Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

Iced by Hal Charles

The iceman killeth, and Fast Eddie was at the top o£ his list. But the hit man wouldn’t succeed. Not if Helen had anything to say about it. She was married to Eddie, and for a gangster he really wasn’t all that bad of a guy!

Even before she married him thirty-five years ago, Helen Leighton knew that Edward Willis was what most people called a gangster. After all, with a nickname like “Fast Eddie,” hands that looked more gnarled than a cypress stump, and a high-school education, how else could you explain his income of over a hundred thousand a year. But Helen liked what she saw — the exciting world Eddie lived in.

Eddie liked what he saw too. A tall, willowy blond, a Boston upbringing, a graduate of Radcliffe, the lady had class. So he had picked her, a real corsage to wear on his upward climb through the organization.

There was only one catch. In a romantic moment he had agreed that once a week she could choose their activity. Unfortunately for him, Helen didn’t like fancy dinners or expensive clothes; she liked culture. And so “Fast Eddie,” the greasy kid from the tenements went to the Met, toured the Modern Art Museum, and took up mud sculpture.

Usually the bargain worked out well. Six nights a week she was there at the end of the day to listen to his tales about the bribes, the pressures, even the broken bones.

But that Tuesday night when Willie the Porter and the Tampa Truck invited him down to Shilito’s Garage for some high-stakes poker, it had been an offer he had to refuse. Helen insisted on going out to the University for her latest interest, the Great Writers of the Western World Lecture Series.

The lecturer, a Professor Hardy, was your basic academic type, Eddie decided. The beard, the tweed jacket, the pipe, and the soft voice. He pranced around in front of the furcoated dames and tuxedoed guys. How could these people be so interested in an old Greek play about some creep who wasted his father and married his mother? Besides, Eddie had more important things on his mind. Mr. Antonio had called a meeting for the next morning, and nobody knew why.

“Edward,” Helen said as they finally left the lecture hall, “isn’t Oedipus Rex marvelous? The characterization, the poetry...”

“The only good part was where the dame stretched her neck.”

“Oh, Edward,” Helen tittered, brushing his slate-gray hair from his forehead. “I wish you could learn to appreciate some of the finer things of life.”

Stepping off the elevator onto the eighteenth floor that belonged to Unicorn Enterprises, Eddie felt the familiar uneasiness. He hated the smiling secretaries, the walls lined with computers, the parade of three-piece suits. He missed the back room on 49th St. and the guys with their racing forms and poker chips. He longed for the old excitement of swigging liquor from brown bags while trying to stay one step ahead of the cops.

Listening to Richard Gregory’s report on the take (now called “quarterly income”), Eddie was more aware that Mr. Antonio was getting sicker. For months the old man had been growing thinner, and now after every sentence the boss had to take a deep breath from an ever-present oxygen tank. Eddie was bothered more though by Mr. Antonio’s comments about the business. What did he mean by “weak cash flow strategy,” “inflationary hedges,” and “retrenchment”?

Eddie was sick too — sick of young guys like Gregory. He seemed to always get Mr. A’s attention with his taperecord of voice and armful of charts.

“Thank you for the encouraging report on our last quarter, Gregory,” wheezed the boss. “You’ve made me feel better.”

“I appreciate your confidence in my ability to handle the corporation’s management,” said the youthful figure in the blue-flannel suit.

Mr. Antonio took a breath. “Now about the grand jury probe into our affairs.”

Eddie beamed. “I took care of that, boss.”

“I know,” frowned the old man, “but my idea of an efficient business transaction doesn’t involve having the prosecutor found in a hotel room with a shiv stuck between his ribs.”

“You said we had to do something.”

“In another week,” Gregory interrupted, “we would have met the hotshot’s price, and the probe would have quietly disappeared. Now every law enforcement agency in the Big Apple is out to get the prosecutor’s killer.”

“Don’t worry,” said Eddie, “I contracted the best — The Iceman.”

