Ice Cream Man

by Charles Puccia

  “Hector didn’t say where he was when it tangled, but I can ask.”

  “In the meantime, why don’t we go have a peek around ourselves?”

  ****

  Blanca dimmed the interior windows in Bill’s office, preventing anyone in the corridor from looking inside.

  They found nothing in the easy locations: under the chairs, wastebasket, and potted plants. Bill’s neat desk was devoid of family photos and mementos, limiting the possible hiding places. Vinnie climbed up onto the desk, struggled to move a few ceiling tiles, and found nothing.

  Blanca checked underneath the modern couch in the corner, around the desk legs, and all around the executive swivel chair monstrosity. Still nothing.

  Vinnie’s eye caught an upright stand lamp not more than fifteen feet from Bill’s desk. He checked under the shade—and found a small, cylindrical, threaded tube next to the bulb socket.

  “This is it,” he said. “The mike would have threaded through here. I’m betting the bulb burned out, someone pulled it out to replace it… Hector, right?”

  “Yes. Hector checks the lighting once a week and he probably did this for the long weekend.”

  “Hector must have accidentally pulled free the microchip wire as he removed the burnt-out bulb, and it caught in the vacuum,” said Vinnie, flapping his arms.

  “Get serious. Where’s the recorder?”

  With wooden steps, Vinnie moved to Bill Barrington’s desk. “Six feet, eight feet, ten feet, twelve feet, fourteen feet. There you go, within fifteen feet, even with an additional foot for the computer. This would work.”

  Vinnie bent over the desk and looked behind Bill’s iMac. One of the USB ports had a small insert the size of a fingernail. “See this? This is a Bluetooth micro-port receiver. I’m telling you, this has to be it. You know he would want those recordings to be on his computer. We’ll just need to access it. Do you know his password?”

  Blanca sighed. “I did, but Bill had it changed after he found I’d gone into his calendar—and don’t give me that face. Dan trusts you, but Bill doesn’t give me the same respect. But don’t worry, Shareen and IT have access to everyone’s password. I’ll ask Shareen for Bill’s password. If I can convince her Bill gave me permission—what the personnel handbook lists as exigent circumstances…”

  “You mean something urgent requires Shareen to reveal all to us?”

  “No, Vinnie, not us, only me. She may even refuse me, but I can guarantee she’ll refuse if she thinks you’re involved. We’d lose our jobs. I hate that I’m going to have to lie to her.”

  “What if she finds out that Bill didn’t give you permission?”

  “I’ll just have to think up a plausible enough reason so that she doesn’t bother to follow up. I’ll say Bill called and requested notes he’d forgotten and I have to get them from his computer. It’s halfway plausible, and I doubt she would check with Bill about something like that. Besides, she dislikes talking to him.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “And Vinnie, can you reattach this microphone? We don’t want Bill to know that his recordings have stopped. There shouldn’t be anything missing yet, since Hector only pulled it out yesterday, after Bill had already left.”

  ****

  By noon Blanca had successfully acquired Bill’s new password from Shareen and passed it on to Vinnie, who copied it down on his personalized VB embossed notepad.

  “Wait until Sunday,” Blanca said. “Bill’s away for the Thanksgiving weekend, visiting his in-laws in Florida, and he won’t return until Monday. Same for Gary. I heard Brian Neale would be here on Saturday to prepare for his Sunday Washington departure, so Sunday’s your best choice. A cleaning crew might come Sunday evening, on their regular schedule. Remember to darken the corridor windows. Keep all the doors closed. Make no noise. And Vinnie, be careful.”

  Vinnie yawned into the phone. Blanca spoke with a sharp edge: “And Vinnie, do I need to remind you to keep quiet about this at our klatch party today? Maria would fire us both on the spot.”

  ****

  With the mission objectives and date set, Vinnie planned his evening. A few hours on the Internet taught him all he needed to know about his new vocation. He learned about fictional characters, espionage, and surveillance, and he found page upon page regarding laws, licensing, firearm restrictions, and employment opportunities at private agencies. Digesting the volumes of information put Vinnie into overload. But one phrase had stuck with him: The main job of a private investigator is to obtain facts—not to make arrests nor prosecute criminals.

