“Nothing. It’s a Christmas present. Gerard isn’t operating in the city limits; he doesn’t need any leverage with the city commission.”
“Come on, Charlie. Gerard’s not running a fucking charity. And I don’t see him or Vic here handing this to me. What’s your angle?”
“No angle.”
“Horseshit.” She sat back, uncrossed her legs, leaned forward with both feet planted on the floor in front of her and her hands on her knees. She studied Charlie for a moment, then leaned back again and recrossed her legs. The sound of nylon brushing across nylon gave him occasion to gulp again. Her legs were a quarter of a shade darker than her bare skin, and he pictured reaching out his hand and touching her knee, resting his hand on it, feeling the cool, sheer nylon and the warm knee beneath. She tilted her head to one side and looked him in the eye as though she’d just noticed him sitting there. “Either you’ve lost your mind or you’re about to skip town.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Had your hand in the till for a while, haven’t you?”
“I gotta get going.” He started to stand.
“Hold on.” She rose faster than he could have and pushed him back down into his chair with one long, slender hand. “I’m going to have to use this right away, and I mean Christmas Day, but afterward I’m going to have to be able to prove to Bill Gerard that I did this in good faith. Write me a letter turning the negative over to me and saying it was Gerard told you to do it.”
Charlie was appalled. “Put it in writing?”
“Gerard’s the only one who’ll ever see it. I’ll be in the clear with him and you’ll be long gone.” She put her hand to the side of his head. “This is very sweet of you, Charlie.” His face burned. She opened her desk and took out a sheet of paper and a pen.
Dear Renata,
Bill Gerard wants you to have this to use at your discretion.
Charlie Arglist
He was seated behind her desk with her standing close behind him, her left breast pressing into his right shoulder blade and her arm around his other shoulder. “That’s good. Short and simple,” she said quietly into his ear. Under the desk he had a half-erection, encumbered only by the fit of his trousers and a monumental exertion of will. She took the first three drafts of the letter and held a disposable lighter to them over the wastebasket as he folded the letter and put it in the envelope with the negative.
“Seems like everybody’s disappearing over at the Tease-O-Rama. I wonder why that is.”
Charlie’s throat constricted a little.
“You about done, Renata?” Anita opened the door and leaned in.
“Just about. Hold your horses.”
“It’s time for me to go on. Amy Sue needs to change, and somebody’s gonna have to tend bar.”
“Where the fuck is Rusti, anyway?”
“Sidney said she took off with some guy when it got slow.”
“Of course she did. All right, I’ll be there in a second. Shit.”
Anita shrugged and backed out.
“What else you got planned for Christmas Eve, Charlie?”
“Nothing.”
“Already seen the kids?”
“Yeah.”
“I feel like I owe you something.” She smiled and moved closer.
He squirmed. “I didn’t do this because I wanted something from you,” he began.
“You seem a little nervous, Charlie. Come on, this dirty picture of yours is going to keep my dancers naked and my beer flowing for a long time to come.” She touched his cheek again, lightly scratching his ear with her long nails. “I think that deserves a little something.” She leaned forward and touched her lips to his. “Why don’t you pass back by at two and follow me home.”
“I have to meet somebody at two.” He felt his chest getting tight. He had never heard of anyone going to Renata’s place.
“Too bad. Come on out front and I’ll get you another beer before you go.” He followed her out the office door, the motion of her hips like the ringing of a church bell.
One superfluous beer later he pushed the front door open and stepped from the dry heat of the Sweet Cage into the blowing snow outside. In the middle of the parking lot stood a circle of about half a dozen men, several of them cheer-ing. A couple of them looked back nervously at Charlie. Rusti and Ronny leaned against the Trans Am. Its motor was still rumbling, but the rocking had ceased. Rusti still wore Ronny’s sheepskin coat, and Ronny had a fresh gash on his forehead to complement her shiner, his shirttail hanging out and his belt undone. Charlie moved up to the edge of the crowd.