Mr. Antonio slowly turned toward him. “You never learned we can’t operate the way we used to. Our organization is big business.”

“You and me go way back, Mr. A., even before WWII,” Eddie said. “My way of handling problems was always good enough in the past.”

“The past is dead.” Mr. Antonio picked up his portable respirator. “The doctors don’t give me long, and I want to spend what time I’ve got left in the Florida sunshine. The real reason I called you two together is to tell you I’m stepping down. Starting next Monday, Richard, you’ll be running Unicorn Enterprises.”

Eddie was flabbergasted. “But...”

“And Eddie,” continued the old man, “I want you to know you’ll be provided for, too. It’s time two old horses got out of the race.”

“Me retire! Mr. A., I got a lot of good years left. I can whip anybody it the business.”

“That’s just it. Force isn’t the answer anymore. It might have worked down on 49th St. when we were muscling our way uptown, but now we play by different rules.”

Eddie started to protest, but the old man waved his hand and departed. The young executive stood across from him, fidgeting with computer sheets. “Say, Eddie, didn’t I see you at the lecture last night. Frankly, I thought Hardy’s discussion of Macbeth last week was much more astute.”

“Cut the small talk, Gregory. I’m not taking this lying down.”

“What does that mean?”

Eddie left him, the question still on his face.

Helen put down her shakespeare the minute he walked in and fixed him a double bourbon. Eddie like his liquor strong. As usual she was quite interested in his day, making him repeat everything that happened.

“Look on the bright side,” she said when he finished. “You’ve survived in a business with a high mortality rate more years than you could expect. We could travel, visit Europe, the Orient — see all the things we’ve read about. We certainly have all the money we need.”

“The money’s not important. It’s never been. It’s not right. Guys like Gregory haven’t paid their dues. You don’t get your knuckles bruised typing reports in business school.”

“Edward, it’s like Tennyson says: ‘The old order changeth yielding place to new.’ Accept the change.”

“Not without a fight. Tomorrow I’m going to see Louis. He owes me.”

The next time Eddie saw Louis Antonio his former boss was laid out in the most expensive casket money could buy. His lungs hadn’t held out long enough to breathe the Miami air. Eddie tried to corner Richard Gregory, but the new president of Unicorn Enterprises successfully dodged him, hiding behind the mountain of tears and flowers.

Finally after the last carnation had been tossed into the grave, Eddie caught up with his youthful adversary.

“Gregory, we’ve got to talk.”

“There’s nothing more to be said. You’re through.” The slender man in the cashmere topcoat turned his back to leave.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” Eddie retaliated, spinning Gregory around and pinning him to the limousine. “I can cause you a lot of trouble with what I know. You’ll only get rid of me over my dead body.”

His dilated eyes scanning the shocked entourage, Gregory slowly straightened his tie. “That, old timer, can be arranged.”

The following week was frustrating for Eddie. Nobody at Unicorn would talk to him. A new man had taken over his office, and even the computers had no record of his existence. He was persona non grata.

Eddie was almost grateful when Helen led him off to the University Lecture Series. But, despite his troubles, he found it difficult to concentrate on Professor Hardy, who treated the lecture platform like a ballet stage.

“So in the final analysis,” concluded the lecturer, “it’s difficult for one to determine Montresor’s exact motivation in getting his best friend drunk on the infamous cask of amontillado, leading him downstairs, and immuring him in his wine cellar.”

“Right now,” whispered Eddie to Helen, “I’d like to have some of that wine myself.”

“Ssssh!” she said.

“Next week will be my last lecture. Please read Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

The bell almost tolled for Eddie later that night. After dropping Helen at the front door, Eddie went back, locked the gate, and headed toward the house. In the dry grass ahead he heard a snap. Instinctively he lunged behind a marble statue. His face buried in Helen’s geraniums, he heard a distinct sound from his past — the unmistakeable chatter of a chopper.

Then silence.

After a while Eddie rose. In front of him the ancient gladiator still stood, a pockmarked mass of marble.

