Ice Cream Man

by Charles Puccia

  Chapter 59

  Leave a Message

  Linda cringed as she surveyed the New Jersey motel in Hackensack, a fleabag off Route 46, an unbearable contrast to the luxury she was used to. Drab brown walls, off-white ceiling, faded mocha drapes, double bed, faux dark walnut chest of drawers, tiny bathroom. Her indefinite stay here was paid for by DV&N—surely they could have afforded better than this budget rat trap.

  Her cell phone sat on a tiny table, its battery removed. She had been told that Maria would contact her on the room phone.

  ****

  Bill heard Linda’s low-pitch voice mail message for the umpteenth time. He waited for the beep, then left a message that varied only a little from his previous: “Bitch, you think you can freeze me out? You’re a son-of-a-bitch cunt.” His words echoed around his locked home office.

  Bill’s wife, Joan, heard the cursing, and she was baffled by him being home in the afternoon in the first place. When he’d entered the house earlier, he’d screamed, “Move out of my fucking way and don’t say a word! And by the way, don’t spend another goddamn cent—it’s all going to my lawyer. Same for your goddamn kids. Now fuck off.”

  He had walked right past her to the liquor cabinet, removed a full bottle of scotch—bypassing the already-open, half-full bottle—grabbed a tall whiskey tumbler, and locked himself inside his office. The incoherent cursing had continued on and off ever since.

  Joan had never seen her husband like this. Oh, sure, he’d cursed her after they’d argued, and he had struck her that one time, but he had never come home in a rage, and he had certainly never cursed the children.

  Frightened and confused, she made her way to the master bedroom to call Bill’s secretary, Blanca Santos. She used her cell phone in case Bill picked up the house phone; she knew that would only make things worse. Joan remembered Blanca from the office picnic; she was courteous, even showed a touch of kindness. She hoped Blanca could explain, because Joan needed to know what had caused Bill’s fury. And why was he home from DV&N in the middle of the day?

  Exhausted and worried after her visit with Vinnie, Blanca had just returned to the office when she took Mrs. Barrington’s call. Blanca knew she would have to tread a thin line between helping an innocent and upset woman and overstepping the bounds of confidentiality. Deep down, Blanca felt that Mrs. Barrington had a right to know; and Blanca certainly felt no loyalty toward Shithead, even less now that he was no longer her boss.

  “Mrs. Barrington, I’m sorry, but it’s not my place to tell you. Mr. Barrington should explain. All I know is that Mr. Barrington was asked to leave DV&N, and he cleared out his desk.”

  “What do you mean, leave? Fired? What happened? He won’t talk to me. I’ve never seen him this angry. He’s in his home office now with a full bottle of scotch. I can hear him screaming and cursing in there.”

  Blanca recognized Bill in Joan’s description. Blanca knew that Bill was the kind of man to blame everyone and anyone, especially women. She’d never seen Bill become violent, but she knew that alcohol brought out the worst in an angry man. Blanca had seen this volunteering at the woman’s shelter. She’d also seen Bill’s crude venom directed at female staff or at Vinnie, especially after a liquid lunch or excessive drinking at an office party. It was important that she warn Mrs. Barrington—and the children.

  “Look, Mrs. Barrington, I can’t tell you what to do, but my advice is to take your kids and go stay with friends or relatives. Do you have family you could stay with? I don’t want to alarm you, and I’m saying this not as an employee of DV&N, but as someone who wants to help. You called me, and I’m telling you this as one woman to another. This is a very difficult time for your husband, and you need to be out of his way for at least twenty-four hours. Leave a note. Don’t write anything about his behavior. Just make an excuse, like there was a pre-arranged event and you’d assumed he would be too busy to attend so it wasn’t on his calendar. I wouldn’t wait another minute.”

  “What? Why should I leave? Shouldn’t it be Bill? Isn’t this a bit drastic? Maybe he’ll calm down in a few hours.” Joan’s flat voice softened at the end.

  “It’s up to you. But if it were me, I’d take the kids and be gone immediately. Please, think about it… and I wish you the best. Bye.”

  As Joan descended the staircase, Bill came out of the downstairs bathroom carrying his empty whiskey glass.

