Frank Sinatra in a Blender Read online

  Everybody had a deadbolt, but nobody used it.

  He heard the tumblers move, and click. He suddenly found himself inside the living room and he closed the door slowly, quietly. Then he got that funny taste in his mouth, the taste only a home invader would know and appreciate. Short of spending an evening inside one of Cowboy Roy’s girls, it was the greatest moment he would ever know.

  Doyle made a visual inspection of the apartment to guarantee he was alone. Once Doyle was satisfied, he set his bag on the kitchen table, walked quickly to the bedroom. He found several pair of earrings on the nightstand, then a necklace. He dropped them in a little pilfer bag he wore around his waist, along with several rings. Next he pulled open the wife’s top dresser drawer and found some more loose jewelry, lipstick, and perhaps the best find of all, a gigantic purple dildo. It had a face at one end and a little set of feet at the other. He dropped that in the bag for laughs.

  More jewels in the bathroom and a damn expensive watch. Doyle picked up a choice pair of cufflinks as well, then made his way to the closet. That’s where the safe was. That’s always where the safe was.

  Except this time it wasn’t.

  Doyle’d spent a lot of time studying the floor plan to the unit so he found the safe in the bathroom on his second guess. Before he went to retrieve his bag from the kitchen he checked the door, just in case. Sometimes the kind of people who installed deadbolts and didn’t use them were the same kind of people who didn’t lock their safe. The Parker’s were lazy and complacent. The door came open with a click.

  Doyle swallowed hard, his palms sweating through his gloves.

  He pulled the big door open to find papers, envelopes, folders, and loose cash. Maybe five, six thousand. Fuck! He started thinking. The bag was too big to fit in the safe anyway. He’d been so consumed by the thought of breaking in the Indigo and walking out with the money he failed to consider the raw facts.

  It was always the little things that could make or break a job.

  Doyle closed the door without taking any money. He couldn’t risk tipping their hand. He couldn’t risk Parker knowing they were onto him. His stopwatch beeped, he was running out of time. Doyle sprinted back to the bedroom, started putting things back. Suddenly everything felt wrong and his cheeks were burning. Instinct told him to run, but where was the money?

  He only lost sight of them for a few minutes. How many minutes? Ten? Fifteen?

  Doyle started looking around the room. Under the bed, behind closed doors. It must be in the trunk of the car. He called Big Tony, but he got no answer.

  Doyle walked back to the living room and thought. He paced, he went over everything in his head and then suddenly the pieces clicked together like math. If he were the Englishman, he’d keep the money.

  Suddenly Doyle knew. Those fucks decided to keep it for themselves. He thought about the scene from Montgomery’s. He’d seen them find the money and they’d been surprised. It was still early, the police weren’t saying much. Parker didn’t know the heist had gone down, assumed the deal was dead.

  So the Englishman killed the tweaker without realizing he had the money in the trunk of his car.

  The top of Doyle’s cheeks dimpled with a mischievous smirk. He could feel electric intensity humming in the air. They stashed the money at the Indigo for the time being. One of them, the Englishman probably, had a key. They hid it there because it was close and because if Mr. Parker got wise, they could play it straight. Doyle had to think really fast. Sid would return just as soon as he knew it was clear and he’d take the money. Then he, that short fuck, and the money were gone for good. And Mr. Parker wouldn’t get a dime.

  Doyle walked to the door, turned around. He figured the Englishman popped the trunk; the other guy took the bag to the room. His brain thought hard and fast, processing the information.

  He walked down the hall, checking doors. He came to a big closet on the left, pushed it open and saw the duffel bag which had been pitched on the carpet and knocked over a plastic mop bucket. Suddenly everything became real and he was forced to change his plan. Doyle ran back to the other room to get his tools.

  •••••

  Big Tony sat behind the donut shop and did a rail of cocaine off his glass mirror that read Cowboy Roy’s Fantasyland across the top. The tinted windows of the Lincoln concealed his identity well as he chopped up lines from an impressive pile of superior blow.

  He snorted a broad fluffy line up the right nostril and basked in the immediate tranquility cocaine offered. A quick shot of lightning slammed his forehead and he squeezed the wheel with both hands.

