by Hot Ice(lit)
Hot Ice
by Jim Johnston
Copyright © 2001
1935, New Orleans
Two hours in the darkened office, and still nothing to show for it. Two hours of having my world reduced to a pool of torchlight no more than four inches across. I'd been through most of Monro's files, searching - for what? I couldn't quite tell. I just knew that when I saw it, I'd say 'Bingo!' and mean it.
I'd stopped for a smoke break, feeding my ash into a twist of paper and making sure the butt didn't go anywhere incriminating. Through the half-opened Venetian blinds I could see Elysian Fields and Victory, where the Marigny Canal ran into the Bayou St. John. New Orleans. Monro was a guy with vision - and he always liked to have the best of views. The humidity of the air made a bead of sweat trickle down my collar. It was hot. The kind of heat you get in New Orleans when the wind is from Lake Pontchartrain and you can practically taste the mangroves on your tongue.
I ground out the cigarette with my ungloved hand and tidied it away. I took off my hat with my gloved hand and used my kerchief to wipe the inside of the band. Gimme all the heat you can, Big Easy. I've had a belly fulla the cold that's gonna last me for a long, long time. Switching on the torch again, I tried a new filing cabinet. I'd hardly gone along more than five or six cards, before I realized I'd hit pay dirt. 'Bingo!' I said, but something deep in my gut said 'uh-unh'.
I took out the card and examined it closely. It was like a million other 5 x 7 cards in filing cabinets all over the world. It was a record of a ship coming in. Monro thought it was his ship, but I could feel the heat building in my belly and the hairs prickle on my nape. Even if this was Monro's ship, I was gonna take it off him. The details read: SS Vidor, registered in Panama, owned by Monro Refrigerated Transport. Point of departure: Eskimo Point. I didn't need to ask to know that Eskimo Point was in the Northwest Territories - I still had the frostbite scars to remind me. Cargo: Refrigerated salmon (unprocessed). Unloading point: Dock 17, West Wharf. Just a block back from Bayou St John. Seems like Monro liked to gloat and rub his hands over his good fortune.
I replaced the card and closed the filing cabinet. True, I'd found what I'd come to look for, but I was half-sorry about it. I checked the office one last time and then closed the door behind me. The glass door had Monro Enterprises painted on it in gold paint. I took off my glove and dragged the heavy claws across the surface of the paint. It broke off in brittle shards that made me think of ice breaking on a frozen lake.
I shivered. Despite the heat, I always get the shivers when I think of ice. I made for the elevator and pulled the diamond-link grid open. The doors slid open easily, if somewhat heavily, and I stepped inside. I'd been thinking of ice a lot lately. Dreaming about it. The kind of ice that opens all kinds of doors. I punched the button for the ground floor. The elevator clanked downwards, metal on metal, rivets grinding, and light flashed in on me as it passed every floor. The building was empty except for cleaners and security. The lights winked at me like diamonds, dazzling me. They filled my eye at intervals, flooding my head with dreams and memories - ice can do that to you. The elevator jerked to a halt at the ground floor and I heaved the doors open.
I thought of ice and the way it can get so cold that it burns you. The burning can become a yearning. But sometimes all it can do is burn you, because it's just some plain ol' everyday hot ice
* * * * *
Outside the empty Monro Building, it took a moment to feel the pressure of the crowds around me. This wasn't exactly the swell end of town, but the mob was out tonight. Society babes on the arms of their beaux. Sailors in white suits, out looking for the all-fired best shore-leave they would ever get. I checked that I'd put my glove back on and took my time about lighting a cigarette. A taxi showed up and I hailed it.
I climbed inside, and the back of the cab was filled with the smell of new leather. Raindrops from a thunderstorm dead an hour ago still vibrated on the windows.
'Take me to Dock 17,' I growled. 'West Wharf.'
Even with the glow of a smoke warming my lungs, I could feel the ice still haunting me. Reckon I never did like ice. Not that I ever got to see much ice in a burg like New Orleans, but I'd been looking for this hot ice for two weeks now. Ice shouldn't melt so quickly away - not even in a town this righteous.
Monro was at the centre of it - he was always at the centre of it. The spider at the centre of the web of greed.
