Fridge Logic, or, Let’s See Just What I Can Get Away With

“How’s it going, lads,” I say, giving the two men a warm smile.

One of them grunts at me. The other one opens up the fridge door. It’s an old Samsonite fridge, rusting at the edges, the thing clearly having seen better days. The shelves have all been taken out of it, and now it just looks like a barren white storage container.

“The two of you are here to take me away, yes?”

The one that grunted at me grunts again. I take that as an affirmation.

“So um… you got anything to verify who sent you? I’m guessing you want me to climb into that fridge so you can take me somewhere—” Another grunt. “—but I’d like to know that I’m not getting dumped into the bottom of the Hudson, if you catch me drift.”

Grunter reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. He hands it over to me.

I unfold the crinkled mess, smoothing it out a couple times, and look upon a bunch of garbled letters and creases. XUGOVNSIOSNIJTDKJXDWBIQXCVGNUDNNWXRAIJKPEXGFBSCDRB
Ah. I remember this.

My gaze flicks across the page a couple times, and the two men watch me in silence. The guy who opened the door starts to tap his foot. I can feel them staring at me.

I’m a little rusty at this, give me some time, okay?

It takes me a while, but I find the lines. This is the real deal. Either Mr. Samuel sent them, or Mr. Samuel’s compromised such that I’m fucked no matter what. I nod at them, hefting my backpack over my shoulder.

“I’m ready to ride,” I say.

They both look at the fridge expectantly, and so I clamber on in. It’s a tight fit. My back is bent crooked and my knees tucked up against my chin—couldn’t they have chosen a larger model?—but it is a fit, and before I know it, grunter swings the door shut in my face, entombing me in darkness.

Weather forecast is looking cold! indeed, I think to myself.

Noises from the outside world are muted. There’s a faint ding—the elevator, I presume—and then an ominous rumbling as we descend down to street level. I’ve never been impressed with my landlord’s ability to not renovate. I hear one of the men swear as the elevator suddenly drops with a thud, and then the doors ratchet open with a grinding noise reminiscent of nineteenth century steel mills.

“Hey, you just came down from the third floor!” I hear a high pitched voice saying. “Were you just at Markus’ place?”

Crap. It’s Lizzie. What’s she here for now?

“None of your business, miss,” one of the guys says.

That’s a good lad.

“Aw. You must have just been there!” she says. “What kind of a mood was he in? Good? Bad? I spent a long time—”

A low rumbling sounds underfoot as the cart I’m riding in jerks forwards again. In this cramped dark space, I can’t see what’s going on outside, but I can picture the scene in my head—the two rough guys, muscling by Lizzie and pushing the cart on forwards, ignoring her.

“Oh, whatever!” she sighs dramatically.

I hear street sounds soon after, the glorious honk of horns caught in rush-hour traffic mixed with fainter construction and curse-word noises that make up the fabric of the New York curbside experience. I’m going to miss this place.

My stomach drops out under me as I hear a sudden piercing mechanical squeal. On second thought: it’s not so much dropping out as it is gradually oozing down. It seems like they’re lifting me up the back of a delivery truck now.

“All loaded up!” one of the guys barks, and a moment later, I feel the fridge being pushed roughly forwards, bumping up against some other container. I wince a little, but keep silent. Please, Inspector Vidoqc, please fall for this.

There’s a loud thunk as the backdoor to the delivery truck is slammed down shut, the pitch black I am in somehow becoming darker still. Then, we lumber forwards, joining the traffic on its journey onwards.

A minute or so passes, when I hear a knocking on the side of my fridge.

My heart rate instantly triples and I stiffen. I am **** as I ever have been right now. Somebody could open the door and fuck me up right now, and I’d never be head of again. Somebody could…

The door opens and I blink twice.

“Nice seeing you again, greyhound,” Mr. Samuel says, leaning against the top of my fridge. His face is dimly lit by a phone flashlight.

I groan slightly, gingerly sticking a foot outside of the fridge. Just a couple minutes cooped up in there, and I’m already feeling sore as a cold. It takes me a couple seconds to extract myself from the fridge—I’ve waved off Mr. Samuel’s helping hand, but then almost immediately trip as the truck rounds a corner. With a steadying hand on the fridge, I turn to face him.

“Claude Ashworth is a slick identity. You did a great job with it,” I tell him. He nods slowly, acknowledging the comment.

“You can achieve a lot in twenty years, if you set your mind to it,” he says.

“I’ll be done in one,” I say. There’s a surety in my voice, a confidence that has Mr. Samuel looking over at me again.

“Oh?”

“It’s the twenty-ninth of February today, a leap day. It’s a day of passage—”

“A rite of passage,” Mr. Samuel muses.

“A rite of passage,” I say, echoing him, though I don’t know why he said it. “By March first next year, I swear that I’ll be done with what I need to do. I’ll have made you proud.”

The back of the truck is dark, the rumblings underfoot ominous, but by the dim glow of Mr. Samuel’s phone, I see him smile. He closes the fridge door that was still hanging open.

“I pull a vanishingly small number of strings, greyhound. You have bigger things to worry about than my pride,” he says, patting me on the back.

“That reminds me,” I say, patting my front pocket. I unfold a piece of paper, and pass it on to him. “Give this to Jericho. I haven’t made all the arrangements yet, but I wanted to get your advice. Do you think that I should—”

He holds up a hand, scanning the piece of paper.

“This is a dangerous thing,” Mr. Samuel says. “It buys you time, but it’s a risk.”

“I’ve thought it through. In the worst case, Jericho bears all the liability. I’m clean. Listen, is it worth giving up my—”

“I have an extra driver’s license under the Ashworth name,” he says. “It would pass muster, but not for the reasons you think. It comes with other problems though. I think it’s best if you give up yours.”

“I’ll need to apply for another one,” I say. “That’s a problem.”

“You’re scared dachshund will be able to track you if you file for another one elsewhere,” he says. “But then, what’s the point of Claude Ashworth if he too must always be kept hidden?”

I nod slowly. He’s right. I’m trying to set up a false trail for Father’s men to follow, but if they’ve cracked the Ashworth identity, I’m pretty much screwed anyways. The right way to play this, then…

“Take this instead,” I tell him. I fish in my wallet for a second, and pass him my driver’s license—the one still bearing the name Markus Najbreit. It’s the last thing carrying my old name that I’ve still got with me.

Mr. Samuel turns the card over in his hand, looking at it. He nods approvingly.

“I can take care of the rest,” he says. “You sure you won’t need this later? This will be harder to replace.”

I shake my head just as the truck grinds to a halt. The engine cuts. Up in front, the cabin door swings open and I hear footsteps.

“Looks like this your stop,” Mr. Samuel says.

I let out a low breath. My old friend’s still standing there, staring at me.

I hug him.

My arms wrap around him, hands gripping the rough wool of his cloak. I am maybe just a hair taller than him; my head slots over his shoulder and rests there. His arms encircle me. He’s the most crooked man I know, and yet, he is warm and he feels like safety.

“Thanks for having my back,” I say.

He nods into my shoulder. I stare at the corrugated back of the truck, steeling myself. The back of the track slides up with a shunt. Bright light spills into the space. Still squinting, I see the silhouettes of the two men who drove me here. They’re gesturing for me.

“Godspeed, greyhound,” Mr. Samuel says.

He pushes me forwards with an arm, and I stumble out the back of the truck and into the light.