Frank Sinatra in a Blender

by McBride, Matthew;Bruen, Ken

  Detective Wyman walked passed me with a cigar in his hand and stepped out into the backyard.

  Ron nudged my shoulder. “What’s goin’ on here, Nick?”

  I looked him in the eye and told him a God’s honest lie.

  “I have no fucking idea, Ron.”

  He began to speak, but his phone vibrated and he pulled it from the pocket of his jacket.

  “Beachy.”

  He had a brief conversation with a dispatcher on the other end, thanked him and hung up.

  He told me, “When they ran your plate number it came back to a car reported abandoned yesterday just down the road. Montgomery’s Steak House.”

  I told him I knew the place.

  “Good,” he said. “You can drive.”

  I pulled onto Lindberg, jumped into the hammer lane, and held the accelerator on the standard police-issue Impala to the floor.

  “Good God, slow down.”

  I told Amish Ron not to light up that cancer stick in his hand and I’d see what I could do about my driving.

  Ron said he’d hold off on the smoke if I’d come clean with him. Was there anything I was holding back?

  I told him I’d never seen that prick back there in my life. I’d never seen the banker before either.

  “All I’ve done from the beginning is try and find that money. I’ve asked around, I even banged a few heads. I did what I had to do to get answers.”

  “But you work outside the same laws I’m trying to protect.”

  “I do it so you don’t have to.”

  Ron went silent; I wondered what kinds of thoughts were going through his Amish head.

  He told me I could drive as fast as I wanted, but he was having a smoke. Was I sure I didn’t want one?

  “Stop trying to corrupt me,” I scolded.

  He shrugged, told me I really should relax. Something I was well aware of.

  I needed alcohol as soon as possible. Maybe a painkiller could be arranged.

  I pulled into Montgomery’s and Ron pointed to the car.

  “That white one in the back.” It was just as Doyle described.

  Ron got out first as I slipped a single Oxycontin out of my pocket and placed it in my mouth, incognito. I’d spent the last few minutes working up enough spit to carry it down the pipe. I’d gotten used to the taste long ago and it was quite tolerable. Xanax on the other hand were a different story. Those required half a Corona, minimum.

  We did a visual inspection. Ron said the car was registered to a Tim Kelly.

  “Never trust a man with two first names.” It was advice I got from Big Tony once, but apparently it went over Ron’s head.

  “What do you know about this guy?”

  I told Ron I didn’t know jack shit. Said I’d gotten the number, heard he might’ve been the driver.

  “It’s probably a dead end.”

  He looked up at me, said, “It’s not.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Had a report of a white Buick leaving the scene.” Ron tapped on the trunk lid, asked me if I’d pop it.

  I couldn’t help but notice he expected full disclosure from me but had no problem dispersing his own information whenever he deemed it necessary or appropriate. When I sat down, the headliner was in my face and I had to wrestle with it as I leaned over to the glove box and popped the trunk.

  “See anything back there?” I yelled.

  Ron said there was nothing but a toolbox with a roll of aluminum foil inside. “There’s not even a spare tire.” He asked me what kind of idiot drove around without a spare tire?

  I agreed wholeheartedly, but didn’t bother to tell him I was one of those idiots without a spare tire. All I had in my own trunk was a spare beer cooler, and a Stihl Wood Boss. Oh, and a trashbag full of stolen money two people died for, including that poor bastard who had his eardrums used as an ashtray.

  •••••

  I parted ways with Amish Ron and stopped at the nearest gas station for a cold beverage. I filled the Vic up with 93 octane and grabbed a bottle of rum, a bag of ice, and a five-pound sack of the best dog food in the house. Frank hadn’t eaten a solid meal since yesterday morning and he was getting pissed off.

  I loaded up the Vic and tore out of the parking lot. I jumped on the interstate, popped open a forty-ounce Budweiser and drank it still wrapped in the bag. I waited for the pill to kick in, but Oxy’s are designed for time-release.

