Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Get out of the car!” the gray-haired man yelled at Stephanie, who was still sitting bound in the front seat. “I’m not going to tell you again!” The man with the machine gun swiveled it to point at the sedan.

  “She’s tied up,” Bran called out. “She can’t get out on her own. Don’t shoot, I’ll get her out. Okay?” Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door. He could feel the trembling in Stephanie’s shoulders as he helped her out. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered in her ear. “I promise.” He slid his arm around her. “I promise,” he repeated. She leaned against him, still shaking. He guided her over to stand next to his uncle and L.B., who were already standing with their hands up, next to Gareth Gane.

  “Moose,” the gray-haired man said, “check the rest of the area. Make sure there’s no one else in here.” The man with the machine gun nodded and Branson watched him fade into the darkness.

  THE FIRST thing Carlo “Tin Man” Tintorini heard was the singing. It was a wavering female voice out in the darkness, ragged and off key. The song sounded vaguely familiar, but it was being butchered so badly by the singer that it was impossible to tell.

  “The fuck is that?” his cousin Tommy said. Tommy was two years older than Carlo, but he was still an “associate” who hadn’t been with the crew long enough to pick up a nickname. He chafed sometimes at deferring to his younger cousin, but he could usually be counted on to keep his wits about him and not freak out when things got rough. Sometimes Carlo thought that was because Tommy was a dumb-ass without the imagination it took to get really scared, but he mostly kept that opinion to himself, because while Tommy may not have been the fastest brain in the west, getting punched by him felt a lot like it must feel to get hit by a goddamn locomotive.

  The singing drew closer. Carlo could make out some of the words.

  “Eye of the tiger, fighter,” the voice warbled, followed by a few words Carlo couldn’t understand, then the voice grew in power and conviction, “’n’ you’re gonna hear me rooooo-OOOARRR.”

  Then Carlo saw the women. One was short, slender, with disheveled ginger hair. The other was older, more put together looking, but both were staggering as if the parking lot was the deck of a ship riding out a storm. The redhead stopped, threw back her head, and bayed the next words at the sky: “You’re gonna hear me rooo-OOOOOAR.” The older woman laughed uproariously.

  “Jesus,” Tommy said. “They are fuckin’ shitfaced.” He looked over at his cousin. “Hey, man, you think we oughtta…”

  “No,” Carlo said. “We’re working. Get rid of them.”

  “Here,” Tommy said, “hold my rifle.” Carlo hesitated. Something about this felt hinky. “Come on, dude,” Tommy said. “They’re just a couple of drunk hookers. I’ll send them on their way, but if I walk up on them with a rifle, they’re gonna freak out.”

  Carlo took the rifle from him. “Okay, but hurry up.” Handling two weapons was awkward, so he walked over and leaned one of them up against the side of the car.

  Tommy sauntered over, as if he and the women were on the floor of a club. “Evenin’, ladies,” he called out. “You lost?”

  Carlo gritted his teeth. The dumb son of a bitch was going to try and make it with one of them. Or both.

  The redhead stopped, cocked her head, and looked at Tommy. A smile slowly spread across her own face. “Heeyyy,” she said playfully. The older woman waved merrily.

  “God damn it,” Carlo muttered. He started toward them.

  Another voice came out of the darkness, this one male, much rougher. “BITCH!” the voice hollered. “Where you AT!?” Carlo swung his rifle toward the sound.

  The biggest, ugliest black guy Carlo had ever seen was walking out of the darkness. He wore black slacks and a white wife beater T-shirt. He looked pissed enough that Carlo raised his weapon. “Hold it, buddy,” Carlo called out. “Stop right there.”

  The black guy stopped and stared. “Who the fuck are you?” He turned back, spotted the girl with Tommy. “HEY!” he bellowed. “CHARMAINE! What the fuck you doin’?”

  Charmaine? Carlo thought.

  The redhead turned to the big black guy and yelled back. “Screw you, Reynaldo! I’ve had enough of your bullshit!” She turned to Tommy, leaning over to look around him at the two limousines. “Hey, c’n we have a ride out o’ here?” she slurred.

