Frank Sinatra in a Blender

by McBride, Matthew;Bruen, Ken

  The gears inside his head were already grinding.

  He noticed the material starting to sag above him; the cloth hanging low enough to touch his head. When he hit the foil again his brain shifted to a higher level of thought. A level he was incapable of reaching before the crank.

  His world started to slow down when he ditched the bread truck but now it was all coming back fast. He was about to fall into that perfect groove of intellectual superiority that can only be achieved through excessive methamphetimine consumption. The more he thought about it, the more strongly compelled he felt to repair that headliner before it gave him any more trouble.

  There was a toolbox in the trunk but Telly couldn’t remember what tools he had back there. He couldn’t remember the last time he looked. But maybe all he needed was a handful of well-placed tacks to do the job. Surely that would work, although he doubted whether he had any tacks. Or where they’d be if he did.

  Telly put fire to the aluminum one more time then checked the rear-view again. He saw his eyes in the mirror. His dark, wet pupils turned the size of nickels. Then he thought about the money. Yes, yes, the money. He noticed the straw in his hand and stuffed it back into his pocket. Didn’t want to lose that.

  Telly needed to get his shit together and put things into perspective. He had to stash the money, get more crank, then decide how he was going to go about telling his version of the truth to the man he worked for. He would tell whatever version he thought sounded best, but that version was still up for grabs.

  When he finally unzipped the bag and saw all the money that was his to spend, Telly couldn’t move. He saw thousands of dollars. Could be millions but he couldn’t possibly count it with any degree of accuracy.

  Telly popped the trunk and pulled the duffel bag across the seat and let it drop onto the ground. Then he heaved it up to his shoulder in one spastic motion.

  When he got to the back of the car, Telly threw the duffel in the trunk where it crashed into a plastic toolbox. The car shuddered. He thought for a moment about all those tools and the work he could do with them up front on that headliner.

  Telly closed the trunk and rushed back to the driver’s seat. He popped open his cell phone, saw it was low on minutes, and called the guy he got his shit from for the sixteenth time but of course he didn’t answer. The man with the meth never answered the phone when you needed him to. Telly turned up the heater. He was cold but sweating. Telly would need to call English Sid before long but he was a wreck. He just needed crank first—had to have it.

  Telly started the car and turned around. He needed to see a guy he knew about some business.

  •••••

  I pulled into Cowboy Roy’s Fantasyland and parked next to a Lincoln Town Car that belonged to Anthony Sparrow, though everybody called him Big Tony. Big Tony knew a lot of things about a lot of things. I was confident he’d know a thing or two about the credit union job.

  I passed through the front door and Flames, the bouncer, gave me a nod. He told me I was good and I asked him if he’d seen Big Tony.

  “He’s in the back,” Flames said. “He’ll be right out.”

  I thanked him and we went our separate ways. We both had more important things to do then chat each other up. Besides, I needed a drink.

  A brunette who smelled like cocoa walked by and gave me a casual squeeze, as if we were in a supermarket and my dick were an avocado. “Hey, Nick,” she said. I thought her name was Lilac but hell if I could remember. I watched her hard, tight body move as she made her way to the end of the bar.

  “Whaddaya need, Valentine?” Flames was standing behind the bar mixing drinks.

  I did a double take. “What? You’re tendin’ bar too?”

  Flames shrugged, said it was hard times and all.

  I told him I wanted a Scotch. Neat. Two shots of Crown Royal and a bottle of Corona with lime. He didn’t say a word, just set me up and walked off like a good bartender should.

  A thick cloud of fake smoke swept across the stage. I did the first shot of Crown then chased it with the second shot, followed by a long drink of beer. I squeezed the lime into my mouth and took a shallow breath. Fuck me. The rush almost knocked me over.

  I helped myself to a barstool and started working on that Scotch. I hadn’t been to Cowboy Roy’s in at least a month and it seemed like the scenery was always changing. This time of day you had to take what you could get, but I saw a girl about nineteen who looked like she knew how to do just about everything I wanted.

