Iced Out

Chapter 1 Rocco Maroni poured himself a cup of what was supposed to pass for coffee, there in the squad room of New York City Precinct number 139. He cupped it in both hands, hoping to warm himself up a bit from December chill, before setting it down to draw a big red X on Friday the fourth. “Only two more weeks.” The countdown was on to his holiday singles’ cruise. “Morning, Maroni! What a beautiful day.” Rocco’s partner, Ridley, was always so damned perky. “My balls nearly froze off,” Rocco complained. Unusually cold weather had settled in somewhere around mid-November with no sign of letting up according to The Weather Channel. “How about a warm muffin to thaw yourself out—starting with your balls?” “You suggesting I shove one down my pants?” The basket was red, the napkin green, and the pumpkin muffins—the same hue as Ridley’s red hair—smelled heavenly, but Rocco would be going shirtless for two weeks as he sailed across a warm ocean with a bunch of other half-naked guys, most of who would probably have six-pack abs and muscular pecs. He started at the baked goods. His stomach rumbled. “I shouldn’t.” “Oh, come on. It sounds like you skipped breakfast.” “I did.” “It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.” Determined to lose at least twenty pounds by December eighteenth, Rocco was down only one so far. “f**k it.” He took a muffin in each hand. “I’m never going to be one of those underwear model types anyway,” he said. “I’ve seen you in your skivvies a hundred times, Roc, when you change from your blues to your street clothes. I’d put you on a billboard any day.” Ridley nudged him with his elbow. “Look out, ladies! You’ll be the hit of that love boat you’re getting on for Christmas.” Rocco bit off the muffin top and tried not to think about his. “Thanks,” he grumbled with his mouth full. “You’re welcome.” Ridley set the basket on Rocco’s desk. “Just in case you want more.” Ridley Cumberland was built like a model. He was also a dork, with curly orange clown hair, freckles, glasses, and gigantic feet that made one wonder about old adages concerning the size of a man’s shoe. A relative newbie, he had been Rocco’s partner for less than two months, and even though he’d stripped to his shorts in that very same locker room, Rocco had never gotten a good look at what he was packing to see if the big feet, big d**k axiom was true. Rocco himself was still considered a greenhorn by his fellow officers. Though he was well into his fourth year as a cop, he had been with the 139th for one. His precinct nickname was Low Fat, because he was short and chunky. Poor Ridley, he didn’t have just one nickname. There were many variations when it came to homosexual slurs, and Ridley had been called every one. When the two were first paired up, one of their squad members cracked, “Hey, Low Fat, you’ll need a step ladder or mountain climbing equipment to f**k him in the ass.” A police precinct was a lot like middle school, Rocco always said. Because life outside the doors was tough and scary, inside the men acted like little boys, goofing around, talking dirty, and bullying the underclassman. “Hey! A present!” Someone had left a six-inch ceramic Christmas tree on Ridley’s chair that very morning, the point being, Rocco assumed, for Ridley to sit on it. “Good one!” Harassed to a point that would have lesser men in tears, Ridley always took it like a man, with a grin and a good sense of humor. Rocco gave him props for that. “I’d have been its angel topper.” Some of the older, allegedly more mature cops snickered as Ridley held it up. “You’d have been its bottom b***h,” Rocco said. “It’s pretty.” “Some of them probably used it as a butt plug.” Ridley set it on his desk. “Boys being boys.” “The prank or ass play?” “You’re funny.” Ridley smiled wide as he crumpled up some white paper and put it around the thing like snow. “There. This place needed a little Christmas!” “Maroni, Cumberland, in my office, now!” A chorus of “Oohs” went up throughout the room, with a “Low Fat’s in trouble. Low Fat’s in trouble,” coming from somewhere in the back. When someone shouted “Dead fag walking!” Rocco turned and glared. That was crossing a line, he thought. “What part of now don’t you two understand?” they were asked upon entering the captain’s office. The thirty-seven steps from their desks to the captain’s had taken the same amount of time as always, yet Pinkerton busted their balls. Should we blink in like genies next time? Rocco wanted ask. He was in a bad mood too—with good reason. “Sorry, Captain.” Still, he went with an apology instead. “What’s up?” Ridley leaned in, apparently expecting something big. “An assignment.” Pinkerton raised both of his wild and wooly, salt and pepper brows. “Undercover.” Though