“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.
We turned to leave and she told me I should come back sometime.
I stopped at the door, Frank under one arm, and smile. “You never know,” I said. “One of these days I just might surprise you.”
Then I walked toward the light that waited for me past the hospital doors and stepped into the brilliant morning sun.
I’d left the Vic running so the heat was good and strong when we sat down. I patted Frank’s little head and set him in the floorboard so he could lick clean what was left of Cowboy Roy’s chili.
While chili may not be the best post-operative snack, Frank was durable. We shared a bond that transcended the standard relationship of man and dog.
I thought of Frank as my wingman.
I asked him how he liked that chili.
Epilogue
Sunlight melted the snow in soft patches at the house on Whitmer Road.
Tree trimmers and electricians worked to cut down limbs and restore power to the houses damaged by the ice storm. A one-ton truck the color of rust lifted a worker in the air with a bucket to remove a branch from a downed power line.
He cut it free with his saw and it fell to the frozen street where his grounds man disposed of it. The wood chipper lurched brutally as the limbs fed through and belched out wads of splinters and ice. The sound of the powerful chipper mixed with the roar of chainsaws up and down the neighborhood streets blended to create a potent symphony with enough excitement to arouse even the most grizzled lumberjack.
Next to the empty house wrapped in police tape sat an overgrown lot with piled-up brush and a few trees that could just as soon be cut down as let grow. Voices shouting in the distance fought to be heard over heavy equipment.
Inside the garage a Ford Taurus rocked from side to side until the trunk finally popped open and creaked eerily in the stillness of the room. English Sid climbed out, making sounds of pain and discomfort.
He’d been curled up for twelve hours, maybe more. He didn’t have a watch; his phone was in the Lexus. After he plugged Doyle, he didn’t have time to run. He climbed into the trunk. Waited it out. He counted on the incompetence of the police department to overlook such an obvious detail as the car, which was fine.
I counted on that too.
He looked out through the windows in the top of the door then stumbled toward the chalk outline of Doyle’s body. He walked by the fridge and I stepped out of the darkness, struck him in the right ear with a pulverizing blow from the production end of a roofing hammer.
Sid went down to the floor and his head found concrete. Blood raced from his ear, ran into his eye, covering the white with a thin veneer that looked like juice from crushed cherries.
“That really looked like it hurt,” I told him.
I wedged the claw end of the hammer in his mouth and stood up, yanked him hard. I fishhooked the inside of his cheek, bent his teeth in, and forced him to choke on blood. His cheek ripped loose as I pulled him to the front of the Taurus and bound his hands securely.
If there was one thing I believed in firmly it was good-quality rope. When in the market for good rope, one must consider such characteristics as tensile strength and flexibility. You don’t want your subject to slip out of the knot you tied because you grabbed some cheap rope off the dollar shelf. Superior quality is what I demand in a binding rope, and a thorough knowledge of knots is an absolute must.
I rolled Sid on his back and tied him to the bumper. Blood poured from the wound, covering his face and neck like winding lines of a roadmap. Sid’s ear was deformed; a chunk of his cartilage protruded out in a twisted pink knot of flesh. I asked Sid if he could hear me.
“Remember me, asshole? I really hope you can hear me, you English prick.” I pushed him hard and his head moved. His left eye blinked, then rolled up under his eyebrow.
“Well, I’m afraid I’ve got some pretty bad news for you, Sid. It’s all pretty fucking bad actually. I’m not really sure where to start.” I rapped on the side of his head, his eye sprang open, but he couldn’t focus. He drifted in and out of various levels of awareness.
“Anyway, guess I’ll go head’n start with the worst news first. I want you to know I’m gonna cut your legs off with a chainsaw, Sid. Actually, it’s my Stihl.” I patted the little engine with my gloved hand and Sid’s leg moved forward, he mumbled pathetically.
“Ah, that’s a good sign! You can’t talk I guess, but at least you can understand what I’m saying. That’s excellent news.”
Sid continued to blink his eye but he couldn’t keep the blood out.
I stood up and walked the garage. I needed to stretch my legs after all that standing around, waiting for that prick to get out of the trunk.
I pulled my left glove off, lifted up my mask. “I gotta say, your ex-girlfriend had pretty good taste in liquor.” I took a gulp of something I’d concocted in Angie’s kitchen involving rum, tequila, and butterscotch schnapps. “That’s one hell of a thing you did, shooting her in the tit like that.” Sid groaned, tried to speak. “Is that any way to treat a lady?”
