Frank Sinatra in a Blender Read online

  “Tony, I think they got the money, man. Looks like it, anyway.”

  “Wha?” His mouth dropped open. Big Tony had almost forgotten about the money; hadn’t thought about it all morning.

  “I am not shitting you, man. Pretty sure I just saw it.”

  Big Tony sat down on the edge of his bed. He asked Doyle if he was serious.

  Doyle laughed. “Fuck yes I’m serious you cocksucker! Now get dressed and meet me downtown.”

  Doyle gave him the address. Told him about following Sid and No Nuts. He told him how he’d already been staking out Joe Parker’s building for a while now, how he’d planned on robbing him anyway.

  “I already got the whole layout of the Indigo, Tony. I got it all.”

  “I’m rich,” Big Tony said to himself. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

  “I’m rich!” Big Tony said again, louder this time. “We’re both rich, Doyle!”

  Doyle was grinning and switching lanes. His car slid around in the snow.

  “We ain’t rich yet so calm down, man. Get a hold of yourself and meet me at the club. I gotta stick with these guys. Call me back in an hour, we may roll today.”

  They both hung up and focused on managing their business.

  •••••

  I left Rosebud’s with strict intentions of not returning for at least a week. I followed Ron to Norman Russo’s house so he could check things out for himself. He asked me if that was all right with me.

  I told him it was. Said we had to start somewhere. Besides, he may as well have a look himself. I was interested to see if our theories aligned.

  We parked our cars and met at the end of the driveway. Ron looked over at the Vic.

  “Is that police issue? I’ve never seen a black one.”

  “Was,” I told him.

  “Really?”

  The Vic was blacker than a woodchuck’s asshole at midnight, with tinted windows and a chrome spotlight mounted to each mirror. It rumbled when you hit the key, courtesy of the foot-long glass packs that funneled the exhaust out through three-inch stainless steel pipes.

  Ron looked at me and paused, his way of letting me know he was about to ask me something I’d have to lie about.

  “Did’ya take the shotgun out?”

  I assured him I had, in fact, removed the shotgun. I didn’t tell him I replaced it with a 12-gauge short-barrel pump-action with a pistol grip. Or that I had a Stihl chainsaw in the trunk.

  We opened the front door using a key Ron had. Everything looked as it did the night before. We got to the steps and he began to shake his head. “He picked a bad place to hang himself,” he said. “What do you think?”

  “Couldn’t’ve picked a worse place if he’d tried.”

  Ron looked up at the ceiling and the walls. “We can agree on that.”

  He pulled a clear baggie from the inside of his suit jacket and handed it to me.

  “What do you make of this?”

  I told him I recognized it from the night before. It was that suicide note, written by someone with the grammar skills of a third-grader.

  He nodded. “Pretty obvious this isn’t his handwriting.”

  I dealt the Amishman exaggerated sarcasm. “You mean Norm didn’t write that note himself?”

  Ron shook his head. Said he couldn’t believe this shit. “Is anybody really that stupid?”

  Ron flipped through a notebook. “According to Mr. Russo’s attorney, he and his wife were fighting over the house, but that’s tough to swallow as a motive for suicide.”

  “He was already dead if you ask me. I think somebody broke his neck then tried to make it look like a hanging.” I could tell Ron agreed. “Not to mention only an asshole would try’n hang himself from a two-by-four and expect it to support his weight.”

  Ron walked down to the bottom of the stairs. “So we’re supposed to believe he hangs long enough to, what, choke? Then the rope breaks, or the board pulls loose, whatever happens first. And then his lifeless body just tumbles to the bottom step.”

  “That’s the evidence someone tried to manufacture, yes.”

  “Someone didn’t think this through.”

  I walked over to the fridge because you could tell a lot about a man from the contents of his refrigerator. I started looking through containers for money, knowing smart people keep their money in the fridge. That’s where I kept mine.

  I found a half-gallon of milk, the usual assortment of condiments, lunchmeat, half a bottle of wine. My eyes locked onto the wine bottle, and before I could stop myself I was pulling out the cork, letting the Chardonnay fill my mouth.

