless as a Barbie doll. She’d stumbled through three songs, forgetting the words to two of them, then sat down on the edge of the stage and delivered a long, rambling, inventively profane rant against the audience, her management, and most damaging, against the “fucking Mexicans” who she blamed for destroying the country. Finally, she’d been coaxed offstage, only to run back out, drop to her knees, and simulate fellatio on one of her male backup singers before being dragged off.

  Within an hour, videos of the incident, taken from half a hundred camera phones, had begun to appear, first on YouTube, then on dozens of other sites. By the time Ricky discovered it, a new Internet scandal was in full flower. He’d stayed up all night, all thoughts of hookers fallen by the wayside, and watched with fascination as the controversy spread across cyberspace. At first, the reaction had been entirely negative. But inevitably, counter-commenters had appeared, defending the girl’s right to “free speech” and scolding her critics for “slut-shaming,” whatever the hell that was. Most of them seemed to mistake the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution as a prohibition on criticism of stupidity and racism.

  Ricky had neither the interest nor the inclination to give two shits about the defense of free speech. All he knew was that, at least for now, that girl’s fifteen minutes of fame had become open-ended. He saw the progression of events unfolding into the future, as inevitable as the tropes in a bad action movie: the girl would go into rehab, maybe release a tell-all memo of abuse, exploitation and addiction, and in general, her career would go on, albeit in a new, more humbled form. She might even rise again. It was conceivable that she might even get a TV show, even if it was a reality show about her trying to put her life back together in a house full of other celebrity burnouts or a continuing saga of her wacky family. Whatever, Ricky thought. Controversy sells. Meltdowns are the new comebacks. He rolled over to the bedside table, searched until he found a pen and paper, then began to plan his routine. Wait’ll they get a load of me. He chuckled to himself.

  And now, it was time for the pièce de résistance. His jokes had been crude and insulting, but to really cement his status as Celebrity Behaving Badly, it was going to require some truly egregious gesture on his part. The model that was now headed his way with the flamingo feathers on her knickers and the frozen smile pasted over her inner dread was just the ticket. He felt a moment’s regret for her. He bore her no ill will, but business was business. And, to be completely honest, getting his hands on those magnificent breasts of hers under the skimpy lingerie was going to be not only business, but pleasure. He advanced to meet her, hands extended in front of him like the claws of a 1950s movie monster. Come on, now, he thought, come to Daddy…this won’t hurt a bit…

  The first signal that something was wrong was the feeling of two sudden pinpricks in the back of his leg. He stopped for a second, brushing a hand down as one would to remove lint or an insect.

  Then the electricity hit him.

  His whole body stiffened, beyond his control. His teeth snapped together so hard he was afraid he’d broken some. He stood frozen for a moment, then began to shake. A hand on his collar jerked him back into the darkness backstage. He felt himself begin to collapse, then he was on the hard wood of the backstage area, on his back, convulsing. He could tell he was drooling, but he felt helpless to stop it. He looked up to see a slender redhead standing over him. She had the face and body of a teenager, and the bright pink Taser she held in one hand added to the effect. The look of savage satisfaction on her face, however, made her look much older.

  “Okay,” she said, “that was totally worth it.”

  BRANSON HAD dropped the old pan in the kitchen and hurried out before someone could give him another task to do. The kitchen manager was going to be pissed, but Bran figured that, one way or another, this was going to be his last day on the job.

  Out in the corridor, he saw a long line of models, dressed in their outrageous finery. Feathers and beads were everywhere. So was skin. The sight of so many beautiful women, wearing so little, stopped him in his tracks for a moment. Man, he thought, if the folks back home could see me now.

  They’d be seeing a thief, said that judgmental voice that had been nagging at him. He was starting to hate that voice. He looked around for an inconspicuous place to watch the backstage preparations. As he did, he noticed the man at the head of the line, next to the steps leading up to the stage area. He was wearing a ball cap and a headset microphone and carrying a tablet computer of some kind. He was hunched over slightly, speaking urgently into his mike. Something’s wrong, Bran thought.

  Ballcap Man stood up. “Okay,” he said. “We’re moving the schedule up. Everybody get ready to walk.”

  Wait, Bran thought. It took longer than this in rehearsal. His heart pounding, he walked up the corridor, trying not to look back. A few feet away, there was an arch leading to a short hallway at a right angle to the corridor. The restrooms were down that hallway. He ducked into it and pulled out his phone. His hands were sweating as he hit the speed dial to send the second signal.

  “WHAT THE hell?” Japeth said as the phone went off.

  “What?” his brother said, not taking his eyes off the road.

  “We just got the second signal,” Japeth said.

  “What? We were supposed to have fifteen more minutes!”

  “Well, we ain’t got ’em now,” Japeth said. “Better haul ass, brother.”

