Frank Sinatra in a Blender (24 page)

I put my head in the window and told him it looked like the same sumbitch I’d shot earlier today in my kitchen area.

Detective Beachy asked one of the techs crawling around on the ice if he was having any luck?

“You know how hard it is to find brain matter in snow? So far all I’ve got’s what appears to be a partial jawbone.

“Nothing’s impossible, son,” Ron said. “Just keep lookin’, you’re doing fine.”

Amish Ron gave a few more pep talks then walked over to Chief Caraway while I viewed the remains of No Nuts. As I watched emergency workers pull his headless torso from the car, I realized I felt absolutely nothing for the prick. I thought about that sock filled with teeth and knew killing him was the best thing I’d done since the day I saved Frank.

I discovered him on the street, gaunt and starving. He’d made an audacious escape from the hands of his abusive owner, and I took him in, did what I could to help. I’d promised him a better life, but now he’s scratching at death’s door a hospital bed, and the only thing Frank had to look forward to was a powerful limp and the strong prospect of alcoholism.

The Chief called me over and put his arm around my shoulder.

“Damn you, Nicky. We were worried, son.” The skin around his eyes was pink, but tough. Like raw leather pulled tight across his cheekbones. I saw tears fight to escape his warm eyes and I looked down, watched as the snow absorbed the blood.

“Ron tell you I got back some of the money?”

The Chief nodded, said he knew he could count on me. He asked me if I was coming over for Christmas with him and Barbara this year, I told him I wouldn’t miss it.

Ron said the Lexus was registered to Sydney Godwin, originally from Manchester.

“That sound like the guy?”

“Yep,” I said. “That’s what that fuckhead called him.” I pointed to the fat headless torso wrapped in duct tape on the stretcher.

“C’mon,” Amish Ron said. “After we ID this limey asshole, let’s go get some breakfast.”

•••••

When Ron made a break for the house
, I followed him around to the back, where a uniformed officer handed us rubber gloves.

There was a stack of shoes just inside the back door area so no one tracked in any melt and compromised the crime scene.

“This where they gained access?” Ron asked the officer.

The cop yelled over the wind. “Looks that way. There’s a single key in the door, no other signs of forced entry.”

“How many DB we got?” A piece of siding above our heads caught the wind and dangled, then crashed back into the house.

“One female and two males. All Caucasians. All the result of gun shot wounds by the looks of it.”

Amish Ron thanked him, told him he’d done a good job.

I watched Ron operate as he explored the scene methodically. He worked a grid pattern, did a visual sweep of the room. He started from the outside, worked his way in.

Detective Dan O’Shea stepped in from the garage and showed Ron a few notes he’d made.

“We got any identification on these people?”

O’Shea said, “Well, not officially. But it looks like she’s the resident.” He pointed with an ink pen to a dishwater blonde on the floor with a hole in her breast. “And it looks like this guy over here could be
that
neighbor.” O’Shea pointed first to the man on the floor with his brains blown out, then toward the house where the Lexus was parked.

O’Shea got close to the stripper and took a picture with a digital camera.

“Looks like she took the hit right about
there
.” I pointed toward the inside of the doorframe. I turned around and backed up close to where I assumed she’d been standing.

“She takes the hit,
here
.” I pointed to my chest. “Falls back against the wall, leaves a blood trail to the floor.”

O’Shea agreed with my assessment. He looked down at her arm twisted behind her back. The blood pooled toward the inside of her elbow. One eye was closed, the other open, but slightly askew, just enough to see dead white. Her mouth unhinged.

“Strange way to fall,” O’Shea said.

I told him it was; I said sometimes people died funny.

He laughed uncomfortably, it becoming more and more apparent my crime scene humor would never fully be appreciated.

When Ron stepped into the garage, I followed. He asked me, “This your Englishman?”

Doyle was lying on the concrete with a big hole in his face. The contents of his skull spilled across the floor like bulky curds of strawberry cottage cheese. What I could only speculate to be medium-sized chunks of brain adorned the side of an old yellow refrigerator, rust working its way up from the bottom. There was a .38 Special in Doyle’s his hand; he’d been taken by surprise.

“Looks like somebody blasted him twice in the head,” Ron said. “Right through the cheek bone too. Boy, these asshole sure don’t fuck around whenever they kill a guy.”

I told Amish Ron that wasn’t the guy we were looking for.

“What?”

“It ain’t him,” I said. “That’s not the Englishman.”

“Well, son-of-bitch. You sure?”

I told him I was positive. Doyle was gone; I sat down on the hood of a Ford Taurus parked in the garage.

The detectives conversed among themselves until the Chief walked in. He told Ron the sun was coming up and he wanted him to do a live interview on News Channel 5 in ten minutes. Ron went out to the car to get his tie.

Caraway took a seat beside me on the hood of the stripper’s car and asked me about my dog.

“I won’t know for uh couple of hours yet.”

The Chief told me he was sorry to hear about that. Said the world would be better off without all those sick bastards in the first place. He looked me in the eye and told me I was doing God’s work.

I thanked him for his kind words, explained I was here to help. As long as he could tolerate my unconventional methods I’d work for him anytime he needed me.

He thanked me for finding the money, said he knew I’d worked hard. He told me my old man would be proud of me today. I wasn’t so sure.

We talked for a few minutes then left the garage. I stepped over Doyle’s body and admired that watch. Considering the price he paid, I felt I owed it to him to slip it off his wrist at his funeral. It was the least that I could do.

