Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Branson?” Hank said. “Chaa. Pull the other one. The guy’s a Boy Scout.”

  “Really,” Freddie said. “He won’t even blaze up.”

  “Then maybe the people he’s with pushed him into it,” Zoe said. “If they did, we can help him.”

  “How?” Hank said. “You said you’re not cops.” He looked at Chunk, doubt written on his face.

  “We’re not,” Chunk said. “But we’re on the same side. All we want to do is get the girl back. And my employer’s property.”

  “Girl?” Freddie said. “He did something to Stephanie?”

  “Who’s Stephanie?” Zoe asked.

  Hank shrugged. “This waitress he’s been pulling his pud over for the last month.”

  “He took her out a couple days ago,” Freddie added.

  “This is someone he worked with?” Hermione said.

  Freddie looked at her, his brow furrowed. “Okay. So not Stephanie.”

  “No,” Zoe said. “But maybe we should talk to her.”

  “Maybe,” Hank said. “If it’ll get you people out of here.”

  “We’re leaving soon,” Chunk said. “As soon as you tell us if there’s anything else we might need to know. Anyone else Branson’s been hanging with lately?”

  “Well, that weird uncle of his,” Hank offered.

  Chunk felt the sudden tingle up the back of his neck that he always got when he heard something important. He may not always know how it fit in at the moment he heard it, but he’d learned to follow that feeling. It hadn’t steered him wrong yet. “What uncle?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

  “Some guy he kept having to go off and meet,” Freddie said. “He only came here once. He was kinda skeevy.”

  “Way skeevy,” Hank confirmed. “The guy he was with was even weirder. Didn’t say anything, but he gave us the creeps.”

  “You got a name?” Zoe asked.

  “Sure,” Hank said. “By the phone. We took a message.” He walked toward an open doorway. “In the kitchen.” Chunk, Zoe, and Hermione looked at each other, then got up and followed.

  “Eccch,” Zoe said when she saw the kitchen.

  “Agreed,” Hermione said. The place was a wreck. Dishes were piled in the sink, food congealing on the top ones and festering on the ones below. A large plastic garbage can stood in one corner, its lid losing the battle to hold the detritus beneath it inside.

  “Still bring back memories?” Zoe asked.

  “Sadly, yes,” Hermione said.

  “Over here,” Hank said. He pointed at a whiteboard hung on the refrigerator. An uncapped marker hung on a ragged cord beneath it. On the board, written in dim pink letters that were probably the swan song of the dried out marker, were the words BRAN UR UNCLE RAFE CALLED 555-0986.

  “Uncle Rafe,” Chunk said. “Zoe?”

  “Damn it,” Zoe said, “I didn’t bring a pen or a pad.” She looked around, saw no help in the clutter of the kitchen. She pulled out her cell phone and began tapping numbers in. Grimacing with impatience, Chunk reached out and peeled the whiteboard off the fridge.

  “Hey,” Hank said. “That’s ours.” Chunk’s look made him swallow nervously and step back.

  “We’ll get you a new one,” Zoe said. She looked at Chunk. “We good to go?”

  Chunk looked at Hank. “You got anything else to tell us?”

  “No, man,” Hank said. “Just go, okay? You’re wrecking my buzz.”

  “Imagine my heartbreak,” Chunk said. He turned to Zoe and Hermione. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Back in the car, Zoe said, “Get me to someplace with Wi-Fi, and I’ll try to run that phone number down. Probably a burner phone, but it’s all we’ve got.”

  Hermione nodded. “That, and this Stephanie who knew Branson.”

  “They’ll probably have her address back at the hotel,” Chunk said. He rubbed his eyes with fatigue.

  “So that’s where we go,” Hermione said. “And maybe catch some sleep?”

  He shook his head. “No time. If something’s not solved in the first twenty-four hours, the odds go way down.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Hermione said. “I’ve also heard that your judgment goes way down if you’re exhausted. Which we all are.”

  Zoe spoke up from the back. “Can we talk about this and drive at the same time?”

  Chunk started the car.

  THE CHEAP hotel was a drastic contrast to Clarissa’s suite at the Imperial. The carpets had ragged holes, the dressers were dinged and dented, and she just knew that if anyone ever used one of those black lights to reveal bodily fluids in the carpet or bedspread, the glow would be enough to read by. But Mario had ordered Moose to hole up in a place near the airport, and he’d certainly followed orders. Every couple of minutes, a plane would roar over so low that all conversation in the room shut down. No one could possibly sleep in this place, but then, it wasn’t the type of place one booked for sleep or conversation.

