Frank Sinatra in a Blender

by McBride, Matthew;Bruen, Ken

  “That’s good shit! Oh that’s good shit. Good shit!” Telly mumbled after that. His mind traveled to random and euphoric destinations now that his thoughts were free to meander where they wanted. He started thinking about the deck he’d build on the back of a house he drove by every day and always wished he owned. If only he had the money to buy that house. And if he ever did buy that house, he knew exactly how he’d be attaching that back deck. Or maybe it already had a deck.

  He was tempted to drop everything and drive there right now, just to look.

  If he just had that house, then he could build that deck. People’d come over for a get-together—BBQ, beer, horseshoes, swimming pool—all in the backyard of a house he knew, somehow, some way, he would own one day.

  God he loved meth. It was enlightening and flawless. It took just one line to make every thought feel right inside his head.

  He really wanted to see that backyard. He needed to know if it already had a back deck. If so, he’d be forced to reevaluate his entire line of irrational thinking.

  The sound of the scanner jarred him out of his head. Cops were on their way. Somebody must’ve hit the alarm.

  “The call went out, the call went out!” He yelled into the walkie-talkie.

  The only response he got back was static and crackle. Gunshots followed.

  “Fuck!”

  Telly banged the side of his fist on the console but he was careful not to spill any meth. Even in a state of panic, preserving the dope was still a priority.

  Pop, pop, pop! Telly jumped unexpectedly as bullets punched holes in the side of the bread truck and afternoon sunlight flared the dust motes that swirled the air.

  “Fuck this!” Telly hit the key and threw the truck in gear.

  He looked out the side window and saw Bruiser making a run for it. A security guard laid down serious gunfire. Telly let off the gas and threw the door open as Bruiser jumped in, but not before taking two smoking rounds in the back.

  He collapsed in the seat and died before Telly reached the stoplight.

  A fourth round pounded into the back of the bread truck. Telly weaved around a car while shifting gears, his right hand alternating between the stick shift and the strap of the enormous duffel bag that Bruiser wore slung over his left shoulder. The door was still open and Bruiser was about to fall out of the truck.

  Telly was running out of street and needed to make a hard left. The tachometer was racing; he needed to shift gears. Telly let off the gas with his foot, pulled the bag his direction, let go, then grabbed the shifter and found fourth gear.

  A Neon cut in front of him and Telly hit its cheap plastic quarter-panel with the steel front bumper of the bread truck to push it out of the way.

  ”Fuck!” Telly screamed. “Watch where the fuck you’re goin’!”

  He finally pulled the duffel bag from Bruiser’s shoulder, held it as tight as he could, then cut the big, awkward steering wheel hard to the left.

  When the truck swerved, Bruiser fell hard to the right and disappeared through the open door. His body landed on the grimy asphalt shoulder of Peacock Street like a load of sod.

  Cars honked and Telly watched in the side-view mirror as a truck ran over Bruiser’s body. He winced. Sorry about that Bruiser. But he wasn’t sorry. Bruiser was an asshole. With him out of the way suddenly, Telly could change his luck for the first time in his life. He’d keep all the cash for himself and move to a different city. Buy a big house with a nice back deck.

  He threw the plan together but needed time to think. Meth and adrenaline sped through his system like two grades of rocket fuel and the pissed-off guy in the Neon was still right behind him, honking his tiny horn.

  Telly had another two blocks to go. Two more blocks until the Buick and the freedom to