[Vince Tanzi 02.0] Tanzi's Ice

by C I Dennis

  “Can you radio that jet? I have a bag that belongs to the pilot.”

  “Just gave them clearance to take off,” he said. He had rosy cheeks like Rod Quesnel and was about the same age. “Funny, you’re the second one with a bag.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Schultheiss. He stopped by earlier,” he said. “He had me load a bag—said it was a surprise for Mr. Burleigh and not to say anything.”

  Yuliana had taxied the jet out to the lone runway, and I heard the engines whine in the distance as she powered up.

  “What?” I felt a rush of panic. “Radio her,” I said. “Tell them to abort.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it. Now.”

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  Yuliana turned the jet to face south and brought the engines to full power. I remembered that my phone was in the Escalade. I ran out the door, got into the car, and dialed Brooks Burleigh’s number. It went to voicemail. I dialed again.

  A grey Chrysler minivan pulled into the parking space next to me. There was a single occupant in the front seat, and he held his cell phone in front of him. I watched him dial a number, as I attempted to redial Brooks’. It was Tomas Schultheiss, and he turned to me and smiled as he held the phone in front of him like a TV remote control.

  The jet reached the end of the runway and lifted off at a steep angle. It climbed to the height of the surrounding mountains and was illuminated by the dying embers of the sunset as it rose. Then, it exploded. The fragments descended into the dusk, leaving a small cloud of black smoke. It was like a macabre Fourth of July fireworks display, except that someone who I loved was part of the debris that was falling, slowly, to earth. Tomas Schultheiss was smiling in the van next to me.

  I reached behind my back for the Glock, but he had already raised a gun, and I felt the sting of shattered glass from the side window against my face. The world became a dazzling, white-hot blur except for the image of my father, Jimmy Tanzi, who was in front of me, reflected in the windshield, beckoning.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  “No, Dad,” I said. I could see the blood from my own brain, spattered across the cream-leather interior of the Cadillac. “Not yet.”

  FEBRUARY

  WEDNESDAY

  “Maple syrup.”

  “What? Mr. Tanzi? Did you just say something?” A nurse was washing my face with a washcloth. The room I was in was brightly illuminated like a night baseball game, except that I was inside somewhere, and my head hurt.

  “Mmmm,” I said.

  She ran out of the room, and I fell back to sleep.

  *

  Barbara was above me, with her mascara smeared. “Mmmm,” I said, as I opened my eyes.

  “Oh God,” she said. “Thank you for answering my prayers.”

  “You don’t go to church,” I said, but it came out “Mmmm.”

  “Vince, I am so, so sorry. I am so goddamn sorry.” She bent down and began crying into my bedcovers. I wanted to say something, but I fell asleep again.

  *

  “Can you hear me?” a woman asked me. I had been awake for a little while and had taken a sip of water from a straw in a cup that a nurse held out. I was surrounded by the nurse, Barbara, my mother, and a slim, dark-haired woman who wore a stethoscope around her neck. She looked like she was the boss, and she was asking the questions.

  “Mmmmm,” I said.

  “Blink once for yes, OK?” she said. “Twice for no.”

  I blinked, once.

  “Good,” she said. She turned to the rest of the people in the room. “This is very promising,” she said to them.

  I was aware of what was going on, including all of the conversation in the room. I just couldn’t talk. I wondered what the fuck was happening and how I had ended up here.

  My head fell back against the pillow.

  *

  “Yuliana,” I said. It was dark in my room, and somebody was sitting in the lone visitor’s chair. It was Robert Patton, and he sprang to his feet.

  “You can talk,” he said. I looked at him as he peered over me with his broken nose and cockeyed face. All I could think of was the Disney movie where Sleeping Beauty woke up to see the handsome prince poised above her. Not this time.

  “Fuck,” I said.

  “Vince, it’s me, Robert,” he said.

  “I know,” I said. My mouth was barely functioning. My teeth felt like little rocks, and my tongue was soft and loose like an undercooked hamburger.

  “Jesus fucking Christ am I glad you are alive,” he said. “They kept you in a coma for weeks. They said they had to do it because of the swelling.”

  “Where’s…Yuliana?”

  “You…what do you remember?”

  “Not…don’t know,” I said. I raised my right arm and felt the side of my head. It was bandaged, and rough around the edges, like razor stubble.

  “What happened?” I asked him.

  “You were shot,” he said. “You made it, somehow.”

  “Head?”

  “Yes,” he said. “In the head.”

  “No vitals,” I said.

  Patton laughed, and tears filled his eyes. “Yes, your vital organs were spared. The bullet only hit your brain.”

  “Who…shot?”

  “We’re going to get the motherfucker,” he said. “If it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Sleep,” I said, and I checked out again.

  THURSDAY

  I was awake, but my eyes hadn’t opened yet. It took me a while to remember where I was. I had been dreaming about ice—a thick layer of it, and I was trapped underneath it, swimming in a frigid lake. I was running out of air, and I remembered the scene in the Houdini movie where Tony Curtis finds a gap between the top of the water and the bottom of the ice, where there was just enough air to stay alive. He’d found his way out, after escaping from a heavily-chained trunk at the bottom of the river, then being swept downstream from his planned exit by the current, and finally locating the opening in the ice where he’d gone in. I’d later learned that it was all Hollywood bullshit and that Houdini had never done that. Whatever. I could sure use his help finding my way out of a body with a brain that didn’t seem to work.

