Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

  Bran frowned. “What if she doesn’t want to go?”

  “She ain’t gonna have a choice,” L.B. said.

  “Isn’t that kidnapping?” Bran said.

  Rafe shrugged. “Well, sure,. But nothin’s gonna get done here, nephew, if we start gettin’ bogged down in legal technicalities.”

  Bran shook his head. “No one said anything about kidnapping. Someone might get hurt.”

  L.B. scowled. “Everyone does what they’re supposed to do,and no one has to get hurt.” His meaningful look let Bran know that “everyone” and “no one” both included him. Bran shut up.

  Rafe looked thoughtful. It was an expression which he did not wear well. “Branson does raise a salient point. The people taking control of the lovely young model will have to remove the item from her person. That will render her, for all intents and purposes, almost nude.”

  “Yeah,” L.B. said. “So?”

  “I’m just concerned that someone might be distracted by her prurient charms. And, how do I put this delicately, tempted to take advantage of her condition of temporary captivity. We can’t have that. We’re thieves, not sex perverts.”

  L.B. grunted. “There’s a lot of people in this bidness who are both. But you got a point. We need people who ain’t gonna lose their minds over a pretty face and a big pair of hooters.”

  Rafe looked sorrowful. “When you put it that way, it would seem to narrow the pool of qualified applicants.”

  L.B. drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, thinking. Then he snapped his fingers. “I got it. We can get the Lowman twins.”

  Rafe’s face brightened. “It’s that sort of knowledge,” he said, “that makes you the perfect man for this job.”

  “Who are the Lowman twins?” Bran asked.

  “You’re probably too young to remember the story,” Rafe said, “back when it was in all the papers.”

  “About fifteen years ago,” L.B. said, “the ATF raided some whackadoodle religious cult up in the mountains of Idaho. Turned up enough machine guns ’n’ bombs ’n’ shit to supply a war in the Middle East. Or a weekend in Chicago.”

  Rafe jumped in. “But the thing that got everyone’s attention was, their leader had decided that sexual gratification was a distraction from the spiritual discipline he wished to impose upon his disciples.”

  “Unless he was the one gettin’ gratified,” L.B. said.

  Rafe nodded. “Just so. Sadly, it is so often thus. Those who make the rules feel no need to be ruled by them.” He grinned. “It’s enough to drive one to a life of crime.” The smile faded. “Anyway, this preacher decreed that all of the male members of his congregation were to have their manly parts surgically removed.”

  “Jesus,” Bran said.

  “He certainly thought he was,” Rafe said. “Anyway, the decree was followed with great and inexplicable enthusiasm by the congregants. What was more problematic was that the underage males were compelled to follow when they reached puberty. The Lowman brothers, Japeth and Elihu, became victims of the leader’s sad obsession.”

  “You mean they’re eunuchs?” Bran said.

  “They are,” Rafe said.

  “So,” L.B. added, “perfect for what we need. Japeth’s a good wheelman, maybe one of the best. And Elihu can keep his head.”

  “Out of respect for our potential teammate,” Rafe said, “I shall refrain from the obvious witty rejoinder.”

  L.B. looked baffled. “What?”

  “Never mind,” Rafe said. “So, nephew, does that assuage your misgivings?”

  “Yeah,” Bran said. But he was lying.

  UNLIKE HIS namesake in the wild, Aldo “Moose” Cantone was a creature of the herd. He’d grown up in a large and noisy family—three brothers, two sisters, and a houseful of aunts, uncles, and people who he wasn’t exactly sure how he was related to, and didn’t want to ask about for fear of getting a cuff on the ear for being a wise-ass. When he was old enough to make friends, the people he went to school and hung out with were the toddler version of Mario Allegretti’s current crew. In Jersey, he was a man in his element, secure in the knowledge that he was part of something, something closer and more lasting than family. He’d never been outside of that cocoon in his life.

