Cold Case

Black sheets of rain billowed, pummeling the asphalt like prize fighters in a title bout. Through the deluge, Eddie Vale tiptoed across Dignam Street, through the streetlights and neon haze. His fedora hid a scowl. His overcoat concealed a lifetime of mistakes.

The street-level door slammed below. Eddie rumbled his way up the stairs. I turned around from the second story window and saw his waterlogged silhouette through the chipped paint letters on the glass-paned office door. Eddie knocked.

“You don’t have to knock, Eddie,” I said.

The door creaked open. “Oh, sorry boss.”

“I’d give you a towel, but the Sisters of Charity are down to nickels this week.”

Eddie looked at his rain-soaked Stacys.

“How’d it go?” I said.

Eddie coughed like a Henry J sputtering through a yellow light. “I don’t know about this, Sy.”

“Yeah, it’s all over your face. What happened?”

The VACANCY neon sign from next door cast a red hue across the room. As the rain fell harder, the crimson shade flickered like a guilty man stammering through a confession.

“Well, I met him at midnight, like you said, in the alley behind Dlugacz’s.”

“Did he have it?”

“Yeah, he had the scoop alright.”

“What’d he say?”

“He wanted his cut.”

“How big a slice?”

“That’s the thing, boss. He’s skimming.”

“A churn?”

“Think so. He said the last guy ended up in the freezer.”

“No kidding.”

“Crates everywhere. That buzzing sound. It was almost like . . .”

“Like what?”

Eddie’s face turned white as a bridal gown. “. . . like a death rattle.”

Lightning cracked and thunder followed. Eddie’s eyes darted out the window. He squinted at the street.

“Were you followed?” I said.

“No, uh, I don’t think so.”

Eddie lived his life like he was holding twenty in casino blackjack. He needed an ace. But the ace never hit. Eddie was always a bust. His thoughts were more scattered than motel cockroaches after you turn the lights on.

“But if the last guy ended up in the freezer, how did you—”

“No one touches the freezer but him.”

Thunder rolled.

“What about the route?” I asked.

“Delivery? He didn’t say. That amount of ice, gotta be a short one. Less heat.”

“Shakedown?”

“Don’t think so. Too much. But he did say one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“It’ll cost extra.”

Another low rumble hit, but it was not thunder. Something hit the ground hard just outside the entry door below.

“You were followed,” I said.

“Sorry boss. He had to know where to make the drop.”

“But here?”

“Where else?”

“We can’t be seen.”

“But boss, there’s no one out there.”

Maybe Eddie was right for once. You can only ride the six and eight so long before the dice owe you a favor.

“I promised,” Eddie said, glancing at the pale stack of forms on my desk.

“So, you told her. She knows, then.”

“She was asking too many questions.”

The scene was unraveling like the sleeve of a cheap sweater.

Slow, steady footsteps clomped up the stairwell. Three knocks rattled the door.

“I didn’t think it would come to this,” I said. I nodded at Eddie. He reached inside the revolver side of his jacket.

“It’s open,” I said.

From the dark of night that clung to the walls, a curly-haired errand boy stepped from the depth of his own silhouette. The torn patch on the front of his red and white striped apron said: Dlugacz’s.

“Uh, Mr. Dlugacz says he wants you to sign for this,” he said, his voice cracking every third syllable.

Eddie yanked the ticket out of Danny Dunn’s nervous hands. Eddie skimmed the ticket, struggling to find where to begin.

“What’s the big idea, Deuce?” I said. “When you make a drop, you make a drop.” I pointed to the rain.

“Mr. D needs a signature.”

I tipped my chin at Eddie. He scribbled on the ticket with his dime-store pen.

“Wait a sec,” I said, yanking the ticket from Eddie’s still-dripping frame. “Delivery fee?”

Danny swallowed hard enough for me to hear it. The clasps on the squat cooler in Danny’s left hand began to tremble.

After hours. I guess it made sense, at least as much as anything can in this two-bit circus.

“I left the drop out front, double walled like you asked, but I brought a sample for you to try. Mr. D says it’s on the house,” Danny said.

Eddie’s eyes grew to the size of Susan B. Anthony dollars. So did mine.

“Show it to us,” Eddie said.

Danny placed the cooler on my desk.

“Could be wired, boss,” Eddie whispered.

“Nice and slow, kid,” I said. “Open the clasps one at a time.”

Danny’s hands shook as he struggled with the first clasp. The cooler perspired like a jittery poker player on a poor bluff.

“Easy,” I said.

Danny undid the second clasp and opened the cooler. A light mist wafted its way to the floor, covering our feet like a wet veil. He reached into the cooler, wrestled the ice a bit, and lifted out the goods.

“Careful, it’s cold,” Danny said, handing a pint-sized container to Eddie.

“No way, boss.” Eddie marveled at the prize for a tick and then handed it to me.

I palmed the merchandise. The lid said, ROCKY ROAD.

“Eddie, get me a spoon.”

Danny shuffled his feet.

“Cat got your tongue, kid?”

“Um, well, I just wanna say thank you.”

“For what?”

It was then that I recognized Danny. Sure, I knew he ran deliveries for Dlugacz’s. But I remembered him from before. He grew up with the Sisters of Charity, in the orphanage, just like me. He probably never knew his parents. He was one of the kids who jumped up and down when the free ice cream showed up at the annual charity bazaar. That cold sweetness could numb the cruel answers to the hard questions a nine-year-old should never have to answer. Sister Agnes was getting her ice cream.

“Never mind, kid. Eddie, tip him well.”