  Another big drink and I could see brown liquor disappearing from my glass as the first hard rush of a wicked, nut-busting drunk came on strong. I looked around for Lilac. Started thinking about her firm, uncompromising body.

  I turned and looked for Flames and told him, “Set me up one more time.”

  Flames looked at me funny and I watched his eyes grow with curiosity. “Jesus, that was fast.”

  I told Flames I was thirsty. “When it comes to drinking I don’t fuck around.”

  Then Big Tony came out from the back room. He was walking by himself, sniffing. It was a safe bet his bushy mustache was covered with a nice white dusting of blow.

  Big Tony saw me and veered over. We shook, his big paw swallowing my hand. He asked me what I was up to.

  “What do you know about this thing downtown earlier today?”

  Big Tony told me he didn’t know shit. “Ain’t heard much about it.”

  I grabbed my Scotch and beer and followed Big Tony to his table. A waitress in a camouflage bandanna and an American flag g-string paused in front of him and he whispered something rude. His face was up against her ear. He sniffed her like a fine Barolo.

  Bandanna Girl said she’d be right back, but when she walked away I could tell she wanted to bathe in disinfectant the first chance she got to eradicate the thin layer of funk that clung to her just from being in the presence of such clientele.

  Present company excluded.

  Big Tony took a seat while I took a hard hit of Scotch, then set the glass and the Corona bottle down on the table. I sat across from him and asked what he knew about Norman Russo.

  Big Tony shrugged. “Who the fuck is that?”

  I told him I didn’t know. Maybe just some fuck.

  “What’s he into you for, Valentine?”

  “He ain’t into me for nothin’,” I said. “He’s laid out right now with a Y carved in his chest.”

  “Dead?” Big Tony asked.

  “Yep. Gettin’ autopsied right now.”

  The waitress in cammo returned with a well-rehearsed smile and I realized at once that I had a strong appreciation for her breasts.

  She gave Big Tony a bottle of Pabst, the cheapest beer they had. He paid her with a five and said keep the change.

  She asked me what I wanted.

  “A shot of Yukon Jack. A shot of Wild Turkey, and an ice-cold Corona.” I told her, laying out the demands of a free-range drinker. “Don’t forget the lime.” Drinking had always been important to me and I did it with as much enthusiasm as possible.

  Big Tony lit a cigar and took a drink from his PBR. He set a little box on the table, opened it up, set out a mirror, then dumped powder on the glass. He asked me if I wanted a line. I told him I’d better not, but I didn’t like the way he looked at me when I said it.

  To avoid drawing suspicion, I thought I should probably go ahead and indulge just this once. I could always debate the finer points of the issue later. I’d made a promise to myself about the coffee and the cigarettes, but I never said anything about turning down cocaine.

  He did his rail first, the longest one, of course, which ran a good six inches. Then he pushed the mirror my way. It said Cowboy Roy’s Fantasyland across the top but the line he left for me was only long enough to reach from the R to the Y in Roy. I snorted it and embraced the familiar numbness like a handshake from an old friend. It was the electric cherry on top of my drunk buzz. But still, the cheap bastard could’ve put out just a little more.r />
  A few minutes passed and we talked about all kinds of things before Bandanna Girl made it back with our drinks. She brought him another PBR and he thanked her with a friendly slap to her perfect ass, a humiliating gesture she hated but had to endure if she wanted to get paid.

  Big Tony worked his game on the dancer with insufficient skill. While an obvious exercise in futility, it turned out to be the best part of my day. He never had a chance with any of his girls, a fact everyone seemed aware of except him.

  I downed the shot of Yukon Jack like a champ. Then followed it with the Austin Nichols. 101 proof. It tasted like kerosene going down and started a bonfire in my guts.

  A stripper walked on the stage and took her panties off and every pair of eyes in the club was raping her at once. When the earsplitting bass paused, I heard the familiar sound of a razorblade dragging small piles of blow across glass. The cocaine chased the Oxy through my system, followed by plenty of liquor. I realized suddenly that I had to get out of Roy’s before I passed out cold or jumped on stage and dragged the stripper to the back like a caveman.

