Free The Ice Harvest by Scott Phillips

swear, after tonight I’ll be done with it. I’ll dance alone at home for you.”
    “I already told you—” he began, then stopped cold at a look from Sidney, who appeared to be taking an inven-tory of Ronny’s breakable appendages. “Tonight and that’s it, right?”
    Rusti touched Ronny’s sleeve comfortingly. “That’s it. Sidney, could you un-eighty-six Ronny?”
    Sidney sighed. “You’re un-eighty-sixed.”
    As Rusti and Ronny walked arm in arm into the Sweet Cage, a battered VW bus pulled into the lot, swerving at the last second at the sight of Stroke lying in its path and crunching into the side of a station wagon with an “I Found It” bumper sticker. The bus backed up and pulled into a space, again nearly running over Stroke in the process. A fortyish man with a gray beard and long hair and wearing a fringed leather jacket got out and examined first his own front end, then the considerable gash he’d cut into the station wagon, and finally Stroke. He looked up from Stroke and stared uncertainly at Sidney and Charlie.
    “He was already lying there when I pulled in,” he said.
    “Maybe we should move him before some poor son of a bitch does run him over,” Sidney said. “Come on, give us a hand,” he called out to the driver.
    “Did you see what happened to this guy?”
    “He went after one of the dancers with a tire iron,” Sidney said, reaching under Stroke’s armpits and lifting him up.
    “He’s in shock. Look at him.”
    Stroke’s face had gone pale and his eyes were unfocused. “My band,” he mumbled.
    Over the wind Charlie thought he heard a siren. “Come on, let’s hurry up.”
    “Both of you, take a leg. We’ll put him in the lot next door.”
    “I think we should call a doctor,” the man said.
    “He’s right, Sidney. Why don’t you get going. We’ll take care of him.”
    “All right. I just hate to leave things unresolved.” He walked over to an old white Falcon and got in.
    As Charlie and the man in the fringed jacket carried Stroke toward the Sweet Cage, a police cruiser pulled into the lot. Sidney had been gone barely thirty seconds. The other man’s eyes widened at the sight of the black and white.
    “Funny seeing you twice the same night, Counselor,” the first cop said.
    “Sure is.” Charlie struggled again for the cop’s name.
    “What’s the story? One of the neighbors across the street called in a fight.”
    “Don’t know, really. We just found this guy lying here, thought he was passed out. We were going to take him inside so he didn’t freeze to death.”
    The first cop got out of the car and Charlie and the other man laid their charge down. “My band,” Stroke murmured. “My fuckin’ band . . .”
    “Looks like he took a shellacking,” the cop said. Charlie looked at his nameplate. Wilmington. Tom? Tim? “Shit, look at his hands. You didn’t see what happened?”
    “Nope. Maybe you should take him to the emergency room.”
    “Hey, Chet, come take a look.” The cop behind the wheel got out and knelt beside his partner.
    “Jesus, Ted,” the second cop said. “Who did this to you, son?”
    “My band,” Stroke whimpered.
    “He’s high as a fucking kite.” Chet laughed.
    “Nah, he’s in shock. I think maybe we better swing him on over to the emergency room.” They carried Stroke to the backseat of the cruiser and heaved him in. “Merry Christmas, Counselor,” Officer Ted shouted as they backed out of the parking lot and onto the street.

10
    C harlie’s condominium was several miles past the western edge of the city limits, part of a collection of mostly unoccupied, identical luxury crackerboxes, and he did nothing in it but sleep. The year before he’d put up a Christmas tree, a real one that had become a serious fire hazard by the time he took it down in March, its needles all gone orange and scattered on the carpet around the stand. He’d set it up for the kids, then never quite got around to inviting them over. His thin