  This wasn’t the manly picture Vinnie had hoped for. Of course, not that he had sought confrontation. In fact, he liked the idea of a PI persona who only gathered facts. I’ll make a fuckin’ great PI.

  But at the moment, the most pressing chore facing this would-be PI was to bake three pies for his college roommate’s family Thanksgiving in Vermont. This had become a tradition for Vinnie and his roommate’s family, ever since freshman year; Vinnie had a standing invitation rather than spend Thanksgiving alone. (Vinnie had told his roommate that he had no family—which was sort of true.) Vinnie was looking forward to spending time with his “Thanksgiving family,” but he was also eager to return to New York Friday afternoon and renew his PI studies.

  Chapter 18

  Vinnie Briggs, PI

  Nightfall arrived on the Friday after Thanksgiving, and Vinnie’s refrigerator was jammed with leftovers he’d brought home from Vermont. Vinnie was sitting in his living room chair, his feet perched on the coffee table, a notepad in his lap and a glass of wine in his hand. He was getting anxious about how little time remained to prepare for his first espionage gig. And there was no delaying. By Monday the opportunity would have passed; DV&N offices would be abuzz for the next two weeks, with the European review highest on the list of activities.

  Vinnie was determined to discover the recordings Bill Barrington had on his computer. He added USB memory sticks to the list of supplies he would need, then reviewed his notes. This looks like a fuckin’ grocery list. Think, Vinnie, what is it you want to find out?

  He responded aloud to his own question. “Feedback, that’s what I need. Actually, I need more than feedback—I need help to focus.” He needed Blanca. But he waited until eight-thirty, when Blanca’s children would be in bed, before he called.

  ****

  When the phone rang, Blanca checked the caller ID, although she already had a pretty good idea who it was. “Hi, Vinnie. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Blanca, what was the name of that PI for Perry Mason? Paul something. Paul Duck? No… I’ve got it: Paul Drake. Yes! That’s who I’ll be,” said Vinnie without explanation, as if Blanca had been privy to some earlier train of thought.

  “You’re Paul Drake, huh?” Blanca’s voice had a slightly rising lilt. “First, need I remind you that Paul Drake is a fictional character? Next, even in fiction he was a licensed PI. Third, or whatever number I’m on, the man was over six feet, could throw a mean punch, and could use a gun. How much of this sounds like you?”

  “Okay, then I’m a fuckin’ modern-day PI. I don’t need a gun… and we’re talking about fuckin’ piggy Linda Lords. I could take her.”

  “I say this with love, Vinnie, but I don’t think you could. Anyway, Linda’s not the problem. Well, not the only problem. Bill Barrington is your real problem. And I don’t mean his physical size, though he could easily beat the crap out of you. No Vinnie, the problem with Shithead Bill is he’s a bad man in a high position. He can have you fired.”

  “You worry too much. I have no intention of fighting him, or Linda, and I won’t get caught, so Shithead won’t have a reason to fire me. He’ll be the one getting fired. I’m going to be an intelligent PI, not your macho gumshoe type. Think of me like… Tom Cruise.”

  “Great, now you’re on Mission Impossible. Vinnie, get real, you’re not in a movie. There are no props or special effects people. There won’t be a SWAT team to rescue you. You’ll be cry
ing by the end.”

  Blanca sucked the air from the room, wishing she could take back her words. She knew about Vinnie’s childhood proclivity to cry and his resulting “crybaby” schoolboy label. It hadn’t helped that his family came with built-in bullies: his father and his older brother Jack. Vinnie had spit venom when he’d told Blanca about their behavior. They’d told him to “stand up and fight like a man,” then they’d thrown punches at him until he cried. “Crybaby” was all he’d ever heard, at home and at school.

  And Vinnie had never shaken his crybaby nickname. He might have, eventually, if not for the fact that, in eleventh grade, Vinnie’s father had learned that he had a homosexual son. After that, his taunting was operatic. “You’ll be crying all the time, queer boy.” Vinnie’s father and brother had creased him with skid marks, and now Blanca had revived the crash scene with her off-the-cuff remark.

  “Sure,” Vinnie said quietly. “Spit my father’s words at me. I’m a crybaby.”

