Cold As Hell

by David Searls

  He asked for a Belgian pilsner and she brought it to him in what seemed like record time.

  Peter alternately watched the game and stared at the time display on his phone, trying to do the math. It had been—what?—maybe six, seven minutes since their brief conversation with the train conductor? His phone now showed the time to be 6:42, so that meant—no, wait. That’s what the time had been when he’d thought to look at his phone when he was alone with Buster. And that had been at least three or four minutes ago. Right? Had he read it wrong then? Was he reading it wrong now? Or had that brief conversation really taken place within the space of less than the last sixty seconds. He squinted at the display and studied it more carefully, but it still read 6:42.

  “Goddamn it,” Peter hissed into his beer.

  “No shit,” said a voice next to him. “Down seventeen nothing in the first quarter. Another valiant Browns effort in the making.”

  The guy sitting next to him spoke without taking his eyes off the TV screen positioned right over the bar. He had silvery hair, a mustache that looked timeless rather than out of style, and wore a cashmere camel-colored overcoat that fit like a glove.

  Peter tightened his grip on his beer glass. He hadn’t been paying any attention to the game, but the silvery-haired gent’s comment refocused his attention. “Are you kidding me? They were down by a field goal last time I checked.”

  His new bar buddy shrugged, still not taking his glance from the screen. “Things happen fast when you go up against that vaunted Browns defense.”

  “Shit, I’m out a hundred if these assholes don’t learn how to throw and catch the ball and protect the line,” Peter grumped to his beer.

  A group of whoopin’ and hollerin’ college boys on the other side of him lustily insulted that year’s quarterback. They all wore stocking caps pulled low, like his accidentally hip uncle.

  Peter shook his head. “And it’s not like Baltimore’s defense is that great. We should be able to put something on the board.” He just needed to cover the ten-point spread. Was that too much to ask?

  “What?” It was one of the college boys, now staring at Peter with a rosy-cheeked expression of amusement, confusion and mild inebriation. “What did you just say?”

  Peter shrugged, wondering why he’d said anything at all that might draw him into a befuddling conversation with this pack of raucous young drunks.

  “You said Baltimore,” said the rosy-cheeked college kid. To which his friends inexplicably roared in laughter. “They’re playing the Colts.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said,” Peter snapped. “They’re playing the Colts. In Baltimore.”

  The college boys hooted.

  Rosy Cheeks said, “You’re showing your age, man. The Colts moved from Baltimore in—what?—the early eighties?”

  “Eighty-two!” someone shouted from a stool farther down the line.

  Then, from the college boys in near unison: “The Ravens are in Baltimore!”

  “The Ravens, man,” said the kid next to Peter. “The Colts have been in Indy for like thirty years!”

  “They left Baltimore after the 1983 season,” said the silvery-haired gent. Just the way he said it, quietly and sure, or just the way that cashmere coat fit him, whatever it was, that ended the debate.

  “Guess you’re not much of a fan, huh?” said Rosy Cheeks.

  The weird part was that he was a huge fan. And he knew the Colts were in Indianapolis. And the Ravens in Baltimore. He’d bet for or against both teams on numerous occasions. Even weirder? Peter was only thirty-nine, meaning he had no recollection of the Colts having ever been on the East Coast.

  “Just a weird day, that’s all,” he said into his beer, not caring if anyone heard him.

  “Christmas shopping is draining,” said the pretty bartender, who’d drifted into the conversation.

  Peter nodded. That’s exactly what it was. He heard a collective groan from the bar and knew the Browns had just dug themselves an even deeper hole in his wallet. He didn’t even look up.

  “You taking a break while your wife finishes the shopping?”

  He’d caught her glance flashing to his ring finger and back up to him again. He nodded. “I’m Peter,” he said, and waited expectantly.

  She seemed to think about it, and then held out a slim hand. “I’m Iris.”

