Frank Sinatra in a Blender

by McBride, Matthew;Bruen, Ken

  As I closed in on the driveway, I watched to my left for Sid to walk out. I still had my .45 and could draw it quick. I didn’t see Doyle.

  When I got to the car I saw No Nuts sprawled in the front seat, covered in bandages.

  Gunshots came from my left.

  No Nuts twitched forward, forcing me to action as sirens wailed in the background.

  I ran to the side window and adopted a shooter’s stance.

  No Nuts couldn’t turn. The tape restricted his movements but he knew I was there; I made sure of it. I pushed the shotgun to his head and paused long enough for him to understand what was coming, said, “This is for Frank.”

  It happened fast, in a whirlwind of blood and bullets and hate. Big Tony saw the inside of the Lexus light up in a spectacular burst of orange daylight which punched holes through the inside of the windshield and blew most of No Nuts upper half out through the driver’s window onto the snow.

  Big Tony hit the headlights and drove to the front of the house. “Get in,” he yelled. The sky behind him alive with red and blue flashes of light.

  I ran to the van and dove into the passenger side.

  “What about Doyle?”

  Big Tony looked at me and said Doyle was a big boy, he’d find a way out.

  I told him I heard gunshots.

  “Yeah, I heard ‘em too.”

  He turned the van around and left the street the way we’d come as the first cop raced passed us.

  Big Tony turned the scanner up as loud as it would go, told me soon as I’d gotten out of the van they’d broadcasted the call.

  “Damn that was quick. Too quick.” It sounded to me like they were already on their way. We could see another set of lights coming toward us and I watched Big Tony tap his finger on the wheel. He looked over, asked me what I thought we should do?

  “I think you need to get the fuck outta St. Louis. Go to Florida or somethin’.”

  “Vegas,” he corrected me. “I’m goin’ to Vegas.”

  I nodded. “That’s right. Go to Vegas then. Spread the money around. Live a long life. Try not to blow it all on coke.”

  The second cop screamed by us, sirens screeching and lights blinding us as we drove headfirst into freezing rain.

  “What about you, Valentine?”

  I shrugged, told him I couldn’t leave anytime soon. I’d wait and see how things turned out. The more shit that went wrong, the less I cared about the money.

  He said he understood, and I should feel free to give him my share if I decided not to keep it. Big Tony said he was leaving tonight, said Doyle was too.

  I asked him if they’d keep in touch.

  “Yeah sure,” he said. “He’s got an aunt down in West Palm Beach, so I’ll know where to find him.”

  “Well, you know where to find me too.”

  He nodded, said “What’re you gonna tell the Chief?”

  I told him I didn’t know. Maybe I’ll just tell him the truth. I used my connections and I got too close. They tried to shut me down then I guess somebody shut them down.

  He told me he wanted me to drop him off at his Lincoln.

  “That’s fine. What about Doyle’s van?”

  “Just leave it at the Queen.” He shrugged. “Doyle’ll figure it out.”

  We came to a parking lot where the Town Car was sitting in a corner, covered in a thick swathe of ice. I told Big Tony take care. I’d see him when I’d see him.

  “You too, Valentine. Take care of yourself. Try not to drink so much, ya prick.”

  I responded in the same manner I always did when my drinking came into question. I smiled, and my thoughts turned to fresh liquor.

  I drove the van straight to my place, figured the Vic was fine where it was. I could get it in the morning. Wouldn’t be long before the sun’d be coming up.

  •••••

  Amish Ron was parked in front of my office so I parked around back in the alley. I had a long morning ahead of me and didn’t know how things would go with Ron.

  I locked up the van and walked a block or two up the street. It was bitter; I could feel ice pellets coming down. I turned the corner and walked back down to my place. When I got close enough I tapped on the hood of the Impala. Ron jumped hard and the door opened quickly.

  “There you are, goddammit! Where the hell you been? There’s cops lookin’ for you, have been all night. I’m just here to give you the common courtesy to turn yourself in.”

  I told Ron to calm down. Said he’d better check himself before he wrecked himself.

  “Jesus Valentine, are you drunk?”

  “Not near enough,” I informed him.

  Ron looked around like he couldn’t believe we were having this conversation.

  “Do you know how much trouble you’re in, Nick?”

  I asked him what the hell he was talking about. Told him I hadn’t done anything wrong. I’d just had my home invaded, gotten my ass beat, watched my dog become an amputee, and shot a man in the face. I decided I’d have a drink.

  Amish Ron stared me down and worked me over with his mind. He’d been watching my features, studying my expressions and cross-referencing them with the mannerisms he’d observed over the last couple of days.

  “So, you don’t know anything about the dead bodies in a house at the corner of Davidson and Whitmer?”

  I squinted, thought hard. I said I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I could see I hadn’t sold him yet.

  “Listen, you can ask around. I had a few drinks. Then my guy showed up with something that should interest you greatly.”

  “A few drinks?” It was always the little things with Ron.

  “Yes, a few. Like ten. Ten is a few to me.”

  The Amishman was dumbfounded. He scowled and said he didn’t believe me.

  “You gonna stop breakin’ my balls or what?”

  “That depends on what you’ve got for me.”

  “How about a duffel bag full of money which I probably should have kept?”

  Ron was in the process of lighting up a smoke when he stopped. He looked at me disbelieving, rolled the cigarette between his fingers.

  “You’re shitting me, Valentine?”

  I assured him I was not. All I wanted was to get out of this cold. A drink would be nice.

  “Where’s the money?”

  “In the trunk of my Crown Victoria.” I told him where it was parked. Said I’d been drinking hard, trying to get over just shooting a man in my office. I passed out in the car. When I woke up, I decided the walk might do me good. Figured it was best I didn’t drive.

