Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

  “So what room is this guy in?”

  “743,” Pablo said, and grinned. “I’ll put that one on your tab.”

  “You do that,” Chunk said. Pablo left.

  Jersey, Chunk thought. He took out his cell phone and dialed Zoe Piper. “Zoe,” he said when she answered. “Can you get me pictures of Mario Allegretti? And his crew?”

  He heard her bubblegum pop softly. “When you need ’em?”

  “ASAP.”

  “On it.”

  STEPHANIE HAD made no comment about his battered car, not even the duct tape holding in the stuffing on the passenger seat or the lack of air conditioning. She did look a little worried when they pulled up to the restaurant. It was the fanciest place he could find in the yellow pages, a steakhouse named after its famous owner. “You sure you can…” She trailed off, embarrassed.

  “Not a problem,” he assured her. He could feel the two hundreds from his uncle like an uncomfortable weight in his pocket, and he felt oddly anxious to get rid of them, as if they might be bad luck. From the looks of the place, getting rid of the money wasn’t going to be a problem.

  Bran had never seen anyone actually look down their nose at someone, but that’s what the uniformed valet at the front door did as Bran pulled up. “Can I help you, sir?” he said, in a tone that indicated he doubted it.

  “Yeah,” Bran said. “I have a reservation.”

  “Really,” the valet said.

  “Yes,” Stephanie said, and there was a dangerous tone in her voice. “Really.”

  The valet ducked his head to see her better. His eyes widened as he got a good look at her. He looked back at Bran, back to Stephanie, then shook his head in disbelief. He stepped back to a podium at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the restaurant and returned with a yellow ticket. Bran stared at it. “It’s the valet ticket,” Stephanie whispered. “He’s going to park the car.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” the valet said in a dry voice. “I won’t run off with it.” Bran’s face was burning as he took the ticket. The valet stepped around and opened the door for Stephanie. “Miss,” he said politely. She ignored him and met Bran at the foot of the stairs, and took his arm. “I’ve always wanted to eat here,” she whispered. “This is exciting.”

  At dinner, Bran didn’t say much, but Stephanie seemed to have enough conversation for the both of them. Like him, she’d grown up in a small town. She’d liked it there. She’d had a lot of friends, especially on her track team, but once out of high school, there wasn’t a lot to do. She thought she might try college, but she’d wanted some time to herself first. She’d come to Atlanta for the excitement of the big city, but found when she got there that everything was a lot more expensive than she’d planned on, and she didn’t have the time or money to do much. She liked working at the hotel, but thought Corso was “kind of a jerk.” Bran just nodded and made the occasional noise of agreement to keep her talking. All the time, he kept thinking to himself, I can’t believe I’m out with her. This is amazing. When the steak came, she tucked into it as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. He watched her, fascinated. She looked up at him, the fork halfway to her mouth. “What are you smiling at?” she said.

  “You,” he said. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

  She put the fork down and reached across the table, taking his hand in hers. “I’m glad I’m here, too. And I’m glad you asked me out.” She squeezed his hand, then let it go. He felt his heart racing. God, he thought, take me now. I don’t think I’ll ever be this happy again.

  “There’s just so many phonies around, you know?” she said. “You’re, like, real. Solid.”

  The words hit him like a bucket of cold water. He thought about the crime he’d been planning with his uncle Rafe and L.B. He wasn’t real. He wasn’t solid. He was a criminal. Or about to be. “Thanks,” he murmured. And even that felt like a lie.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Go ahead and eat.”

  He spent the rest of the meal in silence, the expensive steak tasting like cardboard. Gradually, Stephanie ran out of steak and conversation. “Is your food okay?” she asked.

  “It’s fine,” he murmured.

  “Look, Bran, did I say something to make you mad?”

  “No. No,” he said. “I’m not mad. My stomach just started hurting.” That, at least, was true. He motioned for the check.

  “Okay,” she said, but she was still clearly puzzled.

  The check took a good bite out of the money in his pocket. They were silent on the way home. He pulled up in front of her house, looking straight ahead.