  It took forever if you did it the old-fashioned way, as I’d been forced to do. I needed to smash up another 20 as soon as I had the chance. Through trial and error, I’d discovered snorting was the preferred method of ingestion. A necessary requirement if you wanted to receive the full effect like a shotgun blast to the brain.

  I refused to call Big Tony even though I knew I should. Maybe he and Doyle had already skipped town. I hoped for their sake they had. Things were out of control and I was pretty sure I’d have to start killing people soon. Not because I wanted to keep the money, but because killing them was the right thing to do. These pricks were sticking lit cigarettes in people’s earholes. What kind of sick asshole thought of something like that?

  I turned off onto Blackmore Road and finished the last drop of my Bud. I tossed the can on the floorboard between the leftover bowl of chili from Cowboy Roy’s and a bottle of Hot Damn cinnamon schnapps. On closer inspection, it appeared to still have a few good drinks left in the bottom.

  I parked in the same place I usually did and decided to leave the cash in the trunk. I wouldn’t be there long and I’d draw suspicion if my neighbors saw me constantly hauling trash up and down the stairs.

  I got to the top step and looked at the empty tray where my cards used to be. I shook my head. Those cocksuckers were trying to set me up.

  I unlocked the door, turned the handle and stepped in. Frank wasn’t waiting on the other side, scratching and dancing.

  I pushed my way into the room with a bag of ice, a bottle of rum, and five pounds of the best gas station dog food I could find.

  English Sid was sitting on the couch I used for a bed with his feet propped up on the box I used as a coffee table.

  I did my best to conceal my shock, but the bombshell of him sitting there so comfortably dealt me an earth-shattering blow like a sucker punch. I said, “Good afternoon cocksucker.”

  The Englishman grinned.

  “Ah, Valentine. I always heard you had a good sense of humor.” His British accent was thicker than I’d anticipated.

  “Then I’m sure you’ve also heard I’ve got a bad attitude, a short temper, and a long cock.”

  Sid tilted his head back and laughed.

  “Valentine, Valentine. What’re we goin’ to do with you?”

  “If your thinkin’ about stickin’ a Marlboro in my ear you’re gonna hafta kill me first.” I noticed he said we, but I held his gaze. I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of seeing me sweat.

  “Thought you’d get a kick out of that, mate.” Sid turned his head sharply to the left and looked at me hard, reading my strained face from the comfort of my couch.

  “Where’s the money dickhead?”

  I was still holding the ice, the rum, and the dog food. There was no way to reach my .45.

  I gave him a hard look back, asked him what money he was talking about. The credit union money? I told him I was working the case.

  “Course you’re workin’ the case. You’re also workin’ the street with Fat Tony and that other fuck that robbed Joe Parker.”

  “Joe, who?”

  Sid stood up quick, the expression on his face abruptly shifting from bad to worse.

  “Don’t get cute with me, ya cunt! I’ll cut your bloody ears off and show ‘em to ya, Valentine.”

  I told him to go ahead and try it.

  “Oh, you’re a real tough guy aintchya? Saw what you did to that poor bloke back at the club.”

  I shrugged. “Guess there was just something about that mustache.”

  “Oh really? You didn’t
like that?” He looked behind me. “Hey, didja hear that Johnny? Valentine here didn’t like that mustache.” His eyes cut into me; I could tell he wasn’t going to play this game much longer.

  A voice came from the kitchen area but my eyes were bonded to the Englishman with adhesive.

  “I kinda liked that mustache.”

  I dropped the ice and the dog food quick and tossed the bottle to Sid. I jumped to my left and reached for my gun, but Sid was faster than I’d expected.

  He charged me, we collided, and our bodies hit the floor. He got in a few good blows, told me to calm down.

  I was pinned to the floor, but I’d been in worse situations. The .45 was underneath me, pushing hard into the small of my back.

  “Where’s the money motherfucker?” Sid drove a hard fist deep into my cheek and I felt it.

  “Where’s the money?” He repeated, slammed me again.

  My ears rang; my face was hot and tight, blood ran thin under the surface of my battered skin. I told him I didn’t have the money. “Look at this shithole. Does it look like I’ve got any money?”

