Icepick

ONE

Florida, 1976

Sammy ‘Icepick’ Franks drove his snappy black Lincoln town car up to the docks around three in the morning. He got out, smoked half a Swisher Sweet, and dragged a dead body out of his trunk. He shot a dog to keep it quiet, which is a window on Icepick’s personality. Someone heard the shot and called the cops. Still, Icepick managed to dump the body into the bay and scamper out of town before any of the local constabulary showed up. That’s how it was in Fry’s Bay, Florida. You wanted fast? Call for a hooker. You wanted stupid, Officer Brady was your man.

Ordinarily I wouldn’t have been made aware of such goings-on, since I worked for Child Protective Services. The dead body was a full-grown man, and the dog was dead. But Brady was a new man in town, so I listened as patiently as I could when he called some time after four that morning.

‘So why call me, Officer?’ I didn’t even sit up in bed. ‘About the dog: call the Humane Society. About the stiff: call the coroner. How is any of this my problem?’

‘Oh, it involves you, Moscowitz,’ Brady sneered into the phone.

‘So, tell me how,’ I said.

‘Eyewitnesses are kids,’ he told me. ‘They’re the ones who put in the call after the assailant shot the dog. They went out to see what had happened, and saw the floater.’

‘Who are they?’ I sat up. ‘They live near the docks?’

‘No. Some little wigwam vagrants, sleeping near the old abandoned bakery over here on Blake Road.’

‘You mean Seminole children?’

‘Yeah. On Blake Road.’

Nobody lived on Blake. It was odd to have an orphan alley like it in the middle of town. Not much of a road at all, really. Only a block long. The air was lonely and the storefronts were always cold. I never knew Florida could be so cold before I came here from Brooklyn. But with Blake Road, it wasn’t so much the temperature. It was more the way a tombstone feels, or the sound of a late-night train.

In my line of work, I was used to the midnight call. Child Protective Services was a new deal and people still weren’t sure what I did, but they didn’t mind calling me at all hours. The name seemed perfectly explanatory to me: I was supposed to protect children. That was my service. Still, I got the occasional call about adoptions. Sometimes parents would ring me up to discipline their children. Once a guy came into my office and asked me if I would show him photos of the children I’d worked with. I got him out of my office right away, and then went home to take a shower.

But this particular night, there I was at the docks, standing next to a police car, blinking. I had on the nice, gabardine salt-and-pepper suit, a hand-me-down from my Uncle Red in Brooklyn. Brady was in a navy-blue Sears ready-to-wear that looked like he never took it off.

‘And where are these alleged children now?’ I asked Brady.

‘Come on.’ He sighed and we headed over to Blake Road, past the empty buildings.

Brady opened the door and he stood there like a doorman. ‘After you.’

The place was dark despite three candles, and it smelled like mold. It was littered with rotted cardboard boxes and heaps of paper.

I took a gander around. Then, in the flickering light, a young boy appeared, maybe eight, Seminole, calm. Right beside him was a girl, a little older, holding a very long knife. It was a cold night and they weren’t dressed warmly enough: jeans, T-shirts, sneakers.

Thing was, unaccompanied children wandering around after midnight – it just wasn’t something you’d see so often in Fry’s Bay. So, I had to ask, ‘Aren’t you kids out a little late? Won’t your parents be worried?’

Before either of the kids could say anything, Brady took out his pistol. And there was another guy with him all of a sudden. I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t remember his name.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing with that gun?’ I snapped at Brady. ‘I realize you’re new in town, so I’ll explain slow. These kids need to be drinking hot cocoa. Calling their parents. Last thing they need is some fat cop with a heater in his hand!’

‘Hello, Foggy,’ the other cop said, the one without a gun.

Then I remembered. His name was Watkins. He was a pretty good guy.

‘Get your pal to back away, please, Officer,’ I said to Watkins.

‘The little piece of crap has a knife,’ Brady hissed. ‘That’s why I let you come in first. When I tried to take her into custody earlier, she pulled it on me!’

It was a big knife. Looked like a broadsword in her little hand.