Ridley lit right up, like the star atop the Rockefeller Center tree, Rocco was a bit more dubious. They were pretty low on the totem pole. Any assignment Pinkerton was going to hand to “Low Fat” and “Howdy Doody” was most likely one no one else wanted. “What kind of assignment?” he asked. “Have either one of you ever heard of Anastasia Pomeranian?” Rocco glanced toward Ridley, who shook his head no. Then Ridley gasped. “Wait. Do you mean Anastasia Panamarenko?” The captain checked his file. “That’s what I said.” “She some foreign dignitary?” Rocco inquired. “Better.” Ridley put a hand on Rocco’s forearm. “She’s the current Olympic figure skating champion.” “No wonder I don’t know who she is,” Rocco said sourly. “You will now,” Pinkerton told him. “There’s been a crime committed.” Ridley gasped again. “You got a slow leak there, Cumberland?” “Sorry, sir.” “She’s appearing in an ice show.” “Nutcracker on Ice…with Mikolas Kavivitz,” Ridley said dreamily. “From the Czech Republic. He’s the current men’s gold medalist. They both took the past two seasons off from competitive skating to concentrate on shows and exhibitions.” “You sneak in here and read the file, Howdy Doody?” “No, sir. I’m a huge fan of both of theirs. I’m a huge fan of figure skating in general.” “Shocker,” Pinkerton said sarcastically. “I even tried to get tickets to their show. Sold out.” Ridley punctuated the statement with a frown. “She was a Russian orphan discovered at age thirteen and groomed for superstardom by the coach who adopted her, and he went from rags to riches when the Czech government decided he was too handsome not to be famous for something.” “God bless Eastern Europe,” Rocco muttered. “They were both in Sports Illustrated after the 2014 Games, Roc. You know…the issue where athletes pose naked. I looked at it every day for a month.” Ridley smirked lasciviously. “I’d always wanted to see Mikolas with no clothes on.” “Someone else wanted to see him with no head on, Cumberland. Him and her. Can you say decapitation?” Pinkerton dropped a rather sizeable box on his desk, then feigned slitting his throat with his thumb and a sound effect. “Is that…?” Rocco felt ill. When Pinkerton flipped the lid off, Ridley, who’d stood for a better view, gasped so hard he nearly sucked in the captain’s ugly necktie. “Please tell me there aren’t two heads in there,” Rocco said. “Dolls,” Pinkerton replied. “Not just dolls, collectors’ items, Captain.” Ridley sat so hard it was as if he actually fainted. “They’re quite expensive—very, very rare. The artist only makes ten of each. The winner gets one for free, and one goes into the figure skating museum in Colorado Springs. Everyone else has to pay. A lot. I can’t imagine anyone being crazy enough to destroy one.” “That’s what makes whoever did this crazy?” Rocco asked. Ridley studied the box, picking it up with two tissues from a holder the captain probably kept on his desk to clean up after m**********g. “With their heads smashed, how do you know they’re supposed to be Anastasia and Mikolas?” “Well, it says so on the box, see?” Pinkerton showed it to them, the two names, printed in simple block letters. “No return address. No prints or DNA, just the names. The box was delivered sometime before or during the first U.S. show in Denver. Apparently, fans send gifts to the venue that get shipped over to the performers’ hotel or something?” “Yes,” Ridley stated. “Figure skating devotees are very loyal…very demonstrative.” “Very homicidal,” Pinkerton added. “At least one is, maybe.” Rocco finally took a glance. The porcelain dolls, one male, one female judging by the haircuts on what was left of their porcelain, disconnected heads, not the mutual nothingness between their legs, were covered in some sort of red liquid. “Forensics tested the blood. It’s animal, not human.” “Good to know,” Rocco said, fighting back his gag reflex. “But it is blood, which is part of why this is being taken as a serious threat.” Ridley looked stricken. “Who would want to hurt a couple of figure skaters?” “Anyone talk to Tonya Harding yet?” Rocco jested. “You know Tonya Harding?” Ridley asked. “Well, yeah. Everyone heard of that whole thing…where the other girl…Nancy Harrigan—” “Kerrigan.” “Got whacked in the knee to take her out of competition right before the Olympics. It was the first and last time I paid any attention to figure skaters, the last time half of America could name two.” “Television ratings did go way up that year. Sadly, fewer and fewer people are watching each year since,” Ridley lamented. “So, what are you telling us here?” Rocco turned his attention back to their boss. “Our undercover assignment is to stand around and play bodyguards to a couple of foreign figure skaters?” “Hanging out with fairies