  “You need to let me go, Moose,” Clarissa said for what seemed like the hundredth time. She sat on the bed, because there was nowhere else in the tiny room to sit. Moose was sitting by the door in the only other place, a rickety-looking chair that creaked dangerously under his weight, his gun out and held down by the arm of the chair.

  “You already said that.” He gestured toward the door with the hand not holding the pistol. “So leave. What’s stopping you?”

  “The fact that I don’t have the keys to the car or any way to get out of here,” she said, “or”—she gestured toward her body, still covered by the makeshift poncho—“anything to wear.”

  He shrugged. “Still,” he said, then fell silent as a low rumble outside suddenly built to a shriek, then a long roll of window-rattling thunder that filled the room. As it died down, Moose picked up as if he’d never been interrupted. “Doesn’t mean you can’t just walk out that door. I won’t even try to stop you. You might think twice, though, about stepping out into the parking lot in that outfit. There’s people out there way worse than me.”

  She fought back tears. I will not let this asshole see me cry. But he was right. She’d felt the eyes on her as Moose had led her from the car, up the stairs, and to the second-story room. It was late, but the parking lot had been a hubbub of activity, none of it legal, she was sure. A pair of hookers in thick makeup and cheap wigs had glared at her as she’d walked past. She’d realized with a start that one of them was male. A pair of greasy-looking men had been sharing a bottle in a paper bag sitting on the top step until Moose had glowered at them and they’d quickly gotten up and scurried out of the way. She knew they wouldn’t do that for her. “You asshole,” she whispered.

  “You said that, too.” He took out his cell phone and looked at it. “You might as well turn on the TV or something,” he said. “We may be a while.”

  She sighed and picked up the remote. It was as battered as the rest of the room, the battery compartment held closed by a piece of duct tape. She pointed it at the old-style tube TV and pushed the button.

  Her own face was staring back at her from the screen, an old clip from an Enigma show she’d done a year or more ago. She was walking down the runway, all glitter and smiles. The caption at the bottom of the screen blared, in bright yellow letters: BEAUTY TURNED BANDIT?

  “What. The. Fuck?” Clarissa breathed. She turned up the volume. “Was supermodel Clarissa Cartwright a victim of tonight’s heist of the multimillion-dollar Fantasy Bra?” a female voice came from the tinny speaker. “Or was she an accomplice?”

  The video of Clarissa vanished, to be replaced by the face of a blond anchor, her hair perfectly styled, her brow furrowed with flawlessly simulated concern. “Good evening, I’m Gretchen Goodwin,” she said. “The fashion world was rocked tonight by the theft of the world famous ‘Fantasy Bra,’ a jewel-studded creation of the Enigma company that was being displayed on the first stop of their annual tour, which kicked off this year here in Atlanta.” The picture cut to an outside
shot of the Imperial Hotel, which was surrounded by yellow tape and police cars with the lights flashing. “Using a bomb scare as a diversion, the daring thieves took off with not only the Fantasy Bra, but its wearer, Clarissa Cartwright, Enigma’s top model.” Back to the anchor. “But Action News has discovered exclusive information that raises the question: was Clarissa Cartwright a willing participant?”

  “God DAMN it,” Clarissa whispered.

  “For more on this, we go to our correspondent, Parke Wilkinson.” The camera pulled back to reveal a slightly older male anchor, with the same perfectly furrowed brow.

  “Thanks, Gretchen,” he said solemnly. “While the FBI still insists they’re treating this matter as a robbery-kidnapping, we decided to look into Ms. Cartwright’s background. What we found surprised us.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Clarissa said. “I’ll kill that son of a bitch.”

  “Who?” Moose said.

  “That ugly bastard who was running security. He tried to get me thrown off the show because of my supposed ‘connection’ with the Allegrettis. He thought they might be planning a robbery and that I might be in on it. Now that’s what he’s telling the cops. That son of a BITCH!”

  “Whoa, wait,” Moose said. “What?”

