Cold Snap

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "I would never fight over a woman," Ari asserted. He did not consider his wife, whom he did not deem a mere woman, and for whom he would kill to protect. In fact, he already had.

  "Why do I find that hard to believe?" said Tracy smoothly.

  "I have no idea."

  "Then what was there to fight about?"

  "It was only a bad fall—"

  "That was a beating. It couldn't have been anything else." They turned and found Rebecca shooting her dark eyes up the footlong slope that divided their heights. "I have four brothers. They were always getting into fights. A fall and a fist leave different marks."

  The last time Ari had been this close to her she had been threatening to call the police on him. He noted the glint in her eyes and the drink in her hand and wondered if much worse was in store.

  "Rebecca..." Tracy drew her hand away from Ari and placed it on Rebecca's forearm. "You knew Ari would be here. I thought the two of you..."

  Rebecca took a quick sip from her mimosa. "Yes?"

  "You told me yourself that the police said he was all right."

  Ari grimaced. The woman had not been bluffing. She had called the cops.

  "They came," she said with a downturn of her lips. "One of them was Italian...well, he had an Italian name, like that restaurant in Short Pump. The other guy seemed normal."

  Officers Mangioni and Jackson, who saw him in a great good light after the grand assault in Cumberland. They did not know that the culmination of that assault was the capture and humiliation of Uday Hussein. They thought Ari had led them to the killers of their former superior, Detective Louis Carrington. When, in reality, Ari himself had shot the man once it became clear he was a threat to Rana.

  For Rebecca to call the morose, deeply pessimistic Jackson 'normal' said much about her view on life. It suggested she had joined the great sky-darkening flock of the world-weary. Ari knew better than to ask her how things were going.

  Tracy must have seen herself as a peachy reconciler, because she refused to drop the topic.

  "The cops told you Ari was righteous, didn't they?" she said, paraphrasing herself. Ari logged another confusing term into his vocabulary. 'Righteous.' Mohammed was 'righteous'. Indignation was 'righteous'. Officer Jackson? Well...he seemed permanently indignant.

  Apparently, the word did not sit well with Rebecca, either. She produced a scowl that prompted Tracy to remove her hand. Rebecca must have missed the consolation (no matter how artificial), because she seemed chagrined by the action.

  "The policemen wouldn't give any details, but yes...they used that word: 'righteous'." She cocked an eye up at him. "Is that what happened to you? You got into a fight with some crooks?"

  "I am under a stern admonition not to mention the topic," Ari said, without adding that the admonition was of his own making. His heart both lifted and sank—it was an odd sensation—when Tracy gave him a glance of renewed appreciation. There was so much boasting in this country that reticence had become refreshing. Ari had not intended to come across as the strong, silent and possibly heroic type, but that was the result.

  If Rebecca was impressed she managed to disguise it under a look of sour resignation. No one liked being put in the wrong. He wondered if she had carried out her threat of asking Howie Nottoway to remove him from the Neighborhood Watch—and, if she had, if her inner decency was strong enough to retract the request. Patrolling these sedate streets helped satisfy his communal instincts. Having been raised in a land of strong tribal ties, he had begun to think of his neighbors as fellow tribesmen. No doubt most of them would have been horrified by the notion. In fact, Ari himself had been a bit of a weak link back home, allowing loyalty to slip away (when it was safe to do so) whenever it threatened his conscience. But there was no denying the solace, occasionally fitful but sometimes all-encompassing, of tribal connections. There was a sinister aspect to this, of course. Saddam Hussein had been a master of playing off tribes and factions within tribes against each other. But any organization, primitive or allegedly advanced, could be corrupted. Look at communism. Look at capitalism. Look at any group of cannibals who would devour their neighbors the instant push came to shove.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Ciminon, if I reacted too harshly that day you came to see Diane," said Rebecca with more than a trace of reluctance.

  "Oh," said Tracy with a brisk laugh. "Formality!"

  "Yes," Ari nodded. "Please call me 'Ari'."