  I heard a female voice. “The primary concern is aphasia, which basically means having difficulty speaking. But Mr. Patton told the nurse last night that they had exchanged words. That’s huge.”

  “Really?” It sounded like Barbara.

  “Yes,” the first voice said. “Frankly, I’m surprised. The bullet was slowed by the window glass, but it still did a lot of damage. I expect he’ll need a great deal of therapy, not just for the speaking but also for the motor skills. He appears to be able to move his right side, but not his left.”

  “Oh,” Barbara said.

  “It can improve with therapy. Remember, he’s very lucky to be here at all.”

  “I know.”

  It grew quiet in the room, but I wasn’t alone. Someone was stroking the hair on my arm, standing next to the bed. I made a huge effort and opened my eyelids. Everything was a struggle.

  “Barbara?” She stood over me, and she looked a lot better than Patton had. She wore a yellow sleeveless tank top that showed off her smooth, round shoulders and her tan.

  “Vince, you can talk,” she said as she squeezed my arm.

  “Sort of,” I said, slurring the words.

  “I moved in with your mother,” she said. “I’m here for the duration.”

  “School?”

  “I quit,” she said. “I’ll start up again when you’re better.”

  “Roberto. Hat,” I said.

  “Your mother finished it and sent it to him. He wears it all day, even to bed.”

  “S’too hot.”

  “He doesn’t care. I called his parents last night to tell them you had come out of the coma. They send their love.”

  “Carla?”

  “She’s safe. That one’s a long story.”

  “Who shot?
”

  “Who shot you?”

  “Yes,” I said. It was a major effort to get a single syllable out.

  “The German. You don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  “He was the one who blew up the plane,” she said. “The attendant at the airport saw it all.”

  “Plane?”

  I saw her face change. “The one that…you really don’t remember?”

  “No.” But something was trickling back into my consciousness, and Barbara noticed.

  “She…she’s dead, Vince.”

  I couldn’t get my mouth to form her name, and Barbara saw me struggling.

  “Yuliana,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  She didn’t look sorry, but I wasn’t going to point that out. I had done enough talking.

  *

  They were working a kind of rotation: my mother, Barbara, Mrs. Tomaselli, Patton, and even Carla. They took shifts sitting in the visitor chair, watching me. Carla smiled a lot and looked slightly stoned. I didn’t have the energy to ask her what had happened to her, and she didn’t volunteer anything. From what I’d overheard I had been asleep for weeks, and I wondered how much I’d missed.

  The days before my “incident”, as the nurses called it, were scrambled in my mind like one of my mother’s breakfasts. I remembered going to Canada, looking for Tomas. I remembered that Carla was missing, but here she was. I’d rented some kind of van. I’d had a long conversation with my father. Barbara and I had had a fight, a bad one.

  And then I remembered—she was pregnant. My brain felt like that old video game where rectangles drop from above and you turn them around, as they descend, to make them fit together at the bottom. It was a Russian game, and all the kids played it, years ago. Bits of information were falling out of the sky, and my mind suddenly played back the image of a fireball, and a cloud of black smoke. Some things were simple to remember, and others were still unclear—hidden from me, probably for a reason.

  FRIDAY

  “Tetris” was the name of that game. I finally remembered. I’d woken up feeling better by several degrees, and Patton was on the early shift. I had a question.

  “Computer?”

  “You mean the laptop?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “I’ve been saving you the articles. What a shitstorm. Two federal judges resigned, and three members of Congress are under investigation. Dulles Stanton checked himself into rehab so he doesn’t have to face the music. Talk about a bombshell.”

  “Ha,” I managed.

  “That’s just the beginning,” he said. “This thing is going to take a lot of people down. They’re lining up press conferences, saying shit like how sorry they are to have disappointed everybody, while the wife stands there like a prop and gets weepy. What a bunch of dickheads.”

  “Anyone,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Any…one,” I repeated.

  “You mean it could happen to anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose you’re right. They’ve rounded up all the girls. And guess what?”

  “Mmm,” I said. I was running out of energy.

  “Talk about pros. Tomas trained them in Moldova. They can shoot, fight, and fuck. All incredible lookers.”

  “Mmm,” I said again.

  “He forged all the identities, and even got them vetted with whatever they needed to get them placed. References, visas, all bogus. My guess is they brought them in on the submarine, finished the training at your sister’s place, and found them a job. And it wasn’t just blackmail. They were spies. Tomas had all kinds of shit on his computer. We had to get the CIA in to break the encryption. One of the girls was fucking the deputy director, so he wasn’t too helpful. He’s gone now.”

  “Spies?”

  “They passed information on to Tomas. He sold it, to whoever he thought would pay. The CIA had told me he was small-time, but either they were way wrong or he’d put the squeeze on the deputy director.”

  “Where?”

