Cold Snap

by J. Clayton Rogers

  Ari told Lawson about his encounter with Bruce Turner on the baseball field, including the role Ben had played, without identifying him by name.

  "Bristol Turnbridge told me up front he was sorry he had sent Bruce to warn me off Ethan. From what he heard, Bruce had botched the job. He considered my invitation to dinner a heaven-sent opportunity to apologize—and then he warned me off, again."

  Lawson's laughter was triggered not by the content but by Ari's performance. An objective third party would have found Ari's mimicking of the businessman anything but accurate. The mugging, the swaggering, the wobbling eyes of a man whose horizon is utterly shattered were a caricature of the man who had begged Ari to stay away from Ethan Warness, Rebecca Wareness, Diane Wareness, Sayed Technical Solutions, the Central Virginia Group and anything else that had to do with the missing man. Underneath the slurring was an undeniable delirium of fear. Ari did not want to convey this fear to Lawson, which gave him one more reason to mock Bristol.

  "I hope you don't talk like that about me behind my back," Lawson chuckled when Ari was done. He jerked his artificial arm at an awkward angle, as though demonstrating a back-stabbing stage act.

  "I wouldn't dream of it," said Ari. "But your secretary...most definitely.

  Lawson nodded, but said, "Isn't that a shame..."

  "What?"

  "People here don't mock cripples."

  "Would a cripple enjoy being mocked?"

  "Probably not. But a cripple might feel a little more normal if someone made fun of him. Just one of the guys, after all."

  "I stand remonstrated," Ari said solemnly. "The next opportunity I get, I will mock you mercilessly."

  "Uh...thanks..." Lawson rummaged through his desk drawer. "But you know, someone already beat you to it." He took out a G.I. Joe doll and planted it on his blotter. The face had been burned off halfway and an arm and a leg had been removed. When Lawson let go, the doll fell on its side.

  "Ah," said Ari. "Interesting."

  "That's not the half of it."

  "What does this mean?" Ari leaned forward and tapped a tiny card attached by a ribbon around the doll's neck. "'Before'?"

  "That's the half. Here's the other half." He brought out another doll, this one missing all its limbs. For good measure, the head was a melted mess and the crotch of the uniform torched. The card on this one read: After.

  "We're dealing with some real subtle people here," Lawson observed. "I always thought I was lucky, not getting my dick blown off, too. Not that that helped my marriage."

  "Where were they delivered?" Ari asked.

  "Next to the dumpster, where I'd be sure to see them when I got out of my Cruiser. Good thing Freddie didn't find them on my doorstep at home." He sighed. "Poor kid would have cried his heart out."

  "I'm close to tears, myself," said Ari. Lawson backhanded the 'After' doll at his head. It was a good, hard throw, but Ari caught it easily. He turned it around in his hand.

  "Who do you think sent it?"

  "Right away, I can think of eight possibilities."

  "Eight! I only came up with two. Name them."

  "Perhaps someone from Sayed, who for some reason wants us to drop the search."

  "Thought of that one."

  "Sung-Soo Rhee and his Kkangpae Puppets?"

  "Thought of that, too. Hate to think of one amputee giving that to another, but it's possible. Next."

  "Someone at work that you have angered."

  "Hey!" Lawson shouted. Then, more musingly, "Hey..."

  "One of your neighbors who wants you to remove yourself from the neighborhood."

  "I don't help property values," Lawson admitted.

  "Your wife."

  "You're one cruel son of a bitch," protested Lawson, pushing himself back into his chair and sulking. "My wife's already done her worst. We have a phrase in insurance: loss of consortium. It means losing the benefits of a normal family life due to the actions of a tortfeasor. In my case, it's just bad luck, but it amounts to the same thing. My wife left me because she couldn't stand the stench—you may have noticed I stink sometimes. I guess she couldn't stand to look at me, either, but she was kind enough not to mention it. Not my boy, though. He told me right up. He wouldn't live with Frankenstein."

  "Very well, then," said Ari. "Have you considered that the dolls might be from me? As you say, I can be very cruel."

  "That's an interesting notion. Did you send them?"