  He pumped her hand gently and matched her eye contact and warm smile. She had green eyes and a sexy nest of unkempt hair. She looked to be in her late twenties. Iris. Peter had found over the last few years that it wasn’t lecherous to lust from a distance after young women as long as they were within ten years of him. He imagined that age margin might expand in coming years.

  This one was quite attractive. That realization irritated him just a bit. It seemed he only caught those kinds of glances and welcoming half-smiles from attractive young women when he had a girlfriend. Or a wife.

  “Yes,” he said. “She’s finishing up the shopping.”

  “And how many does the poor woman have to shop for?”

  Might as well come clean about his depth of family involvement. She’d seen his ring anyway. “We’ve got twins. A boy and a girl. Both seven.”

  Iris laughed in what was, of course, a highly appealing manner. “They’re both seven, huh? Guess it would be weird if they weren’t. I mean, being twins and all.”

  Peter felt himself blushing at the stupid mistake, but he laughed with her. She was flustering him like he were a schoolboy. He couldn’t help wondering, even through the fluster, if she was the kind of woman who preferred sleeping with married men entangled in family relationships. A way to disentangle herself quickly before the sweaty intimacy turned into encumbering commitment.

  “—for you?”

  “Huh?” He’d violated the cardinal rule of not really listening to a woman he had the low-level desire to sleep with. Not smart. “Sorry, I missed…”

  “Nothing.” She flashed him another of her dazzling smiles. “I was just wondering if her last-minute shopping trip was for you or for the kids. The twins. Both of them.”

  Another enticing smile.

  Peter thought about that and had to admit he didn’t know where his wife’s shopping was taking her. What had they gotten the twins? Ava took care of most of that sort of thing, but he was sure she must have dragged him along to certain toy stores. Or maybe the two were growing faster than that and they’d done the bulk of their shopping at Best Buy or the Apple Store. But that didn’t strike a chord either.

  “Just some last-minute shopping,” he murmured, not really answering her at all.

  “And what did you get the fine lady?”

  Iris was staring at the TV set when she asked it, watching a halfback scramble briefly, shaking his hips one way and then the other, before getting slammed to the hard, frozen ground. But then someone flagged her down from the end of the lineup of stools and she scurried away before he could respond.

  Good thing, too. Peter had thought about it and couldn’t come up with a goddamned thing. It was—what?—three days till Christmas? He must have done all of his shopping by then, but he had no memory of what he’d bought Ava. But that happened some years, usually when he bought a gift so early in the shopping season that he’d forget what it was he’d stashed in the back of a closet or under a folded stack of shirts. On one occasion he didn’t rediscover one of her gifts until at least a month after Christmas. So he’d have to think about it. Rummage through his usual gift-stash spots.

  He finished his beer and dug his phone out of his pocket. 6:42, its display read.

  No. Wait.

  Peter pawed his eyes as if that might refresh his thinking somehow.

  Obviously he’d read it wrong. Something had to be haywire with his phone.

  Iris looked busy, so he dropped adequate cash on the bar in front of him and slipped off his stool. He buttoned his coat, put on his gloves and, with a final sigh, headed back out into the bitterly cold night.

  Chapter Three
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  Buster’s Lost

  The night hit him like an arctic blast. It was worse after having warmed up in the Gridiron. The cold gripped him, instantly numbed every inch of exposed skin and forced its way into his lungs, where it settled with an intensity that burned like cold fire, making him gasp. The overhead sound system still piped carolers and someone relentlessly, hypnotically rang a heavy bell in a toneless clunk clunk clunk rhythm in the unseen distance. It was still early evening, but winter had a way of prolonging the night, making every hour seem later and more desolate.

  Uncle Buster wasn’t standing in front of the curb, and no electric train awaited the offloading of the twins. Christ.

  Peter walked twenty, thirty feet one way, and then covered the same distance in the other direction, jostling shoppers with every step. Just a matter of staying in motion out here in the frigid fucking cold. He stared at a cross street he could no longer see. It had snowed continuously to the point where lane markers were gone and even tire tread marks would disappear if another car didn’t follow in seconds.