  He parked next to the dumpster and watched the gray winter sky through the sunroof, listened to the wind click the frozen branches together like bones. Big Tony did a lot of coke behind that donut shop. Mr. Feeler, the owner, was into him for a little money, so when Big Tony parked behind his shop Feeler knew better than to harass him.

  In the summer he’d listen to the Little League games being played on the other side of the vine-covered fence. He’d hear the unmistakable sound of a baseball ricocheting off a bat. Birds would sing, he’d look up into the sky and watch clouds pass above him like swollen ghosts.

  Somebody banged on the window hard and fast, wrenching Big Tony out of springtime. When he did, his mirror crashed to the floorboard and broke.

  He drove his fist into the steering wheel when he realized it was it was Joey Feeler, that short, goofy fuck who managed the donut shop for his old man.

  When Big Tony threw the door open it hit Joey in the nuts and he folded like a cheap paper cup.

  He dropped the white paper sack he was carrying on the pavement.

  “You fuck!” Big Tony grabbed him by the throat and shoved him to the ground. He stomped Joey’s head with his dress shoe, kicked him in the face. Joey interrupted his quiet time. But worse, he caused him to dump a small mountain of top shelf cocaine on the floormat. Not to mention the devastating, irrevocable trauma of breaking his favorite mirror. The one that advertised his favorite strip club.

  Now it just said Cowboy Roy’s Fan.

  He took a step back and saw the bag full of donuts that Joey’d been generous enough to bring him laying on the ground. The bearclaw looked fresh.

  Joey was rolling back and forth, howling and bleeding.

  “Awe, fuck.” Big Tony wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. He looked down at the poor bastard lying on the blacktop; he glanced over at the pastries. He thought about the cocaine. He thought about the bearclaw.

  Big Tony threw a handful of cash onto the little guys’ chest and told him to go clean himself up for Christ’s sake. Then he scooped up the bag and eased back into the Lincoln. He left the alley with a broken mirror, half a bearclaw, and a floormat full of cocaine. And not just any run-of-the-mill cocaine, but blue-flake cocaine straight from Columbia. Premium Grade A Shit, and he couldn’t just let it sit there on the floormat, mixed in with the winter grit.

  He was about to thrust his finger down into the pile when a patrol car rolled up behind him. Big Tony began to sweat but he stayed in character. He had to use caution, so he kept the car where it was and played it cool.

  He watched his speed, tried to think about something else. He wasn’t too worried about the Lincoln, either. It was pretty clean as far as stolen cars went. Except for the gun between the seats. And the cocaine.

  Big Tony checked the right lane and hit his blinker. When he got over, he let off the gas and the cop passed. The officer gave a transitory glance in his direction as Big Tony nodded. It took a while before he could relax. He needed to take the edge off. Maybe he had enough time to hit Cowboy Roy’s and see his girls. Maybe he could find a new mirror.

  •••••

  Joe Parker was already having a bad day and having to run by the Indigo to pick up something his wife forgot only made things worse. He couldn’t believe a piece of paper was causing him so much difficulty.

  He needed the bill-of-sale for a tru
ck he was unloading; only he’d forgotten it at home. He called his wife, Cathy from the pay phone on the corner of 6th and Williams, the phone he always used for business, and she promised to bring it with her when she left. But then Cathy forgot it too.

  He yelled into the other room, told Sid he had a job for him.

  Sid entered the office eagerly; he was looking for an excuse to leave.

  “What do you need, Mr. Parker?”

  “You guys take care of that situation?” Parker liked to articulate everything in code. He didn’t trust anyone, so he never came out and said anything criminal. He’d just hint around.

  “Yeah, well we tried, but we had kind of a problem. Seems old No Nuts over here lost the keys.”

  Mr. Parker turned a burnt orange around his cheeks and neck. Said, “Goddammit No Nuts, you short, fat fuck! What do I even pay you far anyway?”

  Johnny looked at Sid for help, he took a step back.

  “Hey boss, we didn’t know. And we ain’t even sure I’m the one lost ‘em anyhow.”