  “What the fuck are you looking at, you fucking cunt? I’ll beat the crap out of you if you look at me like that again. And make sure your shitty kids don’t bother me. I’ll beat them to a pulp too. You women are all the same. Fucking bitches.” He slammed his study door and clicked the lock.

  That dispelled any doubts Joan had about following Blanca’s advice.

  Joan didn’t bother with clothes, a suitcase, or toiletries, and she wrote her note according to Blanca’s prescription. Her goal was to drive fast, pluck her children from school, and seek safe refuge.

  Two hours later, Joan pulled into her sister’s driveway in Connecticut. The kids’ complaining ended with the fuss Aunt Roz made over them. Uncle Dave would be home in an hour. For the children it meant more spoiling, but for Joan it meant the safety of her state trooper brother-in-law. Bill wouldn’t mess with Trooper Dave, all six foot five inches, two hundred thirty pounds, and hip revolver.

  The evening darkness, combined with the alcohol, left Bill struggling to use the toilet. Staggering, he peed on the floor and then slipped in it. “What the fuck! Bitch maid will clean it up. Fuck it. That son of a bitch Linda thinks she can screw me? I’ll show her.” His words slurred.

  The rest of Bill’s evening was filled with more unanswered calls to Linda’s cell—and more scotch. He didn’t even notice the empty house, and he never saw his wife’s note. Not that he would have cared.

  ****

  “Hi, Sallls… Ishh… It’s Bill Barringggton.”

  Sal “Chopin” Friscollo needed a moment to decipher the caller’s identity. “Oh, hello Mr. Barrington. How can I help you?”

  With effort, Bill slurred his request: he wanted to talk to Carmine.

  No way am I passing this cazzo fucking drunk to Carmine, Sal thought. “Sorry, Mr. Barrington, but Mr. Aquafreddo has stepped out. How can I help?”

  “Fuck. I need Carmine. I’ve got another job. Fuck it, you do it anyway, so maybe I should talk to you. I need you to bump off that cunt partner… former partner, motherfucking cunt, Linda Lords. Same as last time.”

  No one said this on the phone, not to Sal. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barrington, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you want a reservation? We have a great special tonight. How many in your party?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t want to eat. I want—”

  Sal hung up. Then he blocked all calls from Bill’s cell before informing Carmine that they might have a problem with a former client.

  Chapter 60

  DIY

  Winter’s low morning sunbeam crossed Bill’s face, igniting his hangover. He raised himself off the floor, zigzagged to the bathroom, and slipped again on his nighttime pee.

  “What the fuck? Piss all over. Clean this up!” Bill yelled to an absent Brazilian maid, who had been told by Mrs. Barrington that she should take an indefinite vacation, her leave paid, her job secure.

  Bill grumbled, “I’ll bet that pussy Gary gave pussy Linda a sweet deal. Two pussies. Har har, har har.” His dark eyelids lowered. “Fucking traitor…”

  He removed a thirty-eight caliber handgun from his wall safe and a thousand dollars cash.

  ****

  Standing across from the Hawthorne Building, Bill craned his neck back, unable to see his office thirty-five stories above. Every one of the stupid bastard guards knows me. I’m a god to them, the jealous fuckers.

  And they did know him—as “the offensive prick.”

  Security post 9/11 among New York’s skyscrapers was high. But Bill believed security did not apply to him. Vengeance fueled his
brain, malice was his motivation, and the garage was his entry point. Building security had forgotten his garage elevator passkey when they confiscated his ID badge. An understandable oversight, since few employees could afford the monthly two-thousand-dollar parking fee anyway; it was a corporate bonus for senior executives. Each parking location included an elevator passkey to bypass the lobby. Bill smiled as he fingered his own passkey.

  The sticking point was entry into the garage. Registered cars had access with automated telepass. Unfortunately, garage security had remembered to take his telepass.

  Bill’s reconnaissance moved from Second Avenue to the garage entrance on East Forty-Fourth. Two cars with passengers entered and the driver’s ID was checked. Hm, they didn’t check the passengers’ IDs. That’s a security hole. I’ll bring it up at the next exec meeting.

