“Shouldn’t you turn down the heat a little, Dennis?”
“Sure. I bet the nude members of our staff would greatly appreciate that.”
“I see your point,” Charlie said, then stood, swigging down his beer. “I better get going.”
He moved for the door, past Culligan. Someone would give the old man a ride home at the end of the night.
He stood there for a moment in the open door. An eight-foot-high wall of concrete blocks stood between it and the parking lot, blocking the view from outside, and the arctic wind whipped around it and under Charlie’s open overcoat, peppering his face with tiny sharp snowflakes.
“Shut the fucking door, Charlie; I’m naked up here,” Cupcake yelled, and turning slowly he saw that she was indeed already naked and onstage, the three college boys seated obediently around the table.
“Go on, boys, give ol’ Cupcake a tip; she puts on a hell of a show,” he heard as the door shut behind him. Charlie was certain Culligan didn’t recognize them.
I need to get some food in me, Charlie thought as the Lincoln glided south back into town, the snow coming down heavy and slick. Half the bastards in this town don’t know how to drive on snow. He stepped gently on the brake, tapping it, feeling the car lift each time his foot came up, and he closed his eyes as the Lincoln went into a spin, a full 360 degrees, ending up pointed directly south again when the wheels regained their grip on the road as if by divine providence, with not another driver in sight. He regained control and a chorus of dogs started barking “Jingle Bells” over the AM. He felt good.
Less than half a mile inside the city limits he spotted the dull orange and brown of a Hardee’s sign. He swung into the deserted parking lot, got out of the Lincoln, and gave the front door a hard yank. It didn’t budge and he had to desperately grab for the handle with both hands to keep from losing his balance on the icy concrete. There was a professionally printed sign inside the door:
TO OUR VALUED CUSTOMERS
WE WILL BE CLOSING AT FIVE P.M.
ON CHRISTMAS EVE AND CLOSED ALL DAY
CHRISTMAS DAY SO THAT OUR EMPLOYEES
MAY SPEND THE HOLIDAY WITH THEIR FAMILIES.
“What you got your goddamn sign lit up for, then?” Charlie shouted, kicking at the door. The interior of the restaurant was fully illuminated. He felt like throwing a brick through the plate glass. He turned on his heel and on his first step away from the door felt his left foot sliding along the slick concrete step, then his right, and then his tailbone made solid contact with the frozen sidewalk. He sat there for a moment in disbelief, his ass numb with cold and shock, his head feeling like a ten-pound brick of solid snot, fighting involuntary tears of humiliation and rage. A little green Japanese sedan pulled into the lot and stopped ten feet away from Charlie. A black kid, about fifteen, rolled his window down.
“Hey, you okay?” he said.
Charlie swallowed. “I’m fine. Just slipped and fell.”
“Come on, let’s go,” said the driver. “He’s fine.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, goddamnit.” He maneuvered his feet back behind him, trying to figure out the best way to get back up.
“Merry Christmas,” the kid said, rolling his window back up. The car chugged back onto the street and disappeared into the blowing snow.
He was limping when he made it back to the car. Where was he going to find food at this hour on Christmas Eve? Even the supermarkets were closed.
Sailing down the deserted main artery downtown, listening to the police reporter embellish his Westside tavern disturbance story, Charlie saw lights on in the window of the Brass Candle. He pulled across the empty oncoming lane and slid ten feet to a stop facing the wrong direction precisely before the picture window in front. Through the pine boughs framing it he saw a waitress bringing food to a table full of revelers within. He considered momentarily whether or not to try to turn the Lincoln around or even put it into the parking lot, but in a few minutes the car would be completely blanketed in snow and who’d know which direction it was facing? It seemed like a complicated maneuver, and he had to get food inside him immediately. The parking lot looked full, anyway.
He stepped into the dim yellowish light of the oak-paneled entryway, its walls draped with pine roping and thick red velvet ribbons trimmed with bells and golden cherubs stamped out of foil, the “Hallelujah Chorus” playing over the laughter and shouting coming from the dining room and bar. It felt so much more like New Year’s Eve than Christmas Eve that Charlie had the fleeting sensation that he’d blacked out and spent an extra and possibly fatal week in town.
