Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Y-yes?”

  “We’ll be watching you.”

  There were three other people in the elevator he took to the lobby. He hoped they didn’t notice the tremor he could feel in his whole body or the sweat he could feel sheening his face and collecting in his armpits. A sudden thought occurred to him. What if one of the people in the elevator had been sent to watch him? He looked around. No one looked back. When the doors opened and he crossed the lobby, none of them followed.

  But someone else did. “Gareth! A word?”

  Gane stopped and stifled a groan. Ricky Vandella was striding toward him as fast as his stubby legs could carry him. He came to a stop in front of Gane and stood there, hands on hips. There was a scrape on the side of his face where he’d hit it on the stage and his hair was more unkempt than usual. “We need to talk about what happened last night, Gare.”

  “Not now, Ricky,” Gane said. He started to move off, but Vandella placed himself between Gane and the door. “Yes, now. One of your bloody rent-a-cops assaulted me. I want…”

  “They’re not ‘my’ anything,” Gane snapped. “They work for Paragon Security. And I’d be careful with the word ‘assault’ if I were you. Looks to me like you were about to commit one of those yourself. It’s undoubtedly on camera.”

  “That’s not true,” Ricky sputtered, “an’ even if it was, that little red-haired slag bloody TASERED me!”

  “I said NOT NOW, Ricky!” Gane reached out and shoved the little man. He staggered backward, a look of total shock on his face. Gane pushed past, ignoring the outraged squawk of “BASTARD!” behind him, and headed for the doors.

  There was a bustle of activity at the doors. People were standing in knots talking on the steps. Bellmen were helping guests in and out of cars. Gane stopped and looked around, searching for watchers and seeing none. He picked a direction at random and walked out from under the portico and off down the street.

  It was a typical Georgia summer day, hot and sticky. Heat shimmered up off the pavement. When he thought he’d gone a sufficient distance from the hotel, Gane pulled out the phone. The sweat on his palm nearly caused it to slip from his hand. He dialed the number again. This time, the phone rang several times. Gane stopped walking, resisting the urge to scream. Finally, the same voice he’d heard before answered. “Excellent. Thank you for exercising good sense.”

  “Just tell me what you want.”

  “What we all want, Mr. Gane. We want our secrets to remain secret. But what we need, Mr. Gane, is money. You can imagine our disappointment when we discovered that the fabulous item which Enigma has made such a grand to-do about was, and you will forgive my bluntness, a fraud. A fake. A cheap, gaudy…”

  “You’ve made your point!” Gane nearly sobbed. “Just tell me how much?”

  “Having been cheated out of what we reasonably believed was a five-million-dollar payday, let’s say that much.”

  Gane closed his eyes. The jewels he’d already sold had gone for what he knew was a fraction of their value. There was no way he could get what the voice was asking for. “You weren’t going to make that much,” he said. “And we both know it. You don’t get full value on the black market.”

  “And how, if I may be so bold as to ask, would a fine upstanding fellow like you, a pillar of the fashion community, know so much about sellin’ jewels on the black market?”

  “Never mind that,” Gane said. “The amount you’re asking is impossible.”

  “For Enigma? Surely not. A company of their standing?” There was a pause. “Unless, of course, Enigma doesn’t know about our little pow-wow. Which would mean…” The man on the phone sighed. “Oh dear. I fear that my most pessimistic surmises have come to pass.”

  Gane was nearing the breaking point. “Dear Lord, will you please get to the point?”

  “Tch,” the voice said. “Mr. Gane, I fear you have dabbled in matters that should never be undertaken by amateurs.” The man chuckled. “As the familiar disclaimer goes, don’t try this at home.” Gane said nothing. “It must have been a terrible weight on your shoulders, Mr. Gane,” the voice went on in that same unctuous tone. “But today is your lucky day.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Now, now. No need to be all difficult. My colleagues and I are about to demonstrate that there is some honor…or at least compassion…among thieves. We are willing to relieve you of this terrible burden of guilt and anxiety—the anxiety, if I’m not getting too terribly personal, that I can hear in your voice, even as you speak.” The voice sharpened, lost some of its smoothness. “We want the jewels, Gane. All of them. Or the money you made from selling them. If we’re not satisfied you’re playing straight with us, the fake bra gets mailed to police headquarters with an explanatory note, and you can explain things to them from inside a cell.” There was a nasty chuckle. “I’m thinkin’ a fellow like you just might have a tough time in the jailhouse. A full dance card, if you take my meanin’.”