But I had to smile. ‘Yeah, I can see how a grown man with a handgun might be paralyzed by a small child with a kitchen utensil. And you only outweigh her by about three hundred pounds.’

‘Look, Jew-boy,’ Brady snapped, ‘I’d just as soon shoot this little wigwam in the head, do the town a favor. They’re like roaches.’

I got in between him and the kids instantly.

‘First try to shoot me,’ I told him. ‘Let’s see how that works out for you.’

Watkins sighed.

‘Could we conclude this little scuffle with Child Protective Services, Officer Brady?’ he suggested. ‘Put your weapon away, OK?’

‘Not likely,’ Brady said, his gun right in my belly.

I stared him in the eye so hard it hurt the back of his brain. I could tell because he twitched.

‘You called me,’ I said to him calmly. ‘What did you think I was going to do? My job is to be on the side of the child. Hence the name "Child Protective Services", Officer Brady.’

Without waiting for any sort of answer from Brady, I turned to face the kids.

‘I’m not from Florida, myself,’ I said to the girl, ‘so I came here with a lot of preconceptions about what it would be like. For instance, I originally figured it never got cold in Florida. But a night like this? With a fog from the docks? I shiver just looking out the window at it. So, how about we go someplace warmer? I don’t want to catch a chill.’

The girl blinked. Her eyes flashed toward the cops, and then she looked right back at me. That’s all. No talk.

‘They don’t speak no English, looks like,’ Brady observed.

‘Maybe you’d like a shot of Scotch?’ I suggested to her.

The very merest hint of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. She understood English.

‘And as to that knife,’ I went on, ‘it looks very much like one that Dan Red Bear carries – to kill alligators, he says. Only his is not quite so clean. And yours has been sharpened recently, so I can see it’s taken care of. Red Bear, he’s a good guy, but, you know, a little lazy, wouldn’t you say?’

That gave them both a smile. A little one.

I glanced at the boy, and then asked the girl in the Seminole language: ‘Chatsosi?’

She seemed surprised that I knew the word for younger brother.

‘Hum-bux-tchay?’ I went on. I was pretty sure that was the word for eat.

‘Ho!’ the boy answered quickly, nodding.

‘Ssh!’ the girl told him instantly.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Brady mumbled.

‘I have established that they are brother and sister,’ I answered, smiling at the girl, ‘and that they’re hungry.’

‘Efa,’ the girl snapped, glaring at Brady.

I nodded.

‘What did she call me?’ Brady demanded.

‘Esticha-bucke-nawhansle,’ I told the girl.

She nodded.

‘Moscowitz?’ Brady snarled.

‘She called you a dog and I corrected her,’ I told him. ‘I told her you just weren’t very good at being a man.’

Watkins laughed.

‘Cheh ma solehta estoma cheh?’ I asked the girl.

She didn’t answer.

‘OK then, it doesn’t matter how old you are,’ I told her, ‘my name is Foggy Moscowitz, and I’m the guy who helps you. I work for this county’s Child Protective Services. See?’

I showed her my badge.

‘I know.’ She squinted. ‘John Horse told us about you.’

I was happy to hear her mention John Horse – a Seminole legend. I’d been around him a lot, but even so, I wasn’t sure he was completely real. I was also a bit perplexed by her mention of his name.

‘John Horse.’ I stared at the kid, a little suspiciously. ‘You want me to try to get in touch with him?’

She shook her head, but she put her knife away. Tucked it back in some sort of holster she had tied behind her back.

‘All right.’ I shrugged. ‘What now?’

‘We’ll go with you,’ she said to me in no uncertain terms. ‘Not them.’

I turned to face the constabulary.

‘Gents,’ I announced, ‘looks like I’ll take it from here.’

Watkins nodded. Brady wouldn’t budge.

‘Nothing doing,’ he objected. ‘The girl threatened a police officer, and they’re both vagrants.’

‘No,’ I shot back. ‘A vagrant has no fixed abode and no visible means of support. One, these kids live in the Seminole town in the swamp where the legendary John Horse lives. Two, you are currently looking at their means of support, which is me. Am I invisible to you? And finally, City Ordinance 213-A provides any material witness to a crime, which they are, with counsel. You want me for your counsel, kids?’