  “Where’s Tomas? I don’t know. I fucking wish I did. We’ve got his description out in every country the U.S. has treaties with. Nothing.”

  “Oh,” I said. A nurse came in and shooed away Patton while she took my pulse.

  “We’re going to remove your catheter,” she said. “And then you and I are going to walk to the john.”

  “Goody,” I said, and she smiled.

  *

  Going to and from the bathroom was like climbing up Mount Mansfield drunk, with a sixty-pound backpack and two frat brothers holding me up by the arms. The nurse took my good side and Patton pretty much carried me on the left side. I could feel his grip on my arm and under my shoulder, but I couldn’t make my damn leg move.

  It felt good to pee. I was going to get myself out of here, get back to Florida, and pee in my driveway under the cover of nightfall, which is every man’s God-given right. And when I’d peed outside enough times, and I had my left side working again, and I could speak in full sentences, and I could put my arms around Barbara and maybe even hold my little baby, I was going to find Tomas Schultheiss and take his life, slowly and painfully. I hated to admit it, but the thought of doing that was a powerful motivator to get well. Bring on the physical therapy and the long, hard journeys to the bathroom. I needed to get my strength back if I was going to kill someone.

  SATURDAY

  It had been several years since the three Tanzi siblings had all been in the same room. Carla was on her rotation, and Junie wandered in, his arms in a double-sling that was suspended from his neck. Carla got up and hugged him gently, and I met his smile with one of my own.

  “We kids sure know how to fuck up,” he said. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far, like they say.”

  “Dad was really trying to not fuck up,” Carla said. “At least before he died.”

  “Yeah,” Junie said, “and just look at us. He got us into this, and two out of three of us ended up in the hospital.”

  “We chose to get into it,” Carla said.

  “What’s this about you and Rod Quesnel?” Junie asked.

  “We’re getting married,” she said. She blushed slightly, under her long gray hair.

  “No shit,” Junie said. “I thought you…”

  “You were right,” she said. “But Rod doesn’t care.”

  “Crazy fucking world,” he said.

  “Congratulations,” I said, which was the biggest word I’d tackled so far.

  “I know you were looking for me, Vin,” she said. “I’m sorry. Rod and I got kinda freaked out and decided to drive out west. We should have told you.”

  “No worry,” I said.

  “I taught Rod how to smoke,” she said. “He’s so sweet when he’s high.”

  “That’s a real great fuckin’ life skill,” Junie said to her. “Maybe you should be a teacher. Teach all the elementary school kids how to get wasted.”

  “Chill, bro,” I said.

  “Sorry,” he said. “My hands ache all day and night, but all I’m doin’ is Advil.”

  “Proud of you,” I said.

  “Shit,” he said. “Get well, you dumb motherfucker.”

  “I will,” I said, and he left.

  *

  Mrs. Tomaselli was on duty, and she was rubbing baby oil into my feet and humming softly as I picked at my lunch. Besides needing to find Tomas, my other compelling motivation to get well was to have something to eat that didn’t taste like a regurgitated worm from a mother robin. I was starting to have dreams about a grouper sandwich, with hand-cut fries and a cold sixteen-ounce beer. Make that a twenty-two-ounce beer. Aw hell, just bring the pitcher.

  Mrs. T. took my right side and a big, burly male nurse named Todd took my left. Half way to the bathroom I said, “Let me go.” They did. I couldn’t walk, but I could stand. I felt like cracking a bottle of champagne, and I couldn’t wait to tell Barbara.

  I was going to get better.

  MARCH

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nbsp; SATURDAY

  Three weeks had passed since I’d taken my first step, and they were now ready to kick me out. I could board a plane and even carry a small bag with my left hand. I could speak in full sentences, although lots of little bits of information were misplaced or missing. I had pretty much pieced together the last few days before I’d been shot, although I couldn’t remember the plane going down, or even the ride to the airport in the Escalade. I had a bullet hole in my head that was healing over, but I had done nothing about the hole in my heart, and Barbara and I had tacitly agreed not to discuss it. That was in the past.

  Robert Patton and John Pallmeister sat in the front seat of the lieutenant’s cruiser with Barbara and me in the back. I’d had a big send-off at the hospital with both my siblings, my mother, a teary Mrs. Tomaselli, and various nurses and doctors who I’d grown fond of. Nobody could believe how quickly I had progressed. Revenge is a powerful motivator, although I kept that to myself. I had a long row to hoe in Florida, but Barbara was going to stay home and would take me to the Indian River Medical Center every morning for therapy. All in all I was either very lucky, or if there was a God, She wasn’t finished with me yet.

  Patton took our bags into the Burlington terminal and bossed people around until he got a wheelchair. “When you’re ready to start drinking, I’m buying,” he said.

  “Come to Florida, and I’ll buy you a whole case,” I said.

  “Heal fast, Vince,” John Pallmeister said. People were looking at us, probably wondering if they were going to have to sit next to a cop and some kind of notorious criminal. I’d seen myself in the mirror, and the half-shaved-head thing didn’t do much for my looks. Maybe I could borrow Roberto’s homie hat—or knit one for myself, once my left hand got better.