The Last Good Guy

9

Burt and Frank finished preparing my ice bath. They muscled the Victorian tub to the sandy beach that surrounds the spring-fed pond, propping the claw feet up on cinder blocks so the tub wouldn’t sink with me in it.

If the mid-September day hadn’t been so hot, I might not have got into the damned tub at all. Burt gave me a stern look.

I toed off the flip-flops and managed to stand with the help of Liz and Violet. Holding my arms, they guided me across the patio and down the railroad-tie steps to the soft, sloping beach. We stopped at the tub, positioned to give me a pleasant view of the water, the hills, and the sky beyond. The sunsets from here are excellent, though I didn’t think I’d last more than a few minutes in the sparkling bed. The tub was half full, and the ice had been dug out so my body could be instantly packed with cold. An unopened half-gallon of budget gin stood on the blue tile of the barbecue deck, beside a box of large freezer bags.

“After you’re comfortable, we’ll pack it in around you,” said Burt. “Then we’ll fill some bags for your face and head, and you will indeed feel as if you are in a freezer.”

He cracked the seal on the gin bottle and twisted open the top. Used his teeth to pry off the pour spout, spit it into the barbecue sink, and smiled. He had explained earlier that an ice bath without gin is thirty percent less effective.

I watched him pour the booze over the ice with lengthwise strokes, the liquid gurgling out. Frank stepped forward, pulled a garden trowel from within a clean blue shop cloth, and worked the gin into the banks of ice, carefully re-forming the body-hugging berms.

Using Liz and Violet for training wheels, I stepped in near the bow, eased down butt-first, and lay back, propping my head up on a pillow of ice. A sharp cold bit into me and my body ordered me to retreat. Burt and Frank raised bag after bag of ice, cubes clinking down over me. The women packed the cubes firmly until all I could see when I looked down was a blanket of diamonds glimmering in the sunlight. Not even my toes. I closed my eyes against the cold. Felt it sucking the warmth out of me. Where did it go? Listened to them filling the face-freeze bags. Violet warbling on about getting buried in the snow at Christmas by her brothers, a frozen-stiff snow angel and then after a while I couldn’t feel a thing. Which is what’s going to happen to you, Roland! They built up pillows between the tub rim and my neck and head. Lay the bags over my throat and face, lightly because of the cuts. Through two courtesy peepholes I looked out at the pond and the hills and the clear blue sky. Felt the ache within. Heart thumping like some separate beast. Could see the blurred Irregular shapes on the edges of my vision.

“Everything cool in there?” asked Dick. A chuckle.

“Don’t make him talk, honey — you’ll break the seal.”

“I suppose. Ignore that question, Roland.”

“Roland?” Burt’s rough voice. “I always found it helpful to count up from one to fifty, then back down again. Slowly. What you do is, when you come to a number, imagine what you were doing at that age of your life. Take a moment. Enjoy it. Then move on, up your years and back down again. You’ll get a few mulligans, since you’re only forty.”

Almost at the point when the full-body ache had become unbearable, it began to recede.

Seventeen: high school first baseman, a grand slam against La Mesa, in love with Trudy Yates, called me the “lovable lump” in the yearbook...

Twenty-two: Student Union at SDSU, history major, watching the Twin Towers collapse and burn...

Twenty-five: Fallujah. Avalos bleeding out in front of me...

From within these memories I heard Burt Short ordering the others to leave us alone so we could talk. On the periphery of my peephole vision I saw them moving away. Heard Dick and Liz grumbling, and Violet’s tale about playing tennis when it was so cold the balls froze and Frank and Burt talking in Spanish that I couldn’t quite hear.

Then it was quiet. My body was numb. Even the deep ache in my ankles was gone. I felt only a strange heaviness, meaty and alive, but not cold at all. It was as if the flames of pain in my eyebrows and lip and forehead and back had been doused.

Burt’s voice came through the frozen blanket. “Do you want me to sic the Imperial County Sheriffs on them? There are pluses and minuses for you.”

“Not yet.”

“I understand. You may want to handle this personally. Go another round, in the style of Rolling Thunder Ford.”

I didn’t respond to that. My thoughts were clear but my mouth unwilling.

“Next,” said Burt. “One Penelope Rideout came to your downtown office early this morning, while we were having our desert adventure. A helpful Dublin Pub barista directed her here. Through the front-gate intercom, Rideout told Dick she was looking for you, that she’d hired you to find her sister. That you weren’t returning calls and her sister was still in the wind. An unsatisfied customer. Through the intercom, Dick took her numbers and ran her off.”

I forced my memories into sluggish words. Told Burt about Mrs. Rideout coming to my office, yesterday morning about this time. About Daley, Nick Moreno, Adam Revell of SNR Security. About climbing the fence, the date farm, the ATVs. I felt completely disembodied, and my voice seemed to be someone else’s, but my mind seemed sharp. I was under the impression that if I moved anything more than my lips I would break some spell that had been cast over me.

“So while Liz and Violet were picking the gravel out of your back, I called Penelope,” Burt continued. “She’d settled down enough to tell me that her sister had called her early this morning. Very early. Daley said she’d cut school with friends, driven up the coast with them. Partied on the beach at San Onofre. Heard that Nick had been shot dead. Decided her friends weren’t such good friends after all. No details. Ditched former friends, hitched a ride into San Clemente, and called her sister from a pay phone because friends had taken her smartphone. Penelope couldn’t get you, so she called your cop friend Walker in Encinitas, who was out of jurisdiction but called confederates in San Clemente. Penelope made it to the San Clemente 7-Eleven in less than an hour, but the sister was gone. San Clemente deputies were on scene. The clerk told Penelope the same thing he’d told the San Clemente deputies — that the girl had been there until less than half an hour ago. She’d bought candy and an energy drink and talked on the phone outside. Then two guys drove up and they all argued. She got into a silver SUV with them, and off they went. About five minutes later the cops pulled up.”

I felt like my body had vanished. Like I was just a brain having thoughts. “Nothing since, from Daley?”

“Nada.”

“Amber Alert?”

“Declined. Mrs. Rideout pressed the deputies, but they told her it was for the most urgent cases only. That a truant ditching school to party with friends and getting into an argument made this less urgent. They offered to call in a county BOLO on the SUV, told her it was the best they could do.”

I had a frozen memory of Penelope Rideout’s anger at me for not returning her calls during my Monarch Academy interviews. Of her almost trancelike control of that anger, her clenched eyelids and balled fists and the silent prayer or spell or curse. I’m ninety percent lover and ten percent killer.

“How are you feeling, Roland? Warm yet?”

“Just a little.”

“Then you’ve been in long enough. You’ll feel like a new man once you thaw out.”

“I look forward to that.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Burt. “Champ, this may be troubling news, but based on Dick’s description of Mrs. Rideout’s car, I’d say she just drove up to the gate again.”

“Yellow V-Dub ragtop?”

“None other.”

A numb lifting of my head. Some of the ice bags slid off. “Ring her in and help me get into the house, Burt.”