Frank Sinatra in a Blender

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Message to Readers

Dedication

Epigraph

Introduction by Ken Bruen

Frank Sinatra in a Blender

Epilogue

About the Author

Ackowledgements

Frank Sinatra
in a Blender

A Novel by

Matthew McBride

Concord ePress

Copyright © 2011 by Matthew McBride
All rights reserved.

Published by
Concord ePress
152 Commonwealth Ave.
Concord, Massachusetts 01742
www.concordepress.com

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All song lyrics or other quotations used are the property of their respective copyright holders.

ISBN:
978-0-9835851-6-9

Concord ePress Edition 1 (June, 2011)

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To Charlie Sheen, for winning

“Alcohol may be man’s worst enemy, but the Bible says love your enemy.”

–Frank Sinatra

On
Frank Sinatra in a Blender
by Ken Bruen

How important is a title? These days, vital. So many books vying for attention and according to the experts(!), a book gets less than five seconds in a display to grab your interest. The cover, sure, plays a large part but it’s the name, especially for a new author.

Take the ever-fascinating title –
By Grand Central Station, I Sat Down and Wept.
Then and now, an arresting rivet.

Matthew McBride was inspired when he wrote down his title.

I have to ‘fess up. Books sent to me to read as an attachment are not going to be a priority. More like duty so they are already handicapped. I’m a Luddite, I like clocks, mobile phones, people to be:

Simple

Accessible

Portable.

And books:

Nothing

No e-book

Kindle

What the hell ever is going to give the rush of a book in hand, the binding, the feel, the re-assurance of an old friend?

Rod Wiethop, a cherished friend and connoisseur of music and mystery, asked if I would read a debut novel. For Rod, sure
, but hey, don’t hold your breath, it wasn’t going to be anytime soon.

Until I saw the title. Intrigued, I figured I’d sneak a peek and perhaps, even subject it to the Page 69 Test.

Wallop.

I was hooked.

And got that frisson of being in the presence of something special.

There is not a reader on the planet who doesn’t relish, anticipate, hope to discover a new author, to be there for the very first book.

It’s rare to rarest found. Twice in my experience. Only Jim Crumley and Daniel Woodrell fulfilled that criterion for me. And here was Matthew McBride.

Best of all, I knew nothing,
nada
about the author, so I read him if not cold, at least without reservation. And oh how sweet the growing joy of realizing this was indeed the real deal. Ticking all my personal data in your face:

Hilarious

Fresh

Innovative

And a style so crafted, it seemed easy.

To reveal the plot, the narrative, would be a true disservice.

The magic of this book is to read it as I did, fresh and in the dark.

Trust me, you will be fully rewarded. This is, to paraphrase a cliché, an offer you’ll be delighted you accepted.

—Morocco, April, 2011

I pulled into Norman Russo’s driveway
as the sun was seduced by gravity and evening set in. Orange and pink stripes blazed then faded in the dead sky behind his neighbor’s shed, in desperate need of paint.

I let the Crown Victoria run while I finished the rest of my drink and set the Styrofoam cup next to the short-barrel shotgun mounted on the floorboard. I dropped a 20-milligram Oxycontin in the middle of a dollar bill, folded the bill up tightly, and smashed the pill to a fine powder with the rounded edge of a Bic.

I rubbed the paper between my fingers to grind it up as best I could.

The car shook as the wind slammed it from the side. I looked around. There were two empty police cruisers parked in front of me and an officer lighting up a smoke on the front porch.

I dumped out the powder and rolled up a bill tight, then ducked down to snort a line half the length of the owner’s manual for a 1997 Crown Victoria.

When the Oxy hit, my right eye began to water. I sniffed hard and took another drink of gin. I opened my door and the cold wind sawed deep into my bones. Chemical motivation cleansed my nerves as the world inside my head exploded and painted my mind with raw enthusiasm.

Norman Russo picked a good day to kill himself. The weather was shit and there was nothing worthwhile on TV. Not that I watched much of that. I had better things to do.

I nodded toward the rookie at the door like someone important. It worked. He gave a nod of his own. I should have brought my drink.

The house was clean and had the look of a place with money. A nice home in an expensive neighborhood, meticulously maintained except for that peeling shed. An officer was taking pictures of the sliding door with a digital camera. I noticed there was no security system.

Another officer asked who I was. I told him I’d been summoned by the Chief, that they should’ve been expecting me.

“Valentine?”

I nodded.

“Right over there.” He pointed toward a set of stairs with a hole knocked in the drywall above. Splinters from the two-by-four Norman Russo used to hang himself from decorated the staircase carpet.

It looked like the victim killed himself on the staircase. Not the first place I would’ve picked.

“Down here,” a voice shouted from the basement. Another officer squeezed by me in the hall as if I were invisible. They resented the fact that Chief Caraway called me down to observe.