  That last shot of Wild Turkey must’ve really turned me sideways. Something didn’t feel right. I focused on the door and reminded myself to slow the fuck down.

  When I stood up, I knocked over my chair and the blood rushed to my head like it always did when I moved fast. I leaned down, put my hands on the table and righted myself. I told Big Tony I was out. He told me to call him tomorrow, said maybe he’d know something.

  I threw a twenty, a ten, and a wad of one-dollar bills on the table and headed for the door. Big Tony yelled something at me but I couldn’t hear anything but the bullshit rap music that was thundering from the overhead speakers.

  I passed Flames as I shouldered my way through the crowd and he gave me a casual nod.

  Then I bounced into some asshole who wasn’t looking where he was going either. I hurried out the door. Neither one of us said sorry.

  •••••

  Winter ice was coming and the air was dry and thin. Leaves no longer fell and the ones that lined the street were brown and dead. Parked by a dry cleaners, Sid Godwin watched the traffic and scanned mobile porn on his iPhone. He knew the boys weren’t coming. Bruiser was dead, but what about Telly? He was two hours late. Telly might be on the run or he might be dead too.

  Sid scrolled through the menu of options on a site that offered everything from straight sex to midgets jacking off donkeys, which was pretty much the last thing he ever wanted to see. Still, maybe it was worth looking into.

  Just as the page opened, the words No Nuts is calling flashed across the screen and broke the connection. Sid answered “Goddammit, Johnny,” in his thick accent.

  Johnny No Nuts asked what he did wrong this time.

  “Nothin’.” Sid said. He asked him if he heard any news.

  Johnny said he hadn’t. He was hungry, said he was going for some food.

  Sid sat up in his seat. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Now listen here mate, you’re doing no such fucking thing. You’re gonna sit there and wait like a good lad. Keep your eyes open. Watch for Telly in the Buick.”

  No Nuts said he would, then hung up.

  Johnny No Nuts was useless as tits on a fish. But Mr. Parker loved him, even tagged him with his nickname in the first place.

  Johnny No Nuts was a gutless turd, but at the end of the day he was funny. Damn funny. And that reason alone kept him alive this long. He was a comedian.

  Sid got tired of sitting in the lot too but they couldn’t leave until they got the word from Mr. Parker. He called the shots. There was a lot riding on this deal and Sid wasn’t going to be the one to fuck it up.

  Sid’s phone rang again. It was Telly.

  “Yeah?” Sid answered.

  Telly was all worked up and out of breath. “Sid? Hey man, where you at?” He was talking fast, rambling. “Everything got all fucked up, Sid. Bruiser got wasted, he’s dead.” Then he told Sid he didn’t have the money.

  Sid squeezed his phone almost hard enough to break it. He knew Telly was lying. They never should’ve used a tweaker.

  “What do you mean you haven’t got the money, Telly?”

  Telly paused. “I mean I ain’t got it, Sid. I never had it! Bruiser barely made it to the car. He’s layin’ back there in the street, man.”

  “Car? You used a bloody bread truck you stupid bastard. It’s all over the news.”

  “Car, bread truck, what-the-fuck ever, man.”

  Sid was quiet. Said, “Lemme think.”

  Telly went on. “Bruiser’s dead man, I gotta get the fuck outta here. I’m hot, Sid. I gotta get outta the city, man.”

  Sid told him no. “You’re not goin’ anywhere till we talk to Mr. Parker. He ain’t gonna like this.”

  “Fuck him!” Telly said. “I’m scared, Sid. I just saw Bruiser get smoked. I still got his blood all over me.”

  “Hey, not over the phone!” Sid ordered. “Meet me at Montgomery’s in an hour.”

  Sid hung up and put in a call to Mr. Parker. Then he called Johnny No Nuts and told him to get the church ready.

  “Grab a few bags of ice and a couple of buckets. Grab somethin’ from the Burger House too, if you want. We’re gonna be busy for a while.” Sid left the dry cleaners and drove to Montgomery’s.