  But now he was cut off from it, alone, a stranger in a strange land where everyone talked funny. And he had to stand in line. That really got to him. Back home, a member of the Allegretti crew didn’t wait for anything. They got shown to the front of the line at nightclubs. They immediately got the best and biggest tables in restaurants, even if someone else was already eating there, and anyone who had a problem with it was looking for a stomping. But now, he was standing in line at the check-in desk like an ordinary guy. He didn’t like it one bit.

  “Hey, buddy,” he said to the guy in front of him who was fumbling in his jacket for his wallet, “sometime today?” The guy shot him a look like Moose was something he’d scraped off his shoe and turned back to talk to the blond desk clerk. Moose stood there and fumed. He had half a mind to yank the guy out of line and teach him some manners. But Mario had told him to keep his head down and not attract attention. So he gritted his teeth and took it. The guy finished checking in, picked up his bag, and walked off, not giving Moose so much as a look. “See you later, buddy,” Moose growled under his breath. The guy didn’t even glance back.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the petite blond desk attendant chirped. Her accent was pure magnolias and mint juleps and her smile was bright enough to make him squint.

  “Yeah, how you doin’?” Moose said, shifting his carry-on bag off his shoulder. He still had his suit bag slung over the other one.

  “Fine, sir, hope you are,” she said, still with that brilliant smile.

  “Ah, yeah. Reservation for, ah, Norberg?” The name sounded ridiculous on his tongue. He had no idea why the cover identity they’d given him was that of a thirty-seven-year-old Swede named Ingmar Norberg. He suspected it was an ID that became available on short notice because the unfortunate Mr. Norberg no longer had need of it. Paul Chirelli, however, had told Moose not to worry about it.

  Moose had gotten his nickname at an early age because Mario had said he looked like the big blond square-jawed football player from the Archie comics. If he opened his mouth, though, he knew he had about as good a chance of passing for a Swede as Antonio Banderas. He’d just have to stay as inconspicuous as possible and not engage in any more conversation than he could absolutely avoid. The thought made him feel even lonelier, but he was here to do a job.

  “We’ve got you right here, Mr. Norberg,” the clerk said. “Room 743. You need one key or two?”

  “Tell you what, baby,” he said. “You keep the other one.” He winked. “In case you get lonely later.”

  Her smiled slipped a notch, then she cranked it back into place with a visible effort. “One key, then,” she said brightly, and handed over the small paper envelope with the key in it.

  Moose kicked himself inwardly. The come-on had slipped out automatically. Way to not attract attention, dumb-ass. He picked up his bag and turned away. As he did, he spotted Clarissa Cartwright across the crowded lobby. She was dressed in jeans and a white blouse, walking with long, angry strides, her jaw set. Her eyes were concealed behind large sunglasses.

  She looks pissed at something, Moose thought. He suddenly realized his exposed position and moved to put a large standing plant between them. Then he recollected that being seen was part of the job, so she’d know Mario was keeping an eye on her. He quickly shifted his position back to where he’d been standing.

  “Take your bags, sir?” a voice spoke up next to him. He turned. A short, young Latino in a bellman’s uniform was eying him suspiciously. The name tag on his chest said PABLO.

  Moose suddenly realized how he must look, shuffling back and forth around the plant like he was line-dancing with it. “Yeah,” he said, covering his embarrassment with gruffness. He handed the man the suit bag. “743.” He glanced back in ti
me to see Clarissa exit through the front doors. People stopped to look as she swept by. She took no notice. He turned back. “Was that Clarissa Cartwright?” he said.

  Pablo nodded. “Yes sir,” he said, then he smiled. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “You can say that again,” Moose said. “She staying here?”

  Pablo looked uncomfortable. “I can’t really give out that…”

  He stopped as Moose produced a twenty-dollar bill in one hand. “Pleased to meet you,” Moose said. “The name’s Norberg.” He extended the hand as if for a shake.

  Pablo took the hand and the twenty. “Yes, sir,” he said. “The Enigma models have a whole floor of the hotel.” He nodded at the poster on a stand near the elevators. ENIGMA PRESENTS THE BIRDS OF PARADISE COLLECTION, the sign read, the words above and below framing a picture of Clarissa in the Fantasy Bra, huge feathered wings sprouting from her back.