“Hi, Charlie, Merry Christmas,” the hostess said. She was a plump, pretty woman with short black hair whose name, Charlie thought, started with C or K, Christine or Kathleen or Cassandra. “Just going to sit at the bar?”
He almost said yes out of habit, then remembered his mission. “Kitchen still open?”
“Sure. You want a menu?” She handed him one. “Table by the front window just opened up.”
“Great.” Charlie went into the small front dining room. As promised, there was an empty table by the window. A tall, pale yellow taper burned in the center of a small arrangement of fir and mistletoe at the edge of the table. He sat and looked around him and, seeing no one he knew at the other tables, stared out the window, ignoring his menu. Everything was orange in the light of the street lamps, even the blowing snow. Things used to look bluish green under the old streetlights, before they brought in these new mercury vapor things. Or were the old ones mercury vapor and these something else? The revival theater across the street was showing Miracle on 34th Street. A few customers stood in line in the lobby, waiting to buy tickets. Now and then a car passed, slowly. One came fishtailing wildly down the street, and Charlie watched helplessly as it neared the Lincoln, its ass end swishing wildly right, then left, then right again. But it missed and continued on its way westward, past the Lincoln and on toward some other poor bastard’s pride and joy. He wondered why he was still worrying about the car. After tomorrow it would be Deacon’s. Merry Christmas, you little fuck.
5
It was past eight. He’d been there for more than an hour now, sitting by himself, working on a plate of prime rib and a bottle of red wine and watching the snow fly outside. He still had almost seven hours to go before the meeting with Vic, and no idea what to do or where to go once he’d given Renata the negative. It was too early to go home.
“Charlie?” a voice asked at his side. His reverie broken, he turned from the window and squinted upward at a very tall, very obese man in a nicely tailored suit. “Peter van Heuten’s your brother-in-law, isn’t he?”
“Uh-huh. Used to be, anyway.”
“I was wondering if you could give him a ride home. I’d hate to see him trying to drive home in the state he’s in. Particularly on Christmas Eve.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s at the bar. Maybe you’d care to join him. . . .”
“Okay.” He’d finished his prime rib, anyway. He felt great now, ready to tame lions. Tricking Pete into a ride home would be a breeze.
“Thanks a lot, Charlie. Your bottle’s taken care of, by the way. Merry Christmas.”
They love me here. I’m practically a celebrity. How can I leave? He stood and winced at the nearly forgotten pain in his hip and limped back toward the bar.
The bar was jammed. Among the throng Charlie recognized a county commissioner he had paid off copiously over the last six or seven years, a married local news anchor, and the conductor of the local symphony. Like everyone else in the room they were trying desperately to get laid; Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas without fucking somebody you’d just met.
Standing unsteadily against the bar, Pete van Heuten cackled maniacally at the sight of him. “Charlie Arglist, come here, you no-good motherfucker.” The bar was very loud, and he was by far the loudest man in it, braying hoarse greetings across the room to strangers and
friends alike. His tweed sport coat was several degrees beyond rumpled, its side pocket ripped at the corner, his reddish blond hair looked like it had been combed with a weed whacker, and still a certain loud, drunken kind of dignity clung to him. Despite the crush there was a distinct empty space on either side of him as he swiveled back and forth, zeroing in on anyone who innocently tried to occupy the adjacent spot. “Chrissakes, Charlie, we used to be family! What a fucking great coincidence, running into you on Christmas Eve! What are you drinking?”
“Red wine.”
“Fuck that, Charlie, drink some Scotch. Barkeep, give my brother-in-law some more of the same poison you been giving me.”
The young woman behind the bar made Charlie a drink and handed it to him, expressionless. She had not yet been ordered to cut Pete off, but she was dying to.