Sidney had a skinny kid with long blond hair in a down vest and bare arms pinned facedown in the dirty snow of the parking lot, his left arm yanked painfully behind his back. Sidney’s face was so flushed and he was breathing so hard Charlie thought he might be on the verge of passing out. Saliva was dripping from the corner of his mouth and freezing on his face.
“Not my left hand, not my left, fuck, not my left,” the kid begged, his face wet with blood and melted snow.
A man in an orange ski parka and stocking cap turned to Charlie and grinned. “He’s breaking that dude’s fingers.” A loud crack followed closely by a shriek brought the man’s attention back to the central struggle. The boy’s right hand lay limp and badly swollen at his side.
“Charlie!” Rusti ran splay-legged through the snow toward him. “He’s gonna kill him!”
Charlie looked back at Sidney. It seemed possible. “What do you want me to do?” The kid let out a high-pitched wail as Sidney broke another of his fingers.
“Stop him! He’ll stop if you tell him to!”
Charlie stepped forward, past the throng, and knelt down about five feet away from where Sidney was struggling to get a good solid grip on the third finger of the kid’s left hand. “Sidney, as your attorney I’m advising you to let the kid up.”
Sidney gave no indication that he’d heard, nor that he was even conscious of Charlie’s presence. The kid’s eyes met Charlie’s briefly, then looked away in despair.
“It’s assault and battery.” Getting no reaction from Sidney, he tried to come up with what else this was. “Grievous bodily harm. Mayhem. In front of witnesses. You could get in serious trouble for this.”
Sidney glanced up at him. “Seventy percent,” he said, his voice ragged. He winced as he pulled the finger back, failing to produce a crack but eliciting a pitiful howl from the kid. He yanked on it again, harder, and the crack came along with another pained yelp. “Eighty.”
“Are you going to stop after all ten fingers?”
Sidney met his eyes again. “I am unless you think he can learn to play the guitar with his toes.”
As Sidney struggled for a good solid grip on the next finger, Charlie stood and walked over to the Trans Am.
The boy yelled again, to the crowd’s approval. “Can’t you make him stop?” Rusti wailed.
“Just one more to go and then he’ll be done. What happened, anyway?”
“Well, first we went for a ride. Ronny and me? And then we talked and talked about when we were in school and stuff? And Ronny had the biggest crush on me, only I didn’t know it? And we only had like two classes together, chemistry and English, and I didn’t even know who he was? But as we were driving around tonight I, like, realized what a sweet guy he was?”
“Why don’t you skip that part and tell me why Sidney’s breaking that young man’s hands.”
“Oh. Well, we came back here so I could take my shift? Just in case it got busy again? And we were sitting here, talking some more, and one thing kind of led to another. . . .” She reddened, and Ronny pulled her close to him.
“We’re getting married,” he said. She beamed at him.
Charlie tried again. He pointed at Sidney, who was struggling to get hold of the last finger as the crowd began cheering him on. “Rusti, why is that happening over there?”
“Well, next thing we knew Stroke yanked the door open.”
“S
troke?”
“That’s his name. My boyfriend’s name? My ex-boyfriend now, I guess.” She shot a look over at Ronny, who smiled a little. “Anyway, he was trying to pull me out of the car, and screaming and cussing me and making threats, and he hit Ronny in the forehead, and that was when Sidney came out and he pulled him out of the car and dragged him over there and started breaking his fingers.”
“I would’ve kicked his ass myself, only I didn’t have time,” Ronny said. Rusti took his arm and studied him reverently. Her attention was barely diverted by the last agonizing pop and its accompanying cry, this one as much of relief as of pain.
Sidney rose to his feet, then walked unsteadily to the Trans Am. The onlookers began stepping around the prostrate, whimpering Stroke and heading for the Sweet Cage.
Sidney leaned against the car, exhausted. “I don’t ever want that guy around here again. Understand?”
“I understand,” Rusti said.
“Good,” Sidney said. He glared at Ronny and the boy looked away. “You ever try any of that shit on her and you know what’ll happen.” Ronny blanched and nodded, and Sidney gave him a friendly slap on the arm. “Good boy.”