  Things clicked into place for Carlo. “Tommy,” he called out. “Come on back over here.” The last thing they needed was to get in the middle of a dispute between a pimp and two of his whores. “Let these three work it out for themselves.”

  “Best listen to your friend there, boy,” the pimp called out. “This ain’t none of yo’ bidness.”

  That got Tommy’s back up. “Hey, fuck off, nig…”

  “TOMMY!” Carlo snapped. “Back. Off.”

  But the black guy had heard enough. He began advancing on Tommy, fists balled up. Carlo worked the charging handle on his rifle to chamber the first round. “HEY!” he snapped. “Stop. Right there.” He heard a strange sound from Tommy’s direction. He turned to look and his eyes widened in shock.

  Tommy was twitching and convulsing like a man in the throes of an epileptic seizure. The redheaded hooker was standing a few feet away, holding what looked like a pink flashlight pointed at him.

  “Oh, shit,” Carlo said. He swung the rifle toward the redhead, then realized too late that the black guy was almost on top of him. He tried to turn but he was too late. He had only a moment to wonder how someone so big could move so fast before the lights went out.

  “GOOD SHOT, partner,” Zoe said as she fastened the hands of the guy she’d Tasered behind him with the zip ties they’d brought with them. She’d already clapped duct tape across his mouth to keep him from crying out when he recovered his voice. The man seemed groggy, nearly out of it.

  “Will he be all right?” Chunk asked as he secured the other one.

  She patted him on the head. “Should be.” She turned to him. “By the way…Charmaine?”

  He shrugged. Hermione had handed him his dress shirt back and he began putting it on. “Sorry. Best I could think of on short notice. Sort of like ‘Reynaldo.’”

  She laughed and looked over at Hermione. “You okay?”

  The older woman nodded. “I’m fine, Zoe.”

  “Still having a wonderful time?” Zoe asked.

  “I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before,” Hermione said. “It’s…” She trailed off.

  “Not a lot of fun,” Zoe said. “Which is why we try to be the ones pointing the guns, if at all possible. And speaking of which…” She reached in the back of the groggy guard’s waistband, pulled out his pistol, and racked the slide to chamber the round.

  “I thought you didn’t like guns,” Chunk said.

  “I don’t. But I’m not stupid. I just used the last long-range cartridge on Miss Kitty here”—she patted the Taser on her belt—“so if I use it again, it’s gotta be up close and personal.” She nodded toward the building. “And in there…well, we don’t know what’s in there.”

  “We know who’s not in there.” Hermione nodded toward the wall where Chunk was dragging the two bound guards to sit next to the first two. She had her own gun out. “Ready, Charles?” she called over to him.

  He looked sternly at the twins. “You two need to stay put,” he said, “or I’m likely to get angry. You don’t want that, do you?”

  The two began shaking their heads vigorously. “Good,” he said. He turned to Zoe and Hermione. “Let’s do this.”

  As they entered the warehouse, they could see lights ahead in the darkness across the large open space. Gane’s car was sitting facing two other vehicles. It had its lights on, and they could see the people lined up, their hands in the air. The only exception was Stephanie, who was standing next to Branson, her hands bound in front of her.

  “What the hell?” Zoe whispered.

  Chunk could feel Hermione’s presence next to him more than see her. “I see Mar
io,” she whispered, “and Chirelli. But where’s Moose Cantone?”

  “Right here,” a voice said from behind them.

  MOOSE CANTONE prowled through the darkness, the big SAW held to his shoulder. It was so dark in the abandoned warehouse that he shuffled his feet to avoid tripping over some unseen obstacle underfoot. He was sure all the players here were on the other side of the warehouse, held safely under the guns of Paul and Mario. But Paul had given him an order, and Moose Cantone was beginning to realize he felt most secure when following orders.

  He’d been unsettled by his experience with the good-looking older woman who’d come with the big black guy and the feisty little redhead. He’d always considered himself a bad motherfucker, but Hermione…that was the name she’d whispered in his ear…had mastered him as easily as a child, slammed him up against the car, and begun whispering in his ear. He couldn’t remember her exact words, something about how he’d been a bad boy all his life, and how it was time for him to be good for once. The words had seemed to go right through him and he’d been unsettled by the effect her soft sultry voice had had on him, and the way he’d liked how she’d controlled him. Even now, the memory was making him hard.

