Iceman

see I'm quite handsome, so I always live that way, but my vending-machine scam was extremely successful.” The deep voice and the tone of the jivey conversation was just like he favored in his obnoxious TV spots.

“But before I continue, lest someone of a thin-skinned ethnic persuasion be offended, are there any non- Aryans present? Any Rosicrucians or members of any other off-the-wall or what we might consider freak-o religious orders such as Scientologists, Holy Rollers, Jehova's Witlesses, Baptists, Cat-lickers, Masons, Jews, Protestants, Lutherans? Epissypalians? Demonologists? Press-butt-terians? Reptile-kissers? Mackerel-snappers? Knights of Columbus? Campfire Girls? Lesbian Save-the-Whalers? Speak right up. I wouldn't want to offend any persons of, shall we say, suspect lineage? Are there any Negroid or mulah-toe types among us? Spies? Micks? Pollocks? Slopes? Dinks? Gooks? Fruits? Fags? Queens? Messicans? Beaners? Greasers? Wops? Guineas? Dagos? Shines? Spades? Jungle Bunnies? Krauts? Huns? Darkies? Shanties? Couch-'tators? Rednecks? Crackers? Greco-Romans? Serbo- Croats? Sheenies? Moravians? Frogs? Wogs? Kikes? Hebes? Bagel Beaks? Muff-divers? Beaver Cleavers? Poontang punishers? Snatch Gobblers...?'

He took a breath and somebody went “Jeezus,” and he said, “Jesus! Wonderful! Brethern, HE is with us today. So we will ask him for divine guidance before I continue. Let us bow our heads in a moment of silent prayer.” It was an uncomfortable moment. The mocking voice had turned serious, and nobody knew quite what to make of this nut. Was he for real? Nobody bowed their heads and he looked up at the men and said in a quiet but authoritarian whisper, “I'm not kidding now, guys. Let's do bow our heads just for a second and give thanks for our blessings—okay?” So sincere, this crazy guy in the wheelchair. And everybody bowed their heads like idiots and he shouted, “AMEN, brothers and sisters.'

The men looked up. One or two nervous guffaaws. “I never said nothin’ about no LONG prayer.” They laughed in spite of themselves. “Now, dearly beloved, let us, and tomato, but first, consider the odds of us being thrown together like this, drawn by the weather's ferocity, granted that there are worse things than wind and rain, namely thunder, lightning, cyclone, hurricane, tornado, tidal wave, cataclysm, mushroom cloud, a fart after a large Hungarian dinner. Surely some higher BEING, some greater FORCE, some guiding DESTINY, a God or gods above, or below, has preordained this moment. How many of you really BELIEVE?” he boomed in his preacher's oratorical resonance.

And one of the men had just about had his fill of it and said, “I don't hold with joking about a man's religion,” spoken in a very quiet voice.

And, not missing a beat, Schumway turned his eyes on the man standing about three feet above him in stature and cut him down to size in a deadly, perfect, withering, incredible Gunsmoke voice, “How djew lak to step outside and take your shirt off, big boy?'

Everybody broke up, and he turned to the lawyer, unsmiling, and said, “Go over to the Long Branch and fetch Doc and Fester and all the boys. Tell ‘em this here GALOOT has gone and called ole Matt a dirty name an’ we're fixin to step outside and SETTLE THIS.” Turning back to the man who'd spoken, he said in his best James Arness, “I don't HOLD with hittin’ cripples, mister, now go for your HOGLEG.'

Everybody roared, including the man who'd been so offended a moment ago. He smiled and said, “No offense, man. I just don't like to joke about some things, ya know?'

“Hey'—the man in the chair was so immediately and genuinely sincere, so apologetic, in a soft voice full of gentleness and caring—'I know. I'm the one who should apologize to YOU, friend. After all, consider what the good Lord above has equipped you with: your level of intellect is such that knowing to come in out of the rain may well be your high-water mark, so to speak. Let me ask you, my religiostic, do you comprehend the true implications of what these other heathen might erroneously delineate as theopneustic inspiration? Ahhhh, I see your eyes glazing over. Who's handicapped here, anyway? But never mind. Ignore my persiflage.” He waved an arm dramatically.

