Ice Cream Man

by Charles Puccia

Ginny moved her leg higher, enjoying Dan’s barking order.

  With years of yoga and gym training, Ginny had flexibility. Her leg extended to the ceiling, which allowed Dan to slide under. Her gymnastic movements had given Dan great satisfaction over the years. Now Ginny put human desire center stage, the physical expressing emotion.

  Dan reciprocated, applying the skills of a truck driver to line up his cock with Ginny’s vagina. Ginny helped with the final alignment. They had reached mutual satisfaction from their perfect coupling: male and female; love and desire; trust and faith.

  He pushed. Ginny welcomed his thrusts. He breached her relaxed clitoris muscles, and her legs went Lincoln tunnel wide. Dan held her breasts throughout the coupling. This was everything he wanted.

  The moment arrived.

  Ginny grabbed Dan’s arm, and he took his cue. His bicep rose in synchrony with his cock. He forced arm fibers to create muscle knolls, filling Ginny’s hand. She gripped the bulge, her merry-go-round brass ring. His muscles belonged to her. His strong body and his confidence had returned. She’d found relief, had conquered her obsession; had forgotten Paris, forgiven.

  Dan felt as if he’d need a transfusion; his blood surged from penis tip to bicep splits. He lost control of his body, the pulsing, undulating, flexing. He quaked in both body and soul.

  Ginny’s labia squeezed Dan’s penis as her hands pressured Dan’s arms. The push and squeeze caused sweat to stream over her body. The noise of their lovemaking crowded out her thoughts.

  She felt his spurt on her cervical wall. His tense biceps hardened in her hand. Ginny screamed, her own ejaculate flooding the bedsheet.

  Dan’s arms cramped; he struggled to lower them. His ejaculation had exhausted him, and he was fatigued, too, from flexing his muscles. He rolled his sinewy body to his side; each sigh an echo of his recent passion. Dan’s sleep arrived, quick and deep.

  Ginny studied her sleeping husband. She wanted him to mount her again. She wanted him to rise up, a power resurrection, body and control. His muscular body was not laced with a bodybuilder’s striated and hardened fibers. This had been a delusion. She had not satisfied her stethy. How could she think it would be so easy? There had to be a reckoning for this self-deceit. It wasn’t over. She’d talk to Ben.

  Chapter 55

  Twenty Questions

  The small maître d’s office contained a desk and swivel chair, a guest chair on the side, a desktop computer, and a Paris wall calendar. Lucien, a.k.a. Harry Finkelstein, sat behind his desk. Blanca sat in the side chair with Ben standing behind, his hands gripping the chair’s back. Opposite Blanca, the parking valet perched on the desk’s corner.

  “How can we help?” Lucien used his formal maître d’ tone.

  “I’d like to know about the cop that gave Bill Barrington a ticket last week. Can you describe him or tell us anything about him?”

  “Nah,” said the valet. “Nothing special. He was an NYPD standard-issue cop. Showed his badge from the sixty-second in Brooklyn, which was unusual, but nah, nothing more.”

  Ben looked at the valet, then to Lucien, then back to the valet, then spoke with a soft growl. “You’re telling me that for no reason a Brooklyn cop happens to be in your lot and sees something wrong with Mr. Barrington’s car. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  The valet’s posture shifted. His lips puckered his face as he turned to Lucien.

  Harry Finkelstein replied, “I dunno whatch youse wants from us.” Harry’s Brooklynese replaced Lucien’s faux French. “NYPD can issue tickets anywhere in the five boroughs. Nothing to do with us.”

  “Yeah, that BS might work on someone else, but you and I know cops don’t roam out of their own precinct, much less out of their district, to give minor vehicle violations. You want to try again?” Ben was gruff.

  Blanca decided to diffuse the tension, not knowing why Ben was concerned with Bill Barrington’s automobile ticket. “Look, Harry, Mr. Barrington wants to know if he’s a target for a shakedown. I think you can appreciate his concern. He needs to know if he can continue to come to Bel Jour France or whether he should tell Mr. Grossman he’ll be switching to another restaurant.”

  Ben tapped Blanca’s shoulders, careful to use fingertips only. He’d noticed that Blanca had switched from “Lucien” to “Harry,” making this a discussion among friends.

