The city was a brave new world to explore and he greeted each day as a new adventure. There were suicides, homicides, drive-by shootings. Ron Beachy buried himself in policework. He immersed himself in crime scene reconstruction until he was the expert that other cops went to when they needed answers.
Ron became known for his unconventional methods, and he was a pioneer with a natural ability to view each situation through cleaner, unspoiled eyes. He had superior instincts and a strong moral compass. He was a creative thinker and a visionary in the field with a solid reputation as the most highly accomplished detective in St. Louis. That’s why Chief Caraway assigned Ron Beachy to the credit union case.
•••••
Sid picked up Johnny No Nuts at his house in Sunset Hills. They slid all over the street in the fresh snow that fell the night before. It didn’t amount to much but it was just enough to fuck everything up as far as driving went. No Nuts was voicing his opinion by the end of the road.
“Why we gotta get the tweaker’s car?”
“Aw, c’mon, Johnny.” Sid didn’t want to hear him complain about anything. At least not until he had his breakfast. They had a rule. No Nuts could bitch about whatever he wanted. Long as Sid got a chance to eat something first.
“Sid, I’m just askin’. Why we gotta get this fuck’s car? It ain’t like he’ll be needin’ it.”
Mr. Parker told Sid they had to get Telly’s car. Told him they should park it in down in the city and let the niggers steal it.
“We should take it down to Kinloch,” Johnny said. “Won’t last ten minutes in Kinloch.”
The last time Sid heard mention of Kinloch, a man in a wheelchair had gotten robbed and set on fire. People drove by as he burned alive and nobody helped. The crime rate was towering; people down there would steal anything. Sid told No Nuts he was right. “If it’s not welded to the floor they’ll take it.”
The road to Montgomery’s was an obstacle course of cars in ditches, tow trucks in the emergency lane, and snow plows barreling through it all.
They finally pulled up behind Telly’s shitbox and Sid told No Nuts to jump behind the wheel, follow him down to the city. No Nuts said he would, but he made it as far as the driver’s seat before he turned around and came back.
“What’s the problem, Johnny? If your legs ain’t long enough to reach the pedals you can scoot that seat up.”
“Fuck you,” No Nuts said. “There ain’t no keys.”
“What?” Sid demanded.
“Guess he took ‘em out of the ignition.”
Sid closed his eyes. “Fuck.” He leaned back in the seat.
No Nuts shrugged. “Sorry, Sid.”
The keys were in Telly’s pants. Now that he thought about it, Sid remembered seeing them. He’d checked Telly’s pockets himself. It just never occurred to him they’d need them. He didn’t know Mr. Parker’d want the car moved. He wasn’t a mindreader. Still, if No Nuts felt the need to accept responsibility, Sid would certainly allow him to take the blame.
“That’s okay, Johnny.”
They sat there for a minute as Sid contemplated their next move. He was doing the thinking for the both of them. On a whim, Sid looked over at Johnny. Asked him, “You ever check the trunk?”
Johnny scratched his head, said, “No.”
“Well, why don’t you go and check it out then, Johnny. Y’know, just in case.”
No Nuts gave Sid a fuck you look as he got out of the warm car. He walked back to the driver’s side and climbed in. A few seconds later the trunk popped open and No Nuts walked around to the back.
When he saw the duffel bag No Nuts froze. His feet slipped in the snow, and he went down on his ass. He stood up, tried it again. Grabbed the open trunk lid to hold himself in place. His heart started drumming up against his ribs.
What the fuck was this?
•••••
I woke up on the couch in an awkward position. I couldn’t remember going to bed. I couldn’t remember much about last night at all. I remembered Cowboy Roy’s and something about nipples, but the rest was a blur. I’d be sure to do a visual inspection of the Vic before I began the new day. The condition of my car was a pretty accurate gauge of the destructive events that may or may not have occurred the night before.
I rolled over on my side and saw empty White Castle boxes scattered across the floor. That’s right, White Castle. Frank and I must have thrown down the party gauntlet before I passed out.
I tried to sit up but my head was throbbing like there was a midget inside my skull smashing everything he could reach with a sledgehammer. Frank was lying on the floor beside me licking his testicles. The way he was going to town you’d think he was trying to shine them.
“You make that look so easy,” I told him, but he never looked up. Frank was too busy taking care of whatever business he was taking care of. I ambled through the kitchen, told Frank he walked a fine line between self-cleaning and self-gratification. Undaunted, he continued with the task at hand.
I needed an ice-cold Mountain Dew. It was the best cure for a hangover I knew. But first I’d grab a shower and knock some of my funk off. Then I’d need to find a toothbrush. At some point a powerful shit was in order, especially taking into account my recent attempt to undermine my digestive system.
My phone rang before I could make my next move and I spent the next ten minutes talking with Detective Beachy. I asked him what he had in mind.
“Let’s meet and talk this over.”
“Sure, name the place.”
“How ’bout that little breakfast joint off Howdershell? Rosebud’s? You know the place?”
“Lemme get this straight, Ron. You wanna meet at a pancake shop?”
Ron laughed. Said they had the best French toast in the world.
I told him I knew the place and that was fine by me. I asked him if they had Mountain Dew.
He laughed some more, told me they had great coffee. The coffee was even better than the French toast. He asked me what I thought about that?
I told Ron, I hated it. I’d given up coffee some time ago; I’d appreciate it if he didn’t bring it up again.
Ron didn’t know what to say so he laughed. Told me he’d buy me a pancake.
I said I’d see him soon.
