Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Okay,” he said. He was almost at the door when she said, “Wait.”

  He turned. She’d gotten up and was rummaging in one of the drawers. She straightened up and held out her hand. There was a bill in it. “Sorry,” she said, “I almost forgot.”

  He walked over and took the bill. It was a fifty. It was way more than most people tipped. “Thanks, ma’am,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said in that same lifeless voice.

  “Miss Cartwright,” Bran said, “are you okay?”

  The question seemed to startle her. “I’m fine,” she said. “Why?”

  “You just seem, I don’t know, really sad.”

  She shook her head. “I am sad”—she looked at his nametag—“Branson. But I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you sure?” he said. “Is there anything…you know, I can do?”

  Her eyes narrowed and he suddenly realized how that might be taken. “I mean…I mean I didn’t mean…” He felt his face getting red. She saw it and laughed. It was a shaky laugh, one that teetered perilously close to collapsing into a sob, but it was a laugh.

  “No,” she said, “I know you didn’t.” She looked at him, her head cocked quizzically to one side. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Nineteen. Ma’am.”

  She made a face. “Jesus, don’t call me ma’am. I’m feeling lousy enough without you making me feel old.”

  “Sorry, ma’a…” He managed to stop himself. She laughed again, a little more strongly this time.

  “Have a nice night, Branson,” she said.

  “Thanks, Miss Cartwright.” He turned to go. As he reached the door, he turned around. “I’m sorry you’re sad.”

  She’d sat down on the bed and taken the cover off the plate. She was looking down at the salad with a look on her face that clearly showed she’d rather have had something else. She looked up and smiled. “Thanks, Branson. You’re a nice guy.”

  No you’re not, the voice in his head told him. He’d been hearing that voice a lot lately. You’re a thief who’s about to help other thieves grab her and rob her and probably scare her half to death. At that moment, he came to a decision. He wasn’t going to be that. The thought made him stand a little straighter and square his shoulders. “Thanks,” he said. He took his cart and left. He was whistling as he made his way down the hall to the elevators. He was halfway there when someone stepped off the elevator.

  It was a young woman with long red hair, parted in the middle. She was dressed in jeans and a green polo shirt. What looked like a tool belt of some kind hung from her slim waist. He slowed.

  “Hey,” she said as she noticed him, “who are you?”

  He tried to smile. She was pretty, but she didn’t look very happy to see him. “My name’s Branson,” he said. “I work for the hotel.”

  She’d reached him. “Well, Branson who works for the hotel,” she said, “let’s see some ID.”

  “You mean like, my driver’s license or something? I don’t have it with me.” He tried to move around her with the cart. The woman grabbed it with one hand and pulled something off her belt with the other. It was shaped like a pistol, but made of bright pink plastic. He recognized the Hello Kitty emblem embossed on the handle. “Easy there, cowboy,” she said, pointing the device at him.

  “I’m with the hotel!” His voice climbed with panic as he recognized the weapon.

  She released the cart, keeping the Taser trained on his chest. “Wait one.” She pulled a small walkie-talkie off her belt with her free hand. “Boss,” she spoke. “This is Zoe on eleven. Got a guy here, claims to work for the hotel. Says his name’s Brandon.”

  He felt the sweat starting to bead on his brow. “Branson,” he corrected. “I’m a waiter. Room service.”

  “Branson,” she said into the walkie-talkie. “Waiter. Room service.” She listened for a moment. He couldn’t make out the answer, but it seemed to satisfy her. She let go of the cart and stepped back. “Okay,” she said. “You’re clear. Next time, though, clear any trips up here with my boss downstairs. His name’s McNeill. With Paragon Security.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Don’t call me ma’am,” she said. “I work for a living.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” she said, replacing the device on her belt. “Move along.”

  He did, wondering where the hell you went to get a Hello Kitty Taser.

  “DAMN IT,” Chunk said, “who invited all of these people?” He stared in dismay at the gaggle of reporters and cameramen pushing and jostling for position behind the double rope lines. It looked like close to a hundred people had showed up for the arrival of the Fantasy Bra. A red carpet ran from the curb in front of the hotel, across a broad expanse of sidewalk, to the wide front staircase under the portico which led up to the double glass doors of the hotel.

