Frank Sinatra in a Blender (4 page)

He did his rail first, the longest one, of course, which ran a good six inches. Then he pushed the mirror my way. It said Cowboy Roy’s Fantasyland across the top but the line he left for me was only long enough to reach from the
R
to the
Y
in
Roy
. I snorted it and embraced the familiar numbness like a handshake from an old friend. It was the electric cherry on top of my drunk buzz. But still, the cheap bastard could’ve put out just a little more.

A few minutes passed and we talked about all kinds of things before Bandanna Girl made it back with our drinks. She brought him another PBR and he thanked her with a friendly slap to her perfect ass, a humiliating gesture she hated but had to endure if she wanted to get paid.

Big Tony worked his game on the dancer with insufficient skill. While an obvious exercise in futility, it turned out to be the best part of my day. He never had a chance with any of his girls, a fact everyone seemed aware of except him.

I downed the shot of Yukon Jack like a champ. Then followed it with the Austin Nichols.
101 proof.
It tasted like kerosene going down and started a bonfire in my guts.

A stripper walked on the stage and took her panties off and every pair of eyes in the club was raping her at once. When the earsplitting bass paused, I heard the familiar sound of a razorblade dragging small piles of blow across glass. The cocaine chased the Oxy through my system, followed by plenty of liquor. I realized suddenly that I had to get out of Roy’s before I passed out cold or jumped on stage and dragged the stripper to the back like a caveman.

That last shot of Wild Turkey must’ve really turned me sideways. Something didn’t feel right. I focused on the door and reminded myself to slow the fuck down.

When I stood up, I knocked over my chair and the blood rushed to my head like it always did when I moved fast. I leaned down, put my hands on the table and righted myself. I told Big Tony I was out. He told me to call him tomorrow, said maybe he’d know something.

I threw a twenty, a ten, and a wad of one-dollar bills on the table and headed for the door. Big Tony yelled something at me but I couldn’t hear anything but the bullshit rap music that was thundering from the overhead speakers.

I passed Flames as I shouldered my way through the crowd and he gave me a casual nod.

Then I bounced into some asshole who wasn’t looking where he was going either. I hurried out the door. Neither one of us said sorry.

•••••

Winter ice was coming
and the air was dry and thin. Leaves no longer fell and the ones that lined the street were brown and dead. Parked by a dry cleaners, Sid Godwin watched the traffic and scanned mobile porn on his iPhone. He knew the boys weren’t coming. Bruiser was dead, but what about Telly? He was two hours late. Telly might be on the run or he might be dead too.

Sid scrolled through the menu of options on a site that offered everything from straight sex to midgets jacking off donkeys, which was pretty much the last thing he ever wanted to see. Still, maybe it was worth looking into.

Just as the page opened, the words
No Nuts is calling
flashed across the screen and broke the connection. Sid answered “Goddammit, Johnny,” in his thick accent.

Johnny No Nuts asked what he did wrong this time.

“Nothin’.” Sid said. He asked him if he heard any news.

Johnny said he hadn’t. He was hungry, said he was going for some food.

Sid sat up in his seat. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Now listen here mate, you’re doing no such fucking thing. You’re gonna sit there and wait like a good lad. Keep your eyes open. Watch for Telly in the Buick.”

No Nuts said he would, then hung up.

Johnny No Nuts was useless as tits on a fish. But Mr. Parker loved him, even tagged him with his nickname in the first place.

Johnny No Nuts was a gutless turd, but at the end of the day he was funny. Damn funny. And that reason alone kept him alive this long. He was a comedian.

Sid got tired of sitting in the lot too but they couldn’t leave until they got the word from Mr. Parker. He called the shots. There was a lot riding on this deal and Sid wasn’t going to be the one to fuck it up.

Sid’s phone rang again. It was Telly.

“Yeah?” Sid answered.

Telly was all worked up and out of breath. “Sid? Hey man, where you at?” He was talking fast, rambling. “Everything got all fucked up, Sid. Bruiser got wasted, he’s dead.” Then he told Sid he didn’t have the money.

Sid squeezed his phone almost hard enough to break it. He knew Telly was lying. They never should’ve used a tweaker.

“What do you mean you haven’t got the money, Telly?”

Telly paused. “I mean I ain’t got it, Sid.
I never had it!
Bruiser barely made it to the car. He’s layin’ back there in the street, man.”

“Car? You used a bloody bread truck you stupid bastard. It’s all over the news.”

“Car, bread truck,
what-the-fuck ever
, man.”

Sid was quiet. Said, “Lemme think.”

Telly went on. “Bruiser’s dead man, I gotta get the fuck outta here. I’m hot, Sid. I gotta get outta the city, man.”

Sid told him no. “You’re not goin’ anywhere till we talk to Mr. Parker. He ain’t gonna like this.”

“Fuck him!” Telly said. “I’m scared, Sid. I just saw Bruiser get smoked. I still got his blood all over me.”

“Hey, not over the phone!” Sid ordered. “Meet me at Montgomery’s in an hour.”

Sid hung up and put in a call to Mr. Parker. Then he called Johnny No Nuts and told him to get the church ready.

“Grab a few bags of ice and a couple of buckets. Grab somethin’ from the Burger House too, if you want. We’re gonna be busy for a while.” Sid left the dry cleaners and drove to Montgomery’s.

•••••

Telly was walking into Cowboy Roy’s Fantasyland
as he hung up the phone with Sid. As he walked through the door, he bounced off some asshole in a hurry to leave. He scanned the room with desperate eyes until he found the man he was looking for. He walked up to the table and slid into an empty chair across from a huge Italian guy with a pile of dark hair on top, brown wasted eyes, and a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the grip of his chubby hand.

“Hey, how ya doin’ Tony?”