‘Absolutely,’ the girl answered instantly.

‘What makes you think they live in the swamp?’ Brady began, irritated.

‘The knife, the accent, and a pretty good guess,’ I snapped, ‘but if you’re in doubt, let’s ask them about that too.’

I spun around.

‘Do you or do you not live in the town established by John Horse?’ I asked them both.

‘We do,’ the girl answered, defiant of the man with his gun pointed at her.

‘And do you consider yourselves to be wards of my office? Say yes.’

She glanced at me, then back at the cop.

‘Yes,’ she said, even louder.

I turned back around. ‘There you have it.’

‘Come on, Brady,’ Watkins complained. ‘Let Foggy take the kids. You and me, we’ll go get some coffee and run the license plate the kid gave us, right?’

‘She pulled a knife!’ Brady seethed. ‘I think I’ll just shoot her in the leg and call it self-defense!’

He aimed his pistol.

Before he knew what hit him, I took one step forward and stomped Brady’s instep. On the upswing of that same foot I cracked his shin. Then I twisted his pistol arm up and away; wrenched his muscles. The guy yelped like a dog.

In the next second I had his gun, a regulation revolver, and he was about to fall over. I snapped open the weapon, emptied the core and the chamber, and handed it to Watkins. Brady started really feeling the pain in his foot at that point. He lost his balance and sat down, cursing.

I shook my head.

‘I’m filing charges against this moron first thing in the morning,’ I told Watkins. ‘Obstructing an officer of the court in the performance of his duties and illegal threats against a juvenile ward of CPS with a police firearm. You don’t have to worry about agreeing with me, Watkins. Yudda’s standing in the doorway. He’ll corroborate.’

At that moment Yudda, the town’s finest seafood chef and a man whose insomnia rivaled my own, stepped out of the darkness. He wore his typical black beret, greasy apron, and dime store flip-flops, even on a chilly night.

‘I saw the whole thing, Officer,’ he yawned, completely emotionless. ‘That fat policeman sitting on the ground there, he threatened those children and – and an officer of the court named Moscowitz – with his police weapon. He then refused to lower said weapon in the presence of the presiding authority for said children, regarding Local Statute 189-A, section 11. Right?’

‘Perfect,’ I answered.

‘Can I go now?’ he complained. ‘Casablanca is on the late-late.’

‘Thanks, Yudda,’ I called out. ‘See you for lunch.’

‘Got a good feeling about the morning catch,’ he said, ambling away. ‘I think it might be skate wing.’

I glanced down at Brady. ‘You should try his skate wing. It’s the best in the state. And, as I was saying, I’m filing charges against you in the morning, with a third-party witness.’

‘What made you bring Yudda with you, Foggy?’ Watkins asked me.

‘Me?’ I smiled innocently. ‘I think Yudda probably just happened to be walking by. He has insomnia. He likes to walk around at night coming up with ideas for tomorrow’s menu.’

‘You sonofabitch,’ Brady snarled. ‘I’m the law. I’ll come after you so fast you won’t know what hit you. You’ll be sorry about this. Very sorry.’

I could tell that he meant it. He was out for blood.

Still, I took a step closer to him. ‘You point a gun at me again, you’d better use it. And if you ever call this girl a wigwam again, I’ll crack your nuts open.’

He glared up at me. ‘What?’

‘I’m taking the kids to my place,’ I said. ‘I happen to have hot cocoa for just such occasions.’

‘What about the Scotch?’ the girl muttered, throwing a little grin my way.

‘That’s what I’m having, you delinquent,’ I told her.

She took her brother’s hand.

‘You speak the people’s language with a funny accent,’ she told me as we headed out of the alley and on to the street.

‘What do you want from me?’ I asked her. ‘I speak English, Yiddish, and Hebrew – everything’s got a funny accent.’

‘You’re a Jew.’

‘Technically,’ I agreed.

‘I always wanted to meet one. John Horse told me that we’re related – your tribe and mine. You are the tribes from across the ocean, and we are the tribes from this continent.’

‘John Horse told you – I told him that! He’s stealing my material!’

She nodded solemnly. ‘Oh. Well. He does that. He’s not afraid to admit it.’

