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Richard Stevenson

Ice Blues

ONE

The attendant at Faxon Towing and Storage looked surprised to see me back so soon, and a little wary.

"You all set?"

"I need to use your phone. "

"There's a pay phone over to the station. "

"I haven't got a dime. "

"It's a quarter now. "

"I haven't got a quarter, and the Albany police department doesn't accept collect calls from people they don't want to hear from. I know, I've tried it. "

He had a broad fatigued face with heavily bagged eyes, one blue and white, one blue and red, not the result of patriotism but of a burst blood vessel in the corner of the right one. He smelled of grease and cold sweat, and this mixed with the stench of the kerosene heater and the Mr. Coffee machine, whose crud-stained pot contained two cups of a substance the EPA probably had on a list somewhere. Wet snow was starting to thud sloppily against the windowpane.

"You want the cops? Somethin' wrong with your car?"

"Somebody left something in it," I said.

"Oh yeah? Well, you could leave it here, case somebody calls. "

"That wouldn't work. It's too hot in here. "

He looked at me as if I might be one of the deinstitutionalized, a new social class that merchants and tradesmen feel compelled to gingerly indulge up to a point.

Shrugging, he said, "Phone's yours. Just make it quick. I got calls coming in. " He lifted the filthy apparatus-no Trimline-off a pile of oil-smudged documents and set it on the counter. I dialed.

"Detective Lieutenant Bowman, please. This is Donald Strachey. "

"Hang on, I think he's still here.

The snow was pounding down hard now in the last light of the January afternoon. I said, "This entire section of the North American continent should be declared unfit for human habitation. "

"Huh?"

"It's snowing again. "

The attendant shook his head. "That's Albany for ya. Winter gets some people down. Me, I don't mind. "

"You must be half penguin. "

"English, Irish, German, Norwegian-yeah, there might be some penguin in there somewhere. "

There were squawking and banging sounds at the other end of the line, then a voice: "This is Bowman. Who's this?"

"Don Strachey. I'm calling about a police matter. "

"Hey, it's my least favorite fruitcake-the wimp of Washington Park, the Georgie Boy of Crow Street. I was heading out the door, but I'm always happy to wait around and accept a call from the only man I know who went to Kentucky for an artificial-wrist transplant. " He chortled inanely.

I said, "This is not a social call, it's police business. I'm at Faxon Towing.

My car was hauled out here last night, and now there's a problem. You should drive out. "

"What the hell are you talking about, Strachey? This is the homicide division, and you got a beef with traffic you won't get me involved, oh no, I'll not act as an impediment to those officers. Anyway, it was plainly announced on the medias which streets were gonna get plowed last night, and if you're too dumb or too contrary to move your car out of the way, I've got no sympathy. The snow removal crews have a job to do, and-"