Ice Cream Man

by Charles Puccia

  Carmine’s enforcers had vanished through the service doorway before the dog and its owner reached the body of Vinnie Briggs. The subsequent 911 call reached an EMT ambulance that by chance was parked right across the street at a sub shop. Within minutes, Vinnie was riding inside and had an overeager gay EMT attending to him. The homosexual rape had upset the tech, so despite finding no detectable pulse, he applied non-stop CPR after he had secured the oxygen mask and administered an epinephrine shot. While his partner drove at Indy 500 speed, the tech administered multiple electroshocks. The heartbeat came on the ninth shock—six more than allowed by the handbook—which the EMT hoped was sufficient to boost his performance evaluation and outweigh his disregard of protocol.

  For six hours, not counting the life-saving ten-minute ride to the Belgravia Incare-Z Medical Center emergency ward, Vinnie received constant medical attention. Doctor James Goldoni, the attending intern, shared something in common with Vinnie—both were on the emergency ward for the first time. And Doctor Goldoni did not want to start his medical career at the Belgravia Incare-Z Medical Center with the loss of his very first patient. His med-school nickname had been “Rotty,” short for Rottweiler, because once he bit into an assignment he never let go.

  Doctor Goldoni called out from the emergency bay: “Move the patient to the OR and initiate a Code Blue!” Code Blue meant no ER evaluation stop, the patient wheeled directly to surgery.

  The chief of brain surgery, Doctor Silverstein, had just finished a duty call to a celebrity patient, which explained why he was at the hospital that evening, instead of with his wife in their box at the Met, listening to Tosca’s anguish over Scarpia’s trickery. He was heading for his car, taking a shortcut through the ER, when he heard the Code Blue order.

  “Who gave the Code Blue?” he asked a duty nurse.

  The nurse told him it was the new attending, and she gave her opinion that the patient was unlikely to survive. “Doctor Goldoni believes otherwise though, and he’s going to perform surgery.”

  “Would you ask Doctor Goldoni if he’d mind if I assisted?”

  With his senior position, Silverstein did not require permission, yet the nurse wasn’t surprised he asked, as the greatly admired Doctor Silverstein was, in addition to being a gifted brain surgeon, the most considerate among the senior doctors.

  Together, the junior doctor, the senior chief, and a five-person team kept Vinnie alive, albeit in a coma. He had suffered multiple fractures: his right leg in two places, two ribs broken and three cracked, his right humerus. He had a bruised spleen and kidney and a torn anus, and his face resembled a checkerboard, although, remarkably, no facial bones had been broken, not even his nose. If he survived, Vinnie would need months of physical rehab to recover from such severe injuries. And that’s if he awoke from his coma, which was anybody’s guess.

  Back at Vinnie’s apartment building, the police quickly concluded, based on the dog owner’s description of the scene, that this had been a hate crime. An interview with the EMT crew confirmed this initial opinion. The investigating detective added two facts to his notes, both of which corroborated the hate-crime hypothesis: the victim had been wearing a gay pride sweatshirt, and a dildo had been stuck up the victim’s ass.

  However, the victim’s identity took another day to discover, as he had had no identification on him. When at last they figured out who he was—thanks to interviewing the other residents of the apartment building and asking them if they had any openly gay neighbors—they investigated Vinnie’s apartment, but they found no additional information there, other than that the victim had recently prepared linguini alle vongole. Or was it frutti di mare?

  Chapter 24

  Pump and Slump

  The Sunday after Thanksgiving was one of UltraFit Gym’s busiest times; guilt-ridden members would clog the machines after three days of overeating. But Dan was there for another reason. As he entered UltraFit, swinging his gym bag, he thought to himself, This is a stupid idea. Why the hell am I in a gym on a Sunday? Thanksgiving weekend, no less. In previous years he would have swum fifty laps on the weekend after Thanksgiving in order to prevent his gut from bearing any resemblance to the recently consumed eighteen-pound turkey. But today Dan grumbled, thinking about his new personal trainer, picked by Ginny.

