Scott Phillips - The Ice Harvest

TABLE OF Contents

to Anne, with all my love

The Ice Harvest, which suggests James M. Cain by way of Carl Hiassen and Quentin Tarantino, has the deep-seated wickedness to suit a title that says you reap what you sow.... Tight, readily cinematic... rendered by Mr. Phillips with the kind of pitch-black humor that found its way into Fargo and is alive and well here.... The Ice Harvest has the grit that goes with its territory. And the gimlet-eyed Mr. Phillips, unlike any of his characters, has a bright future.

J ANET M ASLIN ,
The New York Times

The Ice Harvest is a delightfully mean-spirited book. Bleak in its humor, darkly funny in its bleakness, it has the unmistakable feel of classic noir fiction. Im sure Jim Thompson and James M. Cain wouldve loved it, and I cant think of any higher praise.

S COTT S MITH ,
author of A Simple Plan

[An] astonishing debut novel from a writer who manages to put a funny, modernist spin on a piece of our noir past: Jim Thompson frosted with a blast of Jonathan (Motherless Brooklyn) Lethem.

Chicago Tribune

A deliciously nasty little book... Phillips writes in a spare, straightforward prose style thats perfectly suited for the Midwestern setting. It also allows for flashes of wicked wit.... An unusually tense and enjoyable story.

San Francisco Chronicle

Wichita, Kansas

Christmas Eve, 1979

PART ONE

A t four-fifteen on a cold, dry Christmas Eve a nervous middle-aged man in an expensive overcoat walked bare-headed into the Midtown Tap Room and stood at the near end of the bar with his membership card in hand, waiting for the afternoon barmaid to get off the phone. She was about forty, heavy in a square way, with a shiny face and dishwater blond hair that looked like shed got shitfaced and decided to cut it herself. He knew shed noticed him coming in, but she was taking great pains to pretend she couldnt see him. To do so she had to stand at a peculiar angle, leaning her hip against the back bar and looking off toward the back door so that she was facing neither the lawyer nor the mirror behind her.

The only other drinker at that hour was a small, very slender young man in a fully buttoned jean jacket who sat leaning with his elbow on the bar, his cheek resting on the heel of his wrist with a cigarette between his index and middle fingers, its ash end burning dangerously close to the tip of his oily pompadour. His eyes were closed and his mouth open.

The lawyer unbuttoned his overcoat and stood there for a minute, listening to the barmaids phone conversation. She had just the start of a drinkers rasp, and if he were just hearing her on the phone and not looking at her hed have thought it sounded sexy. She seemed to be having some kind of roommate trouble involving a fender bender, a borrowed car, and no insurance, and it didnt look as though shed be noticing him anytime soon.

He couldnt remember ever seeing the Tap Room in daylight before, if the failing gray light filtering through the grime on the front windows qualified as such. It was a deep, narrow old building with a battered pressed-tin ceiling and a long oak bar. On the brick wall behind the bandstand hung a huge black-faced clock with fluorescent purple numbers, and running the length of the opposite wall was a row of red Naugahyde booths. All of this was festooned with cheap plastic holly and mistletoe. Around the walls seven feet or so from the floor ran a string of multicolored Christmas lights, unplugged at the moment. This is my last look at this place, he thought, mildly surprised at the idea. He hadnt been out of town for more than two or three days at a time in fifteen years.

A squeal from the barmaid interrupted his reverie. Jesus Christ, Gary, you set your hair on fire! Young Gary looked up in cross-eyed bewilderment at the hiss of the wet rag she was patting against his smoldering forelock. He protested weakly and unintelligibly as she snatched his cigarette away from him and ground it out in the ashtray, then put the ashtray behind the bar. Its obvious you cant be trusted with these anymore, she said as she confiscated his cigarettes and lighter. He started to say something in his own defense, but stopped and closed his eyes again, resting his cheek back down on his hands. Youll get these back tomorrow, she said. You want another drink? Gary nodded yes without opening his eyes.

Now she looked up at the newcomer, feigning surprise. Oh, hi. Didnt see you come in. She gave his membership card a perfunctory glance. What can I get you?

CC, water back. She turned without a word and busied herself making his drink, following it with another for Gary. Is Tommy in back? the man said as she set the drinks down.

Nope. Hell be in tonight.

Could you give him this for me? He handed her an envelope.

Sure, she said. She took the envelope from his hand and turned it over a couple of times as though looking for a set of instructions.

Tell him its from Charlie Arglist.

Charlie Arglist? There was genuine surprise in her voice this time. She lowered her head, cocking it to one side, giving him a close look. Charlie, is that you?

Yeah... At that moment he was certain hed never seen the woman before in his life.

Jesus, Charlie, its me, Susie Tannenger. Wow, have you ever changed. She stepped back to let him get a better look at her. The Susie Tannenger he remembered was a lithe, pretty thing, at least six or eight years younger than he was. He had handled a divorce for her about ten years earlier, and in the course of the proceedings her husband, a commercial pilot, had threatened several times to kill Charlie.

She came around the bar and gave him a hug, a hard one with a discreet little pelvic bump thrown in. Her ex had had good reason to want to kill him; he had taken out his fee in trade, at her suggestion, on his desktop.

Isnt life funny? Are you still a lawyer? Hey, Gary, check it outthis is the guy that did my first divorce!

Gary looked up, focused for a split second, then grunted and returned to his private ruminations.

Charlie, this is my fianc, Gary. Shit, I didnt even know you were still in town; we gotta get together sometime.

Yeah, we should do that. Charlie knocked back his drink and set a five-dollar bill on the table. Well, I got some Christmas shopping left to do. Nice to see you again, Susie.

She swept up the bill and handed it back to him. Your moneys no good here, Counselor. Merry Christmas!

Thanks, Susie. Same to you. He went to the door. It was getting dark outside, and Susie hadnt yet turned the overhead lights on. From that distance, in that dim, smoky light, he almost recognized her. And a happy New Year to you both, he said as he pushed the door open and stepped out onto the ice.

When the door closed Susie sighed and looked over at Gary, whose head had migrated down to the bar and who had started to snore. There goes the second most inconsiderate lay I ever had, she said.

Who gives a shit if I say good-bye to Tommy or not anyway? Charlie thought. He was warm and dry behind the wheel of the company car, a brand-new black 1980 Lincoln Continental, the finest car he had ever driven. He was headed west with no particular destination in mind. It was dark and overcast, one of those days where it was impossible to tell whether the sun was still up or not, but as yet it hadnt started to snow. He passed the Hardees across the street from Grove High, watched the kids hanging around in the parking lot the way he had when he was in school, back when it had been a Sandys. His kids wouldnt go to Grove, close as they lived to it; theyd be assigned to one of the newer and presumably nicer schools farther east. Good for them; fuck all this nostalgia crap. He pulled a flask from the inside pocket of his overcoat and took a long drink. Now might be a good time to stop by the Sweet Cage; the afternoon shift would be ending, and there were a couple of the daytime dancers he wanted to see one last time. It was a little after four-thirty, and he had nine and a half hours to kill.