  “Shut up. I want to see the rest of this. I want to know…” But the rumbling had begun again, building rapidly. Clarissa couldn’t hear the TV anymore, but she could see the pictures: a well-known news photo of Silvio Allegretti, leaving a federal courthouse after having racketeering and murder cases dismissed for lack of still-breathing witnesses; a photo of Mario that looked like it was taken from a high school annual; and finally a grainy shot she knew all too well. It was a picture taken by one of the bolder paparazzi of Mario and Clarissa having dinner and champagne at the Four Seasons in New York. Usually, Mario’s people managed to discourage photographers or, failing that, smashed their cameras and occasionally their noses to drive the point home. But this one had been fleeter of foot than most and had managed to get away long enough to peddle the photo to a tabloid. It was a picture worth a thousand words, every one of them bad.

  Clarissa couldn’t stop the tears from coming this time. As the racket from the airplane faded away, Clarissa turned to Moose. “You ruined my life,” she said. “All of you bastards. You’ve ruined my fucking LIFE!”

  Moose looked angry. “Hey,” he said, “Mario was good to you. His pop even liked you, even though you weren’t…”

  “I’m not talking about the fucking Allegrettis,” she spat. “I’m talking about men. All of you. You’ve ruined my life.”

  “Hey, you’re not, you know, going all feminist-lesbo are you?”

  “Oh, shut up, Moose,” Clarissa said. She was suddenly weary enough even to sleep on these scuzzy beds. “I just want to sleep.”

  But sleep wasn’t going to be in the cards. At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Moose got up, still holding the gun, and stood by it. “Yeah?” he said.

  “It’s us,” said a familiar voice. Moose smiled and opened the door.

  Mario Allegretti was standing there, next to an older man Clarissa didn’t recognize. She’d expected Mario to look smug, even triumphant. Instead, he just looked sulky. He was holding a small overnight bag in one hand. The older man entered first. He walked over to Clarissa and extended a hand. “Miss Cartwright,” he said with a smile. “My name’s Paul Chirelli. It’s a pleasure to meet you despite the circumstances. I’m a huge fan. Really.”

  She looked at the hand, then up at the man. At first she considered refusing the handshake, maybe even spitting on it. But one look in Paul Chirelli’s eyes stopped her. In contrast to the smile, those eyes were the scariest thing Clarissa had ever seen. She looked at Mario, who wouldn’t look back at her. Slowly, she raised her hand and took Chirelli’s. “Thank you,” she said in a small voice.

  “You got here quick,” Moose said.

  “We rented a plane,” Chirelli replied. “It’s at the airport, running up hangar fees. So now I need you to go take a walk.”

  Moose looked startled, then wounded. “But Paul…”

  Mario spoke for the first time. “Moose,” he said quietly, “take a walk. Maybe go find us some donuts.”

  After Moose had left, Chirelli took the chair he’d been sitting in, turned it around so he was sitting on it backwards, then looked Clarissa in the eye again. She felt cold and small and very, very alone.

  “Now,” Chirelli said in that same chillingly friendly voice, “let’s talk about that bra and the people who stole it.”

  “FIVE HUNDRED,” Teflon Sam said. He straightened up and pulled the silver jeweler’s loupe away from his eye. The Fantasy Bra lay on the workbench in front of him, the stones glittering in a pool of harsh white light cast by his lamp.

  “Five hundred thousand?” Rafe’s brow furrowed. “I understand that a certain discount is to be expected, given the nature of this transaction, but…”

  “No,” Sam interrupted. “Five hundred dollars.” He gestured at the bra. “And that’s being generous. This stuff is junk.” He looked at L.B. and flinched slightly at the look he saw on the man’s face. “Hey,” he said, holding his hands out in front of him as if to ward off a blow. “It ain’t my fault. I’m just telling you what I see. These are crap. Half of ’em ain’t even real.”

  “God damn it,” L.B. growled. He turned to Rafe. “What kind of bullshit is this?” he demanded in a voice that promised deep gashes in someone’s hide if he didn’t get an answer that satisfied him.

  “Th…That’s impossible,” Rafe sputtered. “The story I saw on the Internet…”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” L.B. slammed his hand down on the work table. Teflon Sam jumped, his protruding eyes going wide and frightened.

  Rafe continued as if he hadn’t heard. “…said that the jewels had been certified by a respected gemologist. Every one of them.”

  “An’ you believe this, ’cause you saw it on the Innernet,” L.B. said.

