Icepick

by Philip Depoy

  The vegetation got thicker and the sunlight battled the canopy. Ferns, pepper trees, greenbrier, and the slime just kept getting worse.

  Then, because God thought that making me ruin my sharkskin suit wasn’t enough, he put the song ‘Chloe’ in my head. And not the beautiful Louis Armstrong version, the insane Spike Jones interpretation. Over and over again: ‘I’ll roam through this distant swampland, searching for you.’

  Then: ‘Hey, Moscowitz!’ Rothschild shouted. ‘I–I’m in a little trouble here.’

  I glanced his way and saw when he meant. He was in water up to his chest.

  ‘Are you stuck?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yeah, and I think I got a snake over here.’

  ‘Don’t thrash around, OK?’ I said, heading toward him. ‘You’re in a boggy place that maybe is sucking you in. I know you don’t want to, but you should try to go down on to the surface of the water and, like, swim out. Swim toward one of those cypress tree roots. That’s where I’m going. I don’t want to get stuck too, right?’

  ‘Right,’ he said, but his voice was shaky.

  I sloshed toward the three cypress trees closest to him, but as I got closer, the water got deeper, so I circled around. When I got close enough, I could see he was in real trouble. I looked around for something to hold out to him, a low branch or a fallen tree limb. No luck. And he was making no headway trying to swim out of his predicament. He wasn’t more than four or five feet away from me, but it didn’t look like he was going to make it, and I knew it would be wrong for me to go after him.

  So, what else could I do? I emptied my pockets. I took off my suit coat. I took off my pants. I tied one leg of the pants to one arm of the coat. And I called out to Rothschild.

  ‘Hey! Heads up!’

  He floundered and sputtered; came up coughing and gasping for air.

  ‘What?’ he demanded irritably.

  ‘I’m tossing you this – it’s a lifeline, see?’

  He squinted, then nodded. I tossed. It fell short. I tossed again. He took a deep breath and lunged forward, just barely grabbing the cuff of my pants.

  ‘Now kick your feet like you’re swimming!’ I yelled.

  He did. I pulled. He inched toward me. I was nervous that the suit would tear. But Manny made a solid suit and it held together. Slowly but stupidly, I managed to land a Jew from the FBI.

  And just as he grunted and swore his way up on to the little patch of land where I was standing, a voice behind me called out, ‘Jesus, Foggy, what the hell are you doing in your underwear in this part of the swamp?’

  I turned around to see my old friend Philip, Seminole strongman the size of a tank. He was dressed in a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and jeans that were smeared with swamp schmutz. His face was sweaty and his hair was wild.

  ‘Hello, Philip,’ I said, straining for dignity. ‘I was just saving this poor schmo’s life. How about you?’

  ‘My mother sent me to fetch some hog plum and salt bush,’ he answered softly, ‘and I got lost. I was really happy to hear you guys.’

  Philip was a great guy, sometimes muscle for John Horse, sometimes worked for Maggie Redhawk’s brother. And he was a Benny Goodman fan, which marked him down on the positive side of my book right away.

  I was already working on untying my pants and coat; Rothschild managed to sit up.

  ‘Look, Philip,’ I said, ‘I’m actually out here looking for Echu Matta’s children. They’re roaming around somewhere in the vicinity.’

  ‘Well, that’s no good,’ he said. ‘This part of the swamp is dangerous. What’re they doing out here?’

  ‘On the run from the cops,’ I said.

  The full story could wait. Philip would understand about being on the lam.

  ‘That way back there is the end of Blake Road,’ I went on, pointing. ‘Not very far.’

  ‘Oh. Now I know where I am. Good. Want me to help look for Topalargee and her little brother?’

  ‘I really do,’ I answered.

  ‘All right. Just a second.’

  Philip turned around in a full circle, taking everything in. He looked up into the sky, then put his finger to his lips.

  ‘There’s other guys out here,’ he whispered.

  Rothschild stood up. ‘They’re with me.’

  Philip nodded his head once. ‘We should go this way.’

  And he headed off east.

  Rothschild got to his feet. ‘You traded your home in Brooklyn for this?’