  Minutes later a car descended the ramp with a telepass—and this time there was no stopping and no guard check. Behind the car was a large FedEx courier van. Most couriers double-parked at the main Second Avenue entrance for quick drop-offs. The exceptions were deliveries containing multiple boxes, large equipment, or construction materials. These entered via the garage’s loading dock for the freight elevators.

  Bill had discovered his entry. He waited a half hour until a Staples truck turned from Second Avenue onto Forty-Fourth. Unlike other vehicles speeding past, this truck crept along slowly. Bill reacted.

  A hundred feet before the truck reached the garage, Bill stepped out. Taking a New Yorker’s mid-street stand, his arm overhead, Bill signaled the truck to stop. Hurrying to the passenger side, he jumped in. “You delivering here? I’ve been waiting for an hour. What’s your schedule?”

  The driver opened his mouth, but his words were caught on his tongue.

  Bill had hoped the manifest would be on the dashboard. But even better: red LEDs on a GPS tracking system flashed the details he needed: Hawthorne Building, Fuller Associates, twenty-sixth floor, Room B.

  “I’m with Fuller,” Ben said angrily. “We were promised delivery before ten. What the fuck is going on?” Bill’s opening salvo suited his personality. But then he adopted a tone of false empathy. “No, not your fault. Some dumb nuts in headquarters, no doubt. I’ll cover for you, say you saved them from losing the account. I’m sorry if I landed into you. This cost Dee Vee and—er, Fuller my time standing on the street. Let’s get this unloaded.”

  The driver mumbled something—thanks, perhaps—then drove down the ramp.

  Talk about your retards.

  With the Fuller delivery on the garage manifesto and the passenger unverified, the truck moved to the loading dock. Bill leapt out, telling the driver he’d alert Receiving about the delivery.

  ****

  Pinging elevator doors opened on the thirty-fifth floor, opening to a wooden panel embossed with the logo of Del Vecchio & Neale, Inc. Bill’s name had already been scrubbed from the partners list.

  Fuckers didn’t waste any time. Bile rose in Bill’s throat. Steady. Do what you came for. Bill’s head lowered, eyes on feet, face hidden, revenge propelling him forward.

  He neared Linda’s corner office, yet felt no closer. Sunlight brightened the glass corridor wall, and Bill squinted; a woman held file folders. Goddamn traitor. His pace picked up, and the .38 emerged from his winter coat. His eyes red, his mind and vision clouded, Bill passed through the secretary’s office. There was no communication between his brain and optic nerve. He took no note of the fact that this woman’s short dark hair and brown skin looked nothing like Linda’s long blond hair and fair complexion. In fact, nothing about the African-American resembled Linda’s Nordic WASPiness. But Bill’s brain’s malfunctioned; to him, this woman was Linda. He saw nothing else.

  Bill raised his gun and shouted, “You motherfucking cunt, you think you can double-cross me?!”

  He fired.

  Brian Neale’s office was diagonally opposite Shareen’s. But he was in a personal crisis, unable to concentrate on finances, so at that moment he was strolling the corridor, approaching Shareen Cooper’s office. When he heard the shot, he jumped; he smelled the gunpowder before he saw Shareen holding her shoulder, leaning against the glass wall, eyes wide with terror. Then he spotted Bill.

  Brian sprinted toward Bill Barrington and slammed into him. The gun was knocked from Bill’s hand. His adrenaline high, Brain lunged for the gun, grabbed it, pointed it at Bill.

  “Hey, little man,” Bill growled, “don’t play with big boy toys. Give it to me and get the fuck out of my way.”

  Bill grabbed for the gun, turned it aside.

  For the second time that day, a gunshot echoed through the offices of DV&N.

  Brian’s shot was wild. A thud sounded from beside the two men. They both turned.

  Shareen had collapsed onto the floor, and serpentine blood flowed under the desk. Only now did Bill’s brain catch up with his eyes: this wasn’t Linda.

  “Wrong bitch,” Bill said. “We shot the wrong bitch.”

  Brian panicked and ran to Shareen, dropping the gun. He bent over Shareen’s body. There was a gaping hole in the back of her head; brain matter painted the wall where she had stood.

  Brian cried out, then turned and vomited. In his shock, he had forgotten all about Bill Barrington. He didn’t notice when Bill calmly picked up the gun and stood.