  I finished off the bottle, refilled it with tap water, and returned it to the fridge. I saw another bottle of wine on the top shelf over the sink.

  “Find anything up there, Nick?”

  “Uh, no. Not yet. Still looking, Ron.”

  The other bottle was an older Cabernet Sauvignon, by far my red wine of choice if I were selective. It looked really expensive and would never be missed, but sadly I noted it wouldn’t fit in the pocket of my trousers. I walked around to the sliding glass door and unlocked it. I knew I’d be coming right back to have another look around and could pick up that fine bottle when I did.

  Ron stomped up the stairs and looked around the kitchen.

  “You find anything?”

  “Looks like somebody just went shopping.” I pointed to the refrigerator. “Kind of an odd thing to do just before you kill yourself, dontchya think?”

  Ron shook his head, told me I was right. He peered into the empty trashcan, but the trash had already been collected by technicians and bagged for evidence .

  I stepped into the garage. It was spotless. There was a Harley-Davidson in the corner that looked like it had never been ridden, a full dresser with hard bags and screaming eagle pipes, a few tennis rackets hung on the wall, plus a rake and a snow shovel. Both clean and unused.

  I opened the door to a new Range Rover and hit the key. Only 11,468 miles and a full tank of gas.

  I rummaged through the console and found a money clip with six twenties and a few tens. I knew if those incompetent rookies would’ve checked the garage, they’d have bagged the money as evidence or stolen it like I was about to do. I slipped it in my pocket and the metal was cold against my leg.

  I closed the door to find Ron standing behind me.

  “Find what you’re looking for?”

  Though startled, I didn’t miss a beat. “He had a full tank of gas. Looks like he filled up about thirty-one miles ago.”

  “A full tank, huh?”

  “A full tank,” I confirmed.

  “Okay,” Ron began, “So this guy, this banker, he gets off work, he buys groceries, tops off his tank, then he goes home and hangs himself above his stairs?”

  “And he ties the rope around a board so thin I could break the wood in half with my cock.”

  Amish Ron burst into spontaneous, unprompted laughter that echoed in the garage.

  When he stopped laughing, he told me this was now officially a homicide. Said they could use a guy like me back on the force.

  He didn’t mention the stolen money in my pocket.

  “One of these days,” I told him. But I thought about that wine in the fridge. I planned on coming back to pick that up as soon as I lost Amish Ron. I’d have another look around. I’d probably pay a visit to the shitter too. The remnants of last night’s ravenous suicide mission tumbled around violently in my guts.

  We walked back into the kitchen; Ron stopped and relocked the sliding door. He shook his head. “Fucking amateurs,” he said, referring to the cops from last night. The same cops who failed to process the garage with any real degree of professionalism.

  No wonder the Chief was always calling me.

  I followed Amish Ron back out the front door, teeth clenched in frustration. Ron was a happy-go-lucky rocket scientist with the curiosity of a five-year-old and uncanny powers of observation, second only to my own.

&
nbsp; “I’m headin’ back to the station, Nick.”

  I told him I had to run back to my office and take care of Frank, said I’d meet up with him later. I jumped in the Vic before he could protest.

  •••••

  Big Tony pulled out of Cowboy Roy’s with Doyle in the passenger seat telling him what he knew. Said he’d followed English Sid and that other idiot back to the Indigo Building but they pulled into the parking garage and blocked his view. By the time Doyle got out of the car, Sid’s Lexus was pulling back out.

  Doyle ran back to his car and chased them down, followed them to Mr. Parker’s construction business. He watched them get out of the Lexus and go inside, but they never took the bag from the trunk.

  “What’re you sayin’?” Big Tony asked.

  “I’m sayin’ I think the bag’s in Parker’s condo.”

  “You think?”

  Doyle said it was either that or it was still in the trunk of the Lexus.

  Big Tony hit a red light and came to a stop; the tires on the Lincoln locked up and slid for about a foot.

