Frank Sinatra in a Blender (7 page)

I asked her if that hurt.

“I didn’t think about it.” She turned away quickly. She thought herself too good for me and maybe she was. I watched the light reflect off her jewelry. Her face radiated nausea and revulsion. Without looking up, she asked me what I wanted.

“A shot of Patron. A shot of Jim Beam. A Corona. And a Captain n’ Coke.”

That finally got her attention. She wanted to complain but didn’t. “Okay,” she said.

She came back with the first two shots and I finished them both before she brought my beer. When she set the bottle on the bar, I grabbed the Captain from her hand and killed it too.

I held up a finger. Told her I wasn’t done.

“More?”

“When it comes to drinking I don’t fuck around.” I threw a twenty on the counter, which wasn’t nearly enough, and told her to set me up one more time.

I made an impressive dent in that Corona; I downed the Captain. Baby girl still hadn’t come back with my next round.

To my right, a man wearing a polo shirt at least one size too small looked over at me and licked the foam off his tremendous mustache. It was a serious mustache to be sure, a very powerful-looking Fu Manchu, grown with diligence and trimmed with precision. I could only begin to imagine the pride of ownership and the awesome responsibility associated with a mustache of that magnitude.

I wished baby doll would hurry up. Doyle and Big Tony were sitting at the table making plans without me. I had to get back there. They’d try and cut me out if I gave them the chance.

At the other end of the bar I could see her flirting with a younger guy who was much better-looking than me. He was also taller and wore an expensive suit. She worked that stud like a pro, pushing her plastic tits and aluminum hardware in his face.

I was ready for another drink but she dawdled, pursuing her own interests with little regard to my drinking schedule.

“Hurry the fuck up, babe,” I snapped. Not loud enough to be heard over the music, but loud enough to get the attention of Captain Mustache. He asked me if I had a problem.

“Of course I have a problem,
cockbreath! I wish this girl was on roller skates!”

He stood quick with a force that made his bar stool wobble. Then he gave me the silent treatment and let his mustache do the talking.

I didn’t like the direction our conversation was taking. I knew I’d better act fast.

I handed him my beer suddenly and without warning.

“Here, hold this,” I said as I shoved my beer into his palm, my voice brimming with authority.

His fingers close around the bottle automatically. Then he looked down at his hand for a moment, taking his eyes off of me as he wondered why the hell he was holding my Corona.

That’s when I hit him in the throat with an open hand. I followed it with a quick right hook to the eye socket, then drove my knee into his nut bag for the takedown. Oddly enough he never dropped the bottle and I was able to grab it from his hand before he hit the floor.

Baby girl finally came back. This time she was yelling. She asked me what the fuck just happened?

“Call 911,” I said. “This man just had a heart attack.”

I finished my beer and downed the Patron. Then I gulped down the Beam and the Captain. I thanked her for the drinks and said her nipples were magnificent. Using the madness that ensued as cover I was able to retrieve my twenty from the bar without anyone noticing.

I rejoined the fellas at the table and wiped my bloody knuckles on the back of a fat guy I rubbed up against.

When I took my seat at the table, the conversation stopped abruptly. Big Tony’s mouth was hanging open like the hinge on his jaw was broken and the weight of his teeth made it impossible to close.

“What the fuck was that?” He appeared stunned.

I took a drink and shrugged. I didn’t know what he was talking about.

Doyle shook his head. “Get it together, man.”

I assured both Doyle and Big Tony I was fine. I explained to them I was a highly functional alcoholic. I wasn’t afraid to admit it. I’d come to terms with my curse long ago. I accepted it. Nobody had high expectations of a drunk and I used that to my advantage.

I finished the last of my Corona and set the bottle on the table a little too hard. “Let’s talk,” I said.

Big Tony had his box out and tapped it with his finger. He looked around and I read his mind; he wanted another line but he was too lazy to go to the car. He’d have to wait for the right moment then break out his equipment.

Doyle leaned into the table and cracked his knuckles, ready to get down to business.

“Here’s what we gotta do,” he said. “We gotta follow his crew around, see what turns up.”

“Parker’s crew?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“We can do this,” Big Tony chipped in.

Doyle was shaking his head in agreement. “It can’t be that hard. Long as we stay on ‘em, we’ll find it. If they got it, that is.” He sounded doubtful.

“What about the tweaker?” I asked. “We think he’s dead?”

They both said that he must be dead, or would be soon. They had to be right. Even if Telly managed to still be alive, it was a safe bet he no longer had the cash. The fact that he failed to show up for his drug deal with Big Tony only confirmed our suspicions. Not that Big Tony came through on his end. He still never found any crank.

We talked for a while about Joe Parker and his crew.

Big Tony dumped a small mound of blow on his mirror as casually as anyone I’d ever seen. The fact we were surrounded by guys eating chili in a strip club didn’t seem to bother him.

Doyle didn’t like it, but as far as he could see Big Tony was getting away with it. “Hurry up and put that shit away,” he said.

I took a bottle of Oxycontin from my pocket and looked for the closest waitress within shouting distance. I noticed that fuck with the handlebar mustache was gone but two of his buddies were giving me the stink eye. That was fine with me. But after a few more drinks I’d have something to say about it.

As I unscrewed the pill bottle, I looked up to find Doyle and Big Tony staring me down, both beaming out a gaze of disapproval.

“
What?”

“Geez, Valentine,” Big Tony said. “You’re poppin’ pills, too?”

I informed the degenerate thieves that I was going through a difficult period in my life and the medication was prescribed by my physician. I took two a day. And not because I was suffering from an injury of some kind, I just liked the way they made me feel. The temporary euphoria, short-lived though it may be, proved to be a fine companion to the liquor and coke.

