Frozen fear, p.8
Frozen Fear, page 8
She perhaps could have checked in on him a little more. Ask him, ‘What’s up? You don’t do bad things, do you, Georgie?’ Yes, there was a little parenting gap with Georgie in the last few years (years barely talking to him due to Gabe and her constantly rehashing out their own differences and the parenting plans). Even if he has developed some bad qualities, wasn’t that just part of being a teenager (a dangerous teenager that freaks out half of the neighborhood)? No, Gwen didn’t want to accept that he was a bad kid. Most teenagers were messed up. They were misunderstood. Georgie got into a few fights, but he never beat up Josh. He was a good big brother to him. Maybe Josh was the only person he was nice to. Bad kids were the products of bad parents, and she wasn’t bad. ‘I’m not, am I? I’m not a terrible mom,’ she thought, ‘Georgie was never beaten or neglected anything. Maybe we weren’t perfect parents, but we were pretty good, right?’
On the kitchen table was the weird drawing she had found in Josh’s room. Gwen stared at it like there was a secret message somewhere amongst the childish scrawl. She had been so wound up she forgot why she was still carrying it around. To show Josh when he came home? Why? He didn’t draw it. Josh didn’t draw this kind of crap. Neither did Georgie. Georgie preferred to draw morbid stuff and scrawl pentagrams in black all over his notebooks. His monsters reminded her a bit of a Sharpie-wielding Edward Gorey.
This was utter crap art. Whoever this kid was, he could barely draw a straight line. The picture was a pencil and marker rendered “drawing” of a headless man in (what could be) an ice cream truck. His arms were stretched wide and, right above his jagged bow-tied neck, blood was gushing like a fountain. The crudely scrawled truck blazed the words Mister...Yim Yom? Yom Yom? Yum Yum?
Something about this picture seemed familiar. She remembered the fleet of ice cream vendors that wore the uniforms with little black bowties. It was unique and kind of cute. Pretty strange that this boy added that feature. She remembered, not too long ago, that someone associated with Josh’s friends had a relative who had been decapitated. The ice cream truck fit into the story too, somehow. It was all so murky, swimming in her memory banks in bits and pieces. She needed to talk to Josh about it, and maybe put these pieces together.
‘Nah. Let me chew on this for a while.’ She slid the weird picture back into the bottom pigeon-hole of her computer desk. Another hour went by. She listened for the front door. Nothing. Gwen became increasingly nervous, the Ativan she’d taken was not enough, but she’d not risk another. She burst into tears again, hand gripping her phone, ready to call the police to report her younger son missing.
At last, the front door squeaked open. When she saw Josh, she almost didn’t recognize him.
Chapter Nine
Eddie Janick, known to most people around town as Mr. Eddie, sat on his newly painted deck, enjoying the warm air. His sagging hairy belly expertly kept his towel in place while he popped open a beer. Light beer, unfortunately. What he wanted was a shot of Jack Daniels, but that would wake up the peptic ulcer currently medicated and snoozing within his ravaged guts. He watched moths fluttering around the deck lights and thought, ‘Those Mexicans did a damn good job.’
He knew cheap labor usually didn’t mean good labor, so he had made it a priority to stay on their butts the whole time. He made sure those guys didn’t miss any steps. He made sure they got every single little crevice; that they didn’t just flop the shit on and leave huge drips. He didn’t trust those people. Left unsupervised, they would have done some cheapo rush-job just to fuck over the gringo.
Mr. Eddie was feeling good at the moment, his bare foot tapped the deck in time with the Hank Williams blasting from the stereo inside his house. All the partiers in his living room had dispersed after he started playing country music. Most were downstairs doing God-knows-what in his hot tub. He knew all the snot-nosed young pricks, currently freeloading his beer and liquor, probably didn’t appreciate such fine music. They would rather hear some of that god-awful hip-hop or some computerized, super-repetitive club shit. Too bad, kiddies. Enjoy some George Jones and Merle Haggard or go the fuck home.