  Blanca’s hand covered her mouth. “Vinnie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Let’s change the subject, please.”

  But Vinnie apparently didn’t want to drop it yet. “You know, my father loved my brother Jack because he wasn’t a crybaby. He has two years and fifty pounds in muscle over me, and he lives in a cell in Attica—yet he’s still better than me, the queer.”

  “You know I have a brother like yours. We’re not them, Vinnie. We’re better.”

  Vinnie broke into a hushed tone. “You’re right, Blanca. Let’s talk about what I need to do. Can I start with my list, and you add to it?”

  Forty-five minutes later, Blanca and Vinnie had his approach to searching Bill Barrington’s computer all mapped out. As she hung up, exhausted, Blanca called to the living room. “Jandro, next time you answer the phone and I’ll read the boys their bedtime story.”

  Chapter 19

  Gym Rescue

  Dan closed the car trunk, then wedged two small suitcases between the bags of food he’d set on the front porch of Ginny’s Connecticut homestead. Ginny then opened the screen door and was met with gleeful shouts of welcome. After Ginny had finished with the smooches and chitchat, and Dan with carrying everything inside, Ginny headed to the kitchen to assist in the meal preparation, and Dan pardoned himself to freshen up, thinking that all the hustle and bustle was a good shield from family probing.

  The house was soon packed with relatives—more buffer against any serious questioning about Dan’s and Ginny’s relationship. The ensemble included Ginny’s parents, her sister, Rachel, and Rachel’s boyfriend, Ted, as well as two of Ginny’s paternal uncles—bachelors, both—and her ninety-two-year-old grandma. There were also a variety of lifelong Swinburne family friends, some of whose names Dan remembered, some not.

  Still, the evening consisted of evading a series of subtle inquiries about him and Ginny—especially with regard to whether they were planning for a family—and Dan was relieved to escape it unscathed.

  Late the next morning, the bathroom fan whirred long after dissipating the steam of Ginny’s shower. Sunshine cut through wide-open drapes across the bed, which had been half-unoccupied for hours. Dan lifted his head from the pillow, burping away his excessive alcohol consumption of the previous night. Looking around Ginny’s former bedroom, he recalled his first thrill in this room with Ginny, their unbelievable joint shower making the bathroom fan work overtime.

  Everyone slept in on the day after Thanksgiving, but still Dan entered the kitchen last, two hours after the habitually late-rising Rachel and Ted. His tardy rise surprised everyone. He drank three cups of coffee and consumed two danishes, a blueberry muffin, and four scrambled eggs, topping it all off with a large slice of leftover apple pie. And ten minutes after gulping his last drop of coffee, Dan had the car packed; he was ready to go.

  He pecked Anna’s cheek, expressing thanks for her hospitality; hands on her hips, Anna protested and tried to convince Dan to stay, even offering her office for his use. Moving his wife aside, James Swinburne, Ginny’s father, apologized to Dan.

  With goodbye waves over, Dan and Ginny sped along the highway back to Manhattan. Ginny hated having to cut short their usual long Thanksgiving weekend. She had planted excuses the week before, but hadn’t liked doing so. “We’ve a lot of work to catch up on after Paris,” she’d said. “I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped.” The preemptive lie fooled no one, though. Rachel had pried the real reason from Ginny during a late-night nibbling of Thanksgiving leftovers. She heard all about Ginny’s problems, listened to the Paris disaster, and the predicted marriage breakup. Ginny had burst into tears when she’d related the Paris humiliation, which had freaked out her sister. Rachel understood depression, yet she thought that the sex embargo was a bad idea, and she didn’t think much of Ginny’s alternative.

  Now, as they drove away, Ginny knew that before she and Dan had even crossed the Bronx, her sister would have spilled all to their mother. She knew this because the Swinburne household had banned the word “secret.”

  ****

  Dan gripped the steering wheel tightly. He was not looking forward to his interview at UltraFit. I’ll meet the guy as promised and be done with it. Ben Hausen, my personal trainer? Ha. Ginny can’t be serious. He caused her stethy relapse. At least if I meet him, I’ll know if he’s screwing my wife.