  “So I guess we’re goin’ to the Indigo?”

  “We’re goin’ to the van first, then I’m goin’ to the Indigo. I don’t need you gettin’ in the way and stopping’ every five minutes to do coke.”

  Big Tony licked his lips. He was already thinking about it. If only he could persuade Doyle to chop him out a line while he manhandled the Town Car through this slush. He’d stopped at his dealers and got an eight ball of premium cocaine. Way beyond his price range for three-and-a-half grams under normal circumstances, but in light of recent events he felt the need to indulge in something exceptional.

  Doyle rolled his eyes when Big Tony started dicking with the radio.

  “Go!” Doyle yelled, when the light turned green.

  He made a right and found a station with some talk radio. The disc jockey was counseling a caller who had issues with his father. He told the D.J. his father never loved him because he always gave him poor advice.

  “This guy’s a peckerhead,” Doyle said.

  “Fucking crybaby,” Big Tony added.

  They listened in silence until the first commercial break, then Big Tony turned it down.

  “Your old man pretty good with advice?”

  Doyle chuckled. “Fuck no. He was either locked down or he was drunk.” Doyle paused and reflected. He hadn’t thought about his old man in a long time. “Either way, he wasn’t big on advice as I recall.”

  “So you feel like this guy on the radio?”

  Doyle laughed, told him this guy was an asshole. He looked out the window and cracked his knuckles as Big Tony surfed through the stations yet again.

  Doyle had a good chuckle, more to himself than anything. “I think I can only remember that son-of-a-bitch givin’ me one bit of advice before he died.”

  Big Tony looked over at Doyle. “Yeah, what was that?”

  “Never wear sweatpants to a strip club.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “That’s the best advice your old man ever gave you?”

  Doyle shrugged. “That’s it.”

  The fat man behind the wheel began to laugh.

  Doyle looked over from the passenger seat. “What?”

  “That’s just funny, is all.”

  “Yeah, well what’s the best advice your old man ever gave you?”

  “Only advice he ever give me was with his belt.”

  “Yeah, but that makes sense about the sweat pants if you think about it.” Doyle reached over and turned off the radio when Rush Limbaugh came on. “I hate that asshole.”

  “He’s okay,” Big Tony countered.

  They drove in silence for a couple of minutes until they hit traffic. They were stopped next to road construction and the guy on Doyle’s side was working a jackhammer. Doyle put his window up all the way and checked his stolen watch.

  “We got plenty of time,” Big Tony said.

  Doyle knew what time it was; he just didn’t want to be late, and didn’t want to end up listening to Rush the whole time.

  They found the parking garage with no problems. Big Tony parked next to the van at the end of the aisle and Doyle stepped out.

  “You stay close, case I need ya.”

  Big Tony said he would, he let his foot off the brake and the car started to roll.

  “Good luck,” he yelled, as Doyle slammed the car door, then unlocked the driver’s side door of the van.

  He climbed into the seat then turned and made a quick inventory of his equipment. Everything he needed was in an oversize hockey bag. A high-speed drill, two sledgehammers, chisels, hacksaws, an oxyacetylene torch, asbestos gloves, and a portable hydraulic jack. Doyle was prepared. When it came to a job he left nothing to chance.

  He let the van warm up in the garage as he studied the floor plan to the building. The floor plan he was clever enough to procure a month ago. Getting it was the easy part. He found a unit for sale then went to the real estate agent as the concerned son of a perspective buyer.

  “I’m looking for something for my parents, you see. Getting up there in years you know. How’s the Security?”

  It worked, like it always did, and they gave him all the information he required, including the floor plan.

  Doyle left the garage and fell in with the bulky, concentrated flow of the traffic as he made his way to the heart of the Central West End. He passed the Tivoli Theater, then Meshuggah Coffee House on his left. He sat for a minute in front of the Delmar Lounge while a group of girls in bright-colored jackets sloshed across the street in the snow, their matching scarves blowing in the wind. He made a few turns, then pulled into the parking garage of the Indigo building.