  “I did,” Gane said with evident satisfaction. “I’m glad to see such a good turnout.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve checked and made sure that all of them actually are reporters?” Chunk said.

  Gane looked at him incredulously. “Surely you don’t think someone would try to steal the bra in this big a crowd? In broad daylight?”

  “I think it would be the perfect time for a quick smash and grab,” Chunk said. “I’d be a lot happier if you’d told me. And even happier if we could have brought the item in quietly.”

  “You understand,” Gane said, “that the entire point of this exercise is publicity? And that moving the ‘item’ as you call it under cover of darkness would be a poor way to accomplish that?” His lip curled. “Perhaps you’d prefer that we do the show to an empty room as well?”

  Actually, that’s not such a bad idea, Chunk thought but didn’t say. The babble of the crowd grew in intensity as a white limousine pulled up to the end of the red carpet. Cameras began clicking and whirring and reporters began shouting as the door of the limo swung open. Ricky Vandella stepped out of the car and began waving at the crowd, grinning and moving down the line.

  “Wait a minute,” Chunk said. “He wasn’t scheduled to be doing an appearance. Just the item.”

  Gane’s brow furrowed. “No, he wasn’t.”

  “Damn it,” Chunk said.

  “Ricky!” a female reporter called out. “What’s it like being around all those beautiful women!”

  “Darlin’,” he leered back, “I’m as ’appy as a priest in a roomful of drunk altar boys.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Gane said.

  “Can I shoot him now?” Chunk said.

  Gane ran a hand down his face. “Don’t tempt me.”

  Vandella was halfway down the red carpet, shaking hands, giving exaggerated thumbs-ups, and mugging for the cameras when the sound of a large engine filled the air. Chunk looked up to see the armored truck pull into the space recently vacated by the limo. Vandella was immediately forgotten as all eyes and lenses turned to the new arrival. He stood there as if stunned, his hand still held out to shake the hand of a reporter who had completely lost interest in him. Chunk strode down the red carpet toward the waiting truck. As he passed, he heard Vandella muttering under his breath, “Un-fucking-believable.”

  Chunk couldn’t resist. “How’s it feel to be upstaged by underwear?” he said as he passed by. He didn’t wait to hear the riposte.

  Two guards with assault rifles at the ready had exited the front of the armored truck and stood with their weapons at port arms across their chests. Gane was already standing by the door. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out to the massed reporters. “We at Enigma have always been about more than selling clothing. We sell fantasy. Glamour. The unusual and exotic. The Fantasy Bra is the perfect expression of that.” He reached up and banged on the door of the truck. “For ten years,” he said as the doors swung open, “we’ve draped the most beautiful women in the world in the most gloriously lavish apparel for the bedroom…and beyond.”

  Beyond? Chunk thought. But he had to hand it to Gane,
he knew how to work a crowd. The reporters were staring, straining forward for the first glimpse, hanging on every word. In the background, Chunk could hear music, a slowly building horn crescendo. Chunk shook his head as he recognized the piece.

  “And this year,” Gane went on, “we’ve commissioned a true masterpiece for the world’s most beautiful model to wear.” Two more guards stepped down from the truck, carrying a glass case between them. As the fanfare of “Also Sprach Zarathustra” blared forth, Gane raised his own voice. “This year’s FANTASY BRA!”

  “Damn it,” Chunk said. He’d told them to put the thing in its metal travel case. Gane had apparently overruled him again. It was still in the glass display case he’d seen in Gane’s office. There weren’t any handles, and the two guards gripped it awkwardly as they carried it to the red carpet. One of the armed men took up a position in front, another behind, as they carried the jeweled bra on its torso mannequin down the aisle. The gems encrusting it glittered and glowed, reflecting the flashes of light from the cameras. Chunk kept his eyes moving, searching the crowd for anyone who looked suspicious or sleazy. But in a crowd of entertainment reporters, he quickly lost count of those.