* * * * *
1933, New Orleans
'Hey, Wolf, don't brush it away - a spider's good luck.'
I paused with the spider hanging on its invisible life-line. I was in Moses Pyper's office, on the corner of Milneburg and Gentilly.
'Good luck,' I growled, 'maybe, but not for flies.'
Pyper shrugged. 'So - you have a fetish for flies, do you, my boy? Then next time you're in the fishing tackle shop you should buy yourself some.' I leaned out of Mose's open window and let the spider go. It crawled off my hand onto the window pane and over the curved legend, hand-painted on the glass in red and gold: Moses Pyper, Gems & Metals.
'I hear you got a job for me, Mose.'
'Well, my boy, let me say I've got a job for you if you want it. Otherwise - pfui!'
I put my hat on Mose's bentwood hat stand.
I said: '"Pfui"?'
Mose ran a chubby, heavily-ringed hand through his shock of curly hair. He's a chrome-dome up top, but around his temples, he's wild and woolly. Today, like everyday, he was wearing his waistcoat and a scarlet bow tie, his shirt sleeves up to his elbows.
Mose shrugged vehemently as he rose and rounded his desk. 'You heard. Pfui!'
'Okay, I heard you the first time. "Pfui," it is then.'
Mose had reached his portrait of General Jackson on the wall. He caught the catch without needing to look for it and swivelled it up to reveal the wall safe behind it. I tried not to look as he deftly spun the dial. As he did so, he said over his shoulder, 'Now, before I tell you who it is, Wolf, I gotta let you into a little secret -' 'I already know the combination to that safe.'
Mose turned away from the open wall-safe, with two glasses in his hand and a bottle of bourbon. 'Safe? You call this a safe? This I call a drinks cabinet!'
'So, what's your secret? '
Mose tugged out the cork of the bottle with his teeth: 'Yuu waaa aaa taaa aaa vaa caa shaaa?'
'Gimme a break, Mose, I can't even read your lips when you talk like that!'
Mose splashed a big shot of the bourbon into one of the glasses, set it down and removed the cork with his free hand. 'Okay, Wolf, Mr Big-Time Private Eye. I said, You want to take a vacation?'
'Rio?' I murmured, lifting the glass as Mose poured the second.
'Try a little further north.'
'Acapulco?' I ventured, sipping the heat of the spirit.
Mose replaced the cork in the bottle. 'No, my boy, I was thinking of somewhere a little more bracing.'
'Oh, where?'
'Alaska.'
I spat my drink out. I coughed and hacked as Mose patted me on the back. 'Wolf, my boy, I know what your trouble is -'
Mose turned back to the wall safe and brought out an ice-bucket and tongs. ' - You didn't take any ice in it.'
He dropped some cubes into my drink. 'There - bourbon on ice. The ice I should have put in first. So, what are you going to do about it, shoot me?'
Now that I had my breath back I managed to gasp, 'Okey, Mose. What's this big secret vacation you want me to take?'
'I hear things, Wolf. I hear Monro is planning some sort of vacation in Alaska.'
'Alaska. It's a big state. Lots of fresh air. Lots of fishing. Good for the complexion. Give him roses on his cheeks.'
Mose leaned his elbows on his desk, giving me the benefit of his serious look. 'He's hiring on men. Some
tough ex-oilmen. I hear there'll be a lot of new faces on his pay roll come the weekend.'
'So?'
'So. I want you to be one of them. You can be a roughneck if you want. Get into his organisation and let me know what's happening.'
I drank some of his bourbon and swirled the ice cubes in the glass. 'What do I have to keep a look out for?'
'Diamonds!'
'Ice, huh?'
Mose turned in his swivel chair and looked out of his window. 'Word is Monro has some sort of claim up there. He's expecting to make a big killing.'
I set the drink down on the desk, picked up a pencil and tried dunking the ice.
'Well, now it makes some sense. Monro has his hand in every business in this burg - it makes sense that he would expand into gemstones. They're small, highly portable, they make the dames go wild - mebbe I'll expand into the diamonds market myself.'
