Cold Snap by J. Clayton Rogers Page B

the cargo
bay doors. The worker dumped the contents of one of the plastic
bags on top of the heap and rolled bleary eyes up at the overcast
sky, as though calling upon the gods to witness earthly idiocy. The
worker emptied another bag, then another. Ari drove past slowly and
glanced through the gap between the two men. The van was filled
with desktop computers, laptop computers and computer peripherals
tumbled together in an angry heap.
    Ari parked at the other end of the shed and
stepped out with purpose, like a man with a train-sized checkbook
in his pocket. He did not know what it was he was supposed to be
buying, but in questionable situations it was best to appear as if
one was on top of the world. It was also good to look modestly
threatening. In his Vittorio St. Angelo's full-length coat, Ari
looked like a sleek bear. A mild adjustment in his expression could
make the bear look hungry.
    He surveyed the stained and tattered exterior
of the shed as though scrutinizing a work of modern art for
meaning, or at least monetary value.
    "They can't be recycled!" the young man was
complaining, his thick accent coiling liquidly around the 'r'. His
voice was exquisitely girlish and rose in pitch as he argued, as if
he had just stepped out of a cold shower to find the towel missing.
"They have to be destroyed in the flames of hell!"
    The worker took a step back and stared down
at the young man, temporarily mesmerized by the extreme analogy. Or
perhaps the boy had inadvertently exposed the real purpose of his
day job as a satanic destroyer.
    Ari was less than charitable when it came to
the linguistic malformations of foreigners and stifled a laugh. His
own blunders he immediately forgave—usually.
    The worker decided he had to take control of
the situation. Obviously, his imposing size and the fact that he
was standing out here in the cold in shirtsleeves did not
sufficiently intimidate this occidental sprat.
    "I got regulations to follow. You know,
laws."
    "Laws?" the young man squeaked.
    "Those damned Democrats have shoved all sorts
of environmental hoo-haws down our throats."
    "Democwats?"
    "Yeah, the people who let people like you
into our country. Those computers got all sorts of elements like
uranium and kryptonite in them that'll melt down to China if we
nuke them here. 'Course, that would be one way for you to get back
home!"
    Each burst from his "Ha! Ha! Ha!" shoved the
young man further into his Asiatic shell.
    "You can't be hauling much in that
thing."
    Ari had sensed the approach of a second
worker but had been trying to ignore him. With a sigh, he turned to
the man—also shielded in fierce blue overalls—then turned a
disparaging eye on his xB. He needed to buy a car more suitable to
the image he wanted to present. After recent events, he could
certainly afford one. But Deputy Sylvester might look askance at
the idea of him motoring around town in an unmonitored vehicle.
    "Alas, my Linguini is in the car shop for
repairs."
    "Huh?" the man barked a laugh. "You mean
Lamborghini? Ha! I'll have to remember that one!"
    Shit, thought Ari, shrinking into his Asiatic
shell and turning a baleful eye on the young Korean, as though he
was somehow responsible for the slip. Fortunately, he was too busy
cringing before the first set of overalls to notice Ari's
howler.
    "What's your business, Mister?" the second
pair asked, neither friendly nor unfriendly, but not sounding
particularly interested in Ari's business. "Or are you two
together?"
    Conflating an Arab with a Korean was a
stretch even for the most backward of backwoodsmen. But since Ari
could scarcely tell the two workers apart, he let the suggestion
pass without comment.
    "I'm entirely on my own. But you are correct;
I wouldn't be able to pack much in my little car."
    "You work for a contractor?" the man asked, a
little more interested now. Perhaps contractors provided the bulk
of his business.
    "I have a great deal that needs to be
discarded," said Ari in a sad,