  "No." Ari tossed the doll next to its half-maimed twin on the desk. "Of course, you might have damaged them yourself."

  "For what purpose?"

  "To scare me off. Make me think you are being threatened, forcing me to drop the search."

  "Another interesting notion. But I would have found a different way. I have too much respect for G.I. Joe here. I had one when I was a kid. Still have it, in a trunk somewhere. Unless my wife ran off with that, too." Lawson struggled out of his sulk and rested his lone elbow on the desk. "You said eight possibilities."

  "ISAF."

  "ISAF?" The vet went still, frowning. "You got me there, pardner."

  "It stands for—"

  "I know what it stands for. What would an Italian know about it? Come to think of it, why would ISAF want anything to do with an Italian?"

  "Or you?"

  "Hell...ISAF? They're not even in the States." When Ari did not respond, Lawson continued: "So? You were about to say 'it's a long story', right? I'm all ear. Not too busy. Haven't had one of my operatives call me in all of ten minutes. They love me, you know. I'm always holding their hands. Not one of them would consider something like this..." He nodded at the dolls. "It's as inconceivable as having the armed forces trying to spook me for no good reason. Right? Right? And while you're being so talkative, why don't you tell me who the fuck you really are?"

  "I'm Ari Ciminon, a poor boy from Syracusa. Perdonare la mia povertà."

  "Yeah, and I know a few words in German. I was stationed in Kaiserlautern for a while. You can pick up anything, anywhere, anytime. I'm tempted to call Immigration just to make sure you aren't really a cockeyed raghead taking flying lessons. Have you learned how to land, yet, by the way?"

  "Please do call," said Ari quietly. "You will find everything in order."

  "I already did." Lawson slammed the desk with his artificial hand. Ari noted that the wood on that side was heavily scarred, perhaps from a letter opener.

  "And?"

  "Like you said, everything in order." He slammed the desk again. "I know a set-up job when I see one, and there's one setting up right in front of me."

  "I am not slouching."

  "Who do you work for? And I mean really. How is it you can come waltzing in here at 10 in the morning on a weekday and blow crap into what's left of my face? How do you earn a living?"

  "I'm on sabbatical."

  "Oh yeah? You're telling me you're a college professor? What school?"

  "Come," said Ari, standing.

  "That's not much of an answer. Or are you telling me you teach at a school down the road? What, at one of those shopping mall school-in-a-boxes? I know, you teach stenography, right?"

  "We need to go back to A-Zed."

  "Why?"

  "I need to show Rhee this." Ari removed a sheet of paper. On it was printed a picture of three men looking into a camera. He handed it to Lawson.

  "This is Afghanistan," he said, studying the image.

  "Iraq."

  "It's all sandbox to me." Lawson rested the picture on the blotter and leaned over it. "Mujahideen."

  "Maybe."

  "There's no maybe about it. I saw enough of these types while I was over there."

  "'Roses by any other name'," Ari intoned.

  "These aren't roses and they aren't sweet. Hell, maybe you are some kind of half-assed Lit professor."

  "I heard that on the radio the other day. I found it very astute."

  "Well, it's Shakespeare. We're supposed to find him astute." Lawson leaned back over the picture. "Y
ou're scaring the shit out of me, Mr. Ciminon. Are you saying these three have something to do with ISAF?"

  "That is something I am trying to determine."

  "On your own? Or at someone's behest?"

  Ari found it gratifying to come across someone who used English adroitly. He had not heard anyone else in America use 'behest' in normal conversation.

  "I am not ready to say."

  "Does that mean it's not Rebecca Wareness? That you're not at liberty to tell me? Goddamn it!"

  "This pertains to Ethan's disappearance, I believe."

  "This?" Lawson slapped the printout. "Listen, the A-Zed folks are from the Far East, not Near. And these jokers are definitely Near."

  Nearer than you think, thought Ari. If Abu Jasim was right.

  "You are astute to observe thus," said Ari. "However, I suspect Rhee is involved with the importation of illegals."

  "So you mentioned before. I presume you don't mean just from Korea."