  I saw his fist come again and I threw my head into it. His knuckles rapped on the top of my skull and bones broke.

  “Fuck!” Sid screamed, he drilled me with a straight left to the jaw that I never saw coming and my head bounced off the floor. Sid smashed me again with another left, but there was nowhere for me to go, so I took it.

  He screamed “My bloody hand. You motherfucker.”

  I tried to turn into his punches with the top of my head, but I was losing consciousness.

  My mouth filled with blood. Time slowed down, the only noise I heard was white static. I couldn’t see anything but blotches of cold penetrating darkness pushing down on me.

  He put a gun to my face, pushed it into my forehead, then leaned down and put all his weight on it.

  “It’s real simple. I’ll shoot you in the fucking face right now if you don’t give me the money, Valentine.”

  “Just as long as you don’t burn me with cigarettes.”

  Sid continued to belittle me in between blows.

  “You stupid fucking Americans.”

  My eyes were swelling shut. My head was sideways, pushed into the floor. My only real view was the bottle of Ron Bacardi Superior Rum. Then a big pair of dress shoes came into focus.

  “Ask him where the money is, Johnny?”

  “Where’s the fucking money asshole?”

  When I looked up it took me a minute to realize what I was seeing.

  Sid grabbed me by the hair, pulled my head off the carpet, forced me to look over.

  “Get a good luck at No Nuts.”

  I blinked, squinted. The one he called No Nuts was standing in my kitchen area. When he stepped toward me I realized he had Frank Sinatra stuffed in a blender. The big yellow blender Frank didn’t like.

  “Frank!”

  Sid looked over at No Nuts and laughed.

  “I think we’ve got his attention now, Johnny.”

  “You motherfuckers!” With every raw fragment of strength I could generate, I drove my forehead into Sid’s nose and crushed it flat against his cheek. I’d almost managed to throw him off, but he rammed the butt of his handgun into my face.

  I went out cold, swallowing blood.

  I couldn’t see anything; I disappeared into a world where time slowed. I heard voices in the distance, whispers and echoes distorted .

  I blinked slowly with my right eye, took in what I could in hasty ambiguous flashes. I couldn’t feel my face. The Englishman was on my chest, crushing me. Driving the wind out of my burning lungs. I strugged for every breath I could get. Everything slowed until time turned still and motionless.

  •••••

  I heard them in the darkness as they talked about who had the money, how the three of us each took a cut. I opened the absolute bare minimum amount of eyelid required to see. The rest of my life depended on the next few seconds.

  The 12-gauge lay to my right, next to the couch and hidden between two boxes that served as end tables. There were advantages to living in a dump; a shotgun could stay hidden among the newspapers and debris.

  I clenched and unclenched my fist slowly, moving my fingers to within inches of the pistol grip.

  I was dead inside, couldn’t move. Gray shapes floated in front of my eyes. But when I thought about Frank, my body moved again and my palm touched the cool wood of the gunstock.

  Sid looked down into my face but couldn’t see my hand locked on the pistol grip.

  “I think this prick’s awake,” he said to No Nuts.

  “Anybody in there, Valentine?” He knocked on my forehead with the hand that wasn’t broken. “What? Nothing smart to say? No more wise arse?”

  I opened my eye. Tried to talk, but the words came hard.

  “Fuck the Beatles.”

  Even through the small part of my eye that worked I could see the British cocksucker do a double take as the wind was sucked from his lungs unexpectedly.

  “Awe, now that’s beautiful Valentine. Oh, you really are a crazy bastard now aren’tchya? Did’ya hear what he said Johnny? Fuck the Beatles, he says.”

  I blinked as blood ran into my eye and Sid told me as strange as it might sound coming from an Englishman, he couldn’t stand the fucking Beatles either. He said, “I’m more of a Def Leppard fan myself.”

  I couldn’t breath; I coughed and fought for air.

  “See, No Nuts and me, we been thinkin’. What-you-say this bloody wanker has the money in the trunk of his bloody car?”

  To my left stood No Nuts next to my oversize margarita blender on the counter. Somehow my Yorkshire terrier fit inside. No Nuts was holding the lid down tight with one hand and Frank wasn’t barking.