and nutcrackers should be right up Cumberland’s alley. Ain’t that right?” Pinkerton asked. “There’s only one fairy and one nutcracker,” Ridley told him. “And here’s where I get to crack yours.” The captain actually smirked. “You won’t just be standing around, you’ll be joining the company, starting tonight in San Francisco.” Another gasp escaped Ridley’s lips. “And if you make that sound one more time, Cumberland, I’m going to take off my socks and stuff them in your mouth.” “Sorry, sir.” “That’s not even our jurisdiction,” Rocco complained. “The FBI is in on the case. It was all their idea. Because foreign celebrities are involved, it’s considered an international incident. With the final three shows right here in New York, they wanted someone local so the same two officers could be in on it from the start. Pack your bags, gentlemen. You’re off to San Francisco, Portland, Cleveland, Chicago, Boston, Hartford, and finally back to NYC for a grand opening, a matinee, an appearance on the morning news show This Day, Today, and then a finale. Nine shows in seventeen days. No one in the cast will know who you are except Parmesan and Cavebitch.” “Kavivitch,” Ridley said, his smile indicating he was picturing the skater naked once again. “Wait.” Rocco stood. “Seventeen days? Don’t forget I go on vacation December eighteenth.” “Not if you haven’t collared the criminal,” Pinkerton told him. “It’s a stupid little prank. There was no crime.” “The feds see it differently. And you don’t hear Cumberland complaining. I’m sure he has Christmas plans too.” “Well, I’ll have to get a neighbor to take care of Molly, my cat, a while for starters. And my great grandmother is flying in from the UK. I haven’t seen her since I was five. We’re all meeting up in West Virginia. I drive down Christmas Eve and come back on the twenty-sixth. I only get to spend one whole day—a quick trip, for sure—but I’m just grateful to even get Christmas off. Luckily we’re not the least senior officers here, just almost.” “I didn’t know you were from West Virginia,” Rocco said. “Grew up there. I came here to New York on a class trip and I never wanted to leave. As soon as I graduated high school, I kissed my parents, three little sisters, and four big brothers goodbye and headed out here to stay.” Rocco did the math in his head. “That’s a lot of Cumberlands.” “Eight. And all of our names start with R. Randy, Richie, Raymond, Ralph, Rue, Rebecca, Rayanne…” He looked up at the ceiling and started over. “Randy, Richie, Raymond, Ralph, Rue, Rebecca, Rayanne…Who am I forgetting?” Ridley counted on his fingers. “Randy, Richie, Raymond, Ralph, Rue, Rebecca, Rayanne…” “Yourself.” Rocco actually smiled. “Ooooh.” So did Ridley. “Would you two like some tea?” Pinkerton asked congenially. “A scone? Perhaps a kick in the ass!” “Sorry, sir.” “You want your time off, you solve the case. Simple as that.” “What exactly are we supposed to be doing in this ice show?” Rocco asked. “That’s not up to me. Maybe you can lug around the girls’ frilly costumes and the faggot boy skaters’ sparkly underpants.” “Skaters are as strong and athletic as any other sports participant, sir, gay or straight. They have the core strength of a pole vaulter, the speed of a sprinter, and the leg muscles of a place kicker, all with the artistry of a dancer.” Pinkerton offered a scowl. “Just saying.” The comment was ignored. “A Vic Monty will meet you there.” Pinkerton looked at the dossier. “His grandparents Viktor and Irina Tut-emont-shev-chenskiev,” he did his best to sound it out, “were renowned in the sport,” the use of that word seemed to tighten Pinkerton’s sphincter, “during the USSR’s domination. Guess they shortened the name at Ellis Island or Quantico.” The captain chuckled. “Anyway, blah, blah, blah, he’ll be calling himself Sergei Esimov, and if he’s into skating, he’s probably a fruit like you, Cumberland. Use the plane ride to teach Maroni the finer points of it, like whether or not Johnny Queer has a v****a or a d**k under his sequined jockstrap.” Ridley moped all the way back to their desks. “I don’t like those comments,” he whispered. “I know he’s our superior, and I would take a bullet for the man—for anyone in this building, in fact—but his mockery went beyond good-natured ribbing. That sort of hate speech should be out of the work place by now.” “I’ve never seen you with your designer boxer briefs in such a knot, Rid. Jesus. Is it because Pinkerton insulted your idol, Johnny Weir?” Ridley smiled. “See. You know at least two things about figure skating. And no, it’s because he insulted me by insinuating I’m a ‘fairy.’” They kept the conversation quiet, at first, but suddenly Ridley’s voice went up a bit. “People around here can call me a newbie, a dork, Lucky