Iceman

by Rex Miller

  That particular rainy morning he'd been invited to play on someone's membership in the toney Buckhead Country Club, and out of curiosity had gone out early to get nine in before work on a Friday morning.

  The fairways looked like the greens where he'd become used to playing. He had no idea where the pins were, and when no one had materialized near the first tee, he smacked one out optimistically into the expanse of bright green and set off to find it.

  He was on the fourth hole, a long, intimidating dogleg leading away from the clubhouse, when the summer sky turned menacingly dark and one of those sudden rainstorms began pelting him as he grabbed his clubs and ran in the direction of two other golfers playing an adjacent hole. Their destination appeared to be a small caddy shack behind one of the beautifully manicured greens. The two men, Eichord hot in pursuit, splashed into the confines of the dark shack to find it full of wet guys listening to a man in a wheelchair who greeted them with,

  “New arrivals. More idiots!” Laughter. Eichord saw the car dealer from TV sitting in his wheelchair, totally out of place here. “I know full well you're wondering why I called this meeting and brought you together this morning,” he boomed in that voice so familiar from the television spots. There were a couple of damp snickers as the words “FULL WELL” boomed through the small dark shack.

  “I'm going to take this opportunity,” Alan Schumway said, rolling his eyes skyward and wiping water from his dark head of hair, “to share some important secrets of life with you.” One of the strangers dripping water in the darkened and somewhat chilly shack pulled a half-pint from his golf bag, and a murmur of approval welled up among the impromptu audience. Nothing except the presence of a woman being as welcome in a tightly confined group of men as a bottle of booze.

  “The smoking lamp is not lit, but feel free to imbibe.” The men just looked at him sitting there. Someone standing beside the wheelchair let out a nervous laugh. “Gentlemen and ladies—if any are secretly present, and you know who you are—I'm Al Schumway, your temporary host.” He gestured. “My home is your home. Please don't treat it like a pigsty."

  Eichord declined the whiskey with thanks and passed it back to the owner, who killed it.

  “I'm going to share some secrets with you that will change your barren and obviously drab lives,” the crippled man boomed, cheerfully putting everybody on. Eichord suddenly realized what had made the deep ruts leading into the shack. He'd assumed them to be from a golf cart of some type but now realized this man had made them from his chair. What the hell was a man in a WHEELCHAIR doing playing golf—in the rain? For that matter, what were any of them doing playing golf in the rain?

  “I'm a closet Democrat. I pull off those little tags that say do not remove under penalty of law.” He stared at Eichord with hard, unblinking eyes. “Are there any pigs here? Any flatfoots? Narcs? Stoolies? Rats? Food-mooching, donut-sucking cops?” Eichord smiled by way of response. “Well, not to worry. This cowering toadie,"—he gestured at the sheepish man beside him—"is my attorney, and he will remain present during any interrogation.

  “As well as having dubious political affiliations and a marked disregard for tags on furniture, I confess to other sins of the flesh. I have never paid for a book-club offer. I send for the books, you know. Where you get five great new books for a dollar? And then you're supposed to send them $3 .99 for your next selection? I keep the books and never send them shit. Also I once lived for two years by putting signs saying this machine is out of order & owes me 50 cents on vending machines all over the Atlantic seaboard. I lived quite handsomely. As you can see I'm quite handsome, so I always live that way, but my vending-machine scam was extremely successful.” The deep voice and the tone of the jivey conversation was just like he favored in his obnoxious TV spots.

  “But before I continue, lest someone of a thin-skinned ethnic persuasion be offended, are there any non-Aryans present? Any Rosicrucians or members of any other off-the-wall or what we might consider freak-o religious orders such as Scientologists, Holy Rollers, Jehova's Witlesses, Baptists, Cat-lickers, Masons, Jews, Protestants, Lutherans? Epissypalians? Demonologists? Press-butt-terians? Reptile-kissers? Mackerel-snappers? Knights of Columbus? Campfire Girls? Lesbian Save-the-Whalers? Speak right up. I wouldn't want to offend any persons of, shall we say, suspect lineage? Are there any Negroid or mulah-toe types among us? Spies? Micks? Pollocks? Slopes? Dinks? Gooks? Fruits? Fags? Queens? Messicans? Beaners? Greasers? Wops? Guineas? Dagos? Shines? Spades? Jungle Bunnies? Krauts? Huns? Darkies? Shanties? Couch-'tators? Rednecks? Crackers? Greco-Romans? Serbo-Croats? Sheenies? Moravians? Frogs? Wogs? Kikes? Hebes? Bagel Beaks? Muff-divers? Beaver Cleavers? Poontang punishers? Snatch Gobblers...?"