  Sid turned his head to the side. “Well, you apologized for losin’ ‘em, Johnny, didn’t you?”

  “No, I wasn’t sorry that I lost ‘em, I was just sorry you couldn’t find ‘em, is all. There’s a difference, trust me.”

  No one spoke for a second or two. Sid told No Nuts, “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Just shut the fuck up!” Mr. Parker shouted. “Both’a you cocksuckers. Who gives a fuck? Johnny, it’s your fault. It’s always your fault.”

  Johnny stuck his wounded chest out. “Oh, it’s always my fault, huh? Oh, okay. That’s fine. Guess it’s all my fault then.”

  “Everything’s your fault, No Nuts.” Mr. Parker said.

  He thought for a few minutes, said, “Fuck ‘em then. We’ll just forget about this whole fucking mess then. Leave the car at Montgomery’s.”

  He looked at Sid, but paused before he spoke. “So, there’s nothing to talk about?” His way of asking Sid if Telly’d been tortured for information, murdered, cut into eight individual pieces, and properly disposed of in various sections of the Mississippi, Missouri, and Meramec rivers.

  “Nothing at all to talk about.” Sid’s way of confirming everything had been taken care of and there was no sign of the money.

  “So there’s nothing, at all, to talk about?” He wanted to make damn sure there was absolutely no chance Telly had the money.

  Sid shook his head from side to side. He said it was a shame about Bruiser.

  Mr. Parker dismissed his comment as if he hadn’t heard, but Joe Parker’s eyes were sharp chips of cobalt that missed nothing. Sid watched the lines come together under his dull brown complexion, baked and tanned from years in the sun. His hairline was failing him slightly and his chin drew together weakly, but he was as formidable an opponent as any.

  “Okay then. I need you to run by my pace, get somethin’ off the table. You still have your key, right?”

  “Of course I do.” Sid patted the outside of his pocket.

  “Well, run by the Indigo and grab that bill-of-sale off the table.”

  Sid raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

  “It’s for that Chevy half ton from South County,” Parker said.

  Sid nodded and rubbed the stubble on his face as if he were thinking of something brilliant to say.

  “I can do that, Mr. Parker,” he replied. “Should I take No Nuts here with me?” No Nuts started to object but Mr. Parker beat him to it.

  “Fuck yes,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll rob me blind, you limey bastard.”

  Sid shrugged and left the office. No Nuts followed him out to the car.

  “Thanks a lot, asshole,” No Nuts said.

  “Hey, I had to make it look good didn’t I?”

  “Fuck that asshole.”

  “Yeah, fuck that asshole is right, Johnny.”

  They pulled out of the parking lot and Sid turned on his heated seat. It was a bitter wintry day with dark skies and solid wind. It was a good thing he was moving to Florida tonight, No Nuts thought.

  “I know we ain’t had much time to talk about this, but you’re sure you wanna do this, right?”

  “What?” Johnny said. “Keep the money? Fuck yes I wanna keep the money. Fuck Parker, you hear how that son-of-a-bitch talked to me back there, Sid?”

  “Yeah, I heard him.”

  Sid had an apartment in the city with a lot of nice furniture and a wardrobe straight out of Calvin Klein, but he didn’t give a shit about any of that. He only needed a few things then he was free to go. Sid traveled light. No wife, no girlfriend worth remembering, just rumors of a daughter back in Manchester.

  No Nuts had an ex-wife and three kids. It didn’t take an IQ of 178 to know he was going to fuck everything up for himself if they kept the money. But that wasn’t Sid’s problem.

  Sirens came up from behind them and No Nuts jumped.

  “Calm down mate, it’s a fire truck.”

  They both gave an uneasy snicker.

  They pulled over to wait for the fire truck to pass and No Nuts concentrated on the windshield wipers. Back and forth in their programmed rhythm. No Nuts asked Sid where he was going to run to.

  Sid looked over, “Maybe we shouldn’t tell each other.” He shrugged, No Nuts nodded. Probably for the best.

  Using the steering wheel controls, Sid turned the volume up suddenly when he heard something about the credit union. It was a news flash on 105.7 The Point. They announced the name of the man killed in the hold up, but neither Sid nor No Nuts recognized him.

