Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

Chirelli shook his head. “Bad idea, kid.”

  “She’s mine, Paul. That ain’t negotiable.” Chirelli started to say something, but Mario silenced him with an imperious upraised hand. “Not. Negotiable.”

  Chirelli sank back into the leather seat. The expression on his face showed Mario he hadn’t gotten more than a B on the impromptu exam. Mario didn’t really give a shit. Was this his crew or wasn’t it? “You got a problem, Paul?”

  “No,” the older man said, “at least not the one you think.”

  Mario was still feeling belligerent. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What part of this plan have you forgotten, kid?”

  “I haven’t…” Mario stopped as he realized that he had left out something crucial. The exit. “Shit. Okay.” He considered only a moment before going on. “This old factory’s about ten minutes from the airport where we parked the plane. We get the plane warmed up. Once we grab the jewels, we take care of business, then go straight for the airport, take off, and we’re back in Jersey before anyone even knows we were here.”

  “What about your squeeze, back at Wentworth’s?”

  “We pick her up on the way to the exchange,” Mario said, “when we pick up Tommy and Carlo. We give her something to keep her quiet, then stash her in the trunk.”

  Chirelli seemed to think it over for a moment, then he nodded. “Okay. Not bad.”

  “But Paul,” Mario said, “we leave nobody standing. Nobody. The eunuchs, Valentine, Gordon, Gane, the kid. We leave no one behind who can ID us.”

  “The girl, too?”

  Mario’s gaze was unflinching. “No one.”

  Chirelli gave the same gaze back. “You think you can do that, kid? I know you’ve got it in for the ones who touched your girlfriend, which is fucking stupid, but never mind. But you think you can take out some random girl just because she’s seen your face?”

  “Yeah,” Mario said. “I do.”

  Chirelli regarded him without expression for a moment, then grinned. “Okay, kid, welcome to the big leagues.” He frowned. “Still, that’s a lot of bodies.”

  “We get Wentworth’s people to clean up. Considering all the money we’re about to make him once we get our suppliers hooked up with his distributors, he should be happy to do us the favor.”

  “Mario,” Chirelli said, “your pop’s gonna be proud of you.”

  “Yeah,” Mario said. He leaned forward as they pulled up outside of Stephanie’s apartment. “Okay. We’re here. And this time, stay in the damn car and don’t move.”

  “THIS HERE plan should be simplicity itself,” Rafe Valentine said.

  “Yeah,” L.B. replied sourly. “’Cause the last one went so damn well.”

  Rafe made a sorrowful face. “You wound me, old friend. You cut me to the heart.”

  “That thought’s crossed my mind. More than once. But go on.”

  “L.B., you and I meet our Mr. Gane on the factory floor, where we met previously. Branson, you’ll be behind the wheel of the van.”

  One of the Lowmans spoke up. “We’ll guard the perimeter.”

  “Make sure no one, you know, interrupts,” said the other one.

  Rafe nodded. “My thoughts exactly. Once the exchange is made, Branson picks us all up and we are, as the song says, gone like a cool breeze. Off to see our friend Teflon Sam and reap our long delayed and richly deserved reward.”

  “What if Gane loses his nerve?” L.B. said. “Goes to the cops?”

  “I don’t think he has the stomach for that. Especially with the fear of prison and disgrace hanging over his head.” Rafe smiled contentedly. “We really are doing him a favor, taking all of this anxiety from him.”

  L.B. rolled his eyes. “Yeah. You’re a regular Mother Teresa.” He looked at Branson. “You’re awful quiet, kid. You got something on your mind?”

  Bran shook his head. “No. I’m fine. I got it.”

  “You sure, nephew?” Rafe said.

  “Yeah. I just want this to be over.”

  “Soon,” Rafe said. “Very soon.”

  “Okay,” L.B. said. “We go in at midnight. Everybody relax. Maybe get some more shuteye so we’re all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. We got a long night ahead of us.”

  Branson nodded and got up. He left without speaking. L.B. turned to the Lowmans. “Stay with the kid. Don’t leave him alone. I think he’s havin’ second thoughts.” As they nodded and left, L.B. stood up. “I got a little errand to run.”