  "I believe I also mentioned that if Ethan is involved with the men in this picture, and if he compromised the computers at A-Zed, I fear..."

  "For Ethan's life," said Lawson.

  "For many lives. You understand that history is replete with sadistic killers."

  "No history lessons, please."

  "Very well." Ari leaned forward and tapped the printout. "I believe these are mercenaries of the worst kind, who wrap their crimes in faith."

  "I can't disagree there," said Lawson.

  "If Ethan fell into their hands..."

  "Right. But why do you want me to come along?"

  "You want to see how much progress has been made on your new limbs," said Ari.

  "Right...right..."

  "The dolls don't frighten you?"

  "I hate stupid fuckers," the veteran responded. "Whoever left these...well, stupid fuckers. You meet stupid fuckers all the time. But you don't get much chance to kick the shit out of them."

  While Lawson reached into his drawer, Ari took up the picture, refolded it, and slipped it back into his coat pocket.

  Lawson took out a gun.

  "A Beretta M9," Ari said blandly.

  "PVD coated to withstand a sandy environment," said Lawson. "Betcha didn't think I had this."

  "Betcha I did," Ari answered.

  "Are you packing?"

  He took Ari's silence as confirmation. To save time, he allowed Ari to help him on with his coat, but he defeated his purpose by declaring he would go out the front door.

  "Your car is out back," said Ari.

  "The last thing those company jack-holes want is for me to be seen stalking through their hallways, where the public might see me. Maybe it's time the public was enlightened."

  "Agreed," Ari nodded. "But that will cost us ten minutes."

  "Maybe it's time for you to be enlightened."

  They went into the front room.

  "Ms. Perch," he announced to his secretary, "I'll be out for around an hour. Maybe longer."

  'Perch'? Ari could not think of her as anything but Cicada. She stared at him.

  "I'm going out the front way."

  Ms. Cicada continued to stare at him. This annoyed Ari, who gave her the boogey-eye. She switched her stare to him.

  Lawson proceeded to the main hallway door with a wide flourish. His coat caught on Ms. Cicada's gooseneck lamp and sent it tottering. When he reflexively reached to catch it, his prosthetic arm caught on the lip of the desk, twisting him downwards, causing him to miss the lamp. It clattered on the floor, the LED bulb popping out of its socket. Trying to back away so he could bend over and retrieve it, his prosthetic leg locked, freezing him at a ludicrous angle just short of toppling over.

  "Goddammit," he swore lowly, trying to work himself out of the position. When he suddenly broke free, his arm caught on a picture frame at the edge of the desk, knocking it over.

  "Goddammit!" he swore, causing his prosthetic jaw to bulge.

  "Mr. Lawson," Ms. Cicada began.

  "Leave me...let me..." When he jerked around his eye landed on Ari. "Goddammit! Goddammit! Goddammit!" he roared, holding his hand against the rim of his jaw. "Goddamn fucking...goddamn people missing, fucking camel wonks, fucking goddamn, fucking goddamn, fucking goddamn government, fucking goddamn ISAF and slopeheads and stupid, fucking wife and fucking all, all of it, all of it!"

  His eye was on fire. Spittle flew from his mouth. There was a croaking from his damaged lungs. His murderous sorrow made Ari want to reach out and slip the gun from his coat pocket.

  Instead, both he and Ms. Cicada waited for the storm to pass. He thought a single word or sound of commiseration would send Lawson into a tailspin of self-wrenching violence. The secretary seemed to comprehend that there was more grief than anger in Lawson's behavior and that nothing could be said or done to help. She rose in Ari's estimation.

  Very well…Ms. Perch, then.

  Lawson stood silent for a long time, his muteness broken by labored breathing. He was sending his mind on exploratory search missions throughout his body, confirming this was no nightmare but a much worse reality. Finally, he lowered his head. "Let's use the back door."

  Ari held the inner office door open and they retreated to the purpose-built passageway leading to the rear parking lot.

  "Oh God, I forgot," Lawson moaned, staring down at Ari's Scion.

  "You need to go back inside?"

  "I mean, I forgot what a terrible driver you are."