  “Wow,” Moose said.

  “Yes, sir,” Pablo said.

  “You think you could…”

  Pablo held up a warning hand. “No, I can’t get you up there.” He shrugged. “You’re not the first one who’s asked.”

  “Too bad.” Moose grinned. Another twenty appeared. This time it brought a couple of friends.

  “You’re not the first one who’s offered me that either, sir. I’m sorry. Security’s just too tight.”

  Moose nodded his understanding. “Think maybe you could get me tickets for the show?”

  “Very possibly, yes, sir,” Pablo said, and took the bills.

  “Pablo,” Moose said, “I think this may be the beginning of…ah…” He’d forgotten the line.

  “A beautiful friendship, sir?”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  BRANSON STOOD outside the door of Stephanie’s apartment. He was showered, shaved, and thirty minutes early. He hesitated. He’d given himself time to find the place, a huge old Victorian house in the Little Five Points area of Atlanta that had been divided into three separate apartments, two down and a larger one above. It hadn’t taken him as long as he thought. He thought maybe he should take a walk through the area, maybe stop in one of the plentiful bars and have a beer to calm his nerves. Then he wondered if maybe it would be a bad idea to show up for a date with beer on his breath. Then he thought maybe he shouldn’t be standing on the front porch like this, staring at the front door like a particularly inept stalker. This last thought was still making its way through his mind when the door swung open.

  The girl standing there was not Stephanie. She was rail-thin, with skin so pale it was almost translucent. She had large dark eyes, made even larger by the heavy makeup she’d used all around them. Her shaggy jet-black hair framed the kind of face that made people go “she’d be really pretty if she’d smile once in a while.” She wore a large black T-shirt that hung on her like a tunic over leggings in the same color. She leaned in the door and studied him with a total lack of expression.

  “Um…hi,” Branson said.

  “You must be Branson,” the girl said in a dolorous voice.

  “Yeah,” he said. “How did you know?”

  “She said you were cute, but kinda awkward and goofy.”

  “Who said that?”

  She rolled her eyes and sighed the sigh of a woman plagued throughout her life by an endless tide of imbeciles. She turned away. “You might as well come in,” she said. He followed her inside. The house smelled old, the odor overlaid by the aroma of frying onions from somewhere in the building. She walked a short ways down the gloomy front hall and entered a red door that looked bright and cheery and freshly painted. He hesitated again, wondering if this strange girl was luring him inside to murder him. She turned and gave him that same world-weary look. “Are you coming in or not?”

  “Sure,” he said, stepping into a large high-ceilinged room that must once have been a parlor. A beautiful stained glass window cast a soft light over the room. A flat-screen TV hung on one wall, showing a reality show that Branson had heard of but never actually seen. The girl threw herself down on the sofa opposite the TV, pulled her knees up to her chest, and stared at the screen as if she was expecting her obituary to be broadcast on it at any moment. The only other place to sit in the room was a large overstuffed chair that didn’t match the sofa and looked as if it had been plucked off a street corner, after giving all the neighborhood cats a chance to swipe a claw along it. He sat down in it gingerly, expecting at any moment to be jabbed by a broken spring. It was surprisingly comfortable, however. He looked at the girl. She didn’t look back. “So, um,” he said, “I didn’t get your name.”

  “That’s because I didn’t tell it to you,” she said, still staring at the screen. “I’m Sunshine.”

  “Really?” The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it.

  “Yes,” she said, and sighed again. “Really. My parents named me Sunshine. Ha ha.”

  “It’s a pretty name,” Bran said.

  “It’s a stupid name,” Sunshine said, “and I hate it.”

  “Sorry,” Bran said. There was a long silence. He stood it as long as he could, then asked, “Ummm…is Stephanie here?”

  She tore her eyes from the screen and looked at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. “STEPHANIE!” she bellowed, so suddenly it made him jump.

  A muffled voice came from the other room. “What?”

  “Yeah,” Sunshine said to Branson. “She’s here.”