  “What was Bruiser’s real name?”

  “Hell if I know,” No Nuts said. “Wasn’t he Italian?”

  “He thought he was.”

  Sid pulled back onto the road and the big car threw mush all over the side.

  No Nuts was nervous and Sid could tell.

  “So where you gonna go, Johnny?”

  “I thought we wasn’t gonna tell?”

  “Fuck it. What’s it gonna hurt?”

  No Nuts looked over at Sid. “I was thinkin’ Florida. Ever been there?”

  Sid’s knuckles flashed with heat as he gripped the wheel. What were the odds of that? He couldn’t let No Nuts go to Florida. He was going to Florida.

  “Ah, you don’t wanna go there, mate. That I can tell you.”

  Johnny looked puzzled.

  Sid had to act quickly. “Remember Stevie Bruce? Everybody called him Junior?”

  No Nuts was searching. He raised his hand, tilted a little from side to side. Said, “Kind of.”

  “Well, Steve Jr. was about to get pinched so he hightailed it down to Panama Beach in Florida. You remember that, right?”

  Johnny didn’t remember. “What the fuck’re you talkin’ about Sid?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Johnny. I’m trying to tell you a story that might save your life. Now pay attention why dontchya.”

  No Nuts raised his shoulders and turned his palms up. “Jesus, calm down already. I hear what yer sayin’.”

  Sid needed to cool off. He cracked the window; it was getting tough to breathe. The Lexus was a steel crockpot and he was slow-cooking in his heated leather chair. Sid turned down the heat controls on his seat to low. He turned Johnny’s up to high.

  “So this guy, Steve Jr., he steals some money and gets caught. Makes a deal to save his ass, all he has to do is testify against the guy set this whole thing up.”

  “What thing, Sid? You lost me with this.”

  Sid was losing patience. “The point is, Johnny,” he growled, “The point is, fucking don’t go to Florida. They’ll find you, just like they found Steve Jr. And they’ll cut your dick off like they did his.”

  “They cut his dick off?”

  Sid told him they did. Wasn’t that long ago he saw something like that on the telly.

  The Lexus made a right in front of the Indigo, waited for a snowplow to turn around, then they pulled into the parking garage. Sid turned the car off with the w
ipers in mid-wipe. Things couldn’t have worked out better.

  “We take the bag with us, Johnny. We’ll keep it in the car until the end of the day, then we split it up and we go our separate ways. But not to Florida.”

  Johnny said he could live with that.

  •••••

  Doyle pulled package after package of cash from the duffel bag and stuffed it in the hockey bag. The bills were in stacks of $10s, $20s, $50s, and $100s. They were wrapped individually in color-coded bands. He couldn’t believe no dye packs managed to find their way into the bag. Doyle knew that once a dye pack exploded, it released an aerosol of red smoke and dye. The robbery becomes pointless and the unlucky bastard usually tossed the bag to the ground. But this time it didn’t happen, which surprised Doyle.

  When the hockey bag was full of money, Doyle manhandled the oxyacetylene torch from one bag to the other; he shoved his portable hydraulic jack beside it. Along with both the sledgehammers, two hacksaws, a fifty-foot extension cord, a ballpeen hammer, a pair of asbestos gloves, a welder’s helmet, a chain, and a come-along winch.

  The hockey bag was just as heavy as before; he struggled to carry it back toward the front door.

  He turned to take one last look at the room; he wanted to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Then remembered the loose cash back in the safe, plus the overpowering allure of that watch. He set the duffel bag on the floor and made a run for the safe. He decided to take what he could before he left.

  Doyle returned to the living room with the jewelry, the cufflinks, the watch, and the dildo. As he stuffed the goods into his pilfer bag he heard the unmistakable voice of that English cocksucker on the other side of the door talking to a guy he’d called No Nuts.

  •••••

  Johnny was already telling Sid he was hungry when they stepped from the elevator. They rounded the corner and Sid told him, “Well, we should go through his bloody fridge. I’ll let you make me a sandwich while yer at it.”

  No Nuts laughed. “Yeah, maybe just this once.”