Frank Sinatra in a Blender (10 page)

“Don’t tell me this son-of-bitch knew about her acting career?”

“You could hear his voice in the background, Nick. I was thoroughly disgusted.”

We walked out of Rosebud’s and I felt like depositing the contents of my stomach in the parking lot. There were Internet sites that paid good money for that kind of thing but I didn’t understand the appeal. No matter how much I tried to distance myself from the thought, I couldn’t believe the guy who’d just made my pancakes could film his own sister blowing a Dalmatian.

In my mind I vowed never to return. But there was another part of me, a hungrier part of me, which thought about a future with free breakfast now that I knew Rosebud’s secret. I could stop by for lunch, too. Before long I’d be having all my meals there. But still, my image of the Fireman’s Best Friend was forever tainted.

•••••

Doyle was sitting in front of the Indigo Building
a half hour before the sun came up. He couldn’t sleep. He was too excited about the job. He’d already been eyeballing the building for a couple of weeks, trying to get a feel for who was who. Doyle watched the comings and goings of its occupants around the clock.

After a while he learned who wasn’t worth remembering and who was worth looking into. A man named Joe Parker had been worth looking into.

Joe Parker was a businessman. He owned a construction company, a moving company, and an auto body shop. He also ran a crew that was responsible for half the sex, drugs, and firearms that found their way into St. Louis. Parker was connected but he was smart enough not to get his hands dirty.

Parker was a perfect candidate, so Doyle learned his schedule. Always predictable, Parker left for work by eight and was home by five. On Wednesday nights he bowled; out of the house by six, back home at eleven. He was always loud and frequently drunk.

His wife had a variety of hobbies herself and plenty of reasons to stay away. Doyle never saw her much but when he did she was always flashing diamonds.

They were the perfect couple.

When Big Tony mentioned the news about the tweaker’s possible involvement with Joe Parker, Doyle got his hopes up. He didn’t tell him he’d already been casing Parker’s building. He didn’t tell him he already had plans to rob him.

The word on the street from the people who knew was maybe something big had just gone down. Doyle was ready.

He waited until nine in the morning, when English Sid pulled up in his Lexus and went inside. Twenty minutes later, Doyle was behind him. He watched Sid pick up No Nuts and he followed them to breakfast. He followed them to Montgomery’s. He was watching when No Nuts pulled the duffel bag from the trunk of what he could only assume was the tweaker’s car. Doyle watched the fat fuck fall down in the snow but he was too worked up to laugh.

Those cocksuckers actually had the money.

•••••

Sid was slapping No Nuts on the shoulder
as he pulled away from the parking lot. Laughing because Johnny fell in the snow. Laughing because he was drunk with thoughts of power. There was enough money in the bag to escape. He could put a bullet in Johnny’s head and disappear without a trace.

But he never considered it. Sid was Mr. Parker’s right-hand man and he knew a thing or two about loyalty.

No Nuts on the other hand,
was
dumb enough to run, but smart enough to know he’d never make it on his own.

“How much money you reckon’s back there, Johnny?” Sid gestured toward the duffel bag in the trunk with the back of his head.

Johnny’s eyebrows arched up, he looked serious. “Millions, Sid. Millions.”

Sid was still smiling, now he laughed.
“Millions?”

“Fuck yeah, dontchya think?”

Sid shrugged. Stuck his bottom lip out, said, “Hell if I know. But I don’t think you could fit that much money in the bag, Johnny.”

Johnny assured him that you could. “That’s a big bag, Sid. It’ll hold millions, trust me.” No Nuts spoke with the authority of a man who was an expert on such things.

The Lexus bounced through a pothole and the tires broke traction in the slush. They thought the best place to stash the money was at Parker’s. Sid had a key. They headed back to the Indigo Building with Doyle two car links behind them.

•••••

Big Tony stepped out of the shower
and ran a comb through his disheveled mop. He heard his cell phone ringing in the bedroom but ignored it. He didn’t get much sleep on account of the coke and he didn’t feel like talking. He left Cowboy Roy’s alone, again. He’d let another one of those vixens play him for a fool. They’d rubbed their shaved buckets up against his knee and talked him out of drinks. Talked him out of lines. Despite his Herculean efforts, he’d yet to bring one home.

Once again his phone rang and he saw that it was Doyle.

“Yeah, what up?”

“What up? We just might be rich ya big bastard, that’s what’s up!”

Big Tony said nothing.

“Hey, you there?” Doyle was excited, talking fast.

“Slow down, slow down. What’s going on?”

“Tony, I think they got the money, man. Looks like it, anyway.”

“Wha?” His mouth dropped open. Big Tony had almost forgotten about the money; hadn’t thought about it all morning.

“I am not shitting you, man. Pretty sure I just saw it.”

Big Tony sat down on the edge of his bed. He asked Doyle if he was serious.

Doyle laughed. “Fuck yes I’m serious you cocksucker! Now get dressed and meet me downtown.”

Doyle gave him the address. Told him about following Sid and No Nuts. He told him how he’d already been staking out Joe Parker’s building for a while now, how he’d planned on robbing him anyway.

“I already got the whole layout of the Indigo, Tony. I got it all.”

“
I’m rich
,” Big Tony said to himself. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

“I’m rich!”
Big Tony said again, louder this time. “We’re both rich, Doyle!”

Doyle was grinning and switching lanes. His car slid around in the snow.

“We ain’t rich yet so calm down, man. Get a hold of yourself and meet me at the club. I gotta stick with these guys. Call me back in an hour, we may roll today.”

They both hung up and focused on managing their business.

•••••

I left Rosebud’s with strict intentions of not returning
for at least a week. I followed Ron to Norman Russo’s house so he could check things out for himself. He asked me if that was all right with me.