Moses turned to face me: 'There's more -'
'There always is with you, Mose. You're the original Mr Wheels-within-wheels.'
Moses pushed his chair back and pulled open a drawer in his heavy desk. He pulled out a legal folder and let it drop with a heavy thud on his desktop. 'I had a deal with a customer of mine recently - it went suddenly sour on me and I began to wonder why.'
Mose opened the folder and took a clipping from a newspaper and passed it over to me, continuing, 'Then a little birdie told me something.'
I read the headline: Baton Rouge Slaying and Burglary.
Below, it read: Police tonight are investigating the burglary and slaying at the house of Captain Rowland Clarke. Captain Clarke, famous for his explorations in Alaska at the end of the last century, when he was on the track of the Northwest Passage which he believed to be an underground route carved by volcanic hot springs that would keep the subterranean water ways clear -
Mose interrupted me before my lips got too tired. He had a sheaf of clippings fanned out in two hands.
'I was mentioned in the old guy's papers because I had recently taken an inventory of his stuff. I was probably the only man alive who knew what had been stolen.'
'Apart from the thief, of course.'
'Apart from the thief, of course. And, whoever tipped off the thief to pull that particular job. - Go on, take a clipping, any clipping.'
I picked one at random. 'You know who pulled the job?'
'The cops found out. Clarke wasn't just slain. He had been beaten up first. Guy left his calling card all over the old man.'
I read the new headline: Man Arrested in Burglary Case.
'They got Leo Nulty,' continued Mose, 'known in his circles as Knuck the Canuck. He's a strong-arm man for some local loan sharks. His specialty is working over people with brass knuckles.'
'I heard of him.'
Pyper handed me over a photograph. 'Seems like I was the only one the old Captain could trust. He couldn't even bring himself to get a good lawyer -'
The photograph was of a map drawn on parchment and tacked to a claims form.
Mose continued: ' - so he gave me this for safe-keeping.'
'Claims map. I take it the paperwork is good?'
'It checks out.'
I leaned back, rubbing my brow with the thumb of the hand that held my drink. 'So, what we're talking about here is a map to the old Captain's treasure trove.'
'There's that - but there's more to it, Wolf, my boy. We're talking about an archaeological find of the first magnitude. That's not just any old diamond mine -'
I glanced at the map, with its weird scrawls and pictures that looked like match-stick men with wings, claws and sharp teeth.
Mose went on ' - it's also a temple to some old Eskimo god. And if I know Monro, he'll melt the gold, break up the diamonds and sell them for their intrinsic worth. But, if we could get the stuff back intact, we're talking about increasing the sale-value by a factor of ten.'
For some reason the map made my skin crawl. I didn't like the look of it and I didn't like the sound of this story. 'An Eskimo temple, Mose. Sounds pretty screwball to me.'
'It's all in the old captain's notes, Wolf. Why don't you take 'em home with you and read 'em over? Give me a call when you want to talk.'
I glanced out into his office and saw one of his Sephardic cousins entering. I rose and drained my glass. 'If I want to talk -'
'Of course, my boy, of course.'
I set the empty glass on the desk. 'Nice hooch, Mose. Makes Prohibition seem almost like a bad thing.'
I rose and fetched my hat from the hat stand, picked up the heavy folder and strolled out through the office, where Mose's secretary, Rosie, was typing at her iron-mongery.
Rosie looked up as I passed, all curls and rose-petal lips. 'Bye, Wolf.'
'Bye, Rosie.'
* * * * *
That night I sat on the edge of my chair, reading through the old Captain's hand-written notes. I had a bottle of sour-mash to keep me company, to keep the chill of his words away from me, but I barely made it. Over thirty years ago and it seemed like I was re-living yesterday.
I read: 'October 12 1898. The ship is now thoroughly trapped in the ice. We have no option now but to make it our base-camp and off-load the cargo. The ice will shatter the hull over the winter and if we are trapped inside, then none of us will survive.'
Later on, I read: 'November 9 1898. Today a prowling polar bear broke into our stores tent. Lieutenant Thompson was slain when he shot at it and only managed to wound it. Our Eskimo guides have taken the bear to be an omen of death for the expedition.'