An hour later, I was on the road. Running late and driving much too fast for conditions. It was ten in the morning and the window was down a crack, just enough to let the ice-cold wind blow against my face while I drove. I would have left sooner, but Frank refused to shit in the snow. After much coaxing and many threats, he finally took a dump underneath the Vic on the only patch of dry land he could find. I should have just let him shit on a magazine like he usually did but I wanted him to experience the awe of nature.
I pulled into Rosebud’s almost twenty minutes late. On one hand it seemed too early for a drink but on the other hand I was ready. I found Amish Ron behind the table with a book in his hand. It looked like Conspiracy Theories for Dummies. I had to laugh.
Detective Beachy stood up and offered a proper greeting. “Hey, Nick.” He nodded and gave me a firm, genuine handshake. He looked me in the eye and told me I looked good. Asked what I’d been up to.
He’d gained a few pounds since the last time I’d seen him but looked damn good for a man in his late forties. His hair was salt and pepper. He had a strong chin and good, even teeth with a confident smile. He laughed at everything. Combined with his slight Dutch accent, he had a natural charisma that immediately put you at ease. But Ron was a master of subterfuge—a valuable asset for interrogations. Every question was part of a chess game and he had all the answers. Ron told me he was training for the bomb squad. A technician spot was coming up and he meant to take it.
I told him he’d make a good one. His attention to detail was second to none.
Ron didn’t waste any time. He asked about my drinking.
I told him it was going pretty well. I thought I’d finally found something I was good at.
This insight brought forth a great laugh that warned me I’d be under surveillance from that point on. It was Ron’s way of letting me know we could have a problem if I wasn’t careful. The Chief must’ve told him to keep his eye on me.
I ordered breakfast and pulled a bottle from my pocket. I twisted the top off and let the carbonated fluid donkey punch my taste buds with the refreshing burn that only a cold Mountain Dew could provide. It was medicinal and it was what I needed to survive.
Ron asked me if I’d had a hard night.
I told him every night was a hard night on the streets of St. Louis.
The conversation began to fly from that point. One thing led to another, before long we were making progress on the credit union case.
The credit union wasn’t releasing any information about the money. “All they’re saying’s there was an incident and a shooting,” Ron said.
“An incident? Somebody robbed them in a bread truck.”
Ron shrugged. “Well they ain’t saying much, but I think they got hit hard. They had a big currency drop the night before with everybody’s Christmas Club money coming due. Sounds like whoever hit the credit union knew about that money.”
It sounded to me like they were just waiting to see what went down on the street. Let the pressure build. Let people talk. Somebody’d feel the need to stroke his own ego before long. A criminal’s worst enemy was himself.
I asked him what else he knew. Told him not to bullshit me either, we were a team. I didn’t expect to be left out of any part of this investigation and wanted full disclosure.
“Don’t leave anything out,” I said.
Detective Beachy took a big bite of English muffin that left a smear of butter at the corner of his mouth, something that bothered me right away but I let go of.
“Is there anything you’re not tellin’ me, Nick?”
“Me? C’mon Ron. What do I know?”
He took another bite of muffin and grinned. If that patch of butter didn’t come off with the next sip of coffee I’d have to say something.
“You’ve got ears on the street.” Ron said.
“Which is exactly why you need me.”
Ron finally took that drink of coffee but he stopped grinning. He brought the cup back to the table and dabbed his mouth, somehow missing the butter altogether.
“Ron,” I said as I dabbed at the corner of my own mouth with a napkin and nodded towards him.
The smiled returned to his face. “Oh.” He wiped his lip clean. “That bothered you, didn’t it?”
It must’ve been some kind of a test. Goddamn that Amishman.
“Not at all,” I said. “I just wanted you to know you could trust me. Wouldn’t want you to walk around all day with butter on your face and look like an asshole.”
A bearded man with suspenders walked up to the table and poured Ron another cup of coffee, not a word was said between them. When he walked off, I told Ron something wasn’t right about that guy.
Ron laughed deep, put his hand on his belly. Said I was a better detective than he thought.
“Why?” What’s wrong with him?”
He couldn’t quit laughing long enough to tell me the story. He started twice, but couldn’t keep it together. He took a deep breath, told me he’d need a cigarette for this and he pulled one from his pack.
“You can’t smoke in here!” I said. It was bad enough I had to watch the bastard drink coffee. A smoke was more than I could tolerate without suffering a breakdown. I simply wasn’t strong enough. The only alternative I could think of was a cold beer to rebuild my strength.
He lit up a Winston anyway. Said, “Fuck Rosebud, I’ll do what I want.”
“That’s Rosebud?”
“That’s Rosebud.”
Ron held his finger up, took another breath. Said, “Bout a year ago we busted this lady with a little dope, right? Older gal, pulled her over for speedin’. They take her in, go through her bag. They find a few DVDs, right?”
I shrugged, not sure where this was going.
“Well, she had a video of her fucking a German Shepard. Another one of her blowing a Dalmatian. Fucked-up shit. A video of some guy pissing on her foot.” With that, he lost his ability to continue with the story.
“Christ! Are you shitting me, Ron?”
He couldn’t take it anymore. He set that Winston down on his plate, caught up in a fit of laughter beyond his control.
I knew we were living in a fucked-up world, but still.
Detective Beachy regained control and picked up his Winston. He took a deep drag and blew a mouthful of stale air up toward the ceiling. He asked me if I was ready.
“I’m ready when you are.” I stood up, started digging ones from my pocket. Ron reached down and touched my arm, told me not to worry.
I thanked him, said that was nice.
“Don’t thank me.”
He told me I should thank Rosebud. Said he never paid for breakfast here on account of that gal on those videos was Rosebud’s sister.
“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?”
Frank Sinatra in a Blender Page 7
