Ice Cream Man

by Charles Puccia

  At least five minutes of chatting later, Maria checked her watch. “I guess Vinnie isn’t going to make it. He’s probably staying late to help Dan catch up on his first day back from Paris. He’s been carrying Dan’s load for too long. Poor Vinnie. I wish Dan would snap out of his depression. Vinnie’s been left more or less in charge. Honestly, I think this is too much. It’s unfair to Vinnie.”

  “Yeah, ain’t that the truth. Poor Vinnie looks downright harassed,” said Blanca.

  They were surprised when Vinnie slid into the booth beside Blanca. He had no drink in hand, a departure from his usual routine of bar, drink, sit.

  “Fuck, fuck, and fuck. I am so pissed off. This is absolute bullshit. Dan’s sure that fuckin’ bitch Linda doctored her data.”

  Maria sat up straight. Her eyes widened and her voice deepened. “Okay, stop right there, Vinnie. You’re upset, but I am not going to listen to your foul language or have you malign a woman no matter how much you dislike her. We all dislike Linda, but you will not use sexist language. If you say anything like this in the office I’ll have you fired! Understood?”

  Shareen, Blanca, and Vinnie gaped, then lowered their heads in unison. Vinnie swayed and his soft voice cracked. “I’m sorry, Maria. I apologize… to all of you. I hate that Linda makes me act this way. I just feel so badly for Dan. He’s crushed, you know? I love my boss—and not in a gay way, but as a person. Dan’s the first man who’s ever treated me like I counted. He’s a good person, and what’s happened to him is so unfair.”

  Maria took Vinnie’s hand. “We know. I accept your apology. We all do, right?” She looked to the other two women, who mumbled agreement.

  A few minutes of small talk passed while Vinnie went to the bar for a glass of white wine. When he returned, he retook his seat next to Blanca. Maria immediately addressed the group. “Let’s do this properly. Shareen, you start. Anything to report?”

  Shareen reached into her large handbag and pulled out a notepad. “I found a few things that seem unusual. Nothing is incriminatory, just out of the ordinary. First, Linda’s calendar is marked with a cryptic note two weeks before the original September presentation date.”

  Looking down at her notepad, Shareen read, “MKRSVLV FR 8. All caps. At first I thought this meant that her flight back to San Francisco was on the Friday after the presentations at eight a.m. It didn’t take long to see RSV means Reservation and MK stands for Make, and of course LV means Leave. It’s a no-brainer to see FR is Friday and eight is the morning departure time. Yet the calendar was marked two weeks before any crisis.”

  Vinnie half stood. “See! I told you.”

  Maria shook her head. “Wait a minute, Vinnie. Slow down before jumping to conclusions—and sit down. Friday might mean after the original Monday date. There is no ‘from and to’ destination. For all we know, Linda might have planned a weekend away with her Baltimore friends to relax before the big presentation. All we have is that Linda reminded herself to make a reservation for some Friday, to somewhere, at eight a.m. And that’s if Shareen has correctly deciphered the message; I’m inclined to accept that she has, but still, it’s hardly strong evidence.”

  “Bullshit. Linda knew she had to leave on Friday.”

  Shareen shuffled the pages of her notebook. “There’s one more thing. Baltimore’s out. An email from Linda to her travel agent shows that she requested a New York to San Francisco flight at eight a.m. on the Friday before the Monday.”

  Vinnie started to say, “That fuck—” then immediately bit his hand sideways to prevent himself from completing his sentence.

  Maria pointed her finger to the table. “Good, it clarifies the destination. Still, Linda might have made a mistake in dates that she corrected later. What about you, Blanca? Find anything?”

  “Yes. I went through Bill’s computer calendar. I remember at the time he told me he would update his personal and office calendars on the flight change. The change never showed on the office calendar, yet his personal calendar had the correct new Friday flight. And—get this—the entry regarding the flight change appeared two weeks earlier than the Northrop crisis, just like Shareen found on Linda’s calendar. Why would Bill have one flight schedule on his personal calendar and another on the office calendar? I should have caught this sooner, but I’ve been too busy and I haven’t had time to check for discrepancies between the two calendars.”

  Vinnie wanted to say something, but his only thought was That lying fuck-off shitface, so he sat silently morose.

