Frank Sinatra in a Blender (11 page)

“I’m headin’ back to the station, Nick.”

I told him I had to run back to my office and take care of Frank, said I’d meet up with him later. I jumped in the Vic before he could protest.

•••••

Big Tony pulled out of Cowboy Roy’s
with Doyle in the passenger seat telling him what he knew. Said he’d followed English Sid and that other idiot back to the Indigo Building but they pulled into the parking garage and blocked his view. By the time Doyle got out of the car, Sid’s Lexus was pulling back out.

Doyle ran back to his car and chased them down, followed them to Mr. Parker’s construction business. He watched them get out of the Lexus and go inside, but they never took the bag from the trunk.

“What’re you sayin’?” Big Tony asked.

“I’m sayin’ I think the bag’s in Parker’s condo.”

“You think?”

Doyle said it was either that or it was still in the trunk of the Lexus.

Big Tony hit a red light and came to a stop; the tires on the Lincoln locked up and slid for about a foot.

“So I guess we’re goin’ to the Indigo?”

“We’re goin’ to the van first, then
I’m
goin’ to the Indigo. I don’t need you gettin’ in the way and stopping’ every five minutes to do coke.”

Big Tony licked his lips. He was already thinking about it. If only he could persuade Doyle to chop him out a line while he manhandled the Town Car through this slush. He’d stopped at his dealers and got an eight ball of premium cocaine. Way beyond his price range for three-and-a-half grams under normal circumstances, but in light of recent events he felt the need to indulge in something exceptional.

Doyle rolled his eyes when Big Tony started dicking with the radio.

“Go!” Doyle yelled, when the light turned green.

He made a right and found a station with some talk radio. The disc jockey was counseling a caller who had issues with his father. He told the D.J. his father never loved him because he always gave him poor advice.

“This guy’s a peckerhead,” Doyle said.

“Fucking crybaby,” Big Tony added.

They listened in silence until the first commercial break, then Big Tony turned it down.

“Your old man pretty good with advice?”

Doyle chuckled. “Fuck no. He was either locked down or he was drunk.” Doyle paused and reflected. He hadn’t thought about his old man in a long time. “Either way, he wasn’t big on advice as I recall.”

“So you feel like this guy on the radio?”

Doyle laughed, told him this guy was an asshole. He looked out the window and cracked his knuckles as Big Tony surfed through the stations yet again.

Doyle had a good chuckle, more to himself than anything. “I think I can only remember that son-of-a-bitch givin’ me one bit of advice before he died.”

Big Tony looked over at Doyle. “Yeah, what was that?”

“Never wear sweatpants to a strip club.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what he said.”

“That’s the best advice your old man ever gave you?”

Doyle shrugged. “That’s it.”

The fat man behind the wheel began to laugh.

Doyle looked over from the passenger seat. “What?”

“That’s just funny, is all.”

“Yeah, well what’s the best advice your old man ever gave you?”

“Only advice he ever give me was with his belt.”

“Yeah, but that makes sense about the sweat pants if you think about it.” Doyle reached over and turned off the radio when Rush Limbaugh came on. “I hate that asshole.”

“He’s okay,” Big Tony countered.

They drove in silence for a couple of minutes until they hit traffic. They were stopped next to road construction and the guy on Doyle’s side was working a jackhammer. Doyle put his window up all the way and checked his stolen watch.

“We got plenty of time,” Big Tony said.

Doyle knew what time it was; he just didn’t want to be late, and didn’t want to end up listening to Rush the whole time.

They found the parking garage with no problems. Big Tony parked next to the van at the end of the aisle and Doyle stepped out.

“You stay close, case I need ya.”

Big Tony said he would, he let his foot off the brake and the car started to roll.

“Good luck,” he yelled, as Doyle slammed the car door, then unlocked the driver’s side door of the van.

He climbed into the seat then turned and made a quick inventory of his equipment. Everything he needed was in an oversize hockey bag. A high-speed drill, two sledgehammers, chisels, hacksaws, an oxyacetylene torch, asbestos gloves, and a portable hydraulic jack.
Doyle was prepared.
When it came to a job he left nothing to chance.

He let the van warm up in the garage as he studied the floor plan to the building. The floor plan he was clever enough to procure a month ago. Getting it was the easy part. He found a unit for sale then went to the real estate agent as the concerned son of a perspective buyer.

“I’m looking for something for my parents, you see. Getting up there in years you know.
How’s the Security?”

It worked, like it always did, and they gave him all the information he required, including the floor plan.

Doyle left the garage and fell in with the bulky, concentrated flow of the traffic as he made his way to the heart of the Central West End. He passed the Tivoli Theater, then Meshuggah Coffee House on his left. He sat for a minute in front of the Delmar Lounge while a group of girls in bright-colored jackets sloshed across the street in the snow, their matching scarves blowing in the wind. He made a few turns, then pulled into the parking garage of the Indigo building.

•••••

I got back to my office just before the sun went down.
It was colder than a well digger’s ass in January and I drove like a maniac considering the road conditions. Amish Ron fucked me good when he noticed that back door unlocked. I’d planned on returning within minutes and doing a much more comprehensive search. Right after I drank that Cabernet Sauvignon and took a shit in Norm Russo’s toilet.

I climbed the stairs two at a time with a respectable stride that even Frank would’ve envied. I slammed my key in the lock, hit the handle, and kicked the bottom of the door open with my foot.

Frank was sleeping in my office chair when I burst across the room, stumbled over a basket of dirty clothes, and knocked a box over. Frank started barking when everything spilled out onto the floor, but he directed his anger specifically at an oversized yellow plastic blender that bounced across the tile.