  “Okay,” she finally said. Her brows were drawn together in obvious irritation. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  “You can come in, if you want,” she said.

  “No, that’s okay,” he answered. “I’m just going to go home and go to bed.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Well, I’ll see you at work. I hope you feel better.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “See you.”

  She got out, stood with the car door open for a moment. She turned back as if to say something, then shook her head and closed the door. She didn’t look back as she walked away.

  I hope you feel better, she’d said. He knew there was only one thing that was going to make that happen. If he followed through with what he had planned, he’d have enough money to take Stephanie out every night, in a better car. But he wouldn’t ever deserve her.

  THE BAR was smoky and cramped, lit only by the soft glow of neon beer signs. Every stool at the bar was occupied, mostly by silent men who sipped their cheap beers and stared morosely at the Braves game on the TV. L.B. scanned the line of barflies, then turned to Rafe and shook his head. “Back room,” was all he said.

  The back room was occupied by two men, both dressed in identical jeans and black leather motorcycle jackets. One of them was lining up a shot on the pool table while the other one watched. Both of them wore identical scowls on their broad, pale faces. Both were completely bald.

  “Is that them?” Rafe whispered. L.B. just nodded.

  The man at the pool table pocketed the six ball, then straightened up. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” L.B. said. “How you been, Elihu?”

  “Can’t complain,” Elihu said. He leaned over to set up another shot.

  “Me neither,” L.B. said.

  “No one listens if we do,” Rafe added with a grin at his own joke.

  Elihu straightened up slowly without making the shot. “Who the fuck is this guy?” he said, his scowl deepening. His brother came to stand beside him, glowering as well. He gripped his own cue in one hand and began tapping it into the open palm of the other like he couldn’t wait to start bashing Rafe’s head in with it.

  “This here’s Rafe Valentine,” L.B. said. “An’ he’s a business associate. So you fellas can just calm down. We got a job to discuss.”

  Elihu looked at Japeth, who just nodded. “What you drinkin’?” Elihu said.

  “Rolling Rock,” L.B. said.

  “Just an RC Cola for me,” Rafe said. Japeth gave him a disgusted look, then went off to get the drinks. Elihu motioned to a nearby table and the three of them sat down.

  “So what’s the job?” Elihu said.

  “Let’s wait till your brother gets back,” L.B. said. “I don’t wanna have to tell this twice.”

  “He’ll do what I tell him,” Elihu said. “I’m the oldest.”

  “I thought you were…” Rafe began, but shut his mouth at Elihu’s glare. “I was born first,” Elihu said, “so I’m older by eleven minutes.”

  “Of course,” Rafe murmured. “Sorry.”

  Japeth came back holding three beers, which he quickly distributed. “Bartender says this here’s a bar,” he told Rafe, “not a goddamn nursery school. He says if you want an RC Cola, you can go fuck yourself.”

  Rafe’s bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. “He used
those words?”

  “I may have added one or two,” Japeth said.

  “I wasn’t that thirsty anyway,” Rafe said.

  “So now we’re all here,” Elihu said, “what’s the job?”

  L.B. laid it out for them. Rafe stayed silent. When L.B. was done, Elihu nodded. “Sounds good,” he said, then pointed at Rafe. “But what does this jackoff have to do with it?”

  “He’s got the inside guy,” L.B. said. “And, you know, he’s a partner here, and he did bring us the job, so why don’t you show some respect?”

  Elihu gave L.B. a long, hard stare. L.B. gave one back. Finally, Elihu looked away. “Yeah. All right. Whatever.” He didn’t apologize.

  L.B. stood up. “Good,” he said. “We’ll talk again when I get more details worked out. But you guys start scouting the route of the delivery truck that brings the food and supplies to the kitchen. Find out where’s the best place to snag it on the day of the show. Someplace close by.”

  “What about the driver?” Japeth said.

  “Tie him up,” L.B. said. “Stash him. Don’t hurt him.” Elihu looked disappointed. “Seriously,” L.B. said. “We don’t need to buy more trouble. The law’s gonna have a big enough hard-on for us for stealin’ that jeweled undie.”