  Everyone waited while Maria sipped her latte. “This is delicate. It seems Linda and Bill either had reservations, or at least planned to make them, for a departure before the originally scheduled Monday presentation date. That’s very suggestive… but there could be an explanation.”

  “What explanation? That’s ridiculous,” said Vinnie.

  “Well, like I said, maybe Linda made a mistake in setting up the date with her travel agent.”

  “Yeah, right!”

  Maria looked around the table. “Okay, I know that’s weak, but it’s possible. But listen, I don’t want any of you”—she fixed Vinnie with a pointed stare—“making any wild accusations until we have the complete story. All we know is that there was some fishy scheduling. That won’t fly with anyone. We need to know what the travel dates mean, what they were up to, and why.”

  Vinnie shook his head. “We already know why. They were trying to screw up Dan’s presentation.”

  “Vinnie, that’s not logical. Linda wouldn’t have known the crisis would move the date forward, would she? It could have been moved back a week or two for all she knew, giving Dan more time. And how did she know Dan wasn’t prepared already?”

  Slightly above a whisper, Shareen interrupted Maria. “Vinnie, I expected Dan to be prepared no matter what. Everyone did. It came as a shock to all of us that his presentation was sloppy.”

  “Yeah, well, he didn’t have the data and that’s because IT fucked up, not Dan,” said Vinnie.

  Maria knitted her eyebrows. “And just how would Linda have known that? And why was Bill involved? Surely Bill wanted the best proposal to win, because his annual bonus depends on DV&N profits. What’s Bill’s motive, Vinnie?”

  The table seemed to grow smaller in Vinnie’s view. He already knew from Dan that sex was unlikely to work as a motive. He blurted out, “Money.”

  Maria shook her head. “Bill loves money, yet I’m going to guess Dan would have brought DV&N more European profit than Linda will, and that translates into a bigger bonus for the partners, including Bill.”

  “Maybe Linda paid him.” Vinnie’s weak voice belied his lack of conviction.

  “How much could she possibly bribe him? Bill’s bonus from European returns could run to five hundred thousand or more. Linda couldn’t top that, could she? We’ll need a better conspiracy motive than that, or we have nothing.” Maria paused. “Let’s dig some more, after Thanksgiving. Be careful—and nothing illegal.” She focused on Vinnie again. “Look through emails and notes that you have a legitimate reason to check. We’re on thin ice.”

  Drinks were pushed to the center of the table, and the group rose together to leave. They all seemed satisfied with the plan, except for Vinnie, who thought: More procrastination. We’ve got them and we need to find more. Bullshit. He felt frustrated, pushed to the sidelines. Fuck the illegality and fuck thin ice.

  He forgot to ask if anyone knew the name of Perry Mason’s PI.

  Chapter 16

  First Date

  For the last two months, anyone who observed Dan staring intently out his office window might have been excused for thinking he was an inspector for the New York Port Authority. However, the half a million vehicles that crossed the bridge each day were not Dan’s concern. Ginny was. He refused to acknowledge that his own senseless jealousy was actually fulfilling his own fear: that he could lose her.

  They had met at a joint seminar of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology Sloan School of Management
and the Harvard Business School; Dan was enrolled in the former, Ginny the latter. He had been shocked by her first words: “Good job, Dan Livorno, but be careful. Someday someone will be better.” If her words had shocked Dan, her body had shot him with a lightning bolt. Ginny had a jigsaw-drafted body with a starlet’s face on top.

  She told him later it was his smug look that had made her follow him. In particular, she liked the way Dan had looked pussycat pleased when he’d asked a question during the lecture and the lecturer, a Harvard professor, had showered him with praise.

  “What’s your name and which school are you with?” the professor had asked.

  “Dan Livorno. I’m from the Sloan.”

  “Well, Mr. Livorno, MIT’s lucky to have you. That’s quite possibly the best question I’ve ever had. Do you have a solution, too?”

  Starting with a stutter, Dan’s voice revved up: “Yes… Professor Barish, I do…”

  Ginny had singled out Dan for exactly the same reason that Professor Barish had: his brilliant mind. And, of course, for his great body and movie star looks. After shocking Dan with her opening comment, she went on to add, “I’m enrolled in Professor Levenson’s ‘Uncertainty Models in Economics’ next spring. By any chance will you be enrolling?” Ginny was taking advantage of the Harvard–MIT arrangement to cross-register between the two universities.