  And there was that feeling again, about what was home. Because I had a second of wanting to speak up for Fry’s Bay. Very confusing.

  We followed Philip into the darker part of the swamp, and things got very humid. My clothes were soaked and had no hope of drying, which added to the delight. Every once in a while, I had to swat a mosquito or wade in ooze, but for the most part it was a better pathway than I would have found on my own.

  Suddenly Philip stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ I whispered.

  He pointed. It took me a minute to see what he saw. Black bears. Three of them. They were big, at least four hundred pounds, and swamp bears could be very mean. You try wearing a fur coat in that kind of heat – see if it doesn’t make you irritable. They ate mostly plants, but they were also fond of small deer – the ones about the size of the two kids.

  ‘I don’t like that there’s three,’ I whispered.

  ‘What is it?’ Rothschild said, a little too loud.

  I turned to him.

  ‘Big black bears,’ I said softly. ‘They eat people. So, pipe down, OK?’

  His eyes widened.

  I turned back to the bears. They were scanning the area, sniffing. I figured they smelled us. A Florida black bear can smell a squirrel’s buried nuts at a hundred paces, so I was pretty sure they could smell me, ripe as I was.

  ‘They know we’re here,’ I said to Philip, to confirm.

  He nodded. ‘But they don’t care. They got something else in mind.’

  He pointed again, this time upward. And there, not fifteen feet away on a high branch of a cypress tree, sat Sharp and Duck. I had no idea how they got up there – there weren’t any low branches. The bears were trying to figure that out too. They were at the bottom of the tree.

  Sharp saw me first.

  ‘Hello, Foggy,’ she called out very calmly.

  Her voice carried, even though it was a little thin.

  The bears sniffed.

  ‘You seem to have gotten yourself in a spot,’ I told her.

  The bears turned my way, but they were more interested in tree snacks than in three large men.

  ‘Is that Philip?’ she called out.

  ‘Hey, kid,’ Philip mumbled. ‘If we distract the bears, can you shimmy down the tree?’

  ‘We got up here,’ Duck sang out. ‘We can get down.’

  ‘I don’t care for the concept of distracting the bears,’ Rothschild said.

  He pulled out his service pistol.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Philip snapped, irritated. ‘If you shoot them with that tiny little gun, they’ll just get pissed off.’

  ‘He’s right,’ I said. ‘Put that away.’

  Rothschild was reluctant, but he holstered his gun.

  ‘So, what do we do?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s three of us, three of them.’ I sighed. ‘If we make ourselves look as big as possible and go at them, we might scare them off.’

  ‘Might,’ Philip emphasized.

  ‘Christ,’ Rothschild snarled, ‘I was safer stuck in the muck.’

  ‘Well,’ I sniffed, ‘I’m really tired and I don’t feel like standing around in the swamp, so I’m going to take a run at the bears and hope for the best.’

  Philip picked up a nearby branch. I looked around for one too. Rothschild stood there trying to decide where he was.

  ‘Is it possible that I actually died back there in the swamp, and this is hell?’ he asked me.

  ‘We don’t believe in hell, right?’ I answe
red.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘but what if we’re wrong? This would be a pretty good argument for it, this situation here.’

  I looked at Philip. ‘I always imagined that FBI guys would be a little tougher.’

  Philip shrugged. ‘He’s out of his element.’

  And with that I was snapped into a sudden awareness: I wasn’t as much of a fish out of water in Fry’s Bay as I used to be. There I was, a Jew in a swamp, and it didn’t seem that odd to me at all. I had an impulse to thank Rothschild for helping me to understand that. But it passed when one of the bears roared. It sounded like a jet engine.

  ‘Come on,’ I said with a distinct air of fatalism.

  We ran. Philip was howling like a dog. I was making some kind of yodeling noises that I didn’t quite understand, and Rothschild was cussing like an outraged porn star.

  The bears turned our way.

  One stood on its hind legs. The other two lowered their heads and roared, showing us their teeth. I was on solid land but Philip was ankle deep in slime. We were closing in on the bears at a good clip, but it wasn’t exactly frenzy.