“
Rarp, rarp, arp!”

I kicked the bathroom door so hard the wood popped and splintered at the top around the antique hinge. My pants hit the floor and my ass made contact with the seat without a moment to spare. As much as I’d enjoyed those White Castle sliders, I knew sooner or later I was bound to pay the price for the renegade behavior I’d so irresponsibly demonstrated the night before.

Relentless, Frank barked the whole time I was in the bathroom.

“Okay,” I yelled as I walked from the john. “What the hell’s your problem, Frank?”

He danced around in front of the door. Then he raced to the blender and barked. He took turns doing that over and over while I buttoned up my pants and drew my belt tight.

When I asked him if he had to go, Frank got excited. He snorted several times, turned two complete circles, then did a burnout across the tile and bounced off the door.

I told him I’d be right with him. I had to collect my thoughts after such a brutal, unforgiving shit.
Never again
, I swore. I hoped White Castle burned to the ground.

Frank was going crazy. Barking and turning circles. Scratching the hell out of the bottom six inches of the back of my door.

“I’m coming.” I picked Frank up and carried him down to the alley, where I was confident he’d piss on as many things as he possibly could as long as it didn’t involve stepping in snow.

When we reached the sidewalk Frank didn’t disappoint me. He made it only two feet before he pissed on the welcome mat. Then he hiked his leg on a McDonald’s cup. He looked around curiously. Sniffed and snorted. He ran over to a concrete step and moved his bowels underneath a faded green campaign sign that was still stuck in the ground a year and a half after the election.

He finished up with a world-record eight more pisses then he ran the Firecracker 500 up the stairs and waited for me by the door. When I got upstairs, I walked to my desk and grabbed a bottle of Southern Comfort, mixed a splash with some orange juice. I needed a few more So Co’s to get my head in the game. I rummaged through the junk drawer on my desk and found a Vicodin that looked tempting. I dropped it down the hatch and watched Frank chew on his ass while the Chairman of the Board sang quietly in the background. Outside the frost-glazed window snow flurries did ballet in the arctic winter air.

•••••

Doyle rolled into the parking garage
in the van that said Naramore Locksmith Co. and parked by the elevator. He set a few orange cones outside the van. If there was one thing he’d learned in the thieving business, the most important tools you could ever have on a job were orange cones. People accepted orange cones, never questioned them. Placing them around a commercial van parked in a handicap slot added just the right touch of legitimacy.

He removed the hockey bag with effort and slung the strap over his shoulder. He moved toward the elevator with a wig covering most of the right side of his face, the side the security camera would film. He held a handkerchief in his right hand and used it to push buttons and open doors. Doyle dropped the bag onto the floor to give his shoulder a rest as the elevator began going up.

Once Doyle decided to hit Mr. Parker, he did what he always did. He wrote a letter to the lock firm on letterhead that
he
printed up, and they pretty much gave him anything he asked for. In this case: the master keys. Doyle had everything he needed for the job; he’d planned it meticulously; he’d left nothing to chance.

When the elevator opened, he stepped into the lavish hallway of the Indigo and walked carefully to Apartment 202. He knocked loudly to be sure no one was home before he slid his master key into the lock. From previous surveillance, he already knew there was a dead bolt, but he wasn’t worried.

Everybody had a deadbolt, but nobody used it.

He heard the tumblers move, and
click
. He suddenly found himself inside the living room and he closed the door slowly, quietly. Then he got that funny taste in his mouth, the taste only a home invader would know and appreciate. Short of spending an evening inside one of Cowboy Roy’s girls, it was the greatest moment he would ever know.

Doyle made a visual inspection of the apartment to guarantee he was alone. Once Doyle was satisfied, he set his bag on the kitchen table, walked quickly to the bedroom. He found several pair of earrings on the nightstand, then a necklace. He dropped them in a little pilfer bag he wore around his waist, along with several rings. Next he pulled open the wife’s top dresser drawer and found some more loose jewelry, lipstick, and perhaps the best find of all, a gigantic purple dildo. It had a face at one end and a little set of feet at the other. He dropped that in the bag for laughs.

More jewels in the bathroom and a damn expensive watch. Doyle picked up a choice pair of cufflinks as well, then made his way to the closet. That’s where the safe was. That’s
always
where the safe was.

Except this time it wasn’t.

Doyle’d spent a lot of time studying the floor plan to the unit so he found the safe in the bathroom on his second guess. Before he went to retrieve his bag from the kitchen he checked the door, just in case. Sometimes the kind of people who installed deadbolts and didn’t use them were the same kind of people who didn’t lock their safe. The Parker’s were lazy and complacent. The door came open with a click.

Doyle swallowed hard, his palms sweating through his gloves.

He pulled the big door open to find papers, envelopes, folders, and loose cash. Maybe five, six thousand.
Fuck!
He started thinking. The bag was too big to fit in the safe anyway. He’d been so consumed by the thought of breaking in the Indigo and walking out with the money he failed to consider the raw facts.

It was always the little things that could make or break a job.

Doyle closed the door without taking any money. He couldn’t risk tipping their hand. He couldn’t risk Parker knowing they were onto him. His stopwatch beeped, he was running out of time. Doyle sprinted back to the bedroom, started putting things back. Suddenly everything felt wrong and his cheeks were burning. Instinct told him to run, but where was the money?

He only lost sight of them for a few minutes. How many minutes? Ten? Fifteen?

Doyle started looking around the room. Under the bed, behind closed doors. It must be in the trunk of the car. He called Big Tony, but he got no answer.