  “Of course. He’s the best.”

  The joint classes started their intellectual engagement; the physical soon followed. From that point forward, Dan and Ginny’s love affair included a constant academic contest between them.

  Dan rested his head in his hand as he watched the traffic crossing the East River. Our best years.

  Is it entirely my fault? What about Ginny? Ginny had been sucked into her sthenolagnia, obsessed with the world of bodybuilders. Ben Hausen’s not at fault. It’s Ginny who’s the culprit.

  With a half-hearted kick he clanged his wastebasket against his desk. What about me? Don’t I bear some responsibility? No! Cheaters beat me. If I had won, as I deserved, I could have helped Ginny with her obsession. This is not my fault.

  Dan’s thoughts drifted even further back, to high school. It had been, for him as for so many teens, a period of embarrassment and low self-esteem. The cruel cheerleader that had labeled him “freak,” a nickname that had stuck for years. It wasn’t true, but truth cares not about labels. The cheerleader had wanted out and she’d made up her reason.

  Dan fought the unwanted memory: his reflection in the swimming pool, validating the cheerleader’s malice. He was poolside, his Speedo around his ankles, penis stiff and as long as the pool. He recalled the torment of the laughing-hyena high-school seniors bellowing at their prank. The boys laughed, but at least they never excluded him for it—unlike the girls he had hoped to date.

  Stanford followed high school. Women didn’t shun him in college, didn’t run away; they didn’t know that he had been branded. And to Dan’s relief, Stanford had no cheerleaders. But still, Dan couldn’t shake his paranoia. No one laughed as he crossed the campus, but he saw lips parting as he passed, and he imagined the worst. And he was certain that any coed he dated would cheat on him. That feeling was only strengthened when he finally did work up the nerve to date—only to find his date with another man a week later. He decided then that women were all cheerleaders, pompom in hand or not. Insecurity ate away at Dan, and he responded by substituting the safety of mathematical equations for dating.

  Ginny had been the first woman ever to ask him on a date, the first to suggest sex before he did. And the restaurants, the movies, the weekend skiing. Dan liked that Ginny didn’t want to date anyone when she was with him: right from the start, she wanted exclusivity for both of them, which Dan was more than happy to oblige. He felt secure for the first time. He even told Ginny about the cheerleader, which produced a brief smile and shrug.

  Then it dawned on him that Ginny didn’t understand jealousy. She had no idea what being dumped was like. Sure, she had seen it with her friends and her sister, but she’d never been dumped.

  Dan pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d had his happy years with Ginny. The years when her fingers would circle his cheek; when her tongue boxed his; when their lips compression-sealed and her firm breasts pushed against him.

  Dan flexed his arm unconsciously as he stared at the iron bridge. Even early on, Ginny had demanded she feel his strength. She had talked about his hard swimmer’s shoulders, had marveled over his striated canyon scapula. She rafted his upper torso and dug into his trapezoids. She found clever ways to move her tits closer to his cleavage line. She traced his body with her fingertips, redrawing him. Her index finger would glide along his horseshoe triceps to mount the vein of his bicep. “Flex, Dan.”

  Now he sat down in his office chair and flexed again; he could feel the flab underneath his shirt.

  The soft hums of the office sounded to him like Ginny’s old refrain: “This arm is fantastic, Dan. Flex your bis.” He’d had no reason to refuse at the time, but now he knew that he should have. He should have listened to his mother-in-law. He should have paid attention when Ginny purred as she squeezed his biceps or punched his pectorals. Her acts were neither foreplay nor sex chatter.

  A knock at the door stopped Dan’s descent into resentment.

  Rodney from IT entered. “Hi, Dan, I heard you wanted to see me?”

  Dan signaled to the chair in front of his desk, his voice louder than he had intended. “Rodney, I want to ask about the data I had requested for the presentation. Do you remember?”

  Rodney’s head bobbed. “Yeah, sure. Archives in New Jersey had a problem.”

  “That’s what you said at the time. I’m sure that’s been solved.”