He was a savage. A brute devoid of compassion or remorse. Whatever he got he had coming.
I told Sid, “Y’know, there’s just something remotely fascinating about cutting off another man’s legs with a chainsaw. Especially if he’s still alive. No, you won’t like it much, but considering the circumstances, I feel like it’s something that must be done.” Sid tried to move. “All that’s required is a trusty saw, some good quality rope, and a little strong will.” I squatted down, looked him in the eyes. “I might also suggest a bottle of Percocet for the pain. Not for you of course, but for me. Operating a chainsaw is tough work and it can play hell on the lower back.”
Sid came to about as far as his destroyed eardrum would allow. I told him a wallop to the head like that could make a man strange for the rest of his days. Not that he had many of those left.
I went through a checklist in my head.
Chainsaw, check.
Good-quality rope, check.
Percocet, check.
•••••
I’d brought along on old cassette player that I placed on top of the fridge. My intentions were to set the mood with some background music, create a little ambiance. I stepped on Sid’s ankle with all my weight and rolled it back and forth against the concrete. I asked him how he felt about Old Blue Eyes?
Snow fell in small pieces, drifting off branches far above, as tree trimmers notched trees and dropped limbs. The wood chipper barked obnoxiously but kept chipping, chewing up trees and making sawdust that blew in the wind and landed on top of yesterday’s snow.
There’d be no one around to hear the chainsaw howl when I started it up and filled the garage with the intoxicating aroma of 2-stroke smoke.
For a brief period I worked as a chainsaw salesman so I knew my way around a saw pretty well.
I explained to Sid that he wasn’t going to like this part very much, but I assured him he’d brought it upon himself by being such an asshole. I told him soon he’d be joining his pal No Nuts.
“Oh, that’s right, you probably didn’t know. I blew his head off with a shotgun earlier. Twice today actually, if you count the first time.”
Sid tried to grin, tried to speak. He gagged and spit blood, said Johnny was dead already.
I shrugged, said maybe he had a point. “But still,” I said. “We coulda worked together, split the money. But no, you sons-of-bitches had to start chopping people up and filling their socks with teeth.”
Sid drew a hard breath and held his right eye open long enough for blood to run down his chin, then fall onto his chest and disappear down his shirt.
“Don’t even think about begging.”
He nodded slowly like he understood. Drove his eyebrows together hard.
“I’m gonna walk you through this, Sid.” And I
began a step-by-step tutorial of how I’d go about dismembering him. I used my practiced narrative, which was more than he deserved, but it took me back to my salesman days.
“You see, a chainsaw cuts best when it’s operated at full throttle. And it’s always in good form to bring the bar in straight and even. If you cut using the top of the guide bar, it’s important to exercise caution because the chain tries to push the saw back towards you, and failing to utilize proper form could result in a kickback.”
I told Sid nobody likes a kickback.
I continued the lesson. “If you use the bottom of the guide bar to cut, the saw pulls itself toward the muscle and bone, and the front edge of the saw provides a natural rest while cutting. This action gives the operator better control of the saw and is generally the preferred method among lumberjacks and arborists alike.”
Sid began to mumble. He was finally beginning to realize the full potential of this sales pitch. I told Sid it was time to get to it and I hoped there was a special place in Hell for assholes like him that used other people’s heads as ashtrays.
Using my right thumb, I slid the on/off switch down into the choke position and engaged both the Throttle Trigger and the Throttle Interlock Release. I gave the saw a good shake, yanked the cord. I gave the Stihl another pull and this time the carburetor quickly filled with gas as the choke did its job. It almost turned over.
Sid tried to kick, but I’d anticipated such uncooperative behavior and secured his feet to the end of an old wooden bench with rope.
I hit play on the radio and waited for the big band to fire up those magnificent brass instruments and come to life. The chainsaw clutched in my firm uncompromising grip, the pull cord dangling, teeth waiting to chew flesh and marrow. Frank Sinatra started belting out New York, New York in that forceful, authoritative voice that commanded respect.
I sang along with the Chairman of the Board as the Stihl roared to life on the third pull.
“Start spreading the news. . .” I dropped the splatter shield on my facemask and pushed the MS 270 Wood Boss into the tender meat of Sid Godwin’s left quadriceps. The wood Boss sank further into the muscle and a gleaming flash of red colored my shield in quick random bursts as I sawed through an artery and the bottom of the chain bit into the outside of his femur.
Frank Sinatra in a Blender Page 18