  The armed guards bore down on them, causing Ricky Vandella to have to dodge out of the way. He stumbled against the velvet rope and almost fell over. Only then did a couple of photographers take notice, and Chunk made a mental note to look online the next day and see if any of them actually did manage to get a shot of Ricky windmilling his arms frantically to keep his balance. If they had, he was going to put the photo on his computer desktop.

  As the men carrying the case staggered to where he was, Chunk took up a position in the lead, eyes constantly moving. The strange parade went up the front steps and through the double front doors, held open by liveried doormen. Just inside was another double rope line with a red carpet path leading almost to the elevators. This time, however, the path was lined with Chunk’s own people who kept back the hotel guests. Some faces were curious, more than a few showed annoyance at having their progress across the spacious lobby interrupted by this unwanted show.

  Chunk saw a familiar face in the crowd and almost stopped. It was Moose Cantone, slouching against a pillar, hands in his pockets, watching with elaborately feigned disinterest. Chunk stepped aside and let the guards go by. He gave Cantone a hard stare beneath lowered brows. The man who was traveling under the name of Ingmar Norberg didn’t notice at first, then Chunk caught his eye. Unlike a hundred other alleged tough guys Chunk had encountered, “Norberg” didn’t flinch. He gave back the hard look. The two men stood there for a few long seconds, staring at each other like gunfighters on a dusty street. Then Cantone shrugged, straightened up, and smiled. He turned his back and walked away slowly. He couldn’t have showed more contempt if he’d spat on the marble floor.

  Chunk felt his hands clenching into fists and his lips drawing back from his teeth in a snarl. He took a deep breath, let it out, and unclenched fists and face with an effort of will before turning back to where the guards were manhandling the case with the Fantasy Bra onto the elevator. A quick jog brought him over to where a guard held the door open. It was a tight squeeze with Chunk, four guards, and the case; one of the armed men was pressed between the case and the wall, his rifle crammed against his chest with the end of the barrel up under his chin. One of the guards holding the case noticed. “Hope we don’t hit a bump,” he said in a dry voice, “or that thing might go off.” They were chuckling at that until the elevator reached the ballroom floor and stopped with a jerk. The man squeaked in terror.

  “Easy,” Chunk said. “Let’s get this thing to the dressing room. It’s almost time for rehearsal.”

  “UNCLE RAFE,” Branson said, “I don’t think I can do this.”

  They were sitting in a hotel room a few blocks from the Imperial that stank of cheap cleaner and cigarettes. Bran was seated on the unmade bed, while Rafe sat at the table near the window. The chair he sat in was missing a quarter inch off one leg, and Rafe was rocking back and forth in a motion that served only to irritate Bran.

  “I understand your trepidation, nephew,” Rafe said. “It’s only natural, given your youth and inexperience in this field of endeavor. But I can assure you, the feeling passes, to be replaced by the sweet rush of pure adrenaline as things begin to unfold in their natural course.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Bran said. “It’s just that…this is wrong. I’ve…I’ve met Miss Cartwright. She’s really nice. And…”

  “Ah,” Rafe said, nodding. “I see what’s happening. Nephew, you have fallen into a common, yet potentially devastating, even deadly error in our profession. You’ve begun to sympathize with the mark.”

  “She’s not a mark,” Bran said. “She’s a person. And we’re going to kidnap her and strip her naked.”

  “Branson,” Rafe said, “we’ve been over this. We have taken every precaution to assure the young lady’s safety. We even found a pair of handlers for her whose physical condition, while unimaginably unfortunate, renders them incapable of perpetrating the sort of ravishment a lady of her charms would naturally fear in such a situation.”

  “Great,” Bran said. “She’s not going to get raped. That makes kidnapping her and robbing her okay.”

  “She’ll be released safely as soon as we have the ‘swag,’ as you’ve so picturesquely called it. And keep in mind, it won’t be her we’re robbing. It’s this Enigma. A giant, soulless, multi-national and, almost certainly, heavily insured corporation. I can assure you, nephew, that the only one who will be experiencing a financial loss is some even larger, even more soulless insurance company, who, as previously noted, will most likely not feel a thing. Surely you don’t take the side of such an entity. Especially against family.”