  He stopped, lowered the SAW, and shook his head. That wasn’t something he wanted to think about. He was back in Mario’s crew now, and that was where he belonged. That thought sent him back toward the light he could see, the light where Mario and Paul were. But as he moved toward that light, Moose could see figures moving in the shadows, behind Mario and Paul. He slid his finger onto the trigger and moved to intercept them. As he drew nearer, he recognized the big black guy and the redhead. Then, with a start, he recognized Hermione. “Where’s Moose Cantone?” he heard her say.

  The words seemed to come of their own volition. “Right here,” he said.

  CHUNK HEARD Cantone’s voice from behind him and swiveled, ready to fire. Only Hermione’s hand on his arm stopped him.

  “Hello, Moose,” she said, her voice warm and welcoming.

  The gun didn’t waver. “You guys drop the guns,” Moose said, “and get your hands in the air.”

  Chunk was about to fire, but Hermione squeezed his arm and stopped him. “Come on, darling,” she purred. “You know you don’t want to do this. We talked about it. You want to be good. Don’t you, Aldo?”

  In the dim lighting, Chunk could barely see Moose’s face, but he could make out the look of uncertainty that crossed it. Hermione’s voice was having an effect on Moose. Hell, Chunk thought, it’s having an effect on me. Not for the first time, he was feeling both infatuated with Hermione and a little afraid of her.

  “Why don’t you give me that gun, Aldo,” Hermione said, “and we can all be friends.” Still smiling, she moved forward, hand out.

  It almost worked. The barrel of the big machine gun drooped toward the floor in Moose’s grip, and he looked about ready to hand the gun over. At that moment, Mario Allegretti called out, “MOOSE! Where the fuck are you!”

  At the sound of his master’s voice, Moose’s eyes lost their glaze. He brought the SAW up to point at them again. Chunk’s finger tightened on the trigger of his pistol. He was about to put a bullet into Cantone’s forehead when he felt the pressure of a gun barrel in the back of his own neck.

  “I wouldn’t,” Paul Chirelli’s whispery voice said.

  Chunk froze.

  “Drop the gun,” Chirelli said. “Or I blow your spine out, and Moose there uses that chopper to shred your lady friends.”

  Chunk looked over at Hermione. The devastated look on her face was more shattering to him than the gun at his neck. “I’m sorry, Charles,” she said as she let her gun fall to the floor. “I thought it would work.”

  “Well, it didn’t,” Chirelli said. “Now get your asses over there, in line.”

  “HERE?” THE cab driver said incredulously. “You want get out here?”

  “This is the address,” Ricky Vandella said. It had been a hell of a time finding any cabdriver willing to take a fare into this industrial area, where the chances of a return fare were worse than those of hitting the lottery. He’d had to promise the driver double to get him to come, in advance, then submit to a patdown to assure the man he wasn’t going to murder him and steal his wheezing, battered old cab.

  “Nothing here,” the driver insisted in an accent Ricky couldn’t seem to place. “Place is deserted. I take you somewhere else.”

  “I’m meeting someone,” Ricky said. He started to get out.

  The driver shook his head. “I don’t wait. Not here. Not safe.”

  Ricky leaned in from outside of the cab. “Yes. You wait.” He pulled out the last hundred-dollar bill from his dwindling stack of cash and handed it to the driver. “Think of all the kebabs or curries or whatever the hell your people eat that money’ll buy.” He closed the door.

  The driver glared at him through the glass, then rolled the passenger side window down. “I’m Chechen, asshole!” Then he floored the gas pedal and drove away, leaving Ricky alone.

  “Damn it,” Ricky muttered. He looked toward the huge building across the parking lot. He saw piles of things he couldn’t identify, covered with tarpaulins. He saw abandoned semi-trailers and a couple of rusting Dumpsters. He saw…

  “Well now,” he said out loud. “What have we here?”