  “In case you ain’t noticed,” Elihu said, “speed and agility ain’t this
truck’s strongest features.”

  “Well, you better start figurin’ a way around that,” Japeth said, “or all this is gonna be for nothin’.”

  “Damn it,” Elihu muttered. Then he saw the traffic slowing down up ahead. “Oh, shit,” he said. The brakes groaned in protest as the truck slowed, then stopped.

  “Traffic jam,” Elihu said.

  “No shit.” A long line of red taillights stretched out in front of them, glowing like angry eyes. Japeth stuck his head out the window and craned his neck to try to see better. The thick, heavy stink of car exhaust nearly made him gag. They heard the honking of horns. From where they were, they could see the hotel, rising like a shining tower in the fading light, less than a half mile away.

  It might as well have been on the moon.

  “OUCH,” CLARISSA said. Then, louder, “OUCH!”

  “Sorry, hon,” the slender young man fastening the Fantasy Bra on her said. “They made this thing for looks, not for comfort.”

  “You can say that again.” She reached up to try to adjust it and grimaced. The damn thing weighed a ton, and the straps dug painfully into her shoulders. All around them, the noise and bustle of the models getting into line was rising to a crescendo.

  “There,” the dresser said. “Just one more thing.” She felt him fumbling at the back, where the bra fastened. It reminded her of a clumsy high school boy in the back of a car on a hot Texas night, trying to grope his way to paradise. She almost laughed, then she felt a catch in her throat as the memory turned to melancholy. Damn it, this is not the time to get weepy, she told herself. The dresser gave a little grunt of triumph and she heard a soft click.

  “Owen,” she said, “what did you just do?”

  “Mr. Gane’s orders, Clarissa,” Owen said. “And that security guy’s idea.”

  “What was?”

  Owen fluffed her hair gently, then arranged it so it flowed down her back, over the bra. “It’s locked on.”

  Clarissa turned. “WHAT?”

  Owen shrugged and held up a tiny key. “It’s just a little padlock,” he said. “In case somebody tries to snatch it.”

  “Take it off,” she demanded. “The lock, I mean.”

  Owen looked alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t like being locked into my clothes, is what’s wrong!”

  “Please, Clarissa,” Owen said. “I don’t want to lose my job.” He looked so panicked and forlorn that she shook her head and sighed. “Okay,” she said. “But don’t you lose that damn key.”

  “WE GOTTA get movin’,” Japeth insisted.

  “I’m open for suggestions,” his brother said. The honking of all the horns was beginning to get on his nerves.

  “Damn it.” Japeth opened the truck door.

  “Where the hell are you goin’?” Elihu asked.

  Japeth slid out of the truck to the pavement. Then he reached up into the cab, behind the seat. His hand came out clutching a black crowbar.

  Elihu’s eyes narrowed. “What are you gonna do with that?”

  “Traffic control,” Japeth said grimly. “I’m gonna find whoever’s causin’ this blockage, and I’m gonna get him to un-cause it.”

  Elihu shook his head in disgust. “That’s your response to everything, bro. Hit somethin’ with a crowbar.”

  “Not true,” his brother said. “Sometimes I hit it with a bat. Or kick it with a steel-toed boot. Or…”

  “Whatever,” Elihu said. He looked back at the street. Traffic was beginning to move again. “Back in the truck,” he said. “The Lord has done provided.”

  HAVERMEYER FELT the buzzing of the cell phone in the pocket of his shorts. It was the signal he’d been waiting for. He adjusted the black and white checkered kaffiyeh he’d wrapped around his head and put on his mirrored sunglasses. He checked his look in the mirror and smiled.

  “It’s showtime, folks,” he said.

  He got out of the car he’d parked in the deck next to the hotel and removed a bright red roller bag from the trunk. The plastic wheels made a racket as he trundled through the garage toward the elevated walkway that led over the street to the hotel. A family of four unloading luggage from a minivan stopped and stared as he passed. He didn’t acknowledge them, but he took notice of their attention and was secretly pleased. That post-9/11 American uneasiness around anyone dressed in traditional Arab clothing was exactly what he was counting on. He’d gone the whole way, with flowing robes and all. Once he’d done what he came to do, he’d need to move fast.

  When he entered the lobby, he stopped and looked around, just another stranger getting his bearings. He immediately noticed the three men in dark suits strategically positioned at three points far apart across the open space. They had earpieces in their ears. One was a white guy, one was African-American, and the biggest one appeared to be Asian. As he watched, the white guard tilted his head toward his lapel and spoke into what Havermeyer assumed was the hidden microphone there. He never took his eyes off Havermeyer.