  •••••

  I got back to my office just before the sun went down. It was colder than a well digger’s ass in January and I drove like a maniac considering the road conditions. Amish Ron fucked me good when he noticed that back door unlocked. I’d planned on returning within minutes and doing a much more comprehensive search. Right after I drank that Cabernet Sauvignon and took a shit in Norm Russo’s toilet.

  I climbed the stairs two at a time with a respectable stride that even Frank would’ve envied. I slammed my key in the lock, hit the handle, and kicked the bottom of the door open with my foot.

  Frank was sleeping in my office chair when I burst across the room, stumbled over a basket of dirty clothes, and knocked a box over. Frank started barking when everything spilled out onto the floor, but he directed his anger specifically at an oversized yellow plastic blender that bounced across the tile.

  “Rarp, rarp, arp!”

  I kicked the bathroom door so hard the wood popped and splintered at the top around the antique hinge. My pants hit the floor and my ass made contact with the seat without a moment to spare. As much as I’d enjoyed those White Castle sliders, I knew sooner or later I was bound to pay the price for the renegade behavior I’d so irresponsibly demonstrated the night before.

  Relentless, Frank barked the whole time I was in the bathroom.

  “Okay,” I yelled as I walked from the john. “What the hell’s your problem, Frank?”

  He danced around in front of the door. Then he raced to the blender and barked. He took turns doing that over and over while I buttoned up my pants and drew my belt tight.

  When I asked him if he had to go, Frank got excited. He snorted several times, turned two complete circles, then did a burnout across the tile and bounced off the door.

  I told him I’d be right with him. I had to collect my thoughts after such a brutal, unforgiving shit. Never again, I swore. I hoped White Castle burned to the ground.

  Frank was going crazy. Barking and turning circles. Scratching the hell out of the bottom six inches of the back of my door.

  “I’m coming.” I picked Frank up and carried him down to the alley, where I was confident he’d piss on as many things as he possibly could as long as it didn’t involve
stepping in snow.

  When we reached the sidewalk Frank didn’t disappoint me. He made it only two feet before he pissed on the welcome mat. Then he hiked his leg on a McDonald’s cup. He looked around curiously. Sniffed and snorted. He ran over to a concrete step and moved his bowels underneath a faded green campaign sign that was still stuck in the ground a year and a half after the election.

  He finished up with a world-record eight more pisses then he ran the Firecracker 500 up the stairs and waited for me by the door. When I got upstairs, I walked to my desk and grabbed a bottle of Southern Comfort, mixed a splash with some orange juice. I needed a few more So Co’s to get my head in the game. I rummaged through the junk drawer on my desk and found a Vicodin that looked tempting. I dropped it down the hatch and watched Frank chew on his ass while the Chairman of the Board sang quietly in the background. Outside the frost-glazed window snow flurries did ballet in the arctic winter air.

  •••••

  Doyle rolled into the parking garage in the van that said Naramore Locksmith Co. and parked by the elevator. He set a few orange cones outside the van. If there was one thing he’d learned in the thieving business, the most important tools you could ever have on a job were orange cones. People accepted orange cones, never questioned them. Placing them around a commercial van parked in a handicap slot added just the right touch of legitimacy.

  He removed the hockey bag with effort and slung the strap over his shoulder. He moved toward the elevator with a wig covering most of the right side of his face, the side the security camera would film. He held a handkerchief in his right hand and used it to push buttons and open doors. Doyle dropped the bag onto the floor to give his shoulder a rest as the elevator began going up.

  Once Doyle decided to hit Mr. Parker, he did what he always did. He wrote a letter to the lock firm on letterhead that he printed up, and they pretty much gave him anything he asked for. In this case: the master keys. Doyle had everything he needed for the job; he’d planned it meticulously; he’d left nothing to chance.

  When the elevator opened, he stepped into the lavish hallway of the Indigo and walked carefully to Apartment 202. He knocked loudly to be sure no one was home before he slid his master key into the lock. From previous surveillance, he already knew there was a dead bolt, but he wasn’t worried.