  Bill fired two rounds into the ceiling, then two into Brian’s chest. More screams echoed from the corridor. Any staff who lingered after the earlier gunshots were now packing into stairwells.

  “Where’s fucking Linda,” Bill growled at the corpse.

  Then he realized. Linda had been promoted.

  As he approached his former office, Bill saw the confluence of the East River and the Hudson, Lady Liberty’s torch reflecting the low winter sun. “Yoohoo… Linda… I’m here. Yoohoo… Linda Lords… I’m here for you.”

  The childlike singsong changed to a growl. “You fucking slut, traitor, bitch.”

  Blanca was crouched behind a filing cabinet, trying to decide whether to run from the office or stay put. She’d heard the gunshots, but had no idea who was responsible or what was going on. She went from puzzlement to shock when Bill entered the room, calling for Linda Lords. His stiff posture, wide stance, and raised gun formed the portrait of a deranged man. Blanca knew in that instant that her advice to Mrs. Barrington had been good.

  Blanca rose from behind the filing cabinet. “Hello, Mr. Barrington,” she said as calmly as she could muster. “Linda’s not here, and you shouldn’t be either.”

  “Don’t hand me that bullshit, you Puerto Rican slut. Oh, another brown baby on the way?” Bill pointed the gun barrel at Blanca’s swollen belly. He had ignored the pregnancy announcement a week before, but today Blanca had donned maternity clothes for the first time.

  Blanca stood firm. “Excuse me. You need to leave before I call security.”

  “What do I care, bitch? Out of my way. That cunt’s in my office.”

  “Linda is… is… is not in your office.” Blanca folded her arms. “You don’t have an office. And you will not use sexist and racist language around me. You don’t work here, and you have no authority.”

  With his gun pointed at her, Bill bellowed, “Move it, you Puerto Rican bitch.”

  Just then, Maria appeared in the doorway to Blanca’s office. She had seen Shareen, and now she carried sorrow, indignation, and resolve on her shoulders.

  “Bill, put that gun down,” she said. “You’ve done enough already.”

  “Oh, look who’s here, the queer’s queen bee. The queen has a queen. Har har, har har. I’m senior to you, so I give the orders.”

  “Not anymore. Give me that gun while we wait for the police in the conference room.” Maria held out her hand.

  “Bitch, didn’t you hear me? I give the orders! Where’s Linda?” Bill looked over Maria’s shoulder.

  “She’s not here.” Maria flicked her hand by her side, a signal for Blanca to move into Bill’s old office.

>   “Don’t you move, you goddamn Rican bitch. Tell me now where that cunt is hiding.”

  Blanca said nothing.

  Maria belted out her words. “How dare you speak to Blanca like that? Give me that gun right now.” Maria stepped forward. Bill used his height and strength advantage to knock Maria down.

  “You’re a little cunt, just like this one!” Bill turned back to Blanca and pointed the gun at her belly. “Now, for the last time: where’s Linda.”

  Blanca’s calm demeanor broke; she began to sob. “I don’t know. Probably in California.”

  “More lies! You have two seconds to tell me, or I’ll do the same thing to you that I did to Shareen.”

  While Bill yelled, Maria shifted to her knees. Fueled by rage, she leapt, throwing her body into Bill’s legs. As he fell, Maria grabbed his arm, jerking it down, twisting their bodies. But her hold gave Bill buoyancy, enough to toss her across Blanca’s desk.

  He pulled the trigger three times.

  ****

  Bill was charged with three attempted murders. Shareen’s death was caused by Brian’s misfire. Blanca and Maria had lived only because Bill had failed to check the gun chamber.

  During his interrogation by the police, Bill spit out his responses. “I’ll have your badges! I know people! You little people can’t touch me. Har har, har har.”

  Chapter 61

  Yes

  Bloomingdale’s bustled at Easter, but Ginny wasn’t feeling it. She’d refused the Paris position over Dan’s objection, smiling at the irony since Dan had declined the recently opened European executive director position.

  “Not interested,” Dan had said. “Besides, I can’t leave Vinnie now, can I?”

  Ginny had countered that Vinnie would be fine. He was wealthy now—Dan too. Gary had kept his word, and the men’s compensations had been kings’ ransoms. Myron hadn’t even complained.