  Good. He’d been noticed. He walked across to one of the groups of large comfy chairs scattered through the lobby. Each group was partially shielded by planters, providing a semi-private area for meeting, waiting, and conversing. Havermeyer sat down and pulled out a cell phone from his roller bag. He simulated dialing a number, then put the phone to his ear. He looked around as if waiting for the party on the other end to answer, all the while taking note of the stairways on either side leading up to the mezzanine/ballroom level. He sat, phone to his ear, and waited for the second signal.

  WITH THE banquet served and the show underway, the kitchen of the Imperial Hotel had the feeling of a frontier outpost that had just staved off one attack and was getting ready for the Indians to return. Cooks cleaned their stations. Wait staff restocked condiments and silverware. Suddenly, the big metal door to the back parking lot rattled and thudded with an awful din. It sounded like someone was beating on it with a sledgehammer.

  “What the hell?” the chef muttered. He had the build that comes from a lifetime of working around food and the unshakable belief that the only way to tell if a recipe was working was to taste and taste and taste again. His progress to the door was more of a waddle. “WHO’S THERE?” he shouted through the door.

  “Delivery,” came the muffled response.

  The chef’s sweaty brow furrowed. “Delivery?” he said to no one in particular. “At this time of night?” He unlocked the door and swung it open.

  Two men burst in, dressed head to toe in black. They wore ski masks pulled down to cover their faces. One pointed a short-barreled shotgun at the chef, the other wielded a black and efficient-looking submachine gun. A waitress screamed. The prep cook closest to the door looked at them, his eyes widening. He looked at the man with the shotgun, then looked down at the knife in his own hand. He looked back up at the man with the shotgun and his eyes narrowed as if he was judging his odds. The man with the shotgun raised it slightly and shook it back and forth, as if to say Hello? Shotgun here. The cook dropped the knife, which clattered to the floor in the sudden silence. Shotgun Man approved the choice with a curt nod.

  “Nobody move,” the man with the machine gun called out. “This here’s a robbery.”

  HAVERMEYER FELT the harsh buzzing of the phone as he held it against his face. It was the second signal. He got up and headed for the elevators, the wheels of the roller bag rattling behind him. Another dark-suited security man loomed by the bank of shiny metal doors. Havermeyer didn’t look at him. He got in and pressed the button for the mezzanine level. As he got off, he saw the big doors of the ballrooms directly ahead, with the double doors of the Grand Ballroom the largest by far. Those doors were closed, but he could hear the sounds of high-energy music coming from inside. The show was in full swing.

  Two more of the plainclothes guards were slouched by the door, but they straightened up as he approached. When one started toward him, Havermeyer knelt by the suitcase, pulled the zipper on one side, and flipped ope
n the bag. He pulled out a smaller black plastic shopping bag, then stood the roller bag back up on its wheels so that passersby could see what was inside. As he straightened up, he saw the look of shock on the security man’s face as he registered what he was seeing. It was only some paper towel rolls painted orange, bound together in a bundle with some duct tape and wiring and topped off by a cheap battery-powered digital clock, but from even a short distance away, it screamed BOMB.

  The guard began backing away, talking frantically into his lapel mike.

  Now, Havermeyer thought, time for the big finish. He stood up and raised his hands to the sky. “ALLAHU AKBAR!” he bellowed, in as close an approximation to an Arab accent as he could make, which was, as it turns out, not very close. “GOD IS GREAT!” he added for the benefit of non-Arab speakers. A woman passing by on the mezzanine level saw what was in the bag and screamed. She began to run.

  At that moment, a further bit of stage business occurred to him. It was exactly the sort of last-second “inspiration” that had driven directors and fellow actors to distraction and the occasional fit of rage during his short professional career, since they were invariably wrong-headed and/or inappropriate. Today was no exception.

  He recalled video of Arab street celebrations after 9/11. Those videos had enraged Americans even further, and what seemed to fan people’s rage even further was the war cry some of the demonstrators sent up, the piercing ululation that sent both fear and anger skyrocketing. He threw back his head and attempted to imitate it. But since he hadn’t practiced, what came out was: “LALALALALALALALALALAAAAAAAA!”

  The security guard stopped and looked up, puzzled. A woman who’d been turning to run did the same. There was a brief moment of stillness, the faint thumping of music from inside the ballroom the only sound. Then the guard began shouting into his microphone, the woman broke and ran, and the panic in the crowd became general. People began to run. So did Havermeyer. He reached the stairway and began leaping down stairs three at a time, tearing off the kaffiyeh and sunglasses. He reached a bend in the stairs and stuffed the disguise behind a planter before continuing his mad dash, the shopping bag still clutched in his left hand. He shucked off the robe next, revealing the conservative business suit beneath. When he burst out into the lobby, he was just another guy in business clothes, albeit the only one yelling “TERRORISTS! TERRORISTS! THERE’S A BOMB ON THE SECOND FLOOR!”