  “I don’t think Mr. Barrington has anything to worry about. I’m pretty sure it was a one-time thing, probably related to business Mr. Barrington had in Brooklyn. I understand it’s all taken care of… a one-off, nothing more.”

  “And how will Mr. Barrington know this, Harry?” Ben’s voice was low and calm.

  “I can’t say exactly, but I know it’s finished.”

  Ben turned to the valet. “What did the cop look like? What exactly did he do?”

  The valet hesitated until he saw Harry nod. “I don’t know. He was shorter than you, and stocky… well not your size, but bigger than me. Typical Brooklyn cop, all attitude. Said he saw the Mercedes come down the street and it had a problem with the license plate. He waited until Mr. Barrington and his date came out.”

  Blanca smiled. Date? Yeah right! Screw bunny is more like it.

  The valet continued. “He asked Mr. Barrington about the car. Mr. Barrington argued. The cop claimed it was suspicious, then asked to look inside the trunk. Mr. Barrington was furious. I think he may have pushed the cop, so the cop handcuffed him. The woman pleaded for Mr. Barrington to stop acting like a fool. The cop pulled a rag from the trunk.”

  Ben knew what was pulled out, but Blanca didn’t. “So, you have no idea why the cop came to this restaurant?” Ben looked to the two men; both shook their heads and shrugged.

  Blanca gazed behind the desk to a stack of newspapers—the Daily News. It wasn’t the reading matter she would have expected to see in an upscale restaurant. She pointed at the papers and asked Harry to pass over the top part of the pile. Harry said she could have them as they were for recycle.

  Blanca shuffled through the pile until she found Tuesday’s paper. She turned to page two, which had a picture of the cop murdered on Monday, who had now been identified as Officer Dominic Paganno. She extended the paper to the valet. “Is this the guy?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Jesus, he was killed last Monday? Son of a bitch. Well I guess Mr. Barrington won’t have to worry about his ticket.” The valet chuckled, but no one else did.

  Ben touched Blanca’s arm, and they turned to leave.

  “I wonder if they’ll find the other guy dead too.” The valet chuckled again.

  Ben and Blanca spun back; everyone’s eyes were focused on the valet.

  “Shut up, Richie,” Harry muttered.

  Ben eyed the valet. “Richie, that’s your name?”

  Richie nodded.

  “Okay, Richie: what do you mean ‘the other guy’?”

  “I’m sure Richie didn’t mean anything,” Harry said. “He just talks. That’s the kinda guy he is.”

  The valet looked uneasy. “Uh, yeah, like Harry says, I talk. It don’t mean nothing.”

  Ben stepped up to within inches of the valet. His voice was gruff as he said, “Well maybe Harry, or Lucien, or whatever the fuck his name is, should let you talk a little more.”

  “Nothing much to say, really.” Richie backed toward the wall, but Ben followed, his chest pushing on Richie.

  “I don’t believe you, Richie. I think there was someone here to speak to Mr. Barrington, and I want to hear about it now.” Ben growled, pressing forward, leaving no personal space between Richie and him.

  “Look, I don’t know anything. A month or two back this guy drives in, I park his car. He’s a big guy like you, not muscle, but not the kind of guy you’d want to meet at night. He doesn’t go into the restaurant, but he takes out his cell phone and two minutes later Mr. Barrington comes out. He’s friendly to Mr. Barrington. Well, not friendly, but not hostile like the cop.”

  “What did he want?”

 
“I don’t know. I just park cars.”

  “Richie, you must’ve heard something. People talk as they get into cars, and they never notice the valet. Isn’t that right?”

  Richie agreed with a nod. The valet was nobody unless your car was scratched.

  “So talk,” Ben growled.

  The valet held up his hands in a sign of surrender. “Okay. I heard the big guy say, ‘The fag’s been taken care of.’ Mr. Barrington handed him an envelope. That’s it. I remember because it’d been a long time since I’d heard someone be so open in public about gays. Maybe I’m sensitive because I’m gay. Are you going to beat me up for being gay?”

  Ben backed away; that was all he could do for the valet. This was not a moment for empathy; Richie had seen Bill pay off the man he’d hired to kill Vinnie.

  Ben needed to tell Dan and Big John.

  Chapter 56

  Committee Decision

  The following afternoon, Ben was in his office, about ready to start his afternoon workout. After his dinner with Blanca, he’d filled in Big John, Jack, Dan, and Ginny on what he’d learned the night before. Now it was waiting time. Wait for Big John to figure out what to do.