  A pair of limousines, long and black, with tinted windows, was parked by what looked like an old garage bay. He didn’t see any people near the cars. But that didn’t mean there was no one there. He began a fast approach to the building, crouched over, doing his best to keep objects in the parking lot between him and the vehicles. When he thought he was near enough, he peered out from behind a Dumpster. What he saw made his eyes widen in surprise.

  There were four men, sitting in a line against the wall, hands bound behind them and their mouths gagged with duct tape. Two of them seemed to be identical twins. One appeared to be unconscious, the other one nearly so. Whatever they were, they posed no threat. Then he noticed the weapon leaning against the wall a few feet away. It was the type of rifle he’d seen in dozens of TV shows. He straightened up and walked out into the open. The two conscious men against the wall looked startled. He waved.

  “Evenin’, lads. Lovely night, innit?” They glared at him as he sauntered over to the wall where the rifle was propped. “I’ll just take this,” he said. “Make sure no one comes along an’ hurts himself, awright?” One of the men grunted something and made as if to try to struggle to his feet. Ricky pointed the gun at him. “No, no, you just stay right there, there’s a good fellow. I think I’ll have a look round inside and see what’s what.” The man sat back down, his eyes radiating hate. Ricky patted him on the head as he passed by. He hesitated for a moment at the entrance of the building. He could hear voices inside and see the dim glow of lights moving about. He checked the weapon, as best he could with his limited knowledge of such things, and moved into the dark, advancing slowly.

  He could see three men, two armed with pistols and one who was carrying something that looked like the big brother of the weapon in his hands. They were holding the guns on a larger group, which was illuminated by the headlights of a car and by the flashlights held in the hands of the men with the pistols. He could count eight in all. Gane was on the far left, the big ugly security chief and the little redheaded witch who’d tased him standing next to him. Then came the tall, striking-looking woman he’d seen riding herd on the Enigma models, the one who’d kept chasing him out of the models’ dressing area whenever he’d dropped by to chat them up. After that was a motley group he couldn’t identify. First was a young couple who looked barely out of their teens. The male of the duo had his arm around the shoulders of the pretty but terrified blond girl next to him. To their left was a paunchy fellow with thinning hair and a cadaverous-looking geezer with Elvis sideburns and a furious expression.

  Ricky scowled. He had no love for those two bints or the rent-a-cop, and no great affection for Gane, either. But some
thing told him the fellows with the guns belonged to a side he didn’t want to be on, assuming they’d have him, which was doubtful in itself. He felt that thrill up his spine that told him opportunity was near. Then he noticed the case on the hood of the brown car. Something seemed to glow inside the case, reflecting in the dim light.

  Unless I miss my guess, Ricky thought, those would be Enigma’s missing jewels, taken off the bra and packaged for easy transport. Suddenly, like the triangular indicator on the old Magic 8 Ball he’d had as a child, the opportunity swam up into his consciousness and became clear. The men with guns were the jewel thieves, and he, Ricky Vandella, was going to be the hero who saved the jewels and the day. Like most predictions of that classic device, however, Ricky’s Inner 8 Ball was wildly off the mark.

  He stepped forward. “STAND AND DELIVER!” he bellowed. The gunmen started to turn, but Ricky pulled on the charging handle of the rifle like he’d seen men do in the movies. The impressive ratcheting sound it made had the desired effect. The three gunmen froze. “Wise choice, lads,” Ricky said. “Now put the guns on the floor. Slowly.”

  “You can’t get all of us,” the man with the big machine gun said, over his shoulder.

  “No,” Ricky said, “but I’ll kill the first one who turns an inch further in my direction. Who’s that goin’ to be then, eh?” No one responded. Ricky nodded, feeling very pleased with himself. “Thought so. Now set the shooters down, that’s it…” Slowly the three knelt and put their weapons on the ground. “Stand up, slowly, and turn around.” The way they complied made Ricky’s head spin with the sheer power of it.

  “Hey,” said the gunman on Ricky’s far right, the big blond cove who looked like a footballer. “I know you. You’re that guy from TV. The guy who emceed the show.”