Big Tony regarded him with suspicion and lit a cigar. He asked Telly what he wanted.

Telly looked around, scratched at his arms. “Hey, man, I’m lookin’ for some shit, if you know what I mean.” He paused. “Some crank.”

Big Tony gave him a smart look. Asked him what the fuck he was talking about?

“C’mon man.
I know
you can find that shit, Tony. I’m desperate here, man. I need it bad.”

“What the fuck I look like, shitbird? I don’t know nothin’ about whatever the fuck it is you think I know.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit man!”
Telly pounded the table with his fist. “C’mon man,
I got money!
Just hook me up, bro.” He produced three crinkled one hundred dollar bills from his pocket and tossed them in front of Big Tony. “See man, I got money.”

Big Tony grabbed the money and jammed it in his shirt pocket.

“Whutchya want, Telly?”

Telly’s eyes were untamed, jumpy.

“What do I want?
I want dope godammit!
C’mon, man.”

“Okay,” Big Tony said. “Calm the fuck down. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yeah, please. Just make a call or somethin’,” Telly begged.

Big Tony looked around, lowered his head. “How much you wantin’?”

“As much as you can get Tony. An ounce. A pound, whatever. I got the money.”

Big Tony couldn’t believe this bullshit. Telly was a tweaker. He didn’t have squat. He couldn’t believe he had three hundred dollars on him. But it sounded like he had more.

“An ounce?” Big Tony asked sardonically. “
A pound
, Telly? A motherfucking pound of crank? Are you high?”

Telly shook his head. “Yeah, I know it’s a lot, Tony. I do. It’s a lot. But I got the money, man. I got the money. I just need this if you can help me, then I’m gettin’ the fuck outta here.”

Big Tony nodded his head like he understood. But the only thing he understood was that Telly must be involved in something heavy. Tony had to find a way to separate him from whatever money he had and do it quick.

“What’re you into Telly?” He thought about the credit union job, but it seemed like a stretch.

Telly’s eyes scavenged into the dark corners.

“C’mon Telly, sounds like you’re in over your head man. Maybe I can help.”

Telly blinked his eyes, snorted air. Said all he needed was crank and he’d pay top dollar for it if Big Tony pulled through.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Big Tony said he’d make a few calls. Told him an ounce was a lotta weight. He’d need to see more cash before he got involved.

Telly said, “No problem.” He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and did a piss-poor job of trying to hide them as he counted under the table. He slapped five hundred down, pushed it over to Big Tony. “I’ll meet you in an hour. Crestwood Bowl, you know it?”

Big Tony said he did. He told Telly he’d see what he could do. Eight hundred was a nice start, but he couldn’t get that much in an hour. There was just no way.

Big Tony tested him. “What if I really could find a pound? You ain’t got that kinda cash, I know.”

Telly laughed. “Trust me, man, I got plenty,” he said. “You find me some shit right fucking quick if you’re able and I’ll pay ya more than I owe’n then some.”

Telly jumped up from his seat without warning. Told Big Tony to get what he could, then body checked a waitress on his way out as she brought Big Tony his latest PBR.

Big Tony picked up his phone and started making calls.

•••••

When I opened my eyes
I was sitting at a traffic light that had just turned green with my foot on the brake, the radio blasting and the blower from the heater on high. The window was down and my left arm was hanging out, dangling against the door.

Somebody somewhere was yelling. “Wake up, asshole!” Then they leaned on the horn.

I looked around and tried to get my bearings. I realized the light was now on yellow and about to hit red so I floored it. The tires barked hard, hooking up with the pavement and carrying the big car out into the intersection where I was almost hit broadside by some hipster in a Scion with a bicycle mounted to the roof.

He locked his brakes up, narrowly avoiding my Crown Vic. He waved his arms around and started honking.

I grabbed the brass knuckles that hung from the shifter and stuck my fist out the window. I wasn’t sure how long I’d sat at that light, but I needed to piss, and I knew the mini-fridge was running dangerously low on alcohol. The Vic could use some gas while I was at it.

I pulled into the first station I saw and took a piss behind the car wash. I finished the rest of the Scotch I must have taken with me from the bar, then threw the empty glass up against a vacuum cleaner that ripped me off the one and only time I tried to clean the Vic.

With all the foresight a drunk in my position could manufacture, I decided to forgo gas. However, I did go inside and fulfill my commitment for more drink.

I walked out with a fifth of Southern Comfort, a bottle of rum, a frozen pizza, and two six packs of Corona. I climbed behind the wheel, set my bag into the seat, and pulled a stick of beef jerky from my pocket that I couldn’t remember if I paid for. I thought about an ice-cold beer. I put the window up and out of nowhere started thinking about the credit union job.

Suddenly it all made sense and I was able to see it unfold in my mind with the absolute clarity that only an afternoon drunk at a strip joint can provide. Chief Caraway’d said all he knew about Norman Russo was that he managed a bank, but what if it was the credit union? Whatever assholes hit that credit union must have gone to Russo’s house the night before. They pumped him for information and they killed him. Then they staged that suicide with a lack of professionalism unlike anything I’d ever seen.

I pulled the Vic onto the road and drove a few miles back to the office while I ran the scenario through my head. They used a crew of two or three guys. I was leaning toward a two-man crew. There’d only been one guy inside the credit union. There was no reason to have two getaway drivers unless they used a crash car, a driver in a second vehicle who could block the road just in case a cruiser arrived. But if that’d been the case, the crash car would’ve taken out the Neon.

Still, it was a pretty sophisticated job for just a few guys to pull off by themselves. And anybody smart enough to set this up
and
pull it off, would have to be smart enough to spell correctly.

When I climbed to the top step of my office I found a late notice taped to my door, across where it said Private Detective. I wadded up the note, slipped the key into the lock then kicked the bottom of the door open with my foot.