“Look at these pathetic cocksuckers. Piña coladas and ultrasuede three-piece suits, for fuck’s sake.” He gestured at a stylish young attorney Charlie knew by sight, huddled in deep conversation with a female of his kind. “The civilization is on an irreversible downward slide when a guy can get his ashes hauled dressed like that.”
“What you been up to, Pete?”
“Just drawing buildings. Making a fucking mint. I’m serious. I am making a fucking mint. How you doing?”
“About like always.”
“Still a mobster?” Pete yelled, and Charlie winced. “Aw, shit, man, you know perfectly well I’m yanking your fucking chain.”
“How are the kids?” Charlie asked.
Pete was stumped for a moment. “Ah, great, I think. Lessee, Melissa’s in swim club, or maybe that’s Spencer. . . .”
“Not my kids, I’m talking about your kids.”
“Oh, my kids. Uh, they’re fine. You know, pretty much.”
“Where’s Betsy tonight?”
“Her folks’ house, man, it’s Christmas Eve. Oh, my goodness gracious . . .” He looked at his watch in mock horror. “I’m three hours late. . . .” He laughed until his knees bent under him, and he slid his back down the front of the bar until he was leaning back against it in a full crouch, wheezing, clutching his belly with his right hand, tears rolling down his face, rocking with silent mirth. The owner appeared behind the bar and, eyes on Charlie, pointed at Pete and then at the front door. Charlie sensed that Pete wouldn’t be all that receptive to the suggestion that Charlie take him home or, worse, to his in-laws’ house.
“Listen, Pete, I gotta go over to the Sweet Cage; you want to come along?”
Pete looked up, still laughing. “Check out some puss? Oh, yeah!” Charlie pulled him to his feet.
The Lincoln had a drift on the hood as deep as a mattress, and the snow was coming down quietly, slow and thick. Pete was playing with the heater controls on the dash, trying to turn it up higher. “Christ, I wish I had the balls to do what you did,” he said, considerably less animated away from the crowd and the noise of the restaurant.
“What’s that?”
“Get out of that fucking family.”
“It wasn’t my idea.”
“Well, Betsy isn’t about to let me out without a royal reaming. Wants to be a fucking society matron.”
“Yeah, Sarabeth was the same way.”
“Sarabeth, now there’s a scary woman. Scarier than Betsy. Not as scary as their mother.”
“Formidable women, all three,” Charlie said.
Pete snorted. “That’s for fucking sure. I bet ol’ Ma Henneston really thought she’d scored a coup when her girls snagged the likes of us, a lawyer and a fucking architect.”
“We’re a couple of real catches, all right.”
“Christ, I haven’t had a piece of Betsy in six months. Last couple of years she gets this lie-back-and-do-it-for-America look on her face, acts like I’m some kind of sex maniac ’cause I want to keep screwing her even though we already got our biblical allotment of three kids.”
“You have three now?”
Pete frowned for a second, calculating. “Yeah. Third one’s a girl, three and a half. You been out of the family a long time, Charlie.” He stretched, yawning. “So what’s going on at the Sweet Cage? That one of yours?”
“No. I just gotta go talk to the owner about something.”
“All right! Mafia business! What is it, some kind of coke deal?”
“Watch your mouth, okay?”
“Hey, did Vic Cavanaugh really slice some guy’s hand off?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
Pete took this as an affirmative. “I knew it!”
“Where’d you hear it?”
“Guy I know, this cement contractor. Told him my ex-brother-in-law was Vic Cavanaugh’s right-hand man; he said he heard some guy’d stuck his finger up some stripper’s twat onstage at the Tease-O-Rama, and Vic took the poor fucker out back of the club and cut off both his hands.”
“Oh, sure, that’s true.” If that had in fact been the punishment for that particular offense, it would have been administered four or five times a week and the city would be full of men wearing hooks.
“That girl who disappeared, she worked for you, didn’t she?”
“Not for me personally, but yeah, she danced at the Tease-O-Rama.”
“So you knew her, right?”
“Yeah, I knew her,” he said. “Barely.”
“Well, what do you think happened? Think somebody killed her?”