  He took a breath and somebody went “Jeezus,” and he said, “Jesus! Wonderful! Brethern, HE is with us today. So we will ask him for divine guidance before I continue. Let us bow our heads in a moment of silent prayer.” It was an uncomfortable moment. The mocking voice had turned serious, and nobody knew quite what to make of this nut. Was he for real? Nobody bowed their heads and he looked up at the men and said in a quiet but authoritarian whisper, “I'm not kidding now, guys. Let's do bow our heads just for a second and give thanks for our blessings—okay?” So sincere, this crazy guy in the wheelchair. And everybody bowed their heads like idiots and he shouted, “AMEN, brothers and sisters."

  The men looked up. One or two nervous guffaaws. “I never said nothin’ about no LONG prayer.” They laughed in spite of themselves. “Now, dearly beloved, let us, and tomato, but first, consider the odds of us being thrown together like this, drawn by the weather's ferocity, granted that there are worse things than wind and rain, namely thunder, lightning, cyclone, hurricane, tornado, tidal wave, cataclysm, mushroom cloud, a fart after a large Hungarian dinner. Surely some higher BEING, some greater FORCE, some guiding DESTINY, a God or gods above, or below, has preordained this moment. How many of you really BELIEVE?” he boomed in his preacher's oratorical resonance.

  And one of the men had just about had his fill of it and said, “I don't hold with joking about a man's religion,” spoken in a very quiet voice.

  And, not missing a beat, Schumway turned his eyes on the man standing about three feet above him in stature and cut him down to size in a deadly, perfect, withering, incredible Gunsmoke voice, “How djew lak to step outside and take your shirt off, big boy?"

  Everybody broke up, and he turned to the lawyer, unsmiling, and said, “Go over to the Long Branch and fetch Doc and Fester and all the boys. Tell ‘em this here GALOOT has gone and called ole Matt a dirty name an’ we're fixin to step outside and SETTLE THIS.” Turning back to the man who'd spoken, he said in his best James Arness, “I don't HOLD with hittin’ cripples, mister, now go for your HOGLEG."

  Everybody roared, including the man who'd been so offended a moment ago. He smiled and said, “No offense, man. I just don't like to joke about some things, ya know?"

  “Hey"—the man in the chair was so immediately and genuinely sincere, so apologetic, in a soft voice full of gentleness and caring—"I know. I'm the one who should apologize to YOU, friend. After all, consider what the good Lord above has equipped you with: your level of intellect is such that knowing to come in out of the rain may well be your high-water mark, so to speak. Let me ask you, my religiostic, do you comprehend the true implications of what these other heathen might erroneously delineate as theopneustic inspiration? Ahhhh, I see your eyes glazing over. Who's handicapped here, anyway? But never mind. Ignore my persiflage.” He waved an arm dramatically.

  “I was only trying to lighten the tension and make us all forget that there's a flash flood taking our cars down Country Club boulevard right now ... that we're trapped in here together, sans electroluminescence and maid service, that Miss Kitty here is the only female and SHE has an unmentionable sex-related virus, that the bank foreclosed on the ranch, that the IRS is tapping our phones and the feds have a snitch among us"—he glanced over at Eichord—"that a madman in a daggone
WHEELCHAIR is monopolizin the conversation and jes ruinin ever't-hang, Matthew.” This last sentence in a dead-bang perfect Dennis Weaver. The laughter was so gleefully surprised it almost sounded like theater applause.

  Not long after that, mercifully, the rain abated and the golfers dispersed. Eichord's one chance meeting with the commercial Cosell of Buckhead had nonetheless remained vivid in memory. He had always realized that among his own faults was an excessively low tolerance for the pseudo-elitist who looked down on others, one who used his or her intelligence to skewer those considered to be inferior, and the fact that Schumway was in a chair did nothing to make him less contemptible. This was the emotion Jack identified as predominant in the thoroughness behind his background check on the controversial star of the commercials that invariably ended, “NOBODY beats a Schumway Buick deal! NO ... BOD ... EEEEEEE."