  “That’s low, Uncle Rafe,” Bran muttered.

  “Bran,” Rafe said, “you may not believe this, but I truly am looking out for your welfare. And that of that pretty young thing you’ve been seein’.”

  Bran stood up quickly, feeling the hot rush of blood to his face. Rafe held up a placating hand. “Now, Bran,” he said, “you can understand, with one as young and untried as yourself, how my good friend L.B. might wish to obtain more, shall we say, assurance of your bona fides. It’s only natural that he might do a little background checking. L.B. was particularly interested in why you needed a sudden influx of cash.”

  Bran stood over his uncle. “You followed me.”

  Rafe took no apparent notice of Bran’s looming, angry presence. “Not me, but one of our new associates. Japeth, Elihu, I can’t tell the two apart.”

  “If you hurt her…” Bran said through clenched teeth, then trailed off.

  “You wound me, nephew,” Rafe said. “I would never hurt such a nice and wholesome-appearing young lady. But I can’t say the same for L.B. or our twin castrati. They appear to have a certain degree of commitment to carrying this matter through, now that the game is afoot, as it were. And while I do not have the God-given gift of telepathy, I believe I know what your next thought may be. I urge you to put out of your mind any thought of contactin’ the authorities. It would be, shall I say, ill-advised.”

  Bran felt a tightness in his chest, a constriction that made it harder to breathe. He sat back down on the bed.

  “Don’t worry, Bran,” Rafe said kindly. “Everything is going to go smoothly. We have an excellent plan, simple, yet elegant. Once it’s all said and done, you’ll have enough money to take that young lady out to fancy restaurants every night.”

  “I don’t know if she’ll go out with me again,” Bran said. “I kind of blew it last time.”

  “Show up with a pocketful of cash and a new automobile,” Rafe said, “and I believe you will find her amenable to your persuasion and more apt to forgive momentary transgressions. And if not…” He shrugged. “Plenty of fish in the sea, as the old song goes.”

  “I’m not interested in fish,” Bran said. “I just want a normal life. With a normal girl.”
>
  “And you will have it,” Rafe said, “if you want it. After this is done. But once you get over your jitters and get into the swing of things, you may find this life and its rewards addictive.” His voice lost its syrupy unctuousness. “But either way, Branson, you’re not backing out. Not now.” After a moment, he smiled again and laced his fingers across his belly, once again the very picture of benevolence. “Now run along. And send L.B. in from next door. We have some final plans to discuss.”

  Without another word, Bran got up and left. In a few moments, there was a knock on the door. L.B. entered without waiting to be invited. “So?” he said.

  “He’s still in,” Rafe said. “Shaky. Unhappy, but still in. I let him know what would happen if he failed us. Or tried to contact the police.”

  “I don’t like it,” L.B. said.

  “Well, unfortunately, he’s our inside man,” Rafe said. “Without him, we’ll have to call the whole thing off.”

  L.B. ran a hand over his face. “Okay. But what about after? I don’t trust him to keep his mouth shut.”

  “What passes between you and him after is betwixt the two of you,” Rafe said. “Just keep me out of it. I may need to look my sister in the eye again someday.”

  “That mean you don’t want your cut of his share?”

  “Now, I didn’t say that.” Rafe grinned. “I am like the proverbial monkey in the nursery rhyme. I see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil.”

  THEY FOLLOWED the truck at a discreet distance. They didn’t expect the driver to be looking for a tail, but they didn’t want to take any chances. Elihu was at the wheel of a nondescript rental car, acquired under a false name. Japeth slumped in the passenger seat, taking notes in a black and white composition book. He held a stopwatch in his left hand. When the supply truck pulled into the parking lot of a low-roofed wooden building painted dark green, Elihu spoke. “Marconi’s Italian Tattoria,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Eleven forty-five a.m.” He pulled over to the curb.