  “Perhaps a different metaphor might be more apropos,” Rafe whispered.

  L.B. turned to him, clearly irritated. “What?”

  “One less likely to remind these young men of their unfortunate, ah, condition.”

  Elihu and Japeth both reddened. “Get this idiot out of here,” Elihu snarled. “And keep him the fuck away from us. Or I swear, inside man or no inside man, I’m going to fuck him up.” They stood up, pushing their chairs back before stomping out.

  Rafe blew out a long, relieved breath. “Those boys,” he said, “are the angriest young fellows I think I’ve ever met.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?” L.B. said.

  “Good point.”

  “ALDO ‘THE MOOSE’ Cantone,” Chunk said. He looked at the pictures he’d just been showing to Pablo. The bellman had immediately identified the big blond man in a year-old surveillance photograph of the Allegretti crew as the “Swede” who’d checked in.

  Piper nodded. “Yep. He’s a leg-breaker, from the sound of it. A goon. No kind of criminal mastermind. If someone’s planning to boost the Ice Chest, it’s not him.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “That’s what you call it?”

  “That’s what we’re all calling it,” she said.

  “Funny. You might almost think you’re not taking this seriously.”

  “Boss,” Piper said, “we’re a team of the best security and personal protection operatives in the world, surrounded by half-naked women dressed as tropical birds, protecting a bra that’s worth the GDP of a small country. How could you not take that seriously?”

  “Still,” Chunk said.

  “Trust me, Chunk,” Piper said. “Just because we have a sense of humor about this doesn’t mean we’re not on the job. We’ve got our pride, just like you.”

  “Okay, okay,” Chunk said. “But I’m worried about this guy. If he’s here, the rest of the crew might be, too.”

  She shook her head. “My contact at the FBI in Newark says no. They’re all still living the thug life all around Jersey, spending Silvio Allgretti’s money and giving the local police heartburn.”

  “Is this a pretty reliable source?”

  She popped her gum. “Well, I used to sleep with him in college, and he’d clearly like to again, so yeah, I think he’s got incentive to play straight with me.”

  “A little too much information, Zoe.”

  “No such thing in this business,” she replied. “But whatever. You want me to put surveillance on this guy?”

  “What were you thinking of?”

  She shrugged. “Sky’s the limit. I can get a camera in his room, a GPS tracker on him, you name it.” She grinned. “Some days it’s good not to be a cop and not have to worry about that pesky Constitution.”

  Chunk thought it over. “Track him,” he said. “I don’t really care about what he gets up to in his room. But I want to know if he meets with Clarissa Cartwright.”

  She nodded. “On it. You still think she’s up to something?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but I need to talk to Gane again.”

  THE “DISTRACTION” sat on the edge of the stage in the dimly lit high-school auditorium, his long legs reaching halfway to the floor. His blond hair was thinning on the top, enough that he’d finally succumbed to desperation and attempted a comb-over. It had gone even worse than those usually do. He was dressed in jeans and a Ramones T-shirt that was as faded and ragged looking as he was.

  Rafe Valentine and L.B. Gordon sat in the front row. Rafe shifted his bulk uneasily in the chair.

  “A distraction,” the man on stage said.

  “Right,” L.B. replied. “Like on the Savannah jewelry store job.”

  Rafe piped up. “I understand your theatrical talents have been of use to my associate in the past.”

  The man, whose name was Havermeyer and whose professional acting career had reached its peak as a minor supporting character on a failed syndicated TV comedy, looked down at him. “Well, they should be good for something.”

  Rafe smiled. “I’m sure that teachin’ the theatrical arts to eager young minds is its own reward.”

  “It isn’t,” Havermeyer said. He turned to L.B. “What do you need?”

  “There’s security all over the hotel,” L.B. said. “We need somethin’ that’ll draw all their attention to one spot. Away from where we wanna be.”

  “Which is?”