  Rebecca gave him a strange bulbous look, then burst out, "It's such an odd name!"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "It sounds like a cottage on a mountaintop." And then, as though quoting from a brochure, added, "'Enjoy our airy cabin with its fresh, airy view of the valley'."

  Ari smiled, but Tracy was quick to sense a trace of hysteria.

  "Oh, Beck," she said, taking small step forward. "I know times are rough for you, but it'll work itself out."

  Was this what they called a mixed metaphor? And how could things be so rough for Rebecca Wareness? She had won possession of the cat, next to which a lost husband was inconsequential. To his current way of thinking, at least.

  Rebecca cast a wary eye from Tracy to Ari, cautioning her to avoid giving out details of her dismal life in front of a relative stranger. Ari was not so gauche as to injure someone's feelings unduly. However, he was gauche enough to see how it might benefit him.

  "I'm afraid I am cognizant of your situation," he said graciously. Bean-spilling Tracy took alarm and looked towards Bristol, who was sniggering at something Bruce was telling him—the refined laugh apparently being reserved for non-employees.

  "What is it you think you know?" asked Rebecca nervously, undoubtedly thinking of the foreign accent that had answered when she called the number on Ethan's phone bill.

  Seeing Tracy about to explode with embarrassment, Ari decided self-censorship was in order. "That you and your husband had a falling in."

  "Out," Tracy corrected, both women chuckling. When Ari did not continue, the women's relief was obvious. Separations and divorces were common property, right up there with deaths and just below cat-ownership—a notoriously indecipherable domain. Running away with an Oriental temptress, however, was a bit too much.

  "Well," Rebecca sighed, "there's a little more to it than that."

  Ari nodded understandingly. No one wanted to seem commonplace. He believed the height of wisdom was being satisfied with that very thing: being commonplace. But it was a type of satisfaction curiously difficult to attain. And a runaway husband was particularly commonplace.

  "If there is anything I can do to help..." he said.

  Tracy gave Ari a bulging stare. Was he coming on to Rebecca? Ari shot her a comical sketch of a scowl, warning her against such an interpretation of his motives.

  Rebecca's reaction came as a surprise. Her mimosa-softened face resolved into a speculative demeanor, without skepticism or ire. Practicality and emotional pain were winning out over suspicion.

  "I get the impression you work with the police fairly often."

  This drew a flick of alarm from Tracy. She knew the police had reassured Rebecca about Ari, that Ari had spoken to Jackson and Mangioni about the Riggins family. But that he worked with them? That was new. The Mackenzie's lifestyle of small forays beyond the law included the occasional use of recreational cocaine. Tracy would no doubt exclude Ari from her society if she discovered he was responsible for the demolition of the Kayak Express, her former source of pharmaceutical entertainment. And anyone actually chummy with the cops would be viewed with horror—a dread that would inflate dramatically if she learned he had been a highly placed cop (of sorts) in Iraq before the war.

  "I can assure you, this is all appearance. You are aware of what happened to the previous occupants of my house? Of course you are. The police are still investigating. They sometimes drop by to snoop up my doorstep. It's quite a nuisance, but I am polite to them. Perhaps they are not accustomed to that, and think of me as a friend."

  This seemed to plac
ate Tracy, but Rebecca was disappointed.

  "Oh," she said, her eyes drifting away.

  "However, I think they would oblige me if I put a question before them on your behalf," he continued hurriedly. It was obvious where she had been headed. Ari did not want to lose the opportunity to be neighborly. Would she be grateful enough to allow Sphinx back into his house?

  Both women spent a moment sorting out his words. Tracy had been unsettled by the prospect of a neighbor talking to the police, while Rebecca thought Ari made his connection to authorities sound so thin as to be worthless. Ari was playing off the fact that Diane's father had vanished, although he was not supposed to know this. You did not call the police if your husband ran off with someone else. You hired a detective. Or, if you were strapped for cash, you did the next best thing: find a willing dupe. The only other person in the area with ties to the police was Howie Nottoway, due to his position in the Neighborhood Watch. And asking Howie for help could be a bit like thrusting a needle in your eyeball.

