Hot Ice

 

 

By the time I got back to my cabin, the phones were ringing. Every phone in the place. They all had different numbers, so I was either the most popular guy in town or last month's checks bounced, and I was in big trouble. I picked up the first buzzing pain in the butt on the desk.

            "Hello?"

            No answer, but the phone was live. Covering my other ear, I heard noise through the receiver, but I couldn't make it out. After a few seconds, the words registered.

            "Johnny! Johnny!"

            Somebody was calling my name, but they were far from the mouthpiece. "Pick up the phone!" I yelled.

            Nada.

            Other phones were ringing. I knew I should have tossed most of the cell phones into the bushes. I got roped into several two-year plans when I first decided I had to have one of the new fangled things. I love gadgets and I bought every new item on the market.

I had the cabin hooked up with four different phone lines so I could use both computers and the two regular phones separately. I probably had more phone lines than the president had at Camp David.

            Funny thing was, I hated the telephone. Every time it rang it was bad news.

I reached for another buzzing pest. Again, it was live, and again, I heard my name. The voice was farther away this time.

            "Johnny! Help me! Help me!" said a barely audible voice.

            "Who is this? Pick up the other phone!"

            Phones were still ringing. I clutched the two devices in my hand and went for the phone with the answering machine near my favorite chair. The LED readout was flashing. 27! 27! 27! Twenty-seven messages were waiting for me and another call was coming in. I tripped over a stack of videocassettes of my favorite old movies before I finally picked up the receiver.

            "Hello? Are you there?"

            There was a muffled noise followed by a loud crash. That phone went to the dial tone. Two more phones started ringing in the cabin. I made for the one in the bedroom.

            "Hello? Dammit!"

            Nothing. Listening for a second, I distinctly heard a voice through one of the instruments I still held in my other hand. Though faint, the sound moved closer to the phone at the other end of the receiver nearest my ear.

            "Johnny! Don't hang up. Don't hang up!"

            Ten seconds later, there was heavy breathing on the phone. My first thought: it was some kind of gag. It was Easter recess, and the punks that flock to the mountains with their parents were having some fun with the phonebook.

            "Johnny, it's Iris. You gotta help me. Are you there, Johnny?"

            "Good God, Iris. You called every phone in the house!"

            "You forgot to give me your new cell phone 'numer' so I called all your ol' ones."

            Now I remembered why I didn't give Iris the new number.

            "What's the matter, Iris?

            "Somebody's watchin' the house, Johnny. I'm scared 'shpitless'."

            Her speech was slurred. She must have just polished off her late afternoon vodka martini and forgot to put her teeth back in.

            "Did you call the police?" I asked.

            I knew the answer already. Screwy Iris had the cops on speed dial, right after all my phone numbers, on every phone in her house. Her house was actually my house. I had been renting it to her for the past three years. I had it wired with three phone lines and Iris also had a pair of cell phones.

            "By the time the flatfoots got here, the bum was gone."

            "Did you recognize him?"

            "He was 'cross the street," she said.

            "Did you use your binoculars?"

            Again, I knew the answer. I had seen the pair of Tasco 7x50mm binoculars on the table by the front picture window. She could zoom in on all the neighbors with that baby. My own pair was five years older and didn't have the range-finding reticule with a built-in calculator dial. I could have used Iris as an operative when I had my detective agency down in L.A. She had more stamina than most of the guys I hired to do leg work for me. And from what I remembered about Iris, she used to be known for her legs.

            Iris Sherwood had been a big movie star. At least she was sixty years ago. Her career started in the mid-Thirties when she literally wandered in front of a camera and caught the director's eye. She was a shop girl in a downtown Los Angeles department store and stepped out the wrong door right into fame and fortune. Notable fame and modest fortune. It was the succession of wealthy husbands and beaux that kept her in luxurious furs and expensive jewels. Usually the goodies came before the proposal, marriage or otherwise. But Iris was set for life thanks to a string of wealthy Stage Door Johnnies.

            Iris Sherwood had played a wisecracking dame in twenty-five or more "B" movies during her early career. She went on to play the same part in twenty-five "A" movies. She was good at it. I know. She told me. A million times. But the old gal had been a looker. I had seen her many times flickering across the screen in some of those vintage movies I used to watch. Now pushing 86, Iris had lost most of that glamour. But just like her false teeth, most of the glitz was still in jars hidden somewhere around the house.

            By that, I mean her jewels. She had boxes of them. I installed a safe in the house that was located just off Los Feliz Boulevard and I tried to get her to use it. Iris had other ideas. She had the stuff stashed behind books in the library, in the freezer, even hanging on the chandelier in the dining room. I always wondered how many of her famous guests realized they were dining in the glow of five yards of choice pearls and God knows how much real ice.

 ....Continued.