  “So you just left the money in the car?”

  “I wasn’t gonna carry it.”

  Ron told me that was great, he never doubted me for a second.

  I told him drive me back there and we could get it now. I said I didn’t want to be responsible for it any longer than I had to.

  We pulled out and Amish Ron put fire to one of those stinking Winston’s and it took everything I had not to karate chop him in the throat.

  “Put down that window you crazy bastard. I’m getting cancer over here.”

  He laughed and shook his head, but I heard the window slide down.

  The light drizzle became stronger and drove ice into the windshield.

  “Getting bad out,” Ron commented.

  I told him that was a pretty astute observation on his part; I asked him if he wanted me to drive.

  He said that was a bad idea, he had it under control.

  •••••

  We turned into the Queen of Hearts, desolate in the cruel morning light, and the Vic was sitting in the back by itself.

  Ron got out first and I followed him to the trunk. I put my key in the lock, popped it open and pointed to the bag.

  He shook his head, said he didn’t believe it.

  We transferred the bag from my trunk to his and he told me maybe it was for the best if I didn’t drive. He asked me to come with him to the house on Whitmer
Road. Maybe there was someone there I could identify.

  “It sounds like it could be the two that muscled you.”

  I knew I couldn’t argue so I told him to get a move on. The way he drove it’d be noon by the time we finally arrived.

  The Impala held the road as the ice fell hard and persistently, crashing into the hood and roof with razor-sharp monotony. I thought about the cash in the trunk, I was glad it was out of my hands. Money was useless if it suffocated you with the crushing weight of its history. This was money good men died for. Except that wasn’t exactly true. Everybody dead had it coming with the exception of Norman Russo. A banker who loved his house, but confided to the wrong set of ears.

  Then there was Frank Sinatra, the real victim in all of this. The greatest crime he ever committed was shitting on the passenger seat of the Vic and I’d forgiven him for that weeks ago.

  “What’d you do with the shotgun, Nick?”

  That damn Amishman was always trying to jam me up.

  “Huh?” I did my best to avoid his questions and led him to believe I was drunker than I was.

  “You said you shot What’s His Nuts with a shotgun. I didn’t see it in your office and I didn’t see it in your car.”

  I told him it was No Nuts, and those fuckers must’ve taken the shotgun. Said I hadn’t really thought about it until now.

  “You look like you took a pretty good beating. Hope you’s able to give some back.”

  “I did my best. He’s got a broken hand and a busted nose. That much I remember.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “The one I shot?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s fucked.”

  “That’s what shotguns do.” Amish Ron took a hand off the wheel and shook another cigarette loose from the pack. If he failed to achieve a spot on the bomb squad, I was convinced he had a promising future in competitive chain-smoking. With his background and strong work ethic, Amish Ron would be a genuine contender at the World Championship of Smoking.

  •••••

  “One of the bodies is outside,” Ron said. “This crime scene’ll be fucked up.”

  “You know what happened?”

  “We found a black Lexus in the neighbor’s driveway.”

  He looked over at me, asked me what kind of car I’d shot at.

  “Something big and powerful. It was black, but it was all beat to shit.”

  Amish Ron smiled. “That’s it. It was in a hit-and-run earlier today. Now there’s a dead body in the passenger side.”

  I told Ron I hoped it was the crew from my office, but I guessed we’d know soon enough.

  Ron said making an ID might be kind of hard. Most of his head and neck were plastered to the inside of the car; the rest was blown out into the yard. Amish Ron said killing a man like that sounded personal.

  I told Ron killing a man was always personal.

  Ron nodded and changed the subject.

  “What about the money?”

  I’d been waiting for him to bring that up. I guess it was the cop in him, always trying to pitch me a curve ball.

  I shook my head. “My source is confidential.”

  Ron turned onto the road and I could see flashing lights. Camera crews were already setting up.

  “Chief’s going to wanna talk to you.”

  I said I had to talk to him too. All of these ghosts and demons from the past were coming out and needed to be put down hard.

  The end of the road was roped off and a cop on each side lifted the yellow police tape to let the car pass. There were lights connected to generators and a vast blue tent erected over the Lexus, covering the neighbor’s driveway and most of the stripper’s front yard. More yellow police tape surrounded the property. Ron shut the car off, asked me if I was ready.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I said. I told him I was starving and he promised me breakfast at Rosebud’s when we were done, an idea that appealed to me.

  We ducked under police tape and I nodded to Cameron Worthy. He was wrapped in a stocking cap and scarf, adjusting his camera. I nodded and he looked at me with surprise.

  “We gotta quit meeting like this.”

  “No shit, Valentine. You back on the force or what?”

  I shrugged and shoved my hands deep into my pockets, wished I had gloves. I told him I was just helping out. Said I didn’t think the force was ready to have me back just yet.

  Cameron nodded. He asked me if I’d been inside.

  “Huh uh, just got here. You?”

  “Yeah, pretty grisly. Probably not as bad as this guy though.” He nodded at the Lexus. Cameron told me they found a sock in the floorboard filled with human teeth.

  I acted surprised but I wasn’t. No telling whose teeth those were.

  “What kind of asshole drives around with a sock full of teeth?” Cameron didn’t have an answer. But I did.

  “Hey, Nick,” I turned and Amish Ron waved me over.

  “What do you make of this?”

  The inside of the car was splattered with blood, bone, and hair.

  “It looks like death by shotgun.”

  “Probably buckshot,” somebody chipped in.

  I defied the urge to correct him, tell them it was actually the result a 3-inch turkey load.

  “Sumbitch is covered in duct tape.” Ron seemed legitimately amused.

  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 cra
shed 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.