  "Yes, well..." said Rebecca hesitantly

  "Why not?" said Tracy, sans specifics. She was as interested as to Ethan Wareness' whereabouts as Rebecca. Her reasoning might be limited to a yen for juicy details, but it was enough to cinch the connection.

  "I don't want to make trouble for Ari," said Rebecca, as though he was out of earshot.

  Tracy found this indirect approach amusing, and turned to Ari with the officious air of a translator. "She doesn't want to cause you any trouble."

  "Ah," said Ari, lifting his shoulders. "Trouble..."

  "What does that mean?" said Rebecca warily.

  "I think it means it's no trouble at all," Tracy interpreted, then turned back to him. "Am I right?"

  "Oui, bien sur!" He found French possessed the admirable quality of deflating tension.

  "Ooh!" Tracy shivered. "The Gallic touch!"

  A single common expression did not a Latin lover make, but Ari smiled at the notion.

  "We can't talk here."

  Now it was Ari's turn to be alarmed. Was Rebecca going to suggest they leave and deprive him of Madame Mumford's elixir of life?

  "God forbid that you go up to the coat room!" Tracy tittered.

  "The coat room?" Ari inquired.

  "The bedroom."

  "Yes, God forbid," said Rebecca sourly.

  "We can discuss this another time," Ari suggested. "I think lunch is about ready."

  "Oh, just grab a plate of finger food and go out on the deck."

  Ari drew back. Rebecca was equally dismayed. "Kinda cold, Trace."

  "You're both smokers," Tracy reasoned. "You'll be going out, anyway." Then she emitted a small moan and tapped Ari's forearm. "I forgot to tell you. Bristol is anal on smoking.

  "That sounds dreadful," said Ari sincerely. He wondered if it could be cured.

  "That puts a lot of us out in the cold," Tracy confessed. "But anything for The Cause."

  "And what cause might that be?"

  "Cm'on Ari, don't be dense. Full-time employment with benefits."

  Rebecca was watching him closely, as though having doubts about asking such a dummy for help. Ari moved quickly to eliminate any questions regarding his mental aptitude.

  "I understand, now. This is what you call rubbing someone's nose in it?"

  A moment's hesitation and then both women laughed uproariously.

  "That's it," said Rebecca, wiping her eyes and then tapping his hand with her finger. Ari had the discomfiting impression that he had proved his bona fides by being stupid. He suspected the same criteria were used for the American diplomatic corps. Before he could protest, they were interrupted by the arrival of Madame Mumford from the kitchen. Ambrosial mists accompanied her and Ari decided if there wasn't enough onion soup to go around, he would kill to get a share.

  "The meal is ready to be brought out," she said with oven-heated pleasantness.

  "Oh, you can see people are still busy with their drinks," said Tracy, waving at her guests. "Just put it on simmer and I'll let you know when we're ready."

  Her dismissive tone riled Ari, who had to suppress an impulse to give his hostess a corrective slap. Tracy had some singularly wonderful attributes, but knowing her place before culinary royalty was not one of them.

  "I'm afraid that's not possible," said Madame Mumford with stern politeness. "These dishes must be presented the instant they are ready."

  There was too much of the domineering mistress confronting a recalcitrant servant in Tracy's scowl.

  "You can let it cool a bit, then. Just pop it into the microwave when we're ready."

  "We've already delayed too long," said Madame Mumford unswervingly. "I'll begin serving now." She turned with sturdy precision and returned to the kitchen.

  "Pushy so-and-so," said Tracy. "Ari, you schedule your circus all around the world. That includes France, right? What do you think? Are they always so bossy?"

  "The French are always right," Ari admitted.

  "It's disgusting. I should have served Freedom Fries today. She needs to learn who's footing the bill." She snared Bristol as he passed them on his way to the bar, displaying his empty glass as though it was a grievous wound. "Mr. Turnbridge, you're not terribly hungry at the moment, are you?"

  "Well, I'm a bit thirsty..."

  "Our cook...our French cook...insists on putting the food on the table. She says it can't wait, but I told her—"

  "But of course it can't wait!" Bristol declaimed, employing a mock French accent filled with 'zh's. He rounded on the crowded room. "People! Lunch! Come!"