  Added to his misery was the fact that Linda would be at the office over the next two weeks. She’ll probably make a victory lap around the thirty-fifth floor. He found consolation by thinking about the victory lap he himself would take once Gary Del Vecchio heard about Jean-Jacques’s story. But he’d have to wait until he had the backup data from Rodney first. I can’t appear bitter… but I am bitter, and now I’ve been forced to come to a gym for my mental health.

  Dan’s workout began with Ben’s promise of an easy routine for his first day. But it wasn’t long before Dan’s legs ached—the way he imagined legs ached when flesh was ripped from bone.

  “Ben, we need to discuss the meaning of the word easy.”

  Ben trained newbies with lighter weights: fifteen repetitions over six sets for each body part’s muscle group. He had chosen Dan’s legs, a body part that was often overlooked by men, as Dan’s swimming had already built up his upper body.

  Another of Ben’s training techniques was to illustrate the muscles for each exercise using his own body as a living anatomy chart—a method not many trainers could match. “If you extend your leg and hold it out for two seconds,” he said, “you’ll achieve more effect in your upper thigh. We’re aiming here for the rectus femoris, the muscle that sits in the middle of the four quadriceps.” Ben flexed his leg and a spindle popped out, tapered at each end, the midsection’s wide sinews ready for high-speed rail. “We’ll work the two side vastus muscles with a different machine.” Ben’s layered outer muscles became tire balloons. “Go ahead: feel the effect you want to achieve.”

  Dan hesitated, so Ben placed Dan’s hand on his flexed kryptonite leg. Ben’s was pulley cable and Dan’s was tree tinsel.

  But the illustration and the lighter weights did not make the session easy. On his third set, Dan’s burning spread and he imagined his sweatpants aflame. Still, Ben insisted on two more sets, and Dan’s inflamed legs became brittle burnt. It wasn’t until Dan’s allotted time with Ben ran out that Dan received respite. He requested longer rests next time. Ben agreed, but added “and a harder workout,” too. Dan shook his head.

  “I know you don’t want this.” Ben flexed to show surface-painted veins channel across his muscular pillars. “But you are here to regain your shape, and you won’t get that without hard work.”

  Dan thought differently. I’m a twig; I’ll never be his redwood size. He’s what Ginny wants, not me.

  ****

  Ginny greeted him at the door after he cowboy-waddled his way home. “What was Ben like?” she asked. “You look a bit shaky.”

  “I’m exhausted. He had me touch his legs to show me what muscle groups I was working. He’s unreal.”

  “I know.” Ginny smiled.

  Dan shuffled into the kitchen for water. He didn’t want to talk; couldn’t. Ginny entered to fill her water bottle, and adjusted her jogging shorts as she passed. She was preparing for her run in the park with Sarah and Betsy. A year ago, Dan would have moved to block her way, no matter how exhausted he was; he would have touched her, caressed her breasts, spilled water on her, used his hand to dry her even in places the water hadn’t touched. He’d have taken hold, made her body a tourniquet against his to relieve his sore muscles. And Ginny would have complied, would have put her hands behind Dan’s ass to push his hard penis against her.

  But today there would be none of that. Dan had noticed that Ginny had asked first about Ben. In response, his manhood shrunk, his desire was crushed, his confidence diminished. Dan saw indifference as the worst form of hate.

  Ginny walked out the door, and Dan bent to rub his sore legs.

  Reclining on the couch—in the only position that was even somewhat comfortable�
�Dan considered what he and Vinnie could do on Monday. They’d start with the most recent event: Rodney’s admission that data had been deliberately held back. Their narrative would link Rodney’s admission of Bill’s intervention to JJ’s revelation about Antoine.

  Dan’s thoughts meandered. What about my life? How much of that should I tell Vinnie?

  He decided to tell Vinnie about Paris, about the little man shouting obscenities. Dan curled his body. He would not be telling Vinnie a story, he’d be confessing. Confessing his cowardice, his self-absorption. He’d talk about Ginny’s sthenolagnia and his own uncontrolled envy. Would he confess to Vinnie that he had thought of cutting off his penis as a teenager? That he’d used a razor to cut his arm?

  Dan cried until he slept.