“Probably took off with some guy. It happens sometimes.”
“Paper said she left a couple of kids behind.”
“Uh-huh. So?”
“So you think she was the kind of woman who’d abandon her kids like that?”
“How should I know? Jesus.”
“Paper sure made it sound like she was dead.”
“Yeah, and it also made her out to be a goddamn nun. Shit. I came in one afternoon, about a month after Desiray split, and here’s this woman sitting on a bar stool talking to the bartender. I thought she was applying for a job; turns out she’s interviewing him for the fucking newspaper. I threw her ass right back onto the pavement, but she’d already talked to Francie and Cupcake.”
Pete laughed. “Francie and Cupcake. Sounds like a couple of poodles.”
“Anyway, Cupcake got it into this sob sister’s head that Desiray must be dead ’cause why else would she have left her kids like that?”
“Well, why would she?”
“Women leave their kids sometimes. That reporter made her sound like Judge Crater and Eleanor goddamn Roosevelt rolled into one.” The articles in the paper had caused Charlie a lot of grief, with the cops and with the county and with Vic. The woman hadn’t made the Tease-O-Rama sound like a very wholesome environment for a young mother of two to be working in.
“Hey, Charlie, you ever get to top any of those strippers?”
“Once in a while, if I’m desperately horny or completely shitfaced or just generally have my head up my ass.”
“I’m all three of those most of the time. Hey, speaking of coke, you’re not holding, are you?”
“No,” he said. “And watch that kind of talk; you’re going to get us both in trouble.”
The Sweet Cage was empty except for Sidney, who was screaming at someone on the phone when they walked in. Without looking up or interrupting his screaming he opened two beers and set them down on the bar. His face was bright red and spit was flying.
“Well, if this ain’t the ratfuck of the century I don’t know what is! As far as I’m concerned you can grease up that Yule log of yours and ram it up your shithole!”
Charlie discreetly wiped a tiny fleck of spit from his cheek. Pete leaned over to whisper into Charlie’s ear.
“If this is who you got business with, maybe you oughtta wait for a better time.”
Charlie pulled out the flask and took a swig, and took a pull of his beer. He handed the flask to Pete, who drank with one wary eye trained on Sidney.
“You’ll rue the day you decided you could pull this kind of shit o
n me, you toothless old whore. I promise you will regret the day you were fucking born.” He slammed the receiver down, then picked it back up and screamed into it at the top of his lungs, then slammed it down into its cradle again and again until finally, breathing hard, he looked up at Charlie and Pete. “Sorry. That was my mom; she wants me to pick up my kids tonight instead of tomorrow. She and her shitbag husband decided they wanna head for Garden of the fucking Gods at six A.M. on Christmas morning.” He shook his head as if to clear it.
“Renata around? I got something for her,” Charlie said. He had the envelope in his hand. Holding it made him uncomfortable, almost as though he expected it to jump out of his hand and scurry away across the floor.
“She’ll be back about midnight. You could leave it with me.”
“I better give it to her in person.”
Sidney shrugged. “Okay.”
“Where are the dancers?” Pete whined.
“Where are the customers?” Sidney whined back. “Rusti took off with that kid who tried to paste Culligan. Amy Sue’s sitting in the office waiting for some paying customers to show. Anita’s supposed to be here but she hasn’t shown up yet. Christ, I wish Renata’d let me close the place up. You shut the Tease-O-Rama?”
“No, it’s open.”
“Ah, maybe things’ll pick up after the late-night church services let out.”
“Probably will,” Charlie said, slugging down the beer. “What do we owe you here?”
“You’re still drinking on Renata. I’ll tell her you came by.”
“I’ll be back by midnight.”
“Christ, I may already be gone to pick up my kids. If Renata has to tend bar tonight she will not be in a good mood.”
“She will be when she sees what I got for her,” Charlie said, slapping the envelope against his hand as he and Pete left.
Charlie put the envelope into the glove compartment. “Where to now?”
The Ice Harvest Page 3