  L.B. reached into his back pocket and took out a piece of paper. The hotel had obligingly provided maps of its facilities—including ballroom and meeting spaces—on its website. L.B. unfolded the creased, printed-out diagram and smoothed it out on the edge of the stage. He’d drawn a copy of Bran’s drawing showing how the ballroom spaces of the hotel were being utilized in black marker on the printout. “The item we’re tryin’ to snatch’ll be back here.” He pointed at the backstage access area between the two ballrooms. “It’s goin’ out this way.” He drew an imaginary path with his finger from the spot through the kitchen.

  “So you want everyone’s attention focused out here.” Havermeyer stabbed his own finger at the open space in front of the ballrooms. It formed a smaller lobby on a mezzanine overlooking the main one.

  “Correct.”

  The man nodded. “I think I know what’ll get people’s attention. Something they won’t be able to ignore.”

  “What would that be?” Rafe asked.

  “It’ll be a surprise,” Havermeyer said. “So what’s my cut?”

  “No cut,” L.B. said. “But I can make that little debt problem you got with Cyrus Martin go away. An’ I won’t have a talk with the parents of that young girl you been smokin’ Cyrus’s weed with.”

  Havermeyer went a little pale. “You…you know about that?”

  “I know a lot of things, Mr. Havermeyer. Lucky you weren’t actually messin’ with that cute li’l student. Yet. That might be harder to smooth over. Especially if her daddy don’t believe it.”

  Rafe shook his head. “People are so ready to believe the worst.”

  “An’ if I remember correctly, her daddy’s the head of the local NRA. Got quite the collection of firearms. If he takes exception to you engagin’ in wacky tobacky with his li’l princess…”

  “Okay, okay,” Havermeyer said. “We have a deal.”

  “Thought we might,” L.B. said. “We’ll be in touch with the actual timin’. We got a fellow watching the rehearsal.”

  WHEN CLARISSA saw Moose, she couldn’t believe it at first. She had come down to the lobby in an elevator, hoping to grab a latte at the kiosk in the lobby before rehearsal. He was sitting in one of the big, plush chairs scattered here and there in the lobby, watching. He spotted her about the same time she saw him. The sh
ock of recognition sent a feeling like a cold bolt of lightning through her.

  Moose, she thought. What the hell is he doing here? He saw the look on her face and smiled, raising the paper coffee cup he held in one hand in an ironic greeting. Another shiver ran through her. She thought of fleeing, just stepping back into the elevator and going back up to barricade herself in her room. Then her fear turned to anger. How DARE he. She raised her head, clenched her jaw defiantly, and strode across the lobby to where Moose sat. He stood up as she approached, that same infuriating smile on his face. She wanted to punch him, wanted to scream and throw herself at him, clawing and kicking. She forced the feeling back down.

  “Clarissa,” he said as he reached him. “Good to see you, babe.”

  “Don’t ‘babe’ me, you fucking goombah,” she replied in a low savage whisper. “What are you doing here?”

  The smile never left his face. “Heard you was in a big show,” he said. “Thought I’d come see it.”

  “Bullshit,” she spat back. “Is Mario here?”

  “No,” Moose said, and the smile went away. “But he could be. Pretty quick, if he thought you was, you know, messin’ around on him.”

  “Messing around?” she said. “We’re not together, Moose. We broke up.”

  “No,” Moose said. “You don’t break up with Mario Allegretti, babe. You’re done when he says you’re done.”

  She ran a hand through her hair. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “He’s stalking me?”

  “Nah,” Moose said, “he’s got people for that. People like me.”

  “Moose,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking, “go home. Leave me alone. And tell Mario that if there’d ever been any chance I’d take him back, this ended it.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, Clarissa. I got a job to do.”

  “I’ll go to the police,” she said.

  “That,” Moose replied solemnly, “would be a bad mistake.”

  “Is that a threat?” she said.

  “Yeah,” Moose said, “it is.”

  “So you’d hurt me?” she said, and she softened her voice and her gaze, looking up at him with the eyes that had melted a million hearts. “I thought you liked me.”