I told him it was. Said we had to start somewhere. Besides, he may as well have a look himself. I was interested to see if our theories aligned.

We parked our cars and met at the end of the driveway. Ron looked over at the Vic.

“Is that police issue? I’ve never seen a black one.”

“
Was
,” I told him.

“Really?”

The Vic was blacker than a woodchuck’s asshole at midnight, with tinted windows and a chrome spotlight mounted to each mirror. It rumbled when you hit the key, courtesy of the foot-long glass packs that funneled the exhaust out through three-inch stainless steel pipes.

Ron looked at me and paused, his way of letting me know he was about to ask me something I’d have to lie about.

“Did’ya take the shotgun out?”

I assured him I had, in fact, removed the shotgun. I didn’t tell him I replaced it with a 12-gauge short-barrel pump-action with a pistol grip. Or that I had a Stihl chainsaw in the trunk.

We opened the front door using a key Ron had. Everything looked as it did the night before. We got to the steps and he began to shake his head. “He picked a bad place to hang himself,” he said. “What do you think?”

“Couldn’t’ve picked a worse place if he’d tried.”

Ron looked up at the ceiling and the walls. “We can agree on that.”

He pulled a clear baggie from the inside of his suit jacket and handed it to me.

“What do you make of this?”

I told him I recognized it from the night before. It was that suicide note, written by someone with the grammar skills of a third-grader.

He nodded. “Pretty obvious this isn’t his handwriting.”

I dealt the Amishman exaggerated sarcasm. “You mean Norm didn’t write that note himself?”

Ron shook his head. Said he couldn’t believe this shit. “Is anybody really that stupid?”

Ron flipped through a notebook. “According to Mr. Russo’s attorney, he and his wife were fighting over the house, but that’s tough to swallow as a motive for suicide.”

“He was already dead if you ask me. I think somebody broke his neck then tried to make it look like a hanging.” I could tell Ron agreed. “Not to mention only an asshole would try’n hang himself from a two-by-four and expect it to support his weight.”

Ron walked down to the bottom of the stairs. “So we’re supposed to believe he hangs long enough to, what, choke? Then the rope breaks, or the board pulls loose, whatever happens first. And then his lifeless body just tumbles to the bottom step.”

“That’s the evidence someone tried to manufacture, yes.”

“Someone didn’t think this through.”

I walked over to the fridge because you could tell a lot about a man from the contents of his refrigerator. I started looking through containers for money, knowing smart people keep their money in the fridge. That’s where I kept mine.

I found a half-gallon of milk, the usual assortment of condiments, lunchmeat, half a bottle of wine. My eyes locked onto the wine bottle, and before I could stop myself I was pulling out the cork, letting the Chardonnay fill my mouth.

I finished off the bottle, refilled it with tap water, and returned it to the fridge. I saw another bottle of wine on the top shelf over the sink.

“Find anything up there, Nick?”

“
Uh, no.
Not yet. Still looking, Ron.”

The other bottle was an older Cabernet Sauvignon, by far my red wine of choice if I were selective. It looked really expensive and would never be missed, but sadly I noted it wouldn’t fit in the pocket of my trousers. I walked around to the sliding glass door and unlocked it. I knew I’d be coming right back to have another look around and could pick up that fine bottle when I did.

Ron stomped up the stairs and looked around the kitchen.

“You find anything?”

“Looks like somebody just went shopping.” I pointed to the refrigerator. “Kind of an odd thing to do just before you kill yourself, dontchya think?”

Ron shook his head, told me I was right. He peered into the empty trashcan, but the trash had already been collected by technicians and bagged for evidence .

I stepped into the garage. It was spotless. There was a Harley-Davidson in the corner that looked like it had never been ridden, a full dresser with hard bags and screaming eagle pipes, a few tennis rackets hung on the wall, plus a rake and a snow shovel. Both clean and unused.

I opened the door to a new Range Rover and hit the key. Only 11,468 miles and a full tank of gas.

I rummaged through the console and found a money clip with six twenties and a few tens. I knew if those incompetent rookies would’ve checked the garage, they’d have bagged the money as evidence or stolen it like I was about to do. I slipped it in my pocket and the metal was cold against my leg.

I closed the door to find Ron standing behind me.

“Find what you’re looking for?”

Though startled, I didn’t miss a beat. “He had a full tank of gas. Looks like he filled up about thirty-one miles ago.”

“A full tank, huh?”

“A full tank,” I confirmed.

“Okay,” Ron began, “So this guy, this banker, he gets off work, he buys groceries, tops off his tank, then he goes home and hangs himself above his stairs?”

“And he ties the rope around a board so thin I could break the wood in half with my cock.”

Amish Ron burst into spontaneous, unprompted laughter that echoed in the garage.

When he stopped laughing, he told me this was now officially a homicide. Said they could use a guy like me back on the force.

He didn’t mention the stolen money in my pocket.

“One of these days,” I told him. But I thought about that wine in the fridge. I planned on coming back to pick that up as soon as I lost Amish Ron. I’d have another look around. I’d probably pay a visit to the shitter too. The remnants of last night’s ravenous suicide mission tumbled around violently in my guts.

We walked back into the kitchen; Ron stopped and relocked the sliding door. He shook his head. “Fucking amateurs,” he said, referring to the cops from last night. The same cops who failed to process the garage with any real degree of professionalism.

No wonder the Chief was always calling me.

I followed Amish Ron back out the front door, teeth clenched in frustration. Ron was a happy-go-lucky rocket scientist with the curiosity of a five-year-old and uncanny powers of observation, second only to my own.