  Eichord gave his name to a girl in a punky do who told him to have a seat, and he looked at the Schumway file as bored but hungry car salesmen milled around the showroom of Schumway Buick.

  Soon the man himself rolled out of his office, a professional greeter's smile in place as he boomed across the showroom at Eichord, “it's Fearless Fuzzdick, the famous flatfoot. As they said when the first black astronaut left the launching pad at Cape, the jig is up!"

  Eichord smiled and flashed some shield surreptitiously.

  The man in the chair said, “Hold it now, let's get a look-see. That thing could have chicken inspector on it, for all I know.” Eichord, the smile still firmly on his face, opened the ID case and held it as Schumway read in a booming voice, “Jack Eichord, Secret Agent."

  Everybody in the showroom was staring at them.

  “Mr. Schumway.” He held out his hand, forcing the man to touch him, watching the eyes very closely to see how much of the animosity was real and how much was an act. “Appreciate you seeing me."

  “Come on, hoss. When the Major Crimes Task Force's headhunter calls. Big Al listens. What can I do ya out of? Wanna deal on a used Fiero?"

  “We're working on an investigation of the recent homicides and—"

  “Well, I can account for my actions every minute of the time between the end of the Korean conflict and now. I have the perfect alibi. I was at a poker game the whole time. Ask any of these men. They're the finest witnesses money can buy. They all saw me. Right, boys?"

  “Maybe we can talk in private?"

  “Sure, Jack. My pleasure.” He spun the chair and rolled off toward his office, saying over his shoulder, “Sorta makes you feel like R2D2, doesn't it?"

  Eichord looked back over at the car parked across the width of the showroom and motioned, turning after he saw Monroe Tucker get out of the vehicle.

  “Have a seat. Inspector,” Schumway said. “Now, you want to know where I was on February the thirty-first?"

  “Something like that,” Eichord said patiently. “We're checking on individuals in wheelchairs. Persons about your age—"

  “Ahh-hah! Now, that is a serious crime. I thought you guys were nothing but donut-scarfing, do-nothing, chicken-coopers, but here you spring serious police work on me. Jayzus! I'd forgotten that it's a federal crime to be a middle-aged motha in a chair. Punishable by whipping, isn't it? Tongue-whipping by a young girl? All right. I surrender, Officer. Send her in and give me a couple dozen lashes. Tell her to lay it on. Show no mercy. Give me a real licking."

  Eichord went on as if he'd been uninterrupted. “—and there was some relation to another investigation some years back"—he threw this part away—"and we had noticed some small discrepancies in your background. I was wondering if you could fill me in on where you were before"—he glanced at the dossier—"Atlantic City?"

  “Norway,” he said, looking up as a huge black man's shadow filled the doorway. “You know what Mayor Dorf said when he introduced the then-presidential contender, Jesse Jackson?” Monroe stared at him like he was something he'd stepped into in a cow pasture. “What this country needs is a spear-chucker.” Schumway laughed as if Tucker wasn't there.

  “Mr. Schumway, my partner—Detective Tucker."

  “Lo.” The huge man nodded.

  “Could you get my ball off the roof?” Nothing in Monroe's face changed.

  Eichord began questioning Schumway about the past, watching the way he responded as much as he digested the man's words. There was no hesitation. No unnaturalness in his responses. Schumway was the anglicization of a name filled with umlauts and diacritical marks. He was, in fact, from Norway's “biggest fjord” and spelled the name for Eichord. His family was all deceased; however, the last he'd heard he had cousins still living in Oslo. His records had been lost when they were transferred from Atlantic City to Buckhead. He told the detectives the details of the auto accident that had put him in a wheelchair. He did an awful joke about opening up a Fjord-Buick dealership. An absolutely hideous wheelchair joke.