  •••••

  Telly was walking into Cowboy Roy’s Fantasyland as he hung up the phone with Sid. As he walked through the door, he bounced off some asshole in a hurry to leave. He scanned the room with desperate eyes until he found the man he was looking for. He walked up to the table and slid into an empty chair across from a huge Italian guy with a pile of dark hair on top, brown wasted eyes, and a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the grip of his chubby hand.

  “Hey, how ya doin’ Tony?”

  Big Tony regarded him with suspicion and lit a cigar. He asked Telly what he wanted.

  Telly looked around, scratched at his arms. “Hey, man, I’m lookin’ for some shit, if you know what I mean.” He paused. “Some crank.”

  Big Tony gave him a smart look. Asked him what the fuck he was talking about?

  “C’mon man. I know you can find that shit, Tony. I’m desperate here, man. I need it bad.”

  “What the fuck I look like, shitbird? I don’t know nothin’ about whatever the fuck it is you think I know.”

  “Oh, that’s bullshit man!” Telly pounded the table with his fist. “C’mon man, I got money! Just hook me up, bro.” He produced three crinkled one hundred dollar bills from his pocket and tossed them in front of Big Tony. “See man, I got money.”

  Big Tony grabbed the money and jammed it in his shirt pocket.

  “Whutchya want, Telly?”

  Telly’s eyes were untamed, jumpy.

  “What do I want? I want dope godammit! C’mon, man.”

  “Okay,” Big Tony said. “Calm the fuck down. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Yeah, please. Just make a call or somethin’,” Telly begged.

  Big Tony looked around, lowered his head. “How much you wantin’?”

  “As much as you can get Tony. An ounce. A pound, whatever. I got the money.”

  Big Tony couldn’t believe this bullshit. Telly was a tweaker. He didn’t have squat. He couldn’t believe he had three hundred dollars on him. But it sounded like he had more.

  “An ounce?” Big Tony asked sardonically. “A pound, Telly? A motherfucking pound of crank? Are you high?”

  Telly shook his head. “Yeah, I know it’s a lot, Tony. I do. It’s a lot. But I got the money, man. I got the money. I just need this if you can help me, then I’m gettin’ the fuck outta here.”

  Big Tony nodded his head like he understood. But the only thing he understood was that Telly must be involved in something heavy. Tony had to find a way to separate him from whatever money he had and do it quick.

  “What’re you into Telly?” He thought about the credit union job, but it seemed like a stretc
h.

  Telly’s eyes scavenged into the dark corners.

  “C’mon Telly, sounds like you’re in over your head man. Maybe I can help.”

  Telly blinked his eyes, snorted air. Said all he needed was crank and he’d pay top dollar for it if Big Tony pulled through.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Big Tony said he’d make a few calls. Told him an ounce was a lotta weight. He’d need to see more cash before he got involved.

  Telly said, “No problem.” He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and did a piss-poor job of trying to hide them as he counted under the table. He slapped five hundred down, pushed it over to Big Tony. “I’ll meet you in an hour. Crestwood Bowl, you know it?”

  Big Tony said he did. He told Telly he’d see what he could do. Eight hundred was a nice start, but he couldn’t get that much in an hour. There was just no way.

  Big Tony tested him. “What if I really could find a pound? You ain’t got that kinda cash, I know.”

  Telly laughed. “Trust me, man, I got plenty,” he said. “You find me some shit right fucking quick if you’re able and I’ll pay ya more than I owe’n then some.”

  Telly jumped up from his seat without warning. Told Big Tony to get what he could, then body checked a waitress on his way out as she brought Big Tony his latest PBR.

  Big Tony picked up his phone and started making calls.

  •••••

  When I opened my eyes I was sitting at a traffic light that had just turned green with my foot on the brake, the radio blasting and the blower from the heater on high. The window was down and my left arm was hanging out, dangling against the door.

  Somebody somewhere was yelling. “Wake up, asshole!” Then they leaned on the horn.

  I looked around and tried to get my bearings. I realized the light was now on yellow and about to hit red so I floored it. The tires barked hard, hooking up with the pavement and carrying the big car out into the intersection where I was almost hit broadside by some hipster in a Scion with a bicycle mounted to the roof.