Charms, or even fire crotch, but no one has the right to call me a faggot and get away with it.” “He didn’t call you that.” “He didn’t.” Ridley glared toward the back of the squad room. “I’ll keep working hard to eventually earn the respect of my coworkers as a cop. I shouldn’t have to put up with their disrespect in the meantime simply for being who I am.” By the end, it was a declaration to whoever it was in the room who had. “Maybe you just shouldn’t…wave it around like you do.” Rocco still spoke quietly. “Keep it on the down low. I mean, was that remark about wanting to see the guy skater with no clothes on really necessary?” “The captain has calendar hanging over his desk with twelve months of exposed boobs—sometimes four instead of two! I was merely trying to bond with him on some sort of pervert level.” Ridley ran a hand through his Raggedy Andy hair. “Never mind. I’ll be right back.” “Where you going?” “To pee…if you don’t mind. And I’ll make sure to do it like a man—standing up.” As Ridley took off for the john, Rocco wondered if he was really going off to finally cry. It tore him up a bit to think Ridley had held strong against all sorts of ridicule only to dissolve at his words, ones said for Ridley’s own good. Ridley was quiet upon his return, and on the trip to the airport. “I’m sorry, Rid,” Rocco said as they sat in heavy traffic. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” Despite the apology, Ridley still didn’t say much, even on the plane, except when discussing the case. His down mood even continued once they landed in California. “I miss the nip of winter already. Does it ever feel like Christmas here?” “I think my asshole finally thawed for the first time since Halloween,” Rocco stated, trying for a laugh. He only got half a smile. Next time he would keep his opinions to himself. Vic Monty, aka Sergei Esimov, the assistant stage manager, met them at the Oracle Arena, the Nutcracker on Ice show venue in San Francisco. He was a bearish, slovenly looking man whose nose hair, ear hair, facial hair, and one continuous black eyebrow seemed to converge to cover his entire face, the only flesh left exposed a pair of lips and two eyelids. He wore sweatpants and a cable knit sweater so threadbare two n*****s and a plethora of wiry chest hair had almost fought their way through. “I don’t suppose either one of you actually skates.” He’d had them change into tights for their “audition.” The damned things certainly lived up to their name, Rocco thought. His balls may have been warmer, but they also felt as if they were trapped in a fishnet or being garroted right off. He never was into b**m. “I…I skate.” Ridley raised his hand as if in grade school. “I was a teen champion. My coach said I might even have Olympic potential, but I wanted to become a policeman.” “Well, won’t that come in handy.” Sergei finally put down his phone. He’d been typing away, grinning like mad. “And Roc plays hockey!” Rocco glared at his glee filled partner. “Remind me to never to tell you anything again.” “Hockey!” Sergei gasped, like Ridley had before, as if a hockey player skating in Nutcracker on Ice was a crime against humanity akin to f*****g on the alter and using communion wine for lube. “Buffoons!” Sergei shouted. “Both of you! Buffoons!” “Just because I play hockey?” Rocco asked, covering his crotch with both hands. “They’re characters in the show,” Ridley whispered. “At least I hope that’s what he means.” Sergei circled them like a predator, his finger to his lips. He smelled like he looked, part man, part beast. “You are a little thick in the middle, Royal.” Royal Pennyweather was Rocco’s alias. He hated it almost as much as he hated wearing tights. “I wish you had dropped a couple of pounds.” The fed’s accent was either really thick or really fake. It was difficult to tell. “Since this morning?” Rocco huffed. “You are small too.” Rocco didn’t like where Sergei was looking, so he swiftly re-covered his junk, which he’d only uncovered to tug his tights from his crack. “You, Remington, are perfect.” Ridley’s alias sounded like a romance novel swashbuckler. “Panamarenko and Kavivitch will know the three of us are lawmen, but will only know us by our assumed names, understand?” “I think we can remember that.” “Then let’s get to it. Show me what you’ve got. You first, redheaded one!” “Yay me!” Ridley finally perked up as he readied to perform. Rocco sensed this whole case was going to be a nightmare. It might prove a worthy distraction, though, until Christmas came and he could get on the water and sail away from his memories of Christmas past, relationships past, and most importantly, away from whatever it was he was starting to feel romantically for the charming, silly goofball stepping out onto the ice.