  The sleep was disturbed. He awoke after an hour with a new decision, something he had sworn he would never do. He called Vinnie about work on a Sunday. Dan had always believed that Sunday was the one day of the week when no employee should ever be disturbed. But Vinnie was his friend, and this wasn’t a typical work call, so perhaps this one-time exception would be acceptable. Besides, Ginny would be out late, which would leave him alone with his thoughts. And the last place he wanted to be was alone with his own thoughts.

  His call went straight to Vinnie’s voice mail, which was strange; Vinnie always picked up. Why would Vinnie’s cell be off? Dan left a message: “Hey, Vinnie, I know it’s Sunday of the holiday weekend, and I hate to bother you, but would you mind coming by my condo? I’d like to talk to you before work tomorrow. It’s important. Of course, if you have plans, I understand. But if not, can you make it by five-thirty? I’ll even make supper as an enticement. Give me a call. Thanks.”

  That was lame. I sounded pathetic. I should call him back. I’d be better off preparing for tomorrow’s client meeting.

  As he rubbed his legs with lotion, Dan decided he should stop shirking his responsibility with clients; after all, he’d already been warned by Gary, both directly and indirectly. And he’d lost a promotion because he’d been unprepared. I need to do better or I’ll lose my job.

  Dan would need the client folder, but his sore legs ruled out going to the office to get it. Dan saw this as a more compelling reason to ask Vinnie to work on a Sunday, so he dialed a second time. Voice mail again. Dan amended his message: “I’m sorry, Vinnie, to bother you again. If you hear this and it’s not too late, could you swing by the office first and bring me my notes for tomorrow’s client meeting? I hate to ask, but… I can’t go myself, which I’ll explain when I see you. And… I’m just not well prepared… you know how I’ve been. I should have taken the notes with me, I know. Listen, there’s a bottle of champagne in the bottom drawer of my desk, a relic of the celebration that never happened. Bring that too—we can have it with the supper I’ll make for us. If you can come. Thanks.”

  Dan considered this a better explanation for asking Vinnie over, although maybe he’d rambled a bit, which wasn’t like him. I’m a mess. Ginny has that right. He’d wait until they’d both had a glass of champagne, and then he’d confess. I know Vinnie will come. He’s the best person I could have ever hired. Vinnie’s my true friend… a fuckin’ good friend. Dan smiled.

  Then: Where is Vinnie, anyway?

  Chapter 25

  Runners’ Insights

  A mob congregated at the 65th and Central Park West entrance on the warm final Sunday of the Thanksgiving break. Ginny threaded her way to find her best friends, Sarah Rubinstein and Betsy Farnsworth. Betsy and Ginny, grade-school friends, had met Sarah at college, where they had been roommates. The three of them believed there were no secrets between them.

  Fifteen minutes into their jog, two men rounded a small bend at a rapid clip, causing a minor collision. Betsy was forced into the grass, and would have fallen if not for Sarah’s outstretched hand.

  The men stopped to mouth sorry. Mini-dagger glares were exchanged. Sarah feigned kicking the men in their sensitive area.

  Rubbing her ankle, Betsy stopped Sarah. “Notice anything different?”

  “They’re wearing matching outfits,” said Sarah.

  “Yes, and what else?” came a slight singsong from Betsy.

  Sarah played dumb, but she had noticed: their cut-off tank tops revealed muscular six-packs, and stallion legs, hugged by tiny stretch briefs, held up their large V-shaped upper bodies.

  “Fuck that. Their balls are still soft.” Sarah faked another high kick.

  The taller man, laughing, placed one hand over his private parts, then winked at Ginny. He flexed his arm while his partner squeezed the bicep. Running away, they chanted, “Have a nice day, girls.”

  “Screw you,” yelled Ginny. “How dare they?”

  “Offended that Mister Central Park undressed you?” Sarah laughed.

  “They undressed all of us.”

  “Not so,” Betsy said.

  Sarah added, “You know those hunks are gay, right?”

  The three women giggled like twelve-year-olds. However, Ginny broke into a run. When Sarah and Betsy caught up with her at the S&L Health Café, they were puffing for an explanation.

  Sarah started the inquiry. “What gives?”

  “You’ll think I’m crazy.” Ginny sipped her drink and gazed out the cafe window.

  “Take your time, but my two kids are with a babysitter.” Betsy spun her finger.

  “Something’s very wrong with me and Dan.” Ginny shook as Sarah looked to Betsy.