“Sidney, maybe we should get you out of here before the cops show up.”
“Yeah,” Sidney said, his wind gradually returning. “I gotta get over and pick up the kids anyway. Shit, I’m getting out of shape.” He nodded in the direction of the front door. “Rusti, you’d better get in there and take your shift. It’s down to Anita and Amy Sue, and Renata’s pissed.”
Ronny piped up. “She’s through dancing.” He stepped between Rusti and Sidney. Sidney stared at him in disbelief.
“It’s okay, Ronny, I’ll just take this one last shift.”
“Forget it,” Ronny said. “We already decided no more dancing.”
“Look, you little shit, I just saved you getting your brains bashed in with a fucking tire iron. Rusti, if you don’t want to take your shift I won’t press it, but it’d be better if you did.”
“Ronny, I can’t just quit in the middle of a busy shift. I swear, after tonight I’ll be done with it. I’ll dance alone at home for you.”
“I already told you—” he began, then stopped cold at a look from Sidney, who appeared to be taking an inven-tory of Ronny’s breakable appendages. “Tonight and that’s it, right?”
Rusti touched Ronny’s sleeve comfortingly. “That’s it. Sidney, could you un-eighty-six Ronny?”
Sidney sighed. “You’re un-eighty-sixed.”
As Rusti and Ronny walked arm in arm into the Sweet Cage, a battered VW bus pulled into the lot, swerving at the last second at the sight of Stroke lying in its path and crunching into the side of a station wagon with an “I Found It” bumper sticker. The bus backed up and pulled into a space, again nearly running over Stroke in the process. A fortyish man with a gray beard and long hair and wearing a fringed leather jacket got out and examined first his own front end, then the considerable gash he’d cut into the station wagon, and finally Stroke. He looked up from Stroke and stared uncertainly at Sidney and Charlie.
“He was already lying there when I pulled in,” he said.
“Maybe we should move him before some poor son of a bitch does run him over,” Sidney said. “Come on, give us a hand,” he called out to the driver.
“Did you see what happened to this guy?”
“He went after one of the dancers with a tire iron,” Sidney said, reaching under Stroke’s armpits and lifting him up.
“He’s in shock. Look at him.”
Stroke’s face had gone pale and his eyes were unfocused. “My band,” he mumbled.
Over the wind Charlie thought he heard a siren. “Come on, let’s hurry up.”
“Both of you, take a leg. We’ll put him in the lot next door.”
“I think we should call a doctor,” the man said.
“He’s right, Sidney. Why don’t you get going. We’ll take care of him.”
“All right. I just hate to leave things unresolved.” He walked over to an old white Falcon and got in.
As Charlie and the man in the fringed jacket carried Stroke toward the Sweet Cage, a police cruiser pulled into the lot. Sidney had been gone barely thirty seconds. The other man’s eyes widened at the sight of the black and white.
“Funny seeing you twice the same night, Counselor,” the first cop said.
“Sure is.” Charlie struggled again for the cop’s name.
“What’s the story? One of the neighbors across the street called in a fight.”
“Don’t know, really. We just found this guy lying here, thought he was passed out. We were going to take him inside so he didn’t freeze to death.”
The first cop got out of the car and Charlie and the other man laid their charge down. “My band,” Stroke murmured. “My fuckin’ band . . .”
“Looks like he took a shellacking,” the cop said. Charlie looked at his nameplate. Wilmington. Tom? Tim? “Shit, look at his hands. You didn’t see what happened?”
“Nope. Maybe you should take him to the emergency room.”
“Hey, Chet, come take a look.” The cop behind the wheel got out and knelt beside his partner.
“Jesus, Ted,” the second cop said. “Who did this to you, son?”
“My band,” Stroke whimpered.
“He’s high as a fucking kite.” Chet laughed.
“Nah, he’s in shock. I think maybe we better swing him on over to the emergency room.” They carried Stroke to the backseat of the cruiser and heaved him in. “Merry Christmas, Counselor,” Officer Ted shouted as they backed out of the parking lot and onto the street.