  “Where the fuck?” he said. Hadn’t noticed he’d said it out loud except that a high school girl in a pack of her kind turned her head and giggled self-consciously.

  He paced some more, burrowed deeper into his overcoat, and stared at the vehicles crawling along the unmarked street. SUVs, mostly, but no electric train.

  When he could take the painful winter blast no longer, Peter retreated to the Gridiron again. He stood inside the doorway, pawed his phone out of his pocket and scrolled for Uncle Buster’s number. The old guy had most likely already found and retrieved the kids. If it wasn’t that he was slipping just the slightest, Buster would have taken Ellie and Jack into the bar where Peter had clearly told him he’d be.

  “Damn it,” he said, still scrolling through his address book and his recent contact numbers and not coming up with what he needed. Shouldn’t it be in his phone? Or had Ava always been the one to call Buster and set up plans?

  He hit the memorized digits of his wife’s phone and let it ring twice before he broke the connection and ended the call. What would he tell her? That he’d taken a bar break and had, as a result, lost Buster and the kids?

  He peeled off his cap and gloves and found the stool he’d recently vacated still unoccupied. He slapped his gloves down in front of him, the leather hitting the wood with enough authority to draw Iris’s attention. She turned and flashed him a smile.

  “Back again,” she said. “So soon.” She poured him another Belgian pilsner and set it down in front of him.

  “Lost my kids at the train station. Do you know how often it stops by here?”

  She offered up a smile, but looked preoccupied in the act of pouring him a beer and setting it down in front of him. It was, Peter was pleased to see, the microbrew brand he’d ordered when last he’d sat there. She remembered.

  He nodded toward the nearest television. “How’re they doing?”

  “Browns down by fourteen as we near the half,” she told him.

  He liked the way she answered like someone alerting a gambler that he wasn’t covering the spread.

  They’d made up a little ground, at least. Maybe he still had a chance. All was not lost yet.

  “Yeah, they’re losing,” said one of the college kids still occupying a handful of the stools to his left. “Losing to the Baltimore Colts.” His friends snickered, enjoying the hell out of it.

  “They’re assholes,” said the classy-looking guy with the silvery moustache and the cashmere coat, his gaze still relentlessly fixed on the stop-and-go action on the screen.

  “Yeah,” said Peter. “Hey, Iris.”

  The bartender stood in front of him and leaned her elbows on the bar. Would have been a great view if she weren’t wearing a bulky Browns sweatshirt. “Yes, hon.”

  Hon. Flirtatious or patronizing? Could go either way.

  “How often does the train stop by here?”

  Silence at first. Then hesitant laughter from the college assholes to his left and even from Iris.

  “The nearest train station is across town, dude.”

  “I mean the kids’ train,” Peter said.

  He saw no recognition in Iris’s face. More unconcealed snickering to his left. The classy gentleman with the silvery hair cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the screen.

  It hit him: They all thought he was drunk. No wonder. His lips were still numb from the arctic blast that had slapped his cheeks with all the strength it could muster. It slurred his speech just enough to give off the wrong impression.

  “There’s a kids’ train out front,” he explained, carefully wrapping his tongue around each and every word.

  Still no recognition in any face. Which made sense when he thought about it. Everyone surrounding him was either too old or too young or too single to have kids. They probably never even noticed the seasonal transport snaking its way through traffic just beyond that expanse of plate glass.

  “Thanks, Iris,” he said, shrugging. He finished up his beer in a few deep swallows and laid a few more crumpled bills on the bar in front of him. He ignored the raucous college boys as he wrapped himself back up in coat, gloves and cap.

  He didn’t immediately make his way out the door. From the bar entrance he could clearly see the sidewalk intersection out the window glass. Could clearly see no Uncle Buster and no electric train and no Jack and Ellie. Peter sighed. He dug his phone out of his pocket once more and stared at it in growing confusion and irritation. 6:42, it stubbornly read.