  “Where to?” Rafe asked.

  “I’m just gonna check on a couple of things. I wanna make sure your nephew stays on track.”

  RICKY VANDELLA sat on one of the couches in the Imperial’s lobby, his newspaper held up in front of his face. Every few moments, he’d lower the paper slightly to look around the lobby, searching for Gane. He’d checked the conference rooms that Enigma had been using as temporary offices, only to find them being cleaned out by housekeeping. The company had broken camp and gone back to New York, but Gane had stayed behind. He thought of going to the man’s room and confronting him directly, but he figured Gane would just blow him off again.

  So he waited and watched. He’d only abandoned his post one time, when he’d noticed some of the staff were giving him curious looks as they passed. He’d made a quick trip to his room and changed clothes. In a compartment in his suitcase, he located a flat felt cap and a pair of sunglasses, which he’d put on. The final item had been a false mustache which he’d hastily applied with a small tube of adhesive.

  The crude disguise had, on occasion, gotten him in and out of places where he didn’t want paparazzi to catch sight of him. It had been a few months since he’d needed it, but he continued to pack the small kit anyway, partially from habit and partially out of hope he’d soon be back into a situation where bitching about photographers and trying to avoid them were part of his life again. Feeling confident in his new anonymity, he’d gone back down to the lobby and continued his vigil.

  “Sir?” a voice said. He pretended not to hear. “Mr. Vandella?” the voice said again.

  That got his attention. He lowered the paper. He saw a slender dark-haired young man in the dark pants and mustard yellow jacket that comprised the uniform for hotel management.

  “Sorry, pal,” Ricky said in what he hoped was a passable Brooklyn accent. “Ya got the wrong guy.”

  The manager was unimpressed. “I don’t think so, sir.” He produced a sheet of paper. “We need to discuss payment arrangements.”

  “I’m tellin’ ya, mac,” Ricky said, slightly desperate.

  The manager overrode him. “Enigma has paid your bill through last night. But their reservation has ended.” He made a moue of distaste. “And there are some things they refused to cover. Some, ah, pay-per-view movies. Quite a few, actually. So if you’re going to stay here, we’re going to need…sir?” He stepped back as Ricky leapt up abruptly. He’d seen Gane exit the elevator and begin walking quickly across the lobby, his phone in one hand. “SIR!” the manager said.

  Ricky fumbled in his back pocket before pulling out his wallet. “Here,” he said, removing a card from the wallet and handing it over. “Use this. I’ll be back in a bit.” He saw Gane getting away and hurried to catch up. He hoped he could get out of sight of the manager before the persistent little bugger discovered the card had been canceled weeks ago.

  Out on the sidewalk, it was the same scenario as before. Gane was standing still, talking on the cell phone as annoyed pedestrians had to step around him. Ricky felt that feeling again, that little electric surge that told him a chance was about to present itself. He pulled his cap down, adjusted his false mustache, and strolled as casually as he could in Gane’s direction. As he passed, he could see the man was sweating, more profusely than even the Georgia heat could account for.

  “Yes. Yes, I understand.” Someone on the other end said something. Gane answered as if reciting: “Midnight.” He repeated an address. “Come alone.”

  Well, Ricky though
t to himself, two out of three ain’t bad. He might be at that address, it might be at midnight, but Gareth Gane would not be alone. Whatever Gane was up to, Ricky would bet his last dime that it wasn’t something he wanted anyone to know about. Maybe something he’d cut Ricky in on or pay him off to keep him quiet. Opportunity was knocking, and Ricky Vandella was going to answer the door.

  EVEN THOUGH she really needed the money, Stephanie didn’t think she could stand another night of rude customers and yelling managers at the hotel restaurant. She called in sick and went back to bed. Yet, tired as she was, sleep eluded her.

  She really didn’t know how she felt about Branson. He seemed really shy and sweet, and he was cute in a goofy kind of way. And they came from similar backgrounds, which was important to her.

