Frank Sinatra in a Blender (16 page)

“I know this Valentine. He’s a tough guy all right. I’ve heard about him. Used to be a cop but he was a drunk. Always smacking people up.” He made a hand gesture to No Nuts, alluding to the guy in the bar.

“That guy with that big goddamn mustache?” Johnny asked. “Valentine did that?”

Sid nodded. “Yeah. If Valentine’s involved, he ain’t goin’ ta go easy, Johnny.”

“So, we kill the motherfucker. We kill all these motherfuckers, Sid. Because I want my goddamned money!” No Nuts was breathing heavy.

Sid could see him coming unglued. “Well, it bloody well may come to that.”

The Lexus was making noises Sid didn’t think were possible and they got louder as the car picked up speed.

“This thing sounds like shit,” Johnny told him.

“Well you shoulda told me about that truck a little bit sooner, No Nuts.”

“That’s right, I forgot. Everything’s always my fault.”

“Awe, quitchyer bloody cryin’, Johnny. If we ain’t got that money by tomorrow there’s gonna be at least three dead bodies to show whoever does have the money we ain’t fuckin’ around.”

No Nuts nodded in agreement as Sid’s phone rang.

“It’s him, Johnny.”

“Valentine?”

“Fuck no! It’s Parker.”

He shrugged, then answered, “Hey boss.”

“Sid, where the fuck you been?”

Sid started to answer, but Parker didn’t give him time.

“I need you guys back here soon as you can.”

“Sure boss, no problem.” Sid clicked off and locked his phone.

He told No Nuts that Parker wanted to see them both, now. He sounded pissed off.

“He must’a found that open safe,” No Nuts said. He was a basket case, couldn’t take the stress.
“He knows, Sid!”

“He knows dick, Johnny.”

“No, he knows man. Trust me, I know he knows.”

Sid took his right hand off the wheel and slapped Johnny’s chest, took hold of his shirt.

“Listen ya crazy bugger, he don’t know nothin’. It’s just your mind fuckin’ with ya, Johnny.” Sid tapped his finger to his head. “It’s all in your head.”

No Nuts put his window down, told Sid he was going to puke.

Sid hit the brakes hard enough that No Nuts slid forward in his seat. “Not in my bloody car, Johnny.”

No Nuts puked into the wind before Sid could stop the car and blowback from the Mexican buffet coated the passenger’s seat.

“No!” Sid watched it unfold in slow motion. He did all he could do; he worked the brake and pushed No Nuts closer to the window.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Sid screamed. No Nuts never said he was sorry.

•••••

We divided the cash in a hurry,
the three of us crammed in the back of Doyle’s van. I sat on a roll of carpet with my back against a stack of magnetic signs. Doyle would attach them to the side of his van depending on the job. Doyle was attempting to divide the money as evenly as he could when Big Tony’s cell rang. He was intrigued when he recognized Cowboy Roy’s number.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“Hey, Tony, it’s Flames, from the club.”

Big Tony frowned; disappointed it wasn’t one of the girls. Not that it was likely.

“Yeah, whutchya need bud?”

“Couple guys came round askin’ bout you and that Doyle friend’a yours.”

“What?”
Big Tony demanded. He sat up and pulled out the cigar. Said, “When’d this happen?”

“Earlier. I think they’re gone now, man. Just thought I’d tell you.”

Doyle and I were frozen.

“They did, huh?”

“Hell yeah, then that fucker that Valentine sucker-punched started talkin’ to ‘em. Don’t know what he may’ve said.”

Big Tony looked at me and I looked at Doyle, but he was fiddling with his watch.

“Hey, this guy, he British? His partner fat?”

“That’s them!” Flames was surprised Big Tony already knew.

He told Big Tony the English guy’s friend looked a lot like Doyle. Said he hadn’t really noticed it until the Englishman mentioned it.

Big Tony leaned up and poked his head out the front window, suddenly anxious we were being watched.