  “Oh, God, Ginny, take your time. To hell with the babysitter.”

  Sarah leaned forward. “Say it, however you want.”

  “Our difficulties are unbearable, bigger than what I’ve told you.” Ginny held back a sob.

  “What?” Sarah and Betsy said together.

  Sarah continued, “You’re the perfect couple. Is Dan having an affair?”

  “No. And how can we be a perfect couple if we’re imperfect individuals?”

  “Is it you?” Sarah was direct but jittery. Betsy shook her head at Sarah.

  “No.”

  “Good, no affair. But that begs the question, what’s happened?”

  “No more questions. I… I… I don’t know how to put it.”

  Seconds ticked by and the women sipped their drinks. Finally, Ginny broke her silence.

  “I love Dan, yet for a year we’ve had terrible sex. And none at all for months.”

  Her friends leaned forward across the table.

  “We’ve known this. What’s changed?” Betsy held her chin.

  …

  Betsy prodded. “‘The honeymoon’s over,’ you’ve heard that expression? Yours lasted longer than most.”

  “No. This is something else. And it’s my fault. Mostly”

  Silence.

  Sarah coughed.

  “Let me recap. Neither of you is having an affair but no sex at home. And it’s because of you?”

  Betsy shrugged, and Ginny made a rude gesture. Tears filled Ginny’s eyes.

  “Oh, Ginny, I’m sorry,” said Betsy.

  “Me too. Just tell us.” Sarah stretched her hand across to Ginny’s, and Betsy rubbed Ginny’s shoulder.

  “Uh… this is hard… uh…” Ginny swallowed, and her words rushed out. “I want to have sex with Dan while watching a bodybuilder flex—specifically my trainer, Ben. The two guys we ran into in the park are UltraFit members, and they’ve seen me with Ben. They know I… admire bodybuilders.”

  In classic deer-staring-into-headlights fashion, Sarah and Betsy neither blinked nor moved.

  “I guess you want an explanation.”

  Two heads bobbed up and down.

  “I’ve been fascinated with muscular men for a long time. You didn’t know, did you?”

  “I knew,” said Sarah. “Rachel told me.”

  “Me too,” said Betsy. “Your mother told me first, then Rachel. I had no idea what they meant, but I was a teenager, so nothing was really strange.”

  “Screw you. Screw them. I had asked them no
t to talk about it with anyone. They promised.”

  “Please, Ginny,” Betsy said. “When have your mother or sister kept secrets? We’ve seen your fitness magazines. Big deal.”

  “Then you don’t know. My mother never mentioned my addiction to strong men? Here’s a flash: I adore looking at big muscles and feats of strength. My mother calls this my stethy obsession. Did you know that?”

  “No, not that…” said Sarah.

  “Me neither,” said Betsy. “What’s stethy?”

  “I don’t even know if it’s real. The Internet is divided. The actual term is sthenolagnia syndrome: it’s an unhealthy obsession with strength and muscles. Personally, I think it’s bullshit, but my mother disagrees. Didn’t Rachel or my mother explain this?”

  “Nope,” said Betsy, turning to Sarah for confirmation, then looked back at Ginny. “Why does your mother believe you have this syndrome? And why do you deny it?”

  “Because as a teenager I cut up muscle magazines, compared men, circled their bodies with different colors. I compiled pro bodybuilders’ statistics. Rachel called me a pervert about it once, and I knocked her over, gashing her hand. That’s when my mother told me about sthenolagnia.”

  “You played with musclemen pictures and I didn’t know? I practically camped out in your room during high school.” Betsy’s teenage whine came through her grievance.

  “I’m sorry, Bets.” Ginny shrugged. “My mother lectured me about it. For most of high school, I tuned her out. If she even mentioned sex, I stormed out. Her sthenolagnia lecture was bad. She asked if I had a sexual attraction to strong men or women. I would have run away if my father hadn’t stopped me.”

  Betsy spoke hesitantly. “Did you know your mother asked me to… ‘watch you’ around big men? I just figured she was worried you’d have sex with the football players. My hope was that you’d lure the entire team and I’d get your rejects.”

  “Thanks, Betsy, it’s good to know the basis of our friendship.”