  Rodney crossed his legs. “Uh, yeah, I suppose. I’d assumed you didn’t need the data anymore once… once…”

  “Once I lost to Linda. It’s okay, you can say it, Rodney. I’d like the data now. Do you think you could get the data disks for me?”

  “Uh… uh… like I told you, we had technical problems…”

  “Stop the BS, Rodney. There was no technical problem. I want that data by Monday.”

  Rodney’s voice trembled. “There was a technical problem. I’m telling the truth.”

  “Enough lying. Do as I ask or you’ll find yourself unemployed after Thanksgiving. Bill won’t be able to protect you this time.”

  “Dan… I… I didn’t want to hurt you—or anyone. I had no choice.”

  “Data by Monday. Goodbye, Rodney.”

  The door shut and Dan reclaimed his place at the window. The Queensboro Bridge traffic continued to flow.

  Dan had achieved his goal. He could go home now. He had nothing urgent on his agenda, although, to be fair, the same could be said of home. Should I leave my perfunctory job to face my indifferent marriage? Do I call clients to converse in small talk, or do I engage Ginny in banal discussion? “Who’s up for an Oscar?” “Do you like the new lighting on Broadway?” “I think the Sox have a chance for the pennant.”

  Dan spread his fingers against the office window, tapping his index and middle finger, alternating thoughts between beats: Linda was in Paris. The pathetic French merde stole his marriage. Ben Hausen would become Ginny’s toy. What had Bill and Linda stolen? What did they want and why? I know the data will reveal at least the latter, and maybe resolve other issues.

  Fifteen minutes passed before Dan shuffled back to his desk. His lackluster performance since Paris had piggybacked on his rocky marriage; DV&N’s former rising star had turned into a pencil pusher, and his body had turned into a jelly donut. Gary Del Vecchio had been blunt: “Start showing initiative, Dan. Show me your creativity again, the reason I recruited you.” Maria Benfatto gave Vinnie a different version of the same sentiment, quoting Gary: “People think DV&N is a charity. Well, these people had better understand I give to real charities because of the profits earned from hard work here.” Maria was tacitly encouraging Vinnie to gossip—to tell Dan what Ga
ry was thinking. Vinnie did, but was met with only a shrug.

  With nothing better to do until he had the data, Dan went home.

  Chapter 17

  Blanca Joins Team Vinnie

  Vinnie’s determined quest to help Dan escalated the Wednesday before Thanksgiving when Blanca called him. She asked him to drop by her office before their pre-Thanksgiving klatch lunch because she had something to show him. This would be the first klatch lunch in the last three weeks, as everyone had been too busy preparing for the first European review scheduled for the Monday following Thanksgiving. Linda had been on the Paris job for two months now, and the partners wanted an assessment before the Christmas slowdown, which always happened earlier and lasted longer in Europe than in the US.

  “Vinnie, I’ve got something to show you,” said Blanca as he entered her office. She reached into her top drawer and pulled out a long piece of wire and a small metal appendage.

  “Hector brought this to me yesterday. He wanted to show Bill, but Bill had already left for the Thanksgiving break. Hector said this wire got wrapped around the bristles of his vacuum cleaner as he vacuumed Bill’s office. I had no idea what it was or where it might have come from, so I brought it home to my electronic whiz husband and he immediately recognized it. This is a microphone, the kind used in surveillance. I’m thinking Shithead pulled a Nixon and bugged his own office.”

  The historical reference meant nothing to Vinnie, but the wiretapping did.

  “Then where’s the recording?”

  “I don’t know. Jandro”—Blanca referred to her husband, Alejandro—“said this is a Bluetooth device and requires a Bluetooth-capable recording device. So somewhere else there has to be a Bluetooth recording receiver.”

  “And I’m guessing Hector didn’t find a recorder sucked up into his vacuum cleaner.”

  “Nope.”

  “It has to be Bill’s computer, don’t you think? He’d want to store any recordings on his hard drive.” Vinnie thought for a moment. “Did Hector show you where the wire tangled? If it’s Bluetooth, it can’t have been too far from the receiver, maybe fifteen or twenty feet, and Bill’s office is at least fifty feet long and maybe wider—so if we knew where the mike was, it would help us locate the receiver. The ceiling would limit the range too, given the height and interferences with electrical wiring.”