  But as he parked the car in the underground garage, Dan lost his nerve and hinted that he might renege. Ginny would have none of it. “You’ll meet Ben or I’ll pack and leave before the car engine cools. You’ll never see me again.”

  Dan’s hands remained on the steering wheel as the passenger door slammed.

  ****

  A shipyard’s derrick grabbed Dan’s hand. “Hi, I’m Ben Hausen. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Dan Livorno. Likewise.”

  Dan looked from Ben’s eyes to their clasped hands, at his own string forearm lashed and tackled to a boom capable of lifting a thirty-ton working load. Ben’s sinuous forearm flanged onto a box-beam-girder upper arm that stretched his wrinkle-free, short-sleeve Polo. Dan took a wide-angle view of Ben’s cliff chest, the 3-D UltraFit emblem practically poking him in the eye.

  The pro bodybuilder had no reaction to Dan’s engineering survey.

  “I’ll leave you guys to talk,” Ginny said cheerfully. “Meet me at the juice bar.” As she walked away, neither man released their hold.

  ****

  An hour later, Ginny and Dan stepped out of the front door of UltraFit. To Ginny’s delight, Ben had agreed to be Dan’s trainer, and seemed to honestly like him.

  Ginny grinned, her first real smile in weeks. “I guess it went well.”

  “No need to gloat. Yeah, it was okay. Ben’s a good listener and has a great sense of humor. I like him—and what a body. My God, he’s big. I have never seen anyone that large. He has the proverbial muscle on muscle, but in his case I think you could use an infinite series to be accurate. Unbelievable. Did I stare too much?”

  “A little, but don’t worry, he’s used to it, and you will be too in a few weeks.”

  “It’s still a trial, remember.”

  ****

  Dan had told Ginny a partial truth—the part about Ben being likable, and of course, about his size being incredible. But Dan had omitted his worries, the whole truth. How can Ben change my job loss? How will he fix my lack of sex drive? And what about Paris? So I pump iron and that’s supposed to make me forget how Linda and Bill beat me? Forget I allowed a stranger to push my wife?

  Everyone told Dan he would get over his job loss, but he took these as typical token remarks. No one knew his real concerns, his hidden thoughts. I know Ginny’s in love with Ben. He’s a real man. He’s the kind of guy she drools over. He would never have let that little Paris twit push her. With one finger he’d have cracked the pavement with the Frenchman’s head. I’m a wimp compared to Ben. This is Ginny’s way to make me feel small in every way. This is a mistake, but I can’t renege.

  Ginny will leav
e me if I do.

  ****

  Approaching his office, Ben shook his head. How could he ignore that Dan was drop-dead gorgeous? This is stupid: he’s married and a heterosexual. And how in the hell do I help Ginny and Dan with their marriage while I’m fantasizing about Dan for myself? What the fuck, don’t they know how good they have it together?

  Ben knew he could have men, many men—pickup sex with men who adored his muscles, who browsed him like a bookstore shelf: look at the cover, not the content. But Ben despised that lifestyle. Only once had he ignored his own “no pickups” gym rule; it was a time when he’d been juicing hard and would have fucked a fire hydrant if he’d had to. For the most part, he wasn’t attracted to the X-room mesomorph stable behemoths; Ben recognized their bodies for their appeal in competitive sport, but they weren’t for him. His ideal man was lean-muscled, handsome, and intelligent—and the latter trait was not a typical pro bodybuilder attribute. But here was Dan, both drop-dead gorgeous and incredibly intelligent. And in a few months he’d be hard bodied, too, fulfilling all three of Ben’s criteria.

  Ben leaned back, his arms cantilevered behind his head. And what happens then? Will I seduce Dan?

  Then there was Dan’s depression. Ginny was right. Dan’s soft laughs and weak smiles didn’t fool Ben. Dan had avoided talking about Ginny, and he’d clearly lied when he’d said that Paris had been good.

  Not the first lie Ben had heard, not by a long shot. Dan reminded Ben of Davis McGregor III, Ben’s former boyfriend, lover, and partner. Davis had lied—regularly—yet, with or without the lies, Ben missed the man. Am I subconsciously replacing Davis with Dan?