When I took the first step down, unexpected elation blistered inside me as the Oxy invaded my system. I stopped midway on the stairs to get a closer look at the suicide note pinned to the wall with a yellow thumbtack. The writing was sloppy at best and hard to read, like it was written in haste.

I heard a familiar voice behind me and turned to find Dan O’Shea, a veteran detective I knew from way back.

“What do you think, Nick?” Dan’s wide shoulders and concrete-hard chest reflected his former career as a boxer.

I swallowed and cringed as the remains of the Oxy drained down my throat, then told him it was the funniest suicide note I’d ever read.

O’Shea stood in the doorway, perplexed, and said, “Well that’s a helluva thing to say.”

I looked down at the lifeless heap of body on the bottom step and shrugged. Told O’Shea maybe the deceased was just a bad speller. He shook his head and searched for a response that never came.

It was hard to believe a 300-pound man would hang himself from a rafter over the basement stairs with a rope that didn’t look strong enough to string a piñata. When I got close to the body Russo’s neck sure looked broken. But there was bruising around the upper spine that didn’t come from a rope. I knew something about rope. It looked like somebody’d beat him across the back and neck with a bat. I knew about bats too. I knew what an aluminum Easton was capable of in the hands of a gifted slugger.

Starting with a handwritten suicide note that didn’t make sense, my suspicions about the crime scene were strong and unwavering.

I walked outside through the basement door and stepped into the last rays from the retreating sun. The icy wind made me wish for a cup of hot coffee in my hand, but I had quit. Thoughts of coffee make me long for a cigarette but I quit those too. In fact, the cigarettes were why I quit the coffee; I couldn’t have one without the other. It’s all or nothing for a guy like me. A guy who appreciates funny suicide notes.

•••••

Back on the road I began to think about the things I’d seen
and all the parts that didn’t make sense. It all started with the phone call I’d received from the Chief asking me to go down and take a look. He couldn’t get away himself and wanted an experienced set of eyes he could trust to take things in.

After seeing the way those dipshits operated I could understand why.

I used to be a cop and I loved what I did but the job didn’t love me back. But I still had connections on the force and the right people liked me. A private detective can make enough dough to scrape by as long as people keep raping, cheating, and killing each other. Lately I didn’t seem to have any lack of work.

I got back to my office by late afternoon and put a cold Corona in my hand and my feet on the desk. The thermostat was stuck on high and a fan blew dead scorched air in my face with barely enough force to part my hair. My office was searing but I was reluctant to open any windows. In this part of town you never knew who might see an open window as an open invitation.

I dropped the empty bottle into my aluminum wastebasket and the unfinished suds spewed out and washed over one of Frank Sinatra’s turds. It was a long way down to the street. Sometimes I let Frank shit on the floor.

Frank Sinatra was my Yorkshire terrier—half Yorkshire, the other half was something else. I’d only seen his mother once; she’d been the Yorkshire. The father was a stray who only came around when mama’s scent was in the air. Frank was a bastard just like me.

“C’mere, Frank.”

Frank was sleeping on his back with all fours in the air, content with the lifestyle of unscheduled napping only a dog can know.

“Frank,” I said, then whistled. His ears popped up. He rolled over and was on his way toward the sound of my voice before he realized what was happening. He locked up his brakes, slid across the cheap tile floor, and bounced off the bottom of my chair. He took a few awkward sleepy steps to one side, then sneezed.

I patted my leg and Frank sprang onto my lap, managing to land right on my balls like he always did.
“Goddammit, Frank!”
Frank didn’t care. He jumped around, snorted, and licked his lips.

I grabbed a Corona from the mini-fridge I kept close and popped the cap with the bottle opener mounted on my desk. I did it all with style.

Frank jumped down and ran a circle around my chair, tripping over one of the legs but managing to catch himself in an extraordinary display of coordination.

I watched as a fast gasp of beer escaped the mouth of the bottle and ran down the side, hugging the glass tight. I tipped the bottle slowly and let the beer spill into my mouth.

I thought about the dead man at the bottom of his staircase. The one who couldn’t spell.

Nobody walked away from a life like that without a better reason than the one his note suggested. I just couldn’t believe that Norman Russo was smart enough to manage a bank but dumb enough to hang himself above a staircase using weak lumber and cheap rope. Something didn’t add up. Not to mention that suicide note telling his soon to be ex-wife she could have the horse.

Norm didn’t have a horse.

His
house
was currently the center of attention in a messy divorce. But still.

Nobody kills himself over a house.

At least I didn’t think so. I dropped the empty bottle into the basket where it clinked hard against its brother but didn’t break. That’s one thing I’ve gotta say about Corona—they know how to make a tough bottle.