  So when the name “John Briggs” popped up on Ben’s cell, Ben closed his office door before answering.

  “What’s up?”

  “Not much detail. The guy was Sal Friscollo, one of Carmine Aquafreddo’s captains. Carmine’s known as Cooler. He’s a ‘made man,’ heads a small section of the Brooklyn mob. You don’t want to have anything to do with him or Sal Friscollo—who goes by the name Chopin because of the size of his hands. Sal is worse than Carmine. He boxed in his youth, but he was too slow and found employment as an enforcer. He did ten years upstate for involuntary manslaughter—and he would have been convicted of second-degree murder if two witnesses hadn’t ‘gone missing’ and a third suddenly changed his testimony and said the deceased had attacked Sal. ‘It was self-defense. Poor Sal would have been killed.’ That story was hard to swallow given the victim was five foot eight and weighed a hundred and forty pounds. But whatever. The jury convicted Sal on the lesser manslaughter charge. I’m telling you, with these two, it’s a goddamn miracle Vinnie’s alive. My boy’s a strong one. But we have to drop this investigation, now. Trust me.”

  Ben wasn’t interested in dropping anything. But Big John had a point. Was it Cooler or Chopin they wanted, or was it Bill Barrington?

  ****

  Dan was with Vinnie when Ben knocked. Ben was holding an envelope marked “confidential.” The package had been hand-delivered by Jack Briggs to DV&N’s reception desk for Blanca Santos, and Blanca had brought it to the cute muscular Steve at UltraFit, saying that it was urgent that Ben Hausen receive the package as soon as possible.

  Big John had instituted this elaborate procedure. John knew that Carmine Aquafreddo would learn that inquiries had been made regarding the dead cop and Sal Friscollo. So Big John ordered no more family visits to Ben’s condo. Ellen Briggs had objected, but he’d convinced her that by going to visit Vinnie, she placed Vinnie in danger—and Ben and Dan, too. The same restriction applied to Blanca. Vinnie’s location had to be kept hush-hush.

  Vinnie, unaware of the unfolding events, was pleased to see Ben. But Ben just said, “Mind if I have a quick word with Dan in private?”

  “What the fuck, Ben? First Blanca, now Dan. Fuck!”

  Dan’s questions began as soon as they stepped outside Vinnie’s room, but Ben shook his head. They went upstairs to Ben’s study, where Joe and Dr. Alvarez were waiting.

  “It’s nothing to worry about, Dan,” Ben said. “I thought you all should hear and see what we have. We want your input. Everyone should have a say, as it concerns Vinnie.”

  Dan’s surveyed the group. “If it’s about Vinnie, shouldn’t we include his parents?”

  Ben nodded. “For reasons you’re about to hear, Vinnie’s parents will be staying away. They have full confidence in you.”

  “Okay, now I’m getting worried.”

  With his gentle tone, Joe explained. “Dan, sweetie, please sit. You’re jumping to conclusions, or making assumptions, or… I don’t know what. But just listen. This is good news.”

  It was Ben who did the explaining. The lowdown was that mobster Carmine “Cooler” Aquafreddo and his enforcer, Sal “Chopin” Friscollo, had been given a contract by Bill Barrington to kill Vinnie. Big John said that this meant a wall had to be put up between outsiders and Vinnie; only the four men in the room would have contact with Vinnie from now on. And these precautions would have to remain in effect until the street gossip went away.

  Ben waved the opened envelope. “Vinnie’s father sent photos of Sal Friscollo. Jack got them through his warden friend at Attica. They’re from Sal’s incarceration, so they’re out of date, but Dr. Alvarez thinks the photos might help Vinnie’s memory. Still, he has concerns.”

  Dan stood. “Wait. The mob nearly killed Vinnie, and this is good news? Are you proposing we help Vinnie remember so he can make an assault charge against the mob? This isn’t good news!”

  “Sit, Dan. You’re missing the point. Dr. Alvarez says often one memory can trigger others. If Vinnie remembers the face of his assailant, he might make other connections. But there’s a risk. You explain it, Dr. Alvarez.”

  “Ben’s right,” the doctor said. “The event we want Vinnie to recall was traumatic—he nearly lost his life. Showing him the photo of his assailant might cause psychological trauma.”