  “What is this shit?” he asked the device before he jammed it back into his pocket. He did his best to ignore the stares of a young couple on a snowy date who had walked in on his latest Tourette-like outburst. Buttoning his coat to his throat, he headed back out into the harsh winter air.

  Chapter Four

  Train Schedule

  It was a small, temporary-looking structure, but toasty warm inside. The game was playing on an old portable TV that sat on the counter, the picture fuzzy.

  “Yes, sir,” said the kid on a stool behind that counter. He managed to keep one eye on the game as he addressed Peter in a convincing imitation of attentiveness.

  Peter loosened his coat. “I’m wondering if you have the train schedule here.”

  Now the rent-a-cop kid gave Peter his full attention. He wore an official-looking white shirt with a badge pinned to it and a bit of authoritative-looking navy blue trim. The badge looked as lightweight as foil. The shirt could have used laundering. He cleared his throat.

  Peter could read the hesitation. He shook his head. “Not a real train, of course. I’m talking about the novelty electric train that stops in front of the Gridiron Sports Bar the next block over. My kids are on it and I’m trying to track them down.”

  The young security guard cleared his throat as if he hadn’t already done so. “Your kids,” he said.

  Peter sighed. Why was this turning out to be more difficult than he ever could have imagined? “Yes, my two young children are on the train, okay? When and where is the next stop? Do you have a schedule or…itinerary?”

  Just then the door swung open, letting in a blast of frigid air and an older and taller and huskier figure. The man wore a navy blue overcoat over a uniform of the same color and a blue ball cap with gold trim. He wore a badge too, but this one had some weight to it. Peter immediately turned his attention to the cop, the real deal.

  “It’s enough to freeze your—oh, hi.” The cop cut himself off when he spotted Peter standing at the counter. “How’s the game going?”

  He took off his cap, laid it on the counter next to Peter and shrugged out of his heavy overcoat.

  “Colts up by fourteen,” said the kid quietly. “Um, Larry, this gentleman here, he’s asking about…a train.”

  Now both men stared at him.

  “Not a real train,” Peter said again, his irritation showing. “One of those…I don’t even know what they’re called…miniature trains. Toys. Big en
ough for kids, though. It’s running through the Commons. Five dollars for two. Five for two kids to ride. My two. They’re twins.”

  Peter felt like he was blathering, and that seemed to be the reaction he was getting from the cop and the security guard, judging by their blank expressions.

  He closed his eyes and let his thoughts settle into a more organized structure. “Season’s Greetings One and All.” His eyes flew open. “That’s what’s written on the side of it. It’s red and green, like Christmas. And ‘Greetings’ is spelled wrong. Does that…?”

  He was getting nothing from the two. The cop rubbed a hand over his face like that might clear the fog. “Uh, sir,” he said, “we don’t have any tracks in the Commons.”

  Peter shook his head. “Of course not. I thought I had…it’s an electric train. It pulls up onto the sidewalks and runs on the streets out front.”

  “Sounds dangerous in this weather,” the security guard kid murmured. “Visibility…”

  The real cop nodded. “And with this traffic,” he added.

  Peter stared at the boy behind the counter. Then shifted his gaze to the husky cop, whose eyes kept flitting to the fuzzy picture on the television screen. Peter felt his chest tightening.

  “C’mon, this is crazy,” he said, more for his own benefit.

  The cop pulled his attention away from the TV and picked up the ball cap he’d dropped to the counter, playing with the bill. Staring at Peter, he said, “Sir? Are you—with anyone?”

  Peter took a step back.

  What the hell did that mean? He was sober as a judge.

  “Are you two trying to tell me that you don’t know what I’m talking about? You don’t know about the train.”

  He hadn’t given it a second thought when Iris and the others at the bar had looked confused. Maybe the train had only put in an appearance for the last few days, not long enough for anyone to take particular notice if they didn’t have small children. But these two…weren’t they paid to know what was going on around here? Weren’t they supposed to—?