Frank’s little toenails went
click, click, click
, on the broken tile and he wrestled with the tongue of his favorite toy: a faded green Chuck Taylor Converse that was bigger than he was. He threw himself in reverse and started pulling the tattered shoe across the floor.

When I opened my bottom drawer, Frank stopped dead in his tracks. His fuzzy little ears shot straight up in the air and his mouth parted far enough that I could see a few teeth. Frank knew the sound of the drawer and had a clear understanding of what that sound meant for him. He froze. He wanted to be absolutely sure of what he suspected was about to happen before he put out the energy to run. He turned his head to the side to investigate.

Frank’s tail was whipping from left to right and he gave out a few lively snorts. He was ready for breakfast.

I’d cut the top off a Bud Light can to scoop his food from the bag. I looked around but couldn’t find his bowl. He liked to drag it off to his corner. Sometimes I’d just dump his food in his shoe.

I told Frank to bring me the shoe but it was too late. His legs were already moving and I had the beginnings of a nice beer buzz so I wasn’t getting up.

All four legs were spinning and his nails were clicking. Then he started with his serious bark, the one that meant business. Frank was on a kibble mission, his belly rumbling. He couldn’t get there fast enough. I just dumped the food out on the floor in the same spot I usually did when he didn’t bring his shoe.

Overwhelmed with excitement, he slid into the pile and the food scattered in all directions like a hand grenade full of dog food had just gone off. Then he grabbed a few choice pieces and made his way to his eating spot, the place on the other side of my desk where the tile met the dirty, worn-out carpet that hadn’t seen a vacuum since the day I’d started paying rent.

I grabbed my third bottle from the mini and leaned the chair back as far as it would go. I thought about a cigarette but knew I was stronger than that. I pried off the cap, let it drop into the can, and drained half the beer by the time Frank returned for another bite. Maybe I could get away with this for the rest of the night. I glanced at the clock and realized the batteries were dead.

I just needed to shut my eyes for an instant to rebuild my strength but I woke when the bottle dropped on the floor and rolled under the desk. Frank wasted no time as head janitor and went to town on that spillage like the alcoholic he’d one day grow up to be. At some point after that I drifted into a dreamless slumber and left the dog to his custodial duties.

•••••

Telly woke up on the couch
to the sound of his phone vibrating across the glass coffee table and didn’t want to pick it up.

But he would, he had to. The man he worked for wasn’t the type to leave a voicemail.

Telly glanced over at the television and saw a nice set of tits that helped get his attention. Then two sets of tits. Girls started kissing and Telly sat up.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“It’s about fucking time asshole. Been callin’ ya all night.”

It was Bruiser, of course.

“Hey, you awake tough guy?” His New York accent sounded practiced and counterfeit.

More nakedness flickered on the TV as Telly pulled himself up to the coffee table and searched for the remote. The girls were now fully nude and a blonde in pigtails was about to go down on the brunette in high heels.

“Hey, listen up you prick,” Bruiser continued. “Today’s a big day y’know.”

Telly was distracted by the TV. Now a gunman stormed the room and shot both of the naked girls. Telly winced.
What the fuck was he watching?

“Listen up, I ain’t gonna tell ya again. I’m just gonna come up there and shoot’chya.”

“Okay, okay,” Telly said. “Come up? What the fuck, man? You outside?”

“Course I’m outside,” Bruiser said. “Look out your fuckin’ window.” Bruiser was talking in his trademark jerk-off tone.

Telly shuffled across the living room and peered through the glass. He saw Bruiser leaning against the side of his Cadillac. Cell phone in one hand, cigarette in the other.

Telly waved and Bruiser said, “Get down here you pole smoker, we got shit to do.”

“What time is it?”

“Time to go to work you lazy fuck. Now g’down here.”

Telly closed his phone and walked back across the living room. The gunman on TV was eating a sandwich.

•••••

It takes a pretty big set of balls
to rob a credit union in a bread truck. An inconspicuous ride, but it’s never going to outrun anybody. Telly sat behind the wheel with a scanner in one hand, a portable radio in the other, and the corner of a baggie filled with pink-white powder resting on his leg. He set the scanner on the dash and uncurled the twisty from the baggie, held it with his teeth. He tapped with his finger and knocked a little crank out onto a brown plastic clipboard. He tied the twisty around the baggie tightly before sliding the bag of dope into the corner pocket of his jeans.

Telly smashed soft rocks to flat powder, then separated the pile and divided it into two thick lines. He pulled the end of a straw from his shirt pocket and set the clipboard down on the console. He collected his thoughts and savored the moment just before he took the hit. He put his head down, found the position, and sucked a powerful mix of ephedrine, ether, and anhydrous ammonia up his nose. He snorted hard, sat upright in the seat and pinched his nostrils tight. He embraced the scorching burn that raced up his nasal passages at lightning speed and found its way down the back of his throat.