  But he’d lied to her, or at least not told her the whole truth. That had made her angry. But when he’d called, he’d sounded so lost and forlorn that her heart had gone out to him. He sounded like he really wanted to try to do the right thing. He was the kind of guy, she decided, that just needed some guidance in his life to realize his full potential. The only question in her mind was whether she wanted to be the one to provide the guidance. She wondered if he’d made the call like she’d told him to. If he’d really wanted to do the right thing…well, there was one way to find out. She sat up in bed and grabbed her phone. Zoe Piper answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, kiddo. What’s going on?”

  “Zoe,” Stephanie said, “has Branson called you?”

  “No. Were you expecting him to?”

  “Yeah. He called me.”

  “He WHAT? Okay, when?”

  “About an hour, hour and a half ago. He said he wanted to try and make things right.” Stephanie felt the tears coming to her eyes. “I gave him the number. I told him to call. I…I was hoping he’d call.” She heard voices in the background.

  “Hang on a minute,” Zoe said. Her voice became muffled, but Stephanie could tell she was filling the other two in. In a moment, McNeill’s voice came on the line.

  “Stephanie, this is Charles McNeill. Did Branson tell you where he was? Or give you a return number?”

  “No. He didn’t have his phone. He said he’d given it to Clarissa Cartwright. The people he was with…the people that made him do this…they don’t have her. They dropped her off somewhere and they haven’t seen her. He gave her the phone so she could call for help.”

  There was silence on the other end. “Mr. McNeill?” she said.

  “I’m here. Just thinking.”

  “Mr. McNeill, if she still has the phone, and it’s turned on, you can find her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Zoe can show you how. Give the phone back to her and I’ll give her the information she needs. But before you do that, you need to know something. The bra, the jewels…they’re all fake. That Mr. Gane stole the real ones and replaced them with imitations.”

  Another long silence, this one so long she looked at the screen to see if the call had been dropped. Finally, Zoe’s voice came back on. “Man, what the hell did you just say to Chunk? He looks like he’s about to punch something.”

  “I told him what Bran told me. The bra’s a fake. That guy that was running the show substituted fake gems for real ones. And Branson’s uncle is blackmailing him to make him turn them over to him and his gang.”

  “Ho-ly shit,” Zoe said.

  “They’re going to make the exchange tonight. At midnight. At this place he told me about.” Her voice broke as she gave Zoe the address Bran had given her. “He was supposed to call and tell you this.”

  “I bet he meant to,” Zoe soothed. “He may have just not been able to get the time alone. I’m getting the feeling he’s not a totally willing partner in all of this.”

  She sniffled, reached for a tissue. “I don’t think he is.” She blew her nose. “Zoe, he gave me his username and password. If his phone’s still on…”

  “We can find it. Damn, girl, how old are you?”

  “What…I’m twenty-one. Why?”

  “Because when this is over, I am going to buy you as many drinks as you can handle.”

  She had to laugh. “Okay.”

  “So give me the name and password.”

  Stephanie did.

  “Jesus,” Zoe said, disgust evident in her voice. “His password’s really ‘one two three four five’?”

  Stephanie laughed again. “I know, right?”

  “Yeah, we’ll need to give him a little lesson in security when we get done. Maybe over those drinks. Okay, sit tight. We’re in the car, but…” She overheard a brief conversation. “Here, I’m gonna give you to Hermione. Hang on a sec.”

  “Okay.” In a moment, the older woman’s warm voice came on. “Hello, dear. Are you holding up okay?”

  “DAMN,” ZOE said. She was in the back seat, computer on her lap, Hermione’s phone in one hand.

  “What?” Chunk said. Hermione continued to chat with Stephanie on Zoe’s phone.

  “I’m trying to use this phone as a Wi-Fi hot spot, but I can’t get it to connect to my laptop.”

  “You realize I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah. That’s why you need me. We need to find a McDonald’s.”

  “You want a snack at a time like this?”

  “No, doofus, they have free Wi-Fi. But come to think of it, I could use a strawberry lemonade.” She pointed. “Look. Over there.”

  “I see it.”

  “Get in the drive-through. You want anything, Hermione?”

  “I’m fine, dear.” She went back to her conversation.