The back windows were heavily tinted. It was dark, there wasn’t much to see, but I still looked around. I wasn’t sure what was being said on the phone, but Big Tony’s actions forced me to examine the potential gravity of the situation.

Big Tony bit down on his cigar and told Flames thanks. Said he really owed him one.

He closed his phone and slipped it in his pocket, looked up, said, “Well, it’s started.”

Doyle continued stuffing money in the bags. I felt my cheeks burning white hot with nervous agitation.

“That was Flames, from the club,” he began. “Said those cocksuckers came around lookin’ for you and me.” Doyle stopped for a second, more like a pause, then went back to filling trashbags with individual packages of stolen cash and muttering numbers to himself.

I needed a drink pretty bad but I wasn’t climbing out of the van until business was resolved. My .45 was at the office, but I still had the shotgun in the Vic. Not to mention the chainsaw.

“So whaddaya we do?” Doyle asked.

I told them, “You guys need to make plans, and quick. I’d leave now. Don’t go home, just drive.”

Big Tony gave me a look that told me he wasn’t done giving bad news.

“They’re lookin’ for you too, Valentine.”

“Oh yeah? Your bouncer pal tell you that?” I didn’t like the sound of this. There was no possible way they could know my name. “Did that cocksucker with the flames tattoo’s rat me out?”

“No, that cocksucker with the thirty-pound mustache did.”

“Wha?” But then it hit me. That prick with the king-sized soup strainer, the one that got in my face.

“Guess he didn’t like being sucker-punched.” Big Tony reminded me.

I told Big Tony I took offense to such a remark and assured him I’d done nothing of the sort. I fought with lightning reflexes, using a classic battlefield strategy. There was nothing wrong with that.

“Well, now they know your name. Looks like they know all our names.”

Doyle seemed oblivious to everything around him. The three of us were on a roller coaster of emotions, but Doyle performed well under the pressure.

I said, “Looks like our options are simple: Leave town or find English Sid and his partner and kill ‘em. Or, we wait for them to find us and do the same.”

“I’ll be gone by morning light,” Doyle said. He looked up for the first time and smiled. “I been waitin’ for a haul like this my whole life, guys. I ain’t gonna fuck it up by stickin’ around here and gettin’ shot.”

“I’m with Doyle,” Big Tony said. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

They both looked at me and I told them I was right behind them, although I doubted it was true. I couldn’t leave town, I had to see this through. Not for myself so much, but for the Chief. He was close to my father; he’d always looked out for me. Especially after the old man died.

Chief Caraway and his wife were the family I never had. I spent many Christmases with them. They came to my high-school graduation; the Chief bought me my first suit. They saw qualities in me that I never saw in myself.

Doyle handed me a trashbag full of money. It was heavy, but he told me not to worry. Said he’d double-bagged it just in case.

I looked them both in the eye and shook their hands. Told them to watch their backs and have good lives. I wished them the best of luck as I climbed from the side door and hoped I wasn’t stepping into a shotgun blast.

Big Tony closed the door behind me, I walked over the to Vic and dropped my Hefty bag in the trunk. The snow let up to nothing more than loose flakes drifting across the parking lot to wherever the wind took them.

I sat down behind the wheel and started the engine. I listened to the Police Interceptor fire up, then wrapped my right hand around that bottle of
Stoli,
pulled it close to me. I glanced down at the 12-gauge pump; loaded, racked, and ready to decimate any bastard unfortunate enough to stand in front of it.

I tipped the end of the bottle into my cup; poured a slow eight count. Wind slammed the car in powerful gusts as the wipers drug across the hard clumps of ice that had accumulated in the short time it took me to get a trashbag full of money and a death sentence.

I still wasn’t sure who knew what, but the one thing I did know for sure was there was no turning back. I was committed. And the weight of the world bore down on me like a ten-ton sledgehammer wrapped in razor wire.

Vodka flowed into my mouth with a hint of watered-down cranberry as I put the Vic in gear. I left the Tilted Kilt with a fresh drink and roughly three hundred thousand dollars in the trunk of my car. I listened to Christmas music on the radio while I sipped on a cocktail and tried to calm my nerves.