  “Please.” There were tears running down Gane’s face now. People were beginning to stare, but only for a moment before they averted their eyes and moved on. “I have a family.”

  “That was your first mistake, son.” All the fake politeness was gone now from the voice. “Family’s a weakness. It’s what makes you an amateur.”

  Gane drew himself up, straightened his shoulders. If this was his only way out, he’d take it. “What do I need to do? I…I’ll need some time to get the…items.” In fact, they were in a locked silver Halliburton briefcase in his hotel room. He knew it was foolish, bordering on madness, to carry the evidence of his crime with him, but when he didn’t, he became obsessed with worry about them.

  “We’ll be in touch,” the voice said. “Go ahead and do what you need to do to get everything here. Just don’t do anything stupid. We have eyes everywhere. Nice suit, by the way. That light blue really sets off your eyes.”

  “The…what?” Gane looked around at the crowded street and the congested traffic. As he stared, a white Buick Regal, its windows tinted nearly black, accelerated away from the curb and into traffic, causing other drivers to slam on brakes and blast their horns. As the car passed where Gane stood dumbfounded on the sidewalk, one of the windows rolled down just far enough for a hand to wave him goodbye. “My eyes are brown,” he murmured as the car drove out of sight.

  “WELLY WELLY welly,” Ricky Vandella whispered to himself as he raised the newspaper back up to hide his face. “What are you up to, Gareth, you great poof?”

  The panicked look on Gane’s face had shocked Ricky as much as the shove. The man was in a hurry to get somewhere, which wasn’t unusual for him. But he was terrified of not getting there on time, which was. And for the fussy and fastidious Gane to resort to any kind of physical violence…

  His brand of humor notwithstanding, Ricky Vandella was not a stupid man. Further, he’d gotten to where he was not just by his humor and his onstage timing, but because he was an instinctive genius at recognizing opportunity. Certain persons, situations, or offers would send a kind of electric shiver up his spine that told him “This. This is where you want to be, old son.”

  He’d had that feeling when he’d seen Gane’s panicked expression. He’d quickly snatched up a discarded newspaper from one of the couches in the lobby to use as cover and followed Gane at a discreet distance, using the crowd on the street for cover as best he could. When the man had stopped, Ricky had plopped himself down on a bench at a nearby bus stop, peering at the scene from over the top of the paper. He couldn’t hear the whole conversation, but he did catch the words “I have a family.”

  “Well, there’s a surprise,” Ricky murmured. But Gane was clearly terrified of the person on the other end. Which would likely mean some sort of criminal involvement, which would mean…

  Realization dawned. “Well, Gareth, me lad, looks like you might have had something to do with whoever nicked those bright and shinies last night.” Ricky pondered his options. He could take what he knew to the police
immediately, of course, but what advantage would that get him? No, he’d keep an eye on Mr. Gane. See where this led. Ricky Vandella smiled. Things were definitely looking brighter this morning. For him at least.

  “UNCLE RAFE?” Branson said. He was sitting in the back seat, beside his uncle. Elihu Lowman was driving. Or perhaps it was Japeth. Bran still couldn’t tell them apart. L.B. was in the front passenger seat.

  “Not now, nephew,” Rafe said. He craned his neck to look back for following vehicles. Seeing none, he turned back to address their driver. “Good work. Just stay on this road until you get to…”

  “Uncle Rafe,” Bran insisted.

  Rafe Valentine turned to him, his brow knotted with irritation. “What is it, Branson?”

  “What you said. About family being a weakness. Did you really mean that?”

  Rafe looked annoyed for a moment, then his red face settled into its usual benign, almost jolly expression. Branson had come to deeply mistrust that expression.