  I had one shot to make. Blow the Englishman off my chest and through the window or shoot that fat son-of-a-bitch that had Frank in such an awkward predicament.

  Sid gave the order and made my choice easy.

  “Go ahead Johnny. Grind that little fucker up.”

  As No Nuts reached for the button I pulled the shotgun out, brought the short barrel down in front of Sid’s nose and fired toward the top of No Nuts’ head.

  BOOM! The short barrel belched fire and the pattern spread quick, caught No Nuts in the face and shoulder. The ceiling above him exploded and collapsed on top of him.

  Sid dove off my chest and rolled out the door into the hall.

  Finally, I could breathe; I sucked the air in greedily.

  A portion of the door detonated like a wood bomb as Sid fired, and jagged splinters of debris flew through the air.

  I rolled over to my side, brought the gun up and fired a round out into the hallway. The glass exploded in the middle of the door that displayed my name and rained down, covering the grimy carpet in diamond shards.

  No Nuts couldn’t stand. He stumbled towards me, bent over and bleeding plentifully on the floor.

  I pulled myself onto my stomach and drove my elbow in the carpet like I was plowing earth, pulling myself forward. The shotgun swung in my right hand, moving from the hallway to the kitchen. I thought I had two shots left.

  “Johnny!” Sid was blaring from the hallway.

  My ears were useless; my vision dead in one eye.

  I tried to speak. “Frank!”

  No Nuts fell against my cardboard counter and the blender tumbled to the floor. It grinded for a moment and Frank gave out a horrifying screech. Then it stopped.

  I stood up and fell out the door on one knee, shotgun in my hand. No Nuts shoved past me but I righted myself and stayed conscious long enough to make it down the steps. I stepped into the scorching light and racked the 12-gauge with one hand while I held the left out for balance. The car pulled from the alley and raced toward me.

  I staggered onto Blackmore and blasted the side passenger door, then blew out the back window.

  Empty.

  I tossed the shotgun on the ground and drew the .45 from behind my back, threw my
arm around to the side and started firing rounds. At least two in the trunk, another one passed straight through. I stumbled back toward the sidewalk and collapsed in the snow.

  •••••

  Sid held the pedal down with all his weight, like he was trying to shove his foot through the floorboard. The big engine screamed and the tires left scars across Blackmore road as the Lexus was peppered with shotgun pellets.

  The back window shattered as a round from a .45 passed between them, punched a hole in the windshield, then took a small chunk of metal off the hood. More lead pounded into the trunk.

  “Fuck,” No Nuts screamed as he slid down to the floorboard. Holes blasted through the door and shrapnel carved into his right leg.

  “I been hit, Sid!” He fumbled with his gun.

  No Nuts looked into the passenger side mirror with caution as a thick trail of blood ran down his cheek onto his chest. His face was shredded; one of his eyes was shot out.

  More gunshots followed, then a bullet struck the dashboard. Nervously, without thinking, Johnny fired out the window without putting it down.

  It burst into pieces, spraying his already-peppered face with new shards.

  “Fer fuck’s sake.” Sid slid the Lexus to the left with the ease of a seasoned wheelman.

  “Put down the window you stupid bastard.”

  But No Nuts wasn’t listening. He fired out the window into a vacant lot and hit a minivan, the bullet drilling into the cheap sheetmetal.

  “Johnny, he’s behind us you dumbfuck!”

  Sid couldn’t move his right hand. He had a boxer’s fracture of the metacarpal bone; it was swollen twice the size it should’ve been. His nose was an inferno of hot throbbing pain; he used his mouth to breath. Both eyes were starting to darken nicely.

  Sid looked over at No Nuts and he knew Johnny was in a bad way. His t-shirt looked like it’d been soaked in red paint. One eye looked like it was gone; his face was filled with lead pellets. His short round forehead lay open to the skull; part of his cheek was missing. Sid didn’t want to stare.

  “Aw, fuck! You still with me Johnny?”

  But Johnny wasn’t with him.