  His empty glass was no longer an open wound suited to awe spectators, but a useless burden to be dropped haphazardly on the coffee table.

  People who had been sequestered in various side rooms began squeezing themselves into the dining room and the closed part of the porch facing the river, where tables from A thru Z Rental had been placed end to end. Ari recognized some of the faces from previous Mackenzie get-togethers. Others were strangers to him, but he suspected only a handful were employees of Sayed. Those were the ones angling for seats close to Bristol. They were the first to jump at the owner's announcement that brunch was about to commence. The remaining ten or so guests were obligatory fill-ins, invited for the sole purpose of showing Bristol what a great and popular guy Matt was. They seemed a little confused as to how to behave, and ended up against the porch window, which was not insulated well enough to prevent a stark chill from seeping through.

  "People! People!" Tracy broached the air with her arms, as though swimming against a tide of unruly children. "We need those who want roast beef and casserole over there. Those who want foreign sit closest to the kitchen."

  Ari was happy to see a noticeable shift away from the kitchen. He grabbed a seat next to Bruce, who had reluctantly taken the seat next to Bristol when Bristol pulled it out and signaled for him to sit. It looked as if the boss intended to oversee his employee's franco-caloric intake. Ari would have considered it poetic justice for the cat torturer, had the punishment not been heavenly.

  Tracy and Matt emerged from the kitchen wearing his and hers aprons. Tracy's bore a strong resemblance to the stereotypical French maid uniform, black with white trim, including a quick switch to fishnet stockings. Matt was more sedate, if no less ridiculous, in a trim black outfit which made him look more like a manorial butler than an eager garcon de café. Their aprons were emblazoned with 'Monsieur' and 'Mademoiselle', as though they weren't married but a couple who reserved their trysts for the cupboard. Ari gave hypocrisy in all its forms the respect it was due—but, considering Tracy's opinion of the piece de résistance, his tolerance was stretched to the limit. He emitted a low growl, which sent a visible thrill of dismay through Bruce, as though he took Ari's inferred threat seriously.

  As well he should.

  Two Indian couples raised Ari's hope of getting a substantial share of the main course. Their deferential glances in Bristol's direction signaled them out as Sayed employees, but their bin
dis and tilaks suggested they were misplaced vegetarians. The only things available for them were a cheese casserole and spinach dip. They did not scramble for a seat near Bristol, yet they wore polite, intelligent looks that told Ari Bristol should watch his ass, or they would soon be running his company.

  The aluminum foil that the roast had come wrapped in rattled loudly as Matt hacked away, carving out huge American-sized portions guaranteed to make a glutton smile. Ari could not criticize. He was feeling a little gluttonous himself, a sensation that swelled tremendously when the Mumfords emerged with steaming tureens from the kitchen. They wore plain white aprons, no frills or ethnic nonsense.

  Ari sensed Bruce stiffening to his left, his eyes as round as clam shells as they followed the progress of the dishes with abject terror. In Iraq, Ari had been compelled to do many unsavory chores in order to stay in the good graces of the Imperial Palace, where loss of status could result in arrest and torture. If Bruce opposed his boss at the brunch table, he risked no more than unemployment, destitution, starvation...death. Well, perhaps the comparison was not so invidious, after all.

  On Bristol's left sat a slender blonde whose face belonged in a soap ad, her blue eyes adding just the right punctuation for the perfect complexion. She leaned to Bristol's ear and whispered. He nodded abstractly, his attention focused on the platter. Ari did not know if she was his wife, girlfriend, or even if they had arrived in the same car. Americans tended to skimp on introductions, as befitted its career as a land of strangers. The non-famous were nonentities; the noxiously famous protected their anonymity. Strange place.

  Madame Mumford eased between the blonde and Bristol with the steaming platter.

  "Servez-vous..."

  Bristol's arm jerked forward but stopped in mid-air when he caught a stern glance from the cook which said, in effect, Where are your manners, Monsieur? Ladies first.