“I was only trying to lighten the tension and make us all forget that there's a flash flood taking our cars down Country Club boulevard right now ... that we're trapped in here together, sans electroluminescence and maid service, that Miss Kitty here is the only female and SHE has an unmentionable sex-related virus, that the bank foreclosed on the ranch, that the IRS is tapping our phones and the feds have a snitch among us'—he glanced over at Eichord—'that a madman in a daggone WHEELCHAIR is monopolizin the conversation and jes ruinin ever't-hang, Matthew.” This last sentence in a dead-bang perfect Dennis Weaver. The laughter was so gleefully surprised it almost sounded like theater applause.

Not long after that, mercifully, the rain abated and the golfers dispersed. Eichord's one chance meeting with the commercial Cosell of Buckhead had nonetheless remained vivid in memory. He had always realized that among his own faults was an excessively low tolerance for the pseudo-elitist who looked down on others, one who used his or her intelligence to skewer those considered to be inferior, and the fact that Schumway was in a chair did nothing to make him less contemptible. This was the emotion Jack identified as predominant in the thoroughness behind his background check on the controversial star of the commercials that invariably ended, “NOBODY beats a Schumway Buick deal! NO ... BOD ... EEEEEEE.'

Eichord gave his name to a girl in a punky do who told him to have a seat, and he looked at the Schumway file as bored but hungry car salesmen milled around the showroom of Schumway Buick.

Soon the man himself rolled out of his office, a professional greeter's smile in place as he boomed across the showroom at Eichord, “it's Fearless Fuzzdick, the famous flatfoot. As they said when the first black astronaut left the launching pad at Cape, the jig is up!'

Eichord smiled and flashed some shield surreptitiously.

The man in the chair said, “Hold it now, let's get a look-see. That thing could have chicken inspector on it, for all I know.” Eichord, the smile still firmly on his face, opened the ID case and held it as Schumway read in a booming voice, “Jack Eichord, Secret Agent.'

Everybody in the showroom was staring at them.

“Mr. Schumway.” He held out his hand, forcing the man to touch him, watching the eyes very closely to see how much of the animosity was real and how much was an act. “Appreciate you seeing me.'

“Come on, hoss. When the Major Crimes Task Force's headhunter calls. Big Al listens. What can I do ya out of? Wanna deal on a used Fiero?'

“We're working on an investigation of the recent homicides and—'

“Well, I can account for my actions every minute of the time between the end of the Korean conflict and now. I have the perfect alibi. I was at a poker game the whole time. Ask any of these men. They're the finest witnesses money can buy. They all saw me. Right, boys?'

“Maybe we can talk in private?'

“Sure, Jack. My pleasure.” He spun the chair and rolled off toward his office, saying over his shoulder, “Sorta makes you feel like R2D2, doesn't it?'

Eichord looked back over at the car parked across the width of the showroom and motioned, turning after he saw Monroe Tucker get out of the vehicle.

“Have a seat. Inspector,” Schumway said. “Now, you want to know where I was on February the thirty- first?'

“Something like that,” Eichord said patiently. “We're checking on individuals in wheelchairs. Persons about your age—'

“Ahh-hah! Now, that is a serious crime. I thought you guys were nothing but donut-scarfing, do-nothing, chicken-coopers, but here you spring serious police work on me. Jayzus! I'd forgotten that it's a federal crime to be a middle-aged motha in a chair. Punishable by whipping, isn't it? Tongue-whipping by a young girl? All right. I surrender, Officer. Send her in and give me a couple dozen lashes. Tell her to lay it on. Show no mercy. Give me a real licking.'

Eichord went on as if he'd been uninterrupted. “—and there was some relation to another investigation some years back'—he threw this part away—'and we had noticed some small discrepancies in your background. I was wondering if you could fill me in on where you were before'—he glanced at the dossier—'Atlantic City?'

“Norway,” he said, looking up as a huge black man's shadow filled the doorway. “You know what Mayor Dorf said when he introduced the then-presidential contender, Jesse Jackson?” Monroe stared at him like he was something he'd stepped into in a cow pasture. “What this country needs is a spear- chucker.” Schumway laughed as if Tucker wasn't there.

“Mr. Schumway, my partner—Detective Tucker.'

“Lo.” The huge man nodded.