The light turned yellow. I pushed the brake pedal slowly to bring the Vic to a gentle stop beside a salt truck. As I brought the cup to my lips I saw a car in the rear-view mirror. There were two guys watching me.

I scanned both lanes and punched the accelerator hard enough to break traction but soft enough not to spin the tires any harder than I had to. I charged through the red light, took the first right onto Interstate 270 and did the best I could to get lost in traffic. I watched my speed and was careful not to spill my drink.

When I was convinced they were no longer behind me, I replayed everything again in my mind. It didn’t look the same as it did the first time. I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. Everything was mixed with the blurred perception of a drunken and chemically induced reality.

One thing was certain; it felt good to have a shotgun by my side.

My road was ahead. As far as I knew there was no one behind me. Maybe there never had been.

I took the exit, took the long way home. I finished my drink and pulled into the parking lot of a guitar shop called Hornor’s. I parked the Vic next to a snowdrift and killed the headlights. My fingers tap-danced on the stock of the shotgun while I waited to be sure I wasn’t followed. I didn’t want any surprises when I got back to the office. I didn’t want a car to roll up behind me while I was hauling a trashbag full of stolen money out of the trunk with a short barrel 12-gauge in my hand.

Satisfied I was overreacting, I pulled back out onto Blackmore road and made the short drive back to the office. I remembered I was out of dog food. Goddammit Frank
.
If it wasn’t one thing it was another.

I drove by the office and noticed there was a light on, but I couldn’t remember if I’d done it myself. In a bad part of the city you always want it to look like you’re home, even when you’re not.

I wasn’t taking any chances.

I pulled into the alley and let the car run with the heat on. I took a straight shot of Stoli, popped the trunk, grabbed the shotgun, and dropped the bottle onto the seat. Then I grabbed the trashbag with three hundred K and walked to the bottom of the stairs with my eyes roaming the dimly lit alley for trouble. The only sound was the background noise of a big city buried under a foot of snow and ice.

I climbed the stairs one foot at a time, my palm embracing the pistol grip as my finger bonded with the trigger. I could throw the barrel up and blast someone to Hell if they were waiting at the top of the stairs. But when I finally got there nothing waited but the stale smell of my old building welcoming me home.

I stuck my key in the door and pushed it open with my foot. Frank was dancing and snorting and running around the office like usual. He jumped onto the couch, then back to the floor. Racing to my desk, running circles around boxes I’d stacked haphazardly.

I dropped the bag onto the floor and looked around the room. It looked just as I remembered leaving it. Nothing had changed.

Frank was jumping up and down on my foot, bouncing, and barking. To my left I saw an old copy of
People
Magazine with David Hasselhoff on the cover. At some point Frank decided to lay a turd across “The Hoff’s” bare chest.

“Nice work,” I told Frank, and then I made for my desk, where I pulled a bottle of Strawberry Hill from the mini. I took a seat in my chair and set the shotgun on the desk. When I opened my drawer to grab the .45, Frank came running. He thought it was time for food.

I apologized, then I grabbed a few leftover Whitey’s from the mini and tossed them on the floor. Frank snorted, barked, sneezed, and peeled out. He grabbed the first one in his teeth and dragged it around my desk to his usual spot.

I opened up a Corona to chase down the wine.

I looked at the trashbag, then back to both guns on the desk. Then I checked the door. I realized I would probably continue that pattern of cautionary behavior until English Sid and his friends were dead. I leaned back in my chair and took a smooth gulp of wine. Swished it around in my mouth, savoring its cheap price and high alcohol content.

Frank ran back around my desk and sprang up onto my lap, landing on my nuts as usual. I sat up hard and cussed him good for his lack of consideration then he jumped up and licked my face and mouth. I pushed him off my lap and he hit the floor, but he sprang right back undeterred. I rubbed his head and told him that I liked his style. I returned a half-empty bottle of wine to the fridge, grabbed both guns, then walked to the couch and went down cold for the next ten hours.