  “Then forget it,” Dan said. “Why take the risk? What’s the benefit? An off chance Vinnie might remember something else? What? Even if he does, what good would it do?” Dan stood and began to pace.

  Ben stood too. “Dan, I couldn’t agree more. However, there’s the possibility Vinnie knows something that could exonerate you.”

  “I don’t care about my reputation. I’m fine. I know I didn’t do anything, and I can live with that. This whole thing started because Vinnie tried to help me over my stupid proposal. Well, I don’t need DV&N. I can get along fine without them. Let it go.”

  Dan started to leave, but Joe stepped in front of him and lightly touched his arm.

  “Honey, except for one thing,” said Joe. “Vinnie may want to do this because it might get him closure—and justice.”

  Dan replied in an angry tone, “And how does that work, Joe? How does it get justice for Vinnie if Carmine and, what’s his name, Sal, are untouchable? Explain that to me. I don’t want that kind of justice.” Dan’s eyes bulged. He stood tense and shaking.

  Joe knew Dan needed a few seconds to take in oxygen. Condescension would only make things worse, so Joe was frank. “Dan, it’s not the mob we’re concerned about. They were tools. The real culprit is Bill Barrington, and maybe Linda Lords. If this hurts Bill Barrington, then Vinnie will receive justice. Maybe you will, too, but you’re not the central point. Your feelings are tangential. Vinnie comes first, not you—don’t you agree?”

  Dan stopped pacing. All eyes were on him.

  “I’m out of my depth here. What happens next? What do we do?”

  ****

  The four men gathered around Vinnie. Dr. Alvarez explained both the importance of the proposal and the associated risk: a setback, even the possibility of a shock-induced coma. The photo would surely upset him.

  “If the risks are small, what’s the problem? I mean—”

  Dr. Alvarez interrupted. “Vinnie, listen carefully. I said small, not zero.”

  Ben chimed in. “Can you give us a number?”

  “No.”

  Dan started to launch into a statistical explanation, but a cry came from Vinnie. “Thanks, Dan, but enough. If you continue anymore it might just put me into in to a math-induced coma.” Vinnie looked to Ben. “Fuck this. Ben, what would you do if you were me?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not making the decision for you. You’re on your own.”

  The entire room agreed with Ben.

  “Oh, what the fuck. I didn’t even notic
e the last coma, and apparently I made some good friends while I was unconscious. Go ahead, let me see the photo.” Vinnie stretched out his hand.

  For all his bravado, Vinnie’s hand shook a little as he opened the envelope and pulled out the photograph. Vinnie’s reaction surprised everyone: he laughed, hard and loudly.

  Dr. Alvarez approached Vinnie. “Is everything okay?”

  Vinnie walked to the couch, chuckling. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Vinnie, I’m going to ask you a few questions. I want to keep your brain focused on the present. Do you know where you are?”

  “Look, Doc, I’m fuckin’ fine. Don’t worry. I’m not in shock… well, I am, but not in the way you think. Really, I’m okay.” Vinnie looked up at Dr. Alvarez and then to Ben, Dan, and Joe. Each of them appeared to be more in shock than Vinnie.

  Dr. Alvarez continued his exam. “What do you see in the room? Who’s here, and do you know where you are?”

  Vinnie smiled. “I’m in the most wonderful place and with my fucking best friends ever. I am the happiest and luckiest man alive. I’m fine, Doc, really, don’t worry. So this is the fucker that beat me up and tried to kill me? Jesus, look at the mug on this guy’s face. And look at his hands.”

  “This is a good sign. I think we can all relax,” said Dr. Alvarez. “The fact that Vinnie has no qualms about the person in the photograph and that he has expressed a strong emotional connection to all of you suggests a positive emotion rather than a fear reaction.” Dr. Alvarez paused, then turned to Vinnie. “But can you explain what made you laugh when you saw the photo?”

  “Because when I saw the face on this bastard, my first thought was that my coma was not from his beating the shit out of me but from me being forced to look at that face. Can you imagine that up close and personal? He probably sends people into comas everyday just by strolling down the street. He should call Disney for the role of the Beast in a remake of Beauty and the Beast.” Vinnie laughed at his own joke.

  After some refreshment, Vinnie started asking questions. First he asked them to identify his ugly assailant. Ben told him the man’s name.