Doyle sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. He played the role of caregiver and he shot me a look of strong paternal disappointment.

Big Tony told me maybe I should slow down.

As much as I appreciated their concern, I found it absurd to get unsolicited counseling on substance abuse from a man about to snort cocaine. And I refused to be judged by anyone wearing the stolen watch of a dead man named Charlie.

Doyle stood up and walked to the bar. Told me he’d get me a beer.

“Thanks.” I told him. “Grab me a Seven ‘n’ Seven while yer at it.”

Big Tony sniffed a line of cocaine with a stealth that surprised me, then slid the mirror across the table. There wasn’t enough there to get excited about, but I licked my finger and cleaned up what was left. I rubbed the inside of my mouth vigorously, then waited for the numbness to take hold.

I didn’t have to wait long. That overwhelming lack of sensation washed over my gums like a Novocaine dream as rap music blasted a ferocious assault. Vibrations from the mammoth speakers suspended from the ceiling caused my empty Corona to foxtrot across the table.

For a second everything felt right. Like the world was my slave and I had everything I needed.

Big Tony stopped a tall, thin dancer with long blonde pigtails who stood on enormous pink platform heels at least eight inches tall. Her body was tight and shaved clean. I watched her abdominal muscles flex and release under the cruel light of the single bulb that burned dimly above our beer-stained table.

She took Big Tony’s drink order then asked me what I wanted.

I gave her a hard look and told her with my eyes.

She said I’d have to do better than that.

I sat up straight in my chair, my posture rigid, commanding.

I explained that I had a skilled tongue that made women weep. Perhaps, under different circumstances, I could give her a demonstration. Then I asked her for a double shot of Maker’s Mark, a Corona, and a shot of Quervo Gold. Preferably with lime.

She looked confused.

Doyle returned and put the new Corona in my hand. He told me they were fresh out of Seagram’s.

I told him not to worry as I dropped the next Oxy on my tongue. Doyle said he wasn’t, then took a seat and told us what he’d come up with.

Parker’s best man was a guy called English Sid. He asked me if I knew him.

I told him I thought so. That sounded like Parker’s number one.

“Uh huh, that’s him,” Doyle continued. “Well, I been thinkin’. Seems to me, we just gotta follow this English Sid. We follow him and he leads us to the money. Assuming he even has it. Assuming this tweaker fuck is even involved.”

Doyle gave Big Tony a questionning look, but Big Tony was convinced.

“Telly’s involved. He all but told me, the little shit.”

“Yeah, I dunno.” Doyle shrugged. “Just seems like you’re still assumin’ a lot.”

Doyle was right. Big Tony was assuming a lot. But they didn’t know about Norman Russo, a detail that could prove to be everything.

A few minutes passed without words as I continued to drink at a pace that would’ve made any competitive drinker proud. I finally broke the silence with a powerful belch and a brilliant idea.

“Let’s just follow this cocksucker. We’ll do it in shifts. Starting now.”

I volunteered to go first, knowing full well I wouldn’t have to.

Doyle clapped his hands together and leaned forward. “That’s what I’m sayin’! If Parker’s behind this, and he’s probably behind this, then this English cocksucker’s gotta be involved too. We follow him to the money.”

Doyle offered to take the first watch, like I knew he would.

I understood Big Tony’s bobbing head to mean he agreed. He was tapping his finger on the coke kit.

“It’s our only move,” I said. “But it still doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

Doyle shrugged his shoulders and asked me if I could come up with anything better.

I drained the second half of my bottle and set the empty down gently this time. Told them I didn’t know. There wasn’t much to go on.

I failed to mention my involvement with the Chief. Thought some things were better left unsaid.

Before we could discuss things any further, the elegant blonde—the one I failed to enchant with empty promises and pornographic advances—returned in her monstrous pedestal shoes.

She set the tray down on the table and Big Tony grabbed his beer, told her to stick it on his tab.

Then she looked at me so I handed her a twenty and a ten. I thanked her for being perfect.

She met my stare when she took the money. Her eyes were gleaming bits of rough-cut jade in languid pools of lust. Everything about her mouth and throat was a warning. She made a perfect kiss with her
spank me
lips and marched out of my life, but she did the walk of shame to the stripper’s pole with immeasurable grace.

Doyle seemed impressed. “I think maybe you could fuck her, Valentine.”

I didn’t say anything. Flawless moments like that didn’t come often.

I hammered the first two shots and thought about a bowl of chili.

•••••

They spent the evening with most of Telly’s body
in the trunk of English Sid’s car.

Mr. Parker said to cut him up. He wanted it done
his
way. He said to give Telly special treatment—his way of saying he wanted Telly cut up into eight individual pieces. The legs cut in half to make two pieces each. Each arm removed at the shoulder. The head separated from the torso.

Mr. Parker called that
The Eight Piece Deal
. It simplified the transportation of the limbs during the disposal process. But the prospect of sawing through muscle and bone for hours on end proved too difficult for them to even contemplate.

Sid had a better idea.

“Let’s just chop his hands off, Johnny. Maybe, his feet. We should probably cut his head off, too. Long as there’s no fingerprints we’ll be fine.”

No Nuts agreed that was a better idea. A lot less messy too. Cutting and sawing through thigh and quadriceps muscle was hard work. But chopping off an ankle was a walk in the park.

They walked behind the church and grabbed an ax from an old shed they’d converted to a tool room, then they took bets on who could chop the feet off in the fewest blows.