It took him an hour to calm Helen down.

Then the telephone rang. In hurried whispers the Tampa Truck confirmed what Eddie had just learned first-hand — a contract was out on him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was paying for it.

As in the past, Eddie dialed the newspaper and put in the familiar classified ad: ESKIMO NEEDS ICE. CALL 954-3344.

Shortly after the evening edition hit the streets, the phone rang.

“I’m calling about the ad,” said a muffled voice.

“Iceman,” said a well-controlled Eddie, “the client is Richard Gregory, Unicorn Enterprises.”

Eddie thought he detected a slight chuckle.

“The usual terms. $20,000. Same P.O. box, in advance.”

The phone went dead.

Two days later so did Eddie’s adversary.

“Hurry up, Edward,” Helen called, checking her makeup in the hallway mirror. “We don’t want to be the last ones there.”

Fumbling with his French cuffs, Eddie slowly descended the staircase.

“What are you so nervous about? I thought the paper would help you relax.” She gestured to the foyer table where an open newspaper revealed: SUSPECTED GANG LEADER COMMITS SUICIDE. “Your Iceman has a certain class the way he made Gregory appear to have hanged himself.”

Eddie said vacantly, “He’s never failed to fulfill a contract.”

“You don’t seem too happy about this turn of events. After all, tomorrow you’ll be taking over the reins of Unicorn.”

“You don’t understand, Helen. That attempt on me two nights ago — it was the Iceman. Tampa told me the word on the streets was that Gregory hired the Iceman to get rid of me.”

“But Gregory’s dead.”

“That doesn’t matter to the Iceman. He’s a pro. He took the money up front — he’ll make the hit.”

Helen shivered. “Can’t you stop him?”

“How? Nobody knows who he is. That’s why he’s so effective.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t go out then.”

He kissed her cheek lightly. “I know how important tonight is for you. Not everybody gets an invitation to dinner with the professor. Besides I’ve kept my promise for thirty-five years — I’m not going to break it tonight.”

Eddie was more impressed with Hardy’s restored Tudor mansion than he had been with the professor. Of course Helen was in heaven amongst the oil paintings, sculptures, and leather-bound books.

“I’m sorry,” Hardy said, leading them to his study, “that you misunderstood my invitation. It was for tomorrow night.”

“Oh,” said Eddie with a tinge of embarrassment, “that’s why nobody else is here.”

“No matter. We’ll have some more sherry and talk.” The professor emptied the crystal decanter into Helen’s glass. “Mr. Willis impresses me as a man who appreciates things other than the arts, things like a beautiful woman and a fine wine. Speaking of the latter, I see our well’s run dry. Perhaps, Mr. Willis, you’d like to select the next bottle from my wine cellar.”

Eddie rose. “Sounds good to me.”

“Feel free to browse through my library, Mrs. Willis,” said Hardy departing. “I have a splendid collection of first editions.”

She worked her way through the centuries, admiring a Shakespeare folio, pausing to examine an original Alice In Wonderland, until she came to the professor’s walnut desk. Stacked in the corner were the books from the lecture series — Oedipus Rex, An American Tragedy, For Whom the Bell Tolls, The Stranger...

Suddenly Helen felt cold. “Oh, no!” she uttered. It was the books!

They toasted each other with the pale dry Amontillado.

“How did you figure it out?” he asked, wiping the last of the white powder from his hands.

“All the books for the lecture series were about death. Don’t you see, in Macbeth the king was stabbed — that’s exactly what happened to that prosecuter. Like Oedipus’s wife, Richard Gregory was hanged. And the machine gun the other night was right out of For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

“So that’s where The Iceman got his ideas.”

“And he was planning to kill you tonight using Poe’s ‘Cask of Amontillado’ as his model.”

“If you hadn’t come down when you did, it’d be me walled up in the wine cellar.”

He poured them another sherry.

“To Unicom Enterprises and its new boss,” she toasted.

Eddie raised his glass. “To culture.”