•••••

After Amish Ron’s big press conference
, we drove in the ice storm to Rosebud’s for world-class pancakes prepared by a man who was only one phone call away from being a registered sex offender. Be that as it may, I had to admit they were superior. I ate three right off the bat and said to keep ‘em coming. I reminded him in no uncertain terms his freedom was only as secure as my next pancake.

Ron asked me what I was going to do.

“I thought about moving to some place with a beach. Right now any place sounds better than St. Louis.”

He laughed, asked wouldn’t I miss Rosebud’s pancakes?

“Fuck Rosebud.” I said I wouldn’t miss getting ambushed or assaulted either. I sure as shit wouldn’t miss this snow.

“I don’t blame you, Nick. If I were you, I don’t think I’d leave the house without a gun.”

I told Ron he didn’t have to worry about that.

We stopped at a gas station on the way back to the Vic and I grabbed a container of vodka, a gallon of orange juice, and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.

Amish Ron dropped me off at the Vic and thanked me again for my assistance. He said I was a good cop, said the Chief thought of me like a son.

“Thanks,” I said. “Great working with you too, Ron.”

I climbed behind the wheel of the Vic, spun the key, cranked up the heat and searched for the closest Styrofoam cup. I listened to the Police Interceptor warm up while I made a screwdriver. I nudged the pedal and made the pipes rumble, felt the body of the car shake with the aftershock of unrefined horsepower. I enjoyed a substantial draw from the cup as I barreled from the parking lot sideways, sliding in the ice, spinning the tires, the glass packs sounding like they were being throat fucked by a quarterhorse as vodka and orange juice sloshed from my cup.

I drove with the sun to my left, my eyes wasted and dead. I felt the bite from the vodka and I shook up the glass for a bit before I tried again. The last few days ran together in a distorted white haze. I went from being poor, to being rich, to being poor.

•••••

When I got to the Animal Hospital
I hoisted the cup high and guzzled what was left. I slipped and skidded across the frozen lot.

I walked through the door and rediscovered the stunning girl I’d met yesterday. She was waiting with a smile that could heal my deepest wounds. She had blonde curls tied up in a failing bun, and she greeted me with something I’d like to think was more than just casual affection. Her smile radiated innocence and taunting sexuality.

She told me I had the toughest dog she’d ever seen.

I told her Frank had the heart of a champion then I asked about his condition.

She grinned at me proudly, dropped her chin down. Said she thought it was sweet the way a man as tough as me cared for such a tiny mutt.

“Sometimes dogs are better than people.”

“Oh my God! I know. You’re
so
right!”

She couldn’t have been older than twenty-one and I liked the way that uniform wrapped tight around her. She saw my famished eyes and blushed. Told me I should stop that.

“What if I can’t?”

She giggled uncomfortably, but not in such a bad way. My smoldering gaze forced her to shuffle papers on a desk that didn’t need shuffling. The silence created a slow tension I let build.

I reached down just far enough to brush against her hand then I broke the awkward silence with a question about my partner.

“What about Frank?” I asked. “Is he ever gonna dance again?”

She told me that was sweet. Her voice expressed both relief and disappointment. “Come with me.” When she took me by the hand, her fingers felt delicate inside my formidable grip. If I weren’t so concerned for Frank’s well-being, I would have swept her off her feet and thrown her passionately to the desk.

She led me down a short hall that smelled like animals and soap. We came to a room on the right with an incubator in the corner. Frank was inside, wrapped up tight in a blanket. Absorbing the potent waves of heat.

His eyes blinked hard when he saw me. He tried to bark, but his hoarse tone betrayed him. He tried again, a little raspy, but it was the bark he used when he’d hear me stomp up the stairs. I’d always drive my soles into the wood with a little extra force when I got to the top. I did it just for him.

Frank sneezed, licked his lips, barked, and sneezed again. He tried to wiggle out of that blanket.

I reached to stroke his fur and he licked my bloodstained hand. I told him I was glad to see him too.

“The veterinarian would really like you to wait a little while before you take him home. I don’t think he was expecting you quite this early.”

“Oh?”

She grinned and the corners of her smile raised her cheeks up to meet her eyes.

“He wants to talk to you about his foot.”

“What about it?” I asked. “Should I change his name to tripod?”

“No, silly.” She giggled, touched my arm and a sweet scent drifted toward me. “We were able to save his foot. The doctor reattached it.”

I told her that was great. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to repay you personally.
Anything at all
.” I showed her just enough teeth to make her match my smile; I pulled Frank from the incubator and stuffed him in my coat.

“Bye, Frank!” She waved at him with her tiny fingers and that scorching pink nail polish caught my attention.

“I think he’s gonna miss you,” I told her. Frank licked his lips, snorted.

She looked up at me with blond curls straining to burst free from their confines. I suppressed my urges. Thoughts of her on top of me and the expression on her face. . .

Her unmanageable curls pasted to her naked chest with sweat.

Her delicate throat moaning for me.

Her fists that pounded my chest.

The way she’d squeeze me down below, drawing me deeper into her small body.

“What about you?” she asked.

She glanced down at my hand, didn’t see a ring. If she noticed any blood splatter on my sleeve she failed to mention it. “Are you gonna miss me too?”

“I might have to chop off another one of Frank’s legs just to come back.”

She threw her head back and laughed. She told me I was funny then she got close enough for Frank to lick her cheek.

I wanted to feel her tongue in my mouth. I needed to know if her lips tasted like flowers smelled.

I moved and let her fall into me and for a moment our bodies pressed against each other.