10
Charlie’s condominium was several miles past the western edge of the city limits, part of a collection of mostly unoccupied, identical luxury crackerboxes, and he did nothing in it but sleep. The year before he’d put up a Christmas tree, a real one that had become a serious fire hazard by the time he took it down in March, its needles all gone orange and scattered on the carpet around the stand. He’d set it up for the kids, then never quite got around to inviting them over. His thin walls were bare, and his living room furniture consisted in its entirety of a black La-Z-Boy, a matching ottoman, and a small television set. He stood there in the dark and thought about turning it on and watching a few minutes of a movie, but he was afraid of falling asleep and missing his appointment with Vic. His two suitcases sat by the door. It seemed like a lot of trouble to carry them both, and he wondered once again if he could consolidate them down to one, but he didn’t know how much room he’d need for the money. Better to play it safe with one of them half-empty.
On his refrigerator door was the only piece of decoration in the apartment, a crayon drawing of a clown Melissa had given him two years earlier. He opened the door and looked inside, wondering if anything in it was safe to eat, but all of his perishables appeared to have perished. Inside the door was a carton with eight eggs in it, and he tried to remember when he’d eaten the other four. He remembered making a couple of omelettes one morning after Dora had spent the night. When had he stopped seeing her, around Labor Day? Or was it even earlier than that?
He went into the bedroom and sat on the bed in the dark. He’d only brought her here once. They almost always went to her place, mainly because his was so empty. Maybe he could call her one last time, apologize, try to explain why he was leaving, maybe try to get her into the sack one last time, for old times’ sake.
Again he felt the beginnings of an erection. What was going on tonight, anyway? Maybe the fact that he was leaving town was making him horny, some sociobiological need to leave part of his genetic code behind before moving on. Maybe it was the coke nullifying the usual antiaphrodisiac effects of the alcohol. Maybe it was the unprecedented close contact with Renata and the unbelievable suggestion of a later reward. Good God, had he actually turned down a chance to fuck Renata? What a way that would have been to say good-bye to the old town.
He shook his head, resist
ing his overwhelming desire to lie back on the bed. This wasn’t going to work; if he stayed in the apartment any longer he’d fall asleep. It would be better to head east in the direction of Vic’s house. He’d stop in at the Midtown Tap and kill some time, maybe get a chance to see Tommy after all. He picked up his bags and took them outside. He started to lock the door, then thought better of it and walked away with the key still in the lock. That would give them something to think about.
Driving east toward town on the state highway, he felt himself getting drowsy again, and there was a dull throb at his hip. The snow was coming down in big, slow-moving flakes now, churning brightly across his high beams, and his visibility was only about twenty feet. He was keeping it just below forty, half out of caution and half out of a dim but growing awareness of his own drunkenness. Passing an off-ramp just short of the city limits he pulled off on an impulse and headed west onto the access road half a mile to a parking lot behind a long, low, one-story building. He misjudged his speed entering his space and crunched the front end of the Mercedes into the orange brick wall of the building. He got out and had a look. Some of the bricks were cracked, and the Mercedes’ bumper was scarred pretty badly. He shrugged and went inside. It was Bill Gerard’s building and Betsy van Heuten’s Mercedes. Who gave a shit?
A bell gave a sad, dull tinkle when he pushed on the door. It was dark inside and smelled of ammonia.
“Charlie. I was hoping you were a customer.” Behind the counter a heavyset young man with wild curly hair was bent over a film cutter. He had on a pair of torn blue bib overalls over a pair of ratty long johns. “Did you just crash into the wall out there?”
“Yeah, that was me. How’s it going, Lenny?”
“We need a new projector in booth five. The one in there now keeps chewing up film.”
Charlie winced at the thought of shelling out the cost of a new projector; it was hard getting used to the idea that these problems were no longer his. “Can’t we just fix it?” he asked out of habit.
The Ice Harvest Page 6