  Chunk was easing the car into the short line. Zoe was muttering to herself, head down over the screen. “Hah!” she said as Chunk moved up a slot. “Gotcha.” She began typing. “Go to the company website, go to ‘find my phone,’ and…” She typed again. “Username ‘Branson,’ password one two three four five…”

  Hermione overheard. “Oh no,” she said. “He didn’t.”

  Zoe nodded. “Sad but true.” She hit a key. “Annnd…now we wait and hope that Clarissa still has Branson’s phone. And that it’s still on. And that no one’s turned the GPS thingy off.” She waited for a moment. Then her brow furrowed. “Huh. That’s weird.”

  “Did you find it?” Chunk said. He pulled up to the drive-through speaker and rolled down the window.

  “We think we may have found it, Stephanie,” Hermione said into Zoe’s phone.

  “Large strawberry lemonade,” Chunk told the speaker. “And a large Coke.”

  “I’ve got the phone on a Google map. But where it is doesn’t make sense. It’s moving, headed down a street near…Stephanie’s house.” She looked up. “If Clarissa’s not with Branson and his uncle…”

  Chunk looked grim. “Then maybe she’s with Allegretti.”

  “Or at least her phone is,” Hermione said. “And if he’s headed to Stephanie’s…” She spoke into the phone. “Stephanie, listen to me. Those men may be coming back. You need to get out of the house. Now. Run.” There was a pause. “Stephanie? STEPHANIE?”

  There was no answer.

  Zoe turned to Chunk. “Drive,” she said.

  STEPHANIE HEARD pounding on the front door, followed by a crash. She heard someone call her name as she leaped out of the bed. It sounded like the younger guy that had been with those gangsters, the dark-haired one. She pulled on a pair of jeans and her running shoes as she looked around the room for something to use as a weapon. The sound of heavy feet on her hardwood floors grew louder. Quickly, she wrapped her arms around her small chest of drawers and tried to drag it in front of the door. It moved slowly. There was no way she’d get it there in time. Don’t panic, she told herself. Don’t panic. She grabbed her desk chair and wedged it under the doorknob, just as someone tried the door. The chair held.

  “Stephanie?” a voice said. It was the young guy. The guy they called Mario. “Come on out. You won’t get hurt. Unless I have to come in th
ere after you.”

  She looked around the bedroom again. The only way out was through her bedroom window. She ran over and looked out. It was about a ten-foot drop to the small overgrown garden behind the house. The window hadn’t been opened since she’d moved in and Stephanie grunted with the effort as she raised the lower half. It came up with a squeal of wood.

  Behind her, she heard a heavy blow against the door. “God damn it, bitch,” Mario yelled. “Let me in there!”

  As she swung her leg out of the window, she looked back. The chair under the doorknob was moving. It wasn’t going to hold. She swung the other leg out and slid the lower half of her body out the window. She dropped partway, hanging on to the sill, and looked down to gauge the distance she’d fall. The door gave way with a splintering crash as she let go and dropped into the tall grass of the tiny backyard. She didn’t look back as she landed, but instead leaped up and sprinted to the low fence surrounding the patch of greenery. She went over that fence like the track star she’d been in high school and landed in the narrow alley between the old Victorian and the one next door. Someone yelled out the window behind her. She flipped them the bird as she took off down the alley.

  When she reached the end of the alley, she slowed. A pair of large green rollaway trash bins blocked the view. She crouched behind one and looked over. A long black limousine was parked at the curb, but there didn’t seem to be anyone in it. If there was, she’d just have to rely on surprise and speed to get past it. Out of long habit, she dropped into a starter’s crouch, then took off, going as hard as if she was contending for Olympic gold. She burst onto the sidewalk, took a right turn onto it, and ran down the concrete as fast as she could.

  After about half a block, she began to realize how out of training she was. She was sweating like crazy and starting to pant, but she got her breathing under control as best she could and kept going. She slowed only long enough to look back over her shoulder. She didn’t see the limo. When she got to the corner, she turned right again, then slowed to a stop, putting her hands on her knees to catch her breath. I need to get back to the gym, she thought as she recovered.