  “Of course not, nephew,” the older man said. “I merely wanted to throw a scare into our Mr. Gane back there. He must continue to think of us as merciless and desperate men.”

  Isn’t that what we are? Bran wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth shut. He caught sight of L.B. Gordon looking at him in the rearview mirror. He didn’t like the calculating way the man was looking at him, like a butcher regarding a cut of meat that was on the verge of going bad and trying to decide whether to put it on the shelf or grind it up for sausage.

  He had thought that he was lonely and unhappy working at a crappy job, living broke in a shabby apartment with a pair of idiot stoners who made the guys from the Dumb and Dumber movies look like Nobel laureates. But now he was lonely and unhappy and scared. He was having to confront the idea that he might end what had started as a big adventure either dead or in prison. After hearing his uncle’s conversation with the guy from Enigma, he wasn’t sure which was worse.

  He realized there was nowhere in the universe he’d rather be than away from these people and out of this situation. He realized he didn’t even care about the money any more. When those two realizations came together, he knew what he had to do.

  THE DOOR swung open. A young man was standing there. His dark eyes had circles of fatigue beneath them, and he hadn’t shaved, but he was still a handsome man. Zoe recognized him from his photo.

  “Mario Allegretti, I presume,” Zoe said.

  The young man looked back and forth between Zoe and Chunk. “Who wants to know?”

  Chunk drew himself up to his full height, bristling at the tone. “My name’s McNeill,” he said. “This is my assistant…”

  “Partner,” Zoe murmured.

  “Sorry. My partner, Miss Piper.”

  “Ms.”

  Chunk ignored her this time. “We’d like to speak with Stephanie.” He started to move toward the door.

  Allegretti didn’t move, and Chunk nearly collided with him. “Stephanie’s busy right now,” Allegretti said. “Come back later when HEY!” He stumbled backward as Chunk shouldered him aside and pushed past him.

  Zoe followed, a big smile plastered on her face. “Excuse me, coming through, excuse me.” Allegretti’s face darkened and he reached out as if to grab Chunk’s shoulder. Zoe’s own hand came up quickly and gently redirected the arm away. “Bad idea.” She turned her body and got between Allegretti and Chunk, who was headed down the hallway at full steam. “No, let me rephrase that. Terrible idea.”

  “Get out of my way,” Allegretti said.

  She shook her head. “My partner’s a little grumpy this morning. You can ask your pal Moose. You don’t want to annoy him.”

  “Bitch, I said get out of my way.” Allegretti shoved her aside, knocking her against the wall. As he headed down the short hallway after Chunk, Zoe sighed and reached into her purse. Her hand came out holding the Hello Kitty Taser, which she’d reloaded with a fresh cartridge that morning before they left. She pointed at Allegretti’s back and fired. At that range, there was no way to miss. Allegretti’s back arched as the electrodes caught in his shirt and the current hit him. He began shaking, then fell to the floor, twitching, his jaw clamped tight around the scream to which he couldn’t give voice.

  Zoe stepped over his convulsing body and followed her partner. She paused, then turned back and looked down at the man on the floor. “Sorry,” she said in a poisonously sweet voice. “Forgot to tell you. I’m kinda grumpy myself. ” She looked down at the Taser in her hand and sighed. “I am getting way too fond of you,” she told it before detaching the electrodes from Mario and putting it back into her purse.

  CHUNK PULLED the red door at the end of the hallway open. He saw a spacious living room with a large couch and an overstuffed chair. A dark-haired girl was huddled on the sofa, knees drawn up to her chest, her thin arms wrapped around them. Chunk did a double take. At first glance, the girl on the couch appeared to be extremely pale, but Chunk realized she was wearing some kind of thick white makeup. And the wild hair looked fake. Whatever questions that raised in his mind ceased to matter when he turned his attention to the overstuffed easy chair.

  There was a pretty blond girl sitting in it, dressed in a terrycloth robe. She was pushing back against the arms of the chair as if trying to get as far away as she could from the man bending over her, his own hands over hers, his face only inches from her terrified one. Even from the doorway, Chunk could see her eyes, blue and wide and frightened.