  "I haven't had a single accident since I arrived in America," Ari said defensively.

  "And when was that?"

  "Oh, six or seven months ago." He paused. "Do you wish to go in your car?"

  "I'm afraid you're standing between what I want and what's prudent. Besides, if we need to get away fast, you're the man."

  Having had practice on Ari's earlier visit, it did not take him as long to get inside the small car.

  "You anticipate a need for a quick getaway?" Ari asked, starting up the engine and its precious heater.

  "Rhee said he would call when the new leg was ready. He'll figure we're snooping. He won't like it. He might sic his Bruce Lee twins on us."

  "Ah, Bruce Lee," Ari chuckled. "I understand."

  "You watched Bruce Lee in Palermo?"

  "Syracuse. And yes, I saw his movies. The whole world watched him."

  Ari pulled out of the lot, keeping one eye on his rearview mirror.

  "Ever watch Michelangelo Antonioni?" Lawson asked, trying to ignore the sharp swerves Ari made to forge ahead. "Bertolucci? Faenza? De Sica? Certainly, you've heard of Fellini."

  "I've heard of him," Ari acknowledged.

  "Those guys made what we call 'art house' movies. They put porn in the same category, but I won't go there. I'm surprised you never watched any of the great Italian directors."

  "Alas, my life has been one big preoccupation."

  "There's still time for a bit of culture. Don't they watch anything but Bruce Lee in Naples?"

  "Syracuse. We have many kinds of movies, but I have little free time."

  "What kind of music do you like?"

  "I..."

  "You know the 'three B's'? Beethoven, Bach, Brahms?"

  "I have heard of them, also."

  "Debussy?"

  "Yes."

  "Ravel?"

  "Yes."

  "Stravinsky."

  "Vaguely familiar."

  "Stockhausen?"

  "I don't think..."

  "John Cage?"

  "Is he a professional wrestler?"

  "There, I have a good outline of your classical music knowledge. You know the names of the old masters and a few standard moderns, but no avant-garde. I left out Puccini and Verdi, of course. Too obvious for an Eye-Tie."

  "Most certainly."

  "Hasn't it ever occurred to you to listen to any of the music, instead of just knowing their names?"

  "You must—" Ari paused to make a hair-raising turn onto the highway ramp. "You must enlighten me."

 
"I can loan you some CD's."

  "I don't have a player."

  "What?" Lawson cried out in disbelief. "Well, you have one in the goddamn car, here..." He pointed at the console, then frowned. "Goddamn..."

  "I have few amenities."

  "Yeah, well stop rubbing sticks together and get a Bic."

  "I have a Glock." He glanced at Lawson. "You have an M9. A lemon."

  "It is not."

  "The pistol slide is famous for its failure rate."

  "That was faulty ammunition."

  "I will confront your gun to mine any time," said Ari.

  "Awkwardly put, but understood." Lawson gave him a long look. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

  "I would be aggrieved if it did." He flew onto an off ramp and made a tight turn at 55. The speed limit cautioned 25.

  "I looked at your MVR," Lawson said.

  "Acronyms annoy me, I should tell you."

  "ISAF is certainly in your vocabulary. Anyway, MVR is Motor Vehicle Record. I pulled yours up after your first visit. No points at all. Not a single speeding ticket."

  "Does this amaze you?"

  "It sure does. It proves the inadequacy of our record-keeping." He shifted his cane. "Or the people who arranged your clean record at Immigration are more thorough than I imagined."

  As before, the clutter of weekday traffic subsided in the dismal checkerboard streets of small industries.

  "No bones about this, right?" said Lawson as they pulled up on the side street facing A-Zed. "No waiting in the car for me this time."

  "You're the alibi," Ari agreed, getting out. "Tell Rhee you're fed up with your shitty leg and can't wait any longer."

  "That's not how you talk to an American businessman," said Lawson.

  "No?"

  "I mean, everyone talks to businessmen that way, but it never gets you anywhere. It's a waste of breath."

  "Then what story do you propose?"

  "That you're fed up with my shitty leg and don't want to wait any longer."