Ice Castles by Bill Bruce

Benson pulls a u-ie. Headlights rake across graffiti-covered steel security doors, padlocked storefront gates. They land curbside on the taillights of an idling silver Volvo SUV. Lena is propped on the passenger door, rocking on her heels, discussing deliverables through an open window. She squints into the high beams. The Volvo hits the gas; heads home to kiss the wife and kids.

Benson steps out of his cruiser as Lena reunites with Alice and Teesha under the orange and red glow of the towering Chief’s Liquor & Market sign.

“Ladies… How’s your night?” Benson says.

“Aw ya know, win some, lose some,” Lena says as she lights a cigarette, reads his brass tag. “Officer Ben-son.” She looks around. “Where Officer East-wood?”

Alice inspects her polished nails, “Or’s we like to call him, Dirty Harry.” The women laugh, leaning into each other.

“Retired.”

“Retired?” Lena stops laughing, looks at the other two. “Ain’t that a bitch.” She tilts her head back to Benson. “This a social call?”

“Could be. I’m Rob Benson.”

“Nice to meet ya, Ice Castles,” Lena says. “Now how ‘bout you just go and do you.”

“And let us do ev’body else,” Alice says. The women laugh.

“And then what?” Benson says.

“Anything.”

“I’m listening.”

Off in the distance Lena hears a plane, looks up into the diluted black sky. Her face softens. “Always wanted to start my own company.”

“An entrepreneur, eh?”

“Hell yeah, that’s us.” Lena pulls Alice and Teesha closer, drapes an arm across each shoulder. “Entre-preneurs. Maybe we start a company, release a new app or some shit. Get rich like ‘em scrawny college boys.”

“You need an idea.”

“Shit, I got plenty.”

Benson opens his hands to say let’s hear one. Lena doesn’t back down. Ever.

Her eyes narrow and then widen with pride. “How ‘bout Uber Beejay? We drive ya anywhere you got to go and leave ya with a smile. I can see ‘em billboards now. We don’t’ just drop you off, we get you off.” Again, they all laugh.

Benson smiles. “If it was legal you’d be millionaires.”

“If it was legal you’d have a better job.”

Benson absently feels for something in his back pocket.

“Speakin’ a business, you rollin’ up like you do is bad for business. Know what I mean?”

Alice leans forward. “What she mean is, if the economy suck we don’t.” Her smile is all gums.

“Amen,” Teesha says.

“So let’s help each other.” Benson opens the rear door to his cruiser.

“I thought this one’d be different,” Teesha says.

“Now that’s funny.”

The cruiser crunches into the gravel parking lot of a motel aptly named, Motel. Benson looks at Lena in the rearview mirror. “This the office?”

Lena pulls a key from her purse.

The room smells like polyester and chemicals. It feels waterproof. The three women turn to Benson.

“So what ya want, Ice Castles?” Lena asks with a wave.

Benson slides his hat and gun belt on the dresser. “It’s Robert Benson, not Robbie Benson.”

Lena shrugs.

“I want you to sit on the bed and face me.” Benson stares at his shoes. He seems to have left his confidence on the dresser too. “You see, I’m not really a cop--“

“Aw hell-no.” Teesha stands up. “Get me the fuck outta here.”

Benson raises his hands in surrender. “Sit. Just. Please, sit. I’m a cop.”

“Either you is, or you isn’t,” Alice says.

Benson looks distracted. “I am. It’s my job anyway. But really… I’m… I’m a comedian. At least—”

Alice looks at Teesha and Lena. “A what?”

“Ya gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” Teesha says.

Lena smiles. She’s never surprised. And she’s surprised.

“I just need an audience. You know, to hone my material.”

“I’m usually the one honin’ someone’s material,” Alice says. Teesha leans into her, laughing. Alice looks at Benson. “You can keep that one. It’s on the house.”

Benson moves to the side of the room, pulls a small spiral notebook from his back pocket, flips through the pages, and then tucks it back away. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. The women share a look. This for real?

He steps in front of them, smiles an awkward smile, introduces himself and says how happy he is to be here tonight at the motel, Motel.

The women settle in. The bedsprings sigh as Benson does bits on being childish, on working out, and on his girlfriend’s reaction to being childish and working out.

Lena straightens her back. Teesha fails to suppress a yawn. Benson’s energy fades like the curtains, but he doesn’t quit. He talks about his new dog, his complicated relationship with rap and his break-up with the previously mentioned girlfriend.

Alice’s phone rings. She answers quickly, whispers like she’s in a club. “I’ll call ya back… No. No…” She gets frustrated. “I said, I’ll call ya back!” She hangs up, mumbling, turns her attention back to Benson. “Sorry.”

Benson freezes. Lena nods an encouraging nod. He quickly blurts out some random thoughts. “Do you think mailmen have dogs? Do snakes ever really trust each other? Wouldn’t it suck if you were a gopher and had claustrophobia?”

Alice stands. “This is gettin’ too fuckin’ weird, even for me.”

Benson rifles through his notebook. Alice looks to the other two for some support and then at Benson.

“Can’t we just blow ya instead?”

Benson melts into the orange vinyl chair. He waves them out. “Just go.”

They don’t need to be told twice. As they file past, he realizes it actually could get worse.

“I’m… We’re… Okay then.”

“We just not in a laughin’ mood’s all.”

Lena stops, looks down at him. “The thing ‘bout the hamster funny.”

“Gopher.”

“Right.”

“Night.”

Lena shuts the door. Benson stares at the discolored ceiling tiles. He hears them laughing outside. Then it quiets. The door opens, Lena pokes her head in.

“We get a ride back to Chief’s?”

“I’ll be right out."

………………..

Bill Bruce is a writer and director currently living in the Northeast United States with his family, spending his days working on a collection of short stories and a film. Bill’s work appeared recently in Lunate, Mud Season Review, Oyster River Pages, and was awarded first place in the 2019 Streetlight Magazine's Short Fiction Contest.