  Then, without warning, the bear on his hind legs lurched forward. I thought he was going to attack Philip, but instead it fell flat on its stomach, writhing and gurgling.

  There was a very large knife stuck in the back of its neck, hilt deep.

  I glanced up at Sharp.

  ‘I’m gonna want that back,’ she said.

  ‘Why didn’t you just do that before now?’ I asked her.

  ‘Didn’t know which one was the leader until he stood up. They don’t usually come in threes.’

  The other two bears were confused. One of them sniffed the fallen leader. The other looked around like it was lost.

  Rothschild froze and I dropped my tree limb.

  Then I realized that Philip was singing. It was a soft song, but it somehow filled the air all around us. After a second, the kids in the tree joined in. The song was like friendly bees in the air all around us: humming, soothing, sweet.

  It had an effect on the bears. One of them sat down, sighing. The other one continued looking around, lost.

  After another couple of bars, I recognized the tune. It was something that John Horse had sung to me when I’d first met him and he’d dosed me with his hallucinogenic tea. It was a hypnotizing song. Even without the tea, it was very soothing.

  As soon as Philip got close enough, he looked the seated bear right in the eye.

  ‘Go on, now,’ Philip said gently.

  And that bear blew out a breath and got up – wandered off like it forgot something.

  The other bear saw the situation – one dead, one leaving – and it didn’t want to be the last one around, so it took off too, in another direction.

  Sharp and Duck were already making their way down the tree, gripping it with their elbows and knees.

  ‘What the hell just happened?’ Rothschild muttered, looking around.

  ‘John Horse,’ Philip said.

  And I knew what he meant. John Horse taught Sharp to throw a knife. And he taught Philip how to sing the song. Even when he was miles away, it was John Horse to the rescue.

  Sharp sauntered up to the dead bear. It had stopped twitching. She pulled her knife out and wiped it on the bear’s back.

  ‘It’s possible that the other two will come back to eat this one,’ Philip began. ‘They mostly eat plants, but this might be too much for them to pass up.’

  ‘Meaning we should scram,’ Rothschild said.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Duck growled.

  ‘It’s a lot to explain,’ I answered, ‘but here’s the big news: I found your mom; she’s safe and waiting for you in town.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Sharp said, mostly to herself.

  ‘And the cops who took us aren’t … I’m confused,’ Duck said, staring at Rothschild.

  ‘This isn’t Brady,’ I told him. ‘He’s undercover FBI, trying to find out what happened to all the women, including your mother.’

  Duck continued staring. ‘You’re right. It’s a lot to explain.’

  ‘I’m sorry, kid,’ Rothschild said, and he meant it.

  ‘Come on,’ Sharp said, taking my hand. ‘Let’s go!’

  ‘Man, is your mother ever going to be glad to see you,’ I said. ‘By the way, you should still be in the hospital.’

  ‘No,’ she said, pulling me forward. ‘I should be with my mother.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  When we got back to Fry’s Bay, I found that someone had brought my car back to the parking lot, but my apartment was empty. No sign of Pan Pan. I couldn’t quite figure out what to do next. My brain just stopped working. Apparently, days without sleep will do that to a person.

  ‘Christ!’ I said. ‘Am I ever going to come to the end of this thing?’

  Luckily, Sharp knew what was what.

  ‘You’re about to fall down,’ she told me. ‘Why don’t you go in your bedroom and do just that?’

  I blinked. ‘I gotta … The whole gig was to get you and your mother together.’

  ‘You just told me on the ride here that you went to Oklahoma to get her,’ she said. ‘She’s here, I’m here; it’s just a matter of time before—’

  My front door burst open, interrupting her thoughts.

  John Horse stood in the doorway, filling the frame.

  ‘Foggy!’ he gasped.

  ‘You’re back,’ I said, only a little deliriously.

  ‘There’s a dead guy at the bus station,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you’re here with Brady,’ he went on.

  ‘Only he’s not Brady, he’s Rothschild,’ I mumbled.

  John Horse stared.

  Rothschild took over.