  “HEY!” he barked.

  The man stood up and turned to Chunk. He was slender and expensively dressed. His hair was gray, with a few dark streaks, and as immaculately cut as his clothing. He looked at Chunk with flat dead eyes, like a snake’s. “Can I help you, friend?” he said in a soft, whispery voice that reminded Chunk of scales slithering across a tile floor.

  “Step away from the girl,” Chunk said, his voice a low, threatening growl.

  “Who the hell are you?” the man said. His eyes flickered to the doorway where Zoe was just walking in. He looked back at Chunk. “Where are the two guys who were outside?”

  “Your buddy Moose is having a little come-to-Jesus meeting with a friend of ours,” Zoe said. “As for Mario, well, you might want to check on him. He doesn’t look like he’s doing too well.”

  The man looked back and forth between them for a second, then headed for the door. Chunk was in the way. He didn’t move as the gray-haired man approached. “Excuse me,” the man said. Chunk didn’t move. The man squared off with him. “You got a problem, pal?” he said, his cold eyes never leaving Chunk’s.

  “Not as long as you don’t ever come back through that door once you walk out of it.”

  “Can’t promise that.”

  “Then we may have a problem.” Chunk stood aside. “We’ll just have to see. By the way, my name’s McNeill, not ‘pal.’” The man gave him a hard stare, then brushed past, almost but not quite making the kind of contact that would have required a reaction. Chunk turned his attention to the girl in the chair. She was trembling, her eyes blank. Tears were running down her face.

  Zoe moved toward the chair. “I got the girl,” she said. “You go back up Hermione.” Chunk nodded and headed for the door. “And partner?” Zoe called after him. Chunk stopped and looked back. Zoe’s face was grave. “Be careful. If that guy is who I think he is, he’s a heavy hitter.”

  Chunk nodded. “Got it.”

  In the hallway, the gray-haired man was helping Mario Allegretti to his feet. The younger man was pale and shaky. He glared at Chunk. “Tell that little red-haired cunt,” he said, “that this shit ain’t over.”

  “Where’s Clarissa, Mario?” Chunk said.

  Allegretti wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Bullshit,” Chunk snapped.

  “You might want to be careful about making accusations,” the gray-haired man said. “They might lead to, you know, trouble.”

  “F
ine with me, asshole.” Chunk was moving forward, his hands balling into fists. The gray-haired man held up his hand. “I mean legal trouble. Unless I miss my guess, you’re no kind of cop. Not official, anyway.”

  That stopped Chunk in his tracks. The gray-haired man smiled. “Thought not. Seems to me I recall your face from the news. The guy who was supposed to be looking after all those pretty jewels, and the lady wearing them.” The smile turned cruel. “I’m thinking maybe you don’t have that job anymore. But you’d like it back.”

  Chunk didn’t speak. He felt the adrenaline slipping away from him.

  “So,” the man said, “seems like we’re all just concerned citizens here. You’re trying to get back the Fantasy Bra and”—he pointed at Allegretti—“my young friend here is worried about his ex-girlfriend.”

  “Yeah. I’ll bet.”

  The gray-haired man shrugged. “I know, they’re supposed to be broken up. But these young folks, they’re impetuous. Passionate even.” He patted Allegretti on the shoulder. “I’m along at his papa’s request to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. Right, Mario?”

  Allegretti was staring down at the floor. “Right.”

  The gray-haired man extended his hand to Chunk. “Paul Chirelli. I’m a friend of the Allegretti family.” Chunk ignored the proffered hand, his eyes boring into Chirelli’s. The older man dropped the hand to his side and went on, his voice low and smooth. “The last time Clarissa Cartwright was seen alive was in the company of that girl’s”—he pointed past Chunk at the apartment—“boyfriend. He was with the ones that took her. We thought maybe she’d know where he is. And where he is, maybe we could find the missing love of my young friend’s life.”

  “By terrorizing that girl in there?”

  “That’s why I was in there and not Mario. To avoid misunderstandings about our intentions.”

  “Looked to me she was pretty scared,” Chunk said.