I stared down at her.

‘Do you know what the word precocious means?’ I asked her.

‘Is it a Jewish word?’ she asked me.

‘Well,’ I said, heading toward my little apartment with an ocean view, ‘we may have invented the concept, now that you mention it.’

TWO

My place was very neat for a person such as myself. I kept it orderly just in case I happened to bring home a date. Most of the women I knew were impressed with a clean home. It looked like this: you walk in the front door, and you see a nice living room. To the left there’s the kitchen, to the right, a Spartan boudoir. The best part is that practically the whole back wall is sliding glass doors with a view of the ocean you wouldn’t believe.

It was a clear night, and the moon was high, so the light on the water was just about as silver as you could get, and the rolling waves looked like liquid shadows.

The kids stood in the doorway. I got the impression they were afraid to go in.

‘What’s the hold up?’ I asked, standing behind them.

‘It’s very nice,’ the girl whispered.

‘I’m afraid I’ll break something,’ the boy said, even softer.

I understood. I remembered John Horse’s house in the swamp land. It was made of cinder blocks and had a dirt floor. It was poorly lit by a single oil lamp. There was a beat-up old chair that a junkyard wouldn’t take, a dining table that wasn’t much better, and various spooky paraphernalia. On the floor next to his dining table was a two-burner Sterno hot plate. There was nothing on the walls – it was all bare concrete block. There was one window in each wall except for the one with the door. That was it.

And his house was the nicest one in the village.

I ushered them past the threshold and closed the door behind me.

‘Not to worry.’ I pointed to the 1930s couch. ‘Sit.’

‘It looks like a movie set,’ the girl said, staring at the couch.

‘Thrift store,’ I explained, heading for the kitchen.

Ten minutes later we were all sitting in the living room and drinking. They were on the couch with hot chocolate. I was in an overstuffed chair finishing my first Scotch, my feet up on the coffee table.

I hadn’t asked them a single question. A kid will talk when a kid is ready. I drank.

At last the girl set down her mug, careful to put a coaster under it – yes, I had coasters – and cleared her throat.

I didn’t respond.

‘Your name is Foggy.’ She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking down at her hands.

‘Yes.’ I sipped.

‘What kind of a name is that? Is it a Jewish name?’

‘It’s more of a pejorative descriptor,’ I answered her. ‘I pretended to be confused a lot when I was younger.’

‘Why?’ She looked up at me.

‘Why?’ I tossed back what was left of my Scotch. ‘The last thing you wanted to be was smart in an enclave of hoodlums and wise guys such as comprised my boyhood cohorts in Brooklyn.’

She sighed. ‘I know what most of those words mean,’ she said, ‘and I appreciate that you’re talking to me like I’m an adult. But you speak your own language with a funny accent too, and maybe you use words to trick people just as much as you use them to talk.’

I nodded. ‘Precocious means that you’re mentally advanced for your age, which is what you are. You just proved that.’

‘Oh.’ She sat back.

I glanced over at the younger brother. His eyelids were heavy, and he was about to drop his cocoa.

‘Maybe your brother would like to go to sleep now,’ I suggested. ‘He can camp out on the sofa. I got a sleeping bag or two.’

‘Catsha Tuste-Nuggee!’ she said sharply to her brother.

He snapped awake, eyes wide.

‘Wait,’ I told her slowly. ‘I think I know what some of that means. His name is Little Cloud?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘I would like to go to sleep now,’ Little Cloud said.

I was up in a flash, into my bedroom and back without a word, delivering two sleeping bags. One was black and half-sized, perfect for the boy. The other one was an adult bag with some sort of crazy pattern on it.

I tossed the black one to Little Cloud.

‘Crawl in,’ I told him. ‘We’ll worry about brushing your teeth and everything else, like, tomorrow, OK?’

He smiled. ‘OK.’

He was inside the bag and out like a light two minutes later.

The girl and I went into the kitchen. She sat on the counter and I got a good look at her for the first time. Her face was oddly shaped and her eyes didn’t look like they belonged to a child. Her T-shirt said FLORIDA PANTHERS in all capitals across the front of it, and her sneakers were