  The door opened and Stephanie stuck her head out. “What?” she asked. She saw Branson in the chair. “Oh, hey,” she said.

  He stood up. “Hey.”

  “Your date’s here,” Sunshine said.

  “I can see that.” She smiled at him. “You’re a little early, hon. I’ll be out in a minute. You two can get to know one another.” She closed the door. They sat for another full minute, Bran writhing inwardly in uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of Kardashians arguing on the television. “So,” he said finally, “what, ah, what do you do for a living?”

  She looked at him without expression, then turned back to the TV. “What do you think I do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Work at the DMV, maybe?”

  She turned to give him a long look that pinned him to the chair like a spiked butterfly. Then she got up and walked out of the room, leaving him sitting there dumbfounded. In a moment, Stephanie came out, putting in an earring. She was dressed in a little black dress that hugged her in all the right places. Her hair was pinned up in a simple but elegant style. She looked amazing, but there was a slightly nettled expression on her face. “What happened with you and Sunshine?” she said.

  “I was just asking what she does for a living. She wanted me to guess. And when I did, she got up and stomped out. I mean, what the…the heck, Stephanie?”

  “We need to go,” Stephanie said. “Right now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “She’s getting ready to show you what she does. And you don’t want to see it, trust me.”

  “Why?” Bran said. “Is she like a trained killer or something?”

  “No,” Stephanie said. “She’s a clown.”

  “A…a clown? Like in the circus?”

  “No. For kids’ parties and stuff.” She went to the door, pulled it open. “Come on,” she said. “Hurry.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Bran,” Stephanie said, “she’s…just…come on. Please. Trust me. It’s not something you want to see.”

  In the hallway, they could hear the steady clump…clump…clump…of oversized shoes, getting nearer. Nearer. The doorknob began to open.

  They fled.

  “MR. MCNEILL?” The young man was standing at the opening of Chunk’s makeshift office, dressed in his bellman’s uniform.

  Chunk looked up from his computer screen. “Yeah?”

  “I’m Pablo, sir,” the man said. “I work at the hotel.”

  “I can tel
l that from the uniform,” Chunk said. “What can I do for you?”

  “You asked the staff to tell you if we noticed anything unusual. Anything that didn’t seem right.”

  “Yeah, I did. What have you got?”

  “Well, this guy checked in today. Name on the check-in and his ID said he was an Ingmar Norberg. From Goteborg. That’s in Sweden.”

  “Go on.”

  Pablo cleared his throat. “He was, ah, a really good tipper.”

  “And that’s unusual?”

  “No, sir. That’s not the unusual thing about him. A lot of people tip really well. In fact, I kind of depend on that. If you know what I mean.”

  “I think I do,” Chunk said. He got his wallet out, fished out a ten-dollar bill, and offered it.

  Pablo looked at the offered bill mournfully, but didn’t take it. “Well, maybe the guy wasn’t all that unusual,” he said.

  Chunk sighed and took out another ten. Pablo reached out and took the bills. “Thing is,” he said, “if this guy was from Sweden, then the Swedish accent sure has changed since the last time I heard one.”

  “Which was?”

  “Last week.”

  “So how did this guy sound?”

  Pablo hesitated. Chunk produced another ten. “That’s all I have, Pablo,” he said. “And I don’t feel like making a trip to the ATM.” He scowled. That scowl had worked to loosen the tongues of some seriously hard guys, and Pablo was nowhere near in that league. He swallowed nervously. “Jersey,” he said in a small voice. “If this ‘Ingmar Norberg’ dude wasn’t from Jersey, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “You’re not wearing a hat,” Chunk said, “but I tell you what. If I get the idea you’re lying just to squeeze a little cash out of me, I’ll find you one. I’ll even put ketchup on it for you and watch you eat it.”

  Pablo shook his head. “Not lying, sir. I swear it.”

  “Okay,” Chunk said. “I’ll check it out.” He softened his voice a little. “And next time you’ve got something good, I’ll make sure to have more cash on hand.”

  Pablo smiled. “You got it.”