  ‘Mr Horse,’ he said, holding out his hand, ‘Special Agent Meyer Rothschild, FBI.’

  John Horse didn’t move.

  Rothschild lowered his hand. ‘I know it’s a lot to take in. We’ve been after the men who were taking the Seminole women for half a year. Mr Moscowitz – and you, I guess – have helped us to solve the case. We’re going to want to interview you and the women you’ve just brought home, of course …’

  ‘The women are gone,’ John Horse said calmly.

  ‘I have to see my mother,’ Sharp began, panicky.

  John Horse looked at Sharp and said, ‘Apockse, hachapitsalakin.’

  She nodded. Duck sighed.

  Rothschild looked at me.

  I shrugged. But I knew those words: noon, tomorrow.

  Then John Horse smiled at me. ‘I can see that you’re just about to pass out, Foggy. Why don’t you go fall down on your bed?’

  I grinned stupidly. ‘That’s just what … just what …’

  Sharp took me by the hand and pulled me toward my bedroom.

  I don’t remember anything after that.

  I woke up and it was night. I was still in my suit and the curtains were closed. The apartment was silent. In my first conscious moments, the previous couple of days had a dream-like quality.

  I sat up. Did I really go to New York? To Oklahoma? Did I really meet Pody Poe? And what about that bastard officer Brady?

  I stood up. I stumbled to the living room. It was empty. Good.

  I made it to the kitchen. Coffee.

  Odd. The French press was ready, and the kettle on the stove was just waiting to be heated. I couldn’t think. Just held a match to the gas. Poof: fire.

  I stared down at the kettle until it whistled. I poured the water into the press, waited, pressed.

  Coffee: good.

  I managed to get myself, the press and my cup to the kitchen table all at the same time.

  I sat.

  The blinds to the sliding doors were open, and I could see the moon reflected on the water through them. Black water, silver moon; silence.

  Before I knew it, half the coffee was gone and I was feeling a little more coherent.

  The clock on the kitchen wall said that it was 2:
17, but I could see that the second hand wasn’t moving. That’s why it was so pleasantly dark and quiet: my power was out.

  I got to the front door; opened it a crack. Everything was dark. Everything was quiet.

  I had a momentary eerie sensation that I might be dead, but it passed right away. I couldn’t have been a ghost. I smelled too bad.

  What to do? Middle of the night, all alone, power out; midnight dreary.

  Then suddenly there came a tapping.

  I turned. John Horse was at the sliding doors, peering into my kitchen. I closed my front door and locked it before I went to let him in. I had the creeps for no reason I could explain.

  The sound of the glass door sliding open was like thunder.

  ‘Hello, Foggy,’ John Horse said, not coming in. ‘Looks like you got a little sleep.’

  I nodded. ‘What the hell is going on with the power?’

  ‘It’s out all over town.’ He stared into my eyes.

  ‘Why are you looking at me that way?’ I asked him.

  ‘I’m just trying to remember if things were this odd in Fry’s Bay before you came to town,’ he said, concentrating, ‘or if it’s always been this strange.’

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘What’s the verdict?’ I asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s a funny little town.’

  He stepped inside.

  ‘I’m a little fuzzy about things,’ I told him. ‘Did you say that the women we rescued from Oklahoma are gone?’

  ‘Gone back home,’ he said. ‘Into the swamp. Just didn’t want that dick Brady to know what was happening.’

  ‘You know that Brady is really Rothschild, FBI.’

  ‘I know that a rose by any other name would still have thorns.’

  I smiled. ‘You have a skeptical attitude about anybody in the government.’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘Can I have some coffee?’

  I nodded. He poured.

  ‘I keep thinking we’re at the end of the slope,’ I told him, sitting at the kitchen table. ‘And then something else happens.’

  ‘A lot of unanswered questions,’ he agreed.

  ‘I mean about getting the kids together with their mother, for God’s sake.’

  He smiled. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘There’s other stuff.’ I only mentioned three. ‘Who’s the dead body in the bay? What was Icepick thinking? Why couldn’t the FBI figure out in six months what it took you and me a couple of hours to crack?’