  Sam shrugged. “I can’t help what someone else told you. Maybe this gemologist was bought off.”

  “Or maybe it’s a fake. A decoy,” L.B. said.

  Rafe looked thoughtful. “Or maybe some clever boy already made off with the actual jewels and put these one in their place.”

  “Whatever.” L.B. looked disgusted. “All I know is I put out a lot of goddamn time and money, and now we come away with shit.” His eyes narrowed. “Seems to me someone owes me for both that time and that money. You take my meanin’, Valentine?”

  Rafe laughed nervously. “Surely you must be joking, my friend.”

  L.B. pointed one long finger at his face. “Do I look like I’m jokin’?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Rafe said. “I don’t recall ever seeing you in a humorous frame of mind.”

  “And I ain’t now.” Something flashed in his right hand. He held up the straight razor that had appeared in his hand as if by magic. “I bet I know somethin’ that’d make me laugh, though.”

  Rafe looked mournful. “It grieves me to think, L.B., that a partnership like ours, and if I may say, a friendship that has so far stood the test of time, could be derailed by a minor setback.”

  “What you need to be thinkin’ about, you fat fucker, is how to get me my money, or what you’re gonna be grievin’ for is missin’ body parts.”

  Dr. Samuel Johnson was reported to have once said that “the prospect of being hanged focuses the mind wonderfully.” The learned doctor’s opinion on dismemberment by straight razor is unknown, but Rafe Valentine might have reported to him that that particular prospect had an even more startling effect on the mental powers of the potential dismemberee. “Wait,” he said. “I have an idea.”

  “Oh, goody,” L.B. said, “another idea.”

  “Seems to me,” Rafe said, “that the Enigma people have put a great deal of their reputation into the belief that this article of feminine apparel is something special. Something unique, exotic, and above all, incredibl
y valuable.”

  “Which it ain’t.”

  “No. But what would that revelation do to Enigma? What would it do to their standing in the public’s opinion if it became widely known that this item in which they’ve imposed such mystique was nothing but a cheap bauble? An illusion? A fraud? Most importantly, what would it be worth to them to keep that fact from becoming widely known?”

  L.B. lowered the razor. “Okay. You got my attention. You mean to blackmail the bastards.”

  Rafe pursed his lips with distaste. “Please. Blackmail is an ugly word. You yourself said that you felt deserving of recompense for this grievous fraud perpetrated on the unsuspecting. I submit to you, L.B., that we are both victims of their duplicity, and anything they could pay us as reparations for that deception would only be fair compensation. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “As usual, I don’t know what the hell you’re sayin’. But I’d agree to a lot of things if it meant actually gettin’ a payday out of this clusterfuck.”

  “Okay,” Rafe said, trying to keep the tremor of relief out of his voice. “We need to do some research. Find out who the person to contact is. Someone high up in the Enigma organization who might be empowered to make a deal.”

  “Gane,” Teflon Sam said.

  L.B. turned to him. “What?”

  “The guy who’s in charge of the show,” the fence said. “Gareth Gane. I saw him on TV, talking about the robbery.”

  “And there we are,” Rafe said with satisfaction. “Fate has smiled on us in the form of our old colleague Samuel and his knowledge of current events.”

  “This mean I get a cut?” Teflon Sam said.

  “No,” Rafe and L.B. said in unison. L.B. held up his razor again. “Only cut you get is if you run your mouth about this. You follow me?”

  Sam nodded. “Like a baby duck after his momma.”

  “What?” L.B. said. He shook his head in disgust. “Never mind. I can’t wait to get back someplace where people speak fuckin’ regular English.”

  SHE HAD told them everything. There was no need to hold back, and Chirelli terrified her. She hesitated momentarily when he’d started asking about Branson. The young man had showed her some kindness, and she didn’t want him hurt. Then again, he was the one most responsible for her being kidnapped, which had led directly to her current predicament. Moose had returned with donuts, having taken his instruction literally. He was the only one who’d eaten any. He’d helpfully added as he munched on a glazed cruller that she had a cell phone with her when he’d picked her up and turned it over to them. Chirelli fiddled with it for a moment, then opened the contacts. “Only a couple of numbers in here,” he observed. “An Uncle Rafe and some girl named Stephanie.” A few more swipes of his fingers on the screen. “And here’s Stephanie’s address.”