Later again: 'December 1. The ship was destroyed by fire. I think it was set by Able Seaman Brown, driven mad by the scurvy. With Angekok, the last of our Eskimos to remain faithful to me, I am setting out over the ice. We have three dogs left to pull the provisions sleigh. Angekok says he knows of a place where we can winter-over. The ice shifts about us and changes landmarks day and daily. I can't understand how he navigates without a compass - Angekok says that his ancestors lead him from the spirit world.'
Later on, I stared over Captain Clarke's shoulder as he peered ahead into the eerily pulsing red light: 'It is always midnight here. Since leaving the ship, I have lost track of the time. Yet up ahead, for the past three marches, I have seen a red glow in the west. Angekok says that it is the Eye of Malsum, a place of eternal fire. Most probably a volcano or some sort of earthquake zone.'
By this stage in the log, he had stopped keeping track of dates and days; the entries had lost some of their coherence and read more like a narrative written from memory: 'Angekok says we can spend the winter in this cavern. If we were to continue on outside, with our provisions so low, we would not be able to eat enough to keep ourselves sufficiently warm. We can eat the dogs as need arises and Angekok says that there are mushrooms that grow underground here.'
Then the big payola, a few pages later: 'I have finally discovered where Angekok has been slipping off to for the past few days. There is more to this place than he first told me. There has been some sort of ancient civilisation here in times past.
'Angekok was in a cavern and he was worshipping a wolf-headed stone idol surrounded by blazing pots of oil. There was a steaming waterfall down the far side of the cavern, and beyond that was a dark tunnel where the water drained away.
'The idol itself is horrendous for its barbaric power. Its eyes are of cut gems, a skill I am sure the Eskimos never possessed. And the idol is cast metal - another skill beyond their culture. There is a fortune in gems still waiting to be utilised. Angekok has a drum, which he beats upon with a human femur bone.
'And those human remains - are they the sacred remains of devout Eskimos, or are they the remains of human sacrifices?
'Beyond the human skulls on poles, guarding sacks of gems (the sacks are made out of animal hides) there's a kayak filled to overflowing with the gems.
'Thankfully, I was able to slip away, undetected. Angekok would never have heard me over the noise he was making with his drum.
'After that, I always kep
t my revolver handy - and, although I longed to, I could never mention to Angekok that I had seen his secret temple. As Spring approached, Angekok journeyed more often outside. I kept a secret watch on him to make sure that he was plotting no mischief against my person -
'Then, one day, I followed him to the cavern entrance and found him drumming up one of his demon gods and what I saw on that occasion was enough to send me running - running for my very sanity!'
'I ran through the tunnels, past the bubbling mud-pools. As I ran, I knew that there was nothing for me in this place but immolation at the altar of a bestial god. I was prepared for death. One does not enter the great white wastes of the world without notifying one's soul that you may soon have need of the spiritual side of matters.
'Behind me, I could hear the stealthy sounds of pursuit. I was prepared to die - but not as a sacrifice to a heathen idol that had long out-stayed its welcome from the age of savagery.
'I had proof at last of the original intent of my scientific expedition. While Angekok had often slept, exhausted from his satanic ecstasies, I had explored this cavern and now it was my fervent hope that an underground stream might bear me from this fate.
'The kayak I had seen on my first journey was sound enough to serve as escape. Now my only hope was to take to the rushing waters and discover the true North West Subterranean Passage.
'And that was the beginning of my strangest voyage - leaving behind the dreadful secrets of the Eye of Malsum, Angekok and his cruel price for hospitality and the shadowy shapelessness of a darkling demon summoned from out an icy sky!
'How long I voyaged underground I cannot now remember. The memory of that journey is but a blur. I think I met things that mortal man dare not visualise lest his sanity be blasted, but thankfully no recollection stirs of that nightmare interlude -'
* * * * *
Next day I went back to Moses Pyper's office, and threw the folder down on his desk. 'Okey, Mose. I take it you want to retain my services?'
'My boy, you'll do it, then?'
I took off my hat and threw it onto the hat stand. 'Sure, why not? Like you said, I could do with the vacation. I take it you got some sort of cover story to get me into Monro's operation?'