  And Jack thanked him for his time. Getting into the car he said to Monroe, “What did you think about him?” He'd brought Tucker along to see if Schumway would overreact to him. He was curious if he was all the bigot he appeared to be or if it was some kind of pretense. He remembered thinking the day of the meeting on the course that the man's facade appeared to be calculated. Theatrical in an odd way.

  “Say what?"

  “How did you read him?"

  “Sheeeeit."

  “Meaning?"

  “Just one mo’ fucked-up whitey."

  Buckhead Springs

  The cumulative effect of the day was like a nice, refreshing double back-flip into the cesspool. A day of noxious smells and deleterious people and nastiness that left you washing your hands until you felt like Lady Macbeth. Schumway was one of those people who gave off a particularly strong aura of unpleasantness. And the whole day had been like that.

  Eichord walked in the door and started catching flak from Donna about some bills, not like her at all, and he made some remark about when dinner was going to be ready and she told him off and he snarled, “I love this warm welcome tonight. I worked my butt off, and instead of my nice, sexy wife I come home to the Wicked Witch of Buckhead Springs. How's about giving me a break, eh?"

  “Oh, excuse me, dear. I'm so very sorry. But would you believe the CHILD has run me ragged today, I've got to balance our checkbook AND pay all the bills or I'll catch hell about it. I have to clean the house, I'm beat, I'm tired, I don't feel good, I'm getting my period, I'm goddamned bitchy and don't have your dinner ready on time and just can't be real soft and cuddly and coltish for you tonight? Okay?"

  “Fine.” He sat down with a sigh and opened his mail. There was this awful packet of material on a case study being done on some weirded-out, misogynic asshole and his nitwit girlfriend who had a record of priors for going into public places and slashing each other on the ankles with razor blades, giggling like fools, and the cops would come and there'd be these two nuts sitting in a restaurant over two pools of blood. That's what got them off. One day the guy got bored and reached out and cashed in her chips right there over the seafood platter. All of this was illustrated, yet. The perfect cap on the day.

  He was getting up to flick on the news channel and there was a loud crash at the other end of the house and he was up and out of the chair and moving before he heard her scream behind him, “Jonathan!"

  “Honey,” he said, and reached out to rescue the little boy, who was seated in a shower of sharp glass shards. Eichord stepped forward without caution, he just wanted to make sure Jonathan didn't cut himself, and as he moved, the child gritted his teeth and ripped the thing he was holding, plucked from the wreckage of the broken picture frame, tearing in half Jack Eichord's favorite photograph of his long-deceased mother.

  “You mean shit,” he said, the little child glaring up at him defiantly with eyes as hard and cold as small black marbles, Eichord swooping him up out of the glass and paddling his butt as hard as he could, thinking to himself, I could kill you, wanting to hit the child so hard, leaving purple fingermarks on
the kid's bottom even through the layers of diapers and clothing.

  “Jack,” was all she said, one word and a look. But Donna and Jack were close. She said a bookful with that look of reproach.

  Eichord said, “He's not hurt,” over the screams of their son, “he's crying from humiliation more than pain."

  “Come on, Jonathan.” She carried the kid off while Eichord swept up glass and tried to calm himself down. He looked up at her in the doorway as he was finishing and said, “I don't have a negative, of course.” The kid had ripped her head right off. Broken the glass to get to it. That said everything right there. Jesus.

  “I know, hon, but your anger, my God!"

  “Excessive. I know. I—” He couldn't think of what to say and just shook his head. He could hear the boy crying at the top of his lungs down at the other end of their home. Jack thought to himself, He had wanted to kill the kid when he saw him ripping the old photograph in two. It wasn't just the meanness of the act or the fact the picture was damaged. He could probably tape that back together.

  Eichord wondered what else had just been torn beyond repair. Christ in heaven, he'd seen a look in the kid's eyes he'd seen before. A look he seemed to reserve for Eichord. It was a look of the purest, coldest hatred, and the whole idea was so absurd and crazy that he rejected it immediately. Just the product of a genuinely awful day. Nothing more.

  He went back in and took off his sock and picked a splinter of glass out of his right foot, got up, and turned the TV on. The idea of watching the news now was so thoroughly depressing he got the remote-control unit and sat there popping from one channel to another.

  “—score four to two, Jim. And you know what that means for the—” He switched from the hockey game to PBS.