There were only a few of them left still, thank God. The only reason he gave these parties for his employees was to put up a facade of being generous to make-up for his “cost-cutting methods”. Throwing these parties also helped him track his employees. He knew that people were most honest when they were stinking shitting drunk. Mr. Eddie could get them to open up if someone was stealing from him or doing something ridiculously illegal. Earlier in the evening, he had chatted with a few of them and had scanned their faces for the slightest hint of guilt.
His main mission was to check out Derek, the new manager at his barbeque joint, The Dancing Pig. Derek Green seemed like a decent guy. He was a cook for twenty years and had extensive managerial experience for ten. You never could tell though. Even seemingly normal people could turn out bad. Derek checked out nicely. Derek hung around the party for an hour. He had only one beer. The whole time, sitting in his living room, Derek appeared mildly disapproving of the younger people’s loud drunken antics. Mr. Eddie and Derek talked about sports, cars, and family. Derek had a nice family: two kids, a loving wife, and a nice house out in the country. The dude even went to church!
It was great to have a trustworthy employee. They were few and far between. The previous manager at the Lizard Lick Lounge, one of his many enterprises. was caught banging a stripper in the back room. Mickey had her all tied up with belts like it was a Fifty Shades of Gray movie set. Right during peak business hours, too! The new manager, Cliff, had been on the job for two months. Cliff had declined his Sunday night get-together entirely. Mr. Eddie considered that suspicious.
The Lizard Lick Lounge had his most trustworthy staff, but they still needed to be monitored. Drugs flowed in and out of that place. A bartender or dancer could get a habit overnight and become an instant thief. Maybe Bobby or Jerry, who worked the bar, snuck a few bottles out. Maybe they skimmed the till. There had been nothing suspicious in the inventory records so far. Bobby and Jerry seemed solid and dependable.
At least, The Lizard Lick Lounge was making money. The economy was a nightmare, no thanks to the man he called “brainless Brandon” in the White House. His car wash, his ice cream vending business, and his barbecue restaurant were all tax-write-off albatrosses. Only his strip club was in the black, paying extra dividends like the eye candy for the present festivities. Her name was...what? Christie? Debbie? It was Karlee. She had big honkers that didn’t even look fake. He could hear her squealing in the distance.
Mr. Eddie tipped another swig of beer as he contemplated the sad condition of things. He was tempted to get back into business with the Colombians, just for a little while. He could move a little of their white gold which would get his bank account straight in no time. He hadn’t moved any bags in two years, and he still had people asking if he could hook them up. Buyers were out there waiting. Snow cones and pulled pork sandwiches didn’t fetch such easy cash.
Funtime Frozen Treats Company was the biggest clump of entrepreneurial shit on the bottom of his thirteen-and-a-half-inch shoe. The fleet of shitty trucks he bought was always breaking down. The coolers were constantly on the fritz, melting the product. Mr. Eddie bought expensive stuff too: all natural from locally produced makers, no added chemicals, no BGHs involved...nothing to rattle today’s bougie consumer. Yet, all that premium quality was constantly getting ruined by faulty equipment. And the faulty staff: bow-tied ice cream “professionals” using foul language and oozing liquor breath while selling ice cream to kids.
There was, however, the time one of his employees lost an entire fucking truck. Hey, mistakes happen. That’s what insurance was for. It doesn’t matter how destroyed a car is during an accident, insurance makes things right. Except, of course, when said vehicle disappears completely off the face of the Earth! It happened over a year ago, just as he was realizing what a huge mistake buying the company had been. It was the start of Mr. Eddie’s financial slide.
Fucking Mel Tolliver. That name turned his stomach lining into a goddamn Hibachi. That drunken idiot didn’t call him up, nor did he even report the stolen truck to the police. He just slunk back into his shotgun shack hovel and went on another bender. Mr. Eddie had to track down the jerk himself, which took him numerous calls.
When he finally got him on the line, almost two weeks after the incident, Mel told him, “Your stupid truck was stolen by a bunch of punks. Eat shit, Janick! I don’t work for you anymore!” That was it. Mr. Eddie left a few messages on his voicemail and with his mother, saying he’d sue him for losing the truck. He’d toss him in jail. He’d kick his ass. Mel Tolliver continued to ignore him.
A month ago, during a drunk episode of his own, Mr. Eddie paid a late-night visit to that loser’s grave and pissed all over his pathetic tombstone. He would have shat all over it if that asshole Tolliver hadn’t got his guts all twisted in knots. Yep, poor ole Mel was dead. And how he died−what a way to buy the farm! Mel Tolliver somehow managed to decapitate himself by backing a car in a parking garage. The story goes that, as he was backing up, he craned his head out to check behind. He didn’t realize he had put the car in Drive by accident and then pressed down on the gas. A metal sign bolted on a concrete partition ripped his head off.
Such a fitting end. Mel Tolliver became the perfect example of why Mr. Eddie ran his businesses like he did; why he was so distrustful of his employees, why he stayed up their butts, why he didn’t give them an inch, and why he paid them the lowest amount allowed by law.
His sliding screen door swooshed open and his nephew, Andrew, stepped out onto the deck.
“Hey, Uncle Eddie.”
Mr. Eddie nodded in greeting. He sat down at the table beside him.
Andrew placed his red Solo cup on the glass table, looking nervous and awkward. After several seconds, Mr. Eddie finally turned to him and smiled to break the ice. Mr. Eddie reached across the glass table and removed his half-smoked Perez Carillo cigar from the ashtray. He plugged it into his mouth and lit it with his monogrammed Zippo. Andrew was a college kid, or rather, would be one in the fall. Mr. Eddie usually didn’t hire college brats because he’d always felt they didn’t work hard enough, too spoiled to throw their backbone into a job. These days Mr. Eddie was reconsidering that stance after all the hiring failures of recent years. Andrew was getting an actual title, too−warehouse manager. College guys eat that stuff up for resume padding. He was giving Andrew an extra fifty cents an hour to distribute merchandise to all the other vendors and sign the delivery papers, tasks Mr. Eddie had previously done himself.
Mr. Eddie was getting annoyed sitting there waiting for the kid to speak. Andrew just sat in silence staring out over the deck, smiling.
‘Stop doing that. Jesus, kid, either speak or go away!’
“Thanks, um,” he started, barely above a whisper, “for giving me this opportunity and all. I promise I’ll work really hard for you.”
“I’m sure you will, Andrew.”
Mr. Eddie blew a sweet cloud of cigar smoke into the bug-filled air. He took the stereo remote, pointed it at the screen door, and hit “Mute”.
“Watch out for the coolers most of all,” he instructed his nephew. “Check every single truck at least twice a week. If the driver doesn’t like you nosing in his truck, you tell him to speak to me. The coolers are crucial. You can’t sell melted product. Ice cream is very delicate.”
“I’m sure it is, Mr. Eddie.”
“Just a couple of degrees. Boom: the shit’s ruined. Those coolers got to stay running strong. You let me know right away if the temps are off.”
“You bet I will.”
“And don’t forget about the organic cones. They’re very fragile. You tip’em over once and you kill a whole box of them. That’s a lot of money wasted.”
Puffing on his cigar, he blew smoke and told Andrew not to worry about it right now. Mr. Eddie had already given him the keys to the warehouse. He said he’d go over everything when they met up the next Monday. He planned to buy the kid lunch at the Dancing Pig and then drive him over to the warehouse in his Jag. He called it the “Orientation” and Mr. Eddie sure as hell wouldn’t clock him in for it.
Andrew stood up and meekly shook his hand again.
“You’re my go-to guy,” Mr. Eddie said. “Make sure nobody passes out in my basement.”
“Sure.”
“Everybody seem okay down there?” big puff of smoke from Mr. Eddie. “They’re not doing anything stupid?”
“They’re fine, far as I can tell.”
“Don’t let them throw up in my new hot tub,” said uncle Eddie.
“I won’t.”
“And all of you clean up when you’re finished. Got me?”
“Sure thing, Uncle Eddie. I’ll keep those guys straight.”
“It’s getting late, too. This ain’t a sleep-over. Use your authority, be firm but polite, sweet as pie, getting late. Monday starts early. Spread the word.”
“Got it.”
Andrew slouched back inside the house. Down the hill, towards the lake, Mr. Eddie heard a scream. Bobby, Jerry, and a newly hired stripper from The Lizard Lick Lounge were down there by his dock, goofing around. Mr. Eddie picked up the remote and unmuted the stereo. The guys were in the water and the girl was sitting on the dock. It was too bad it was so dark, and they were so far away; as he’d love another glance at Karlee’s honkers. He realized they were awfully close to where his jet ski was locked up. They’d better not mess with it.
***
Karlee (a stage name in case she ever had to take up a real-job once stripping and OF failed to land her a good retirement plan by 30, unless she tried the trad-wife grift that was looking promising) squealed again and wrapped her arms around her knees.
“I’m serious, Bobby!” she said. “Don’t touch me! Shoo!”
Bobby walked his fingers over to her pretty little tattooed feet while keeping his other arm locked over the dock. His legs kicked in the water.
“Why’d you wear a bikini if you didn’t want to swim?”
“I thought there’d be a pool. That’s what normal people swim in. Pools. I don’t do lakes. Lakes have snakes and bugs and shit.”
She turned to see if Jerry was getting ready to grab her from the other side like the moment before. He wasn’t. She feared that dirty water. The bottoms of lakes were nasty, icky things, and had alligators, snakes and diseases. The fact that Eddie Janick lived here made it worse somehow. Maybe there were some bodies down there...Mr. Eddie seemed like the type who could kill. He always had that dead-eyed mafia guy vibe.
Karlee checked her waterproof smartwatch, contemplating when to ditch this shitty party.
It was a work function. Mr. Eddie employed so many dumb men that the Lizard Lick Lounge dancers had to show up to these things for job security and to supply eye candy to the moronic staff, Bobby and Jerry included. The two of them had a combined I.Q. of maybe 120.
‘Even if they were dying,’ she thought, ‘I wouldn’t pity fuck either of these guys.’
They kept looking at her and making little comments in her direction. Bobby probably thought he had a chance, being the over-confident of the two. She put up with them at work all night, the two fucking simps. Meanwhile, she just got messaged from two of the buff guys she met at the club. Only they could service her holes right. And they had better drugs.
Jerry had swum a little further out. She could see his head bobbing out of the water about fifteen feet away.
‘Was he mad?’ Karlee wondered. Jerry was sulking like a baby because Bobby had embarrassed him.
“I can’t believe you mentioned drugs around Mr. Eddie,” Bobby had said while they were splashing around in the water. “I bet he comes up with an excuse to fire you now.”
“I just said it’d be nice to get some of that pure white candy,” replied Jerry. “Pure white candy could have meant anything, powdered donuts, Zero bars, whatever.”
“It meant you wanted Mr. Eddie to hook you up with some cocaine,” Bobby said, punctuating his statement by splashing water at Jerry with one of his beefy ex-quarterback hands. “Right in front of ten other employees. Not bright, genius.”
“I don’t think he even heard me,” said Jerry lowly to himself, just before he swam away.
He was probably right. Mr. Eddie was acting real distant tonight. In the ten minutes or so he had hung around the hot tub room, he just stared at everyone with an unlit cigar in his mouth as if he deemed them unworthy to share a single moment with, much less a conversation. He had mumbled something about them not dirtying up the hot tub room. Then, he waddled out the door.
Karlee hated that fat slob but she had a Tesla and a condo to pay for. She flicked the empty cellophane baggie into the water, lamenting that she hadn’t properly stocked up on blow.
Jerry, several feet away bobbing in the water suddenly shouted “Hey? What the fuck...”
Karlee saw him rise out of the water about two feet, his pasty bird-chest visible in the dim lighting on the dock. His head whipped back and forth in confusion.
“Dude, what are you doing?”
“Doing what?” asked Bobby, laughing. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Bobby was hanging on to the other side of the dock, looking tired from swimming. There was nothing he could do. Jerry was probably standing on a log, getting ready to perform some typical let’s-scare-the-girl routine.
“Bullshit. I know you are,” said Jerry. “There’s something under my fee−”
He started screaming suddenly, escalating to howls of pain. Something was attacking him. Or he was an extremely talented actor. Jerry fell back into the water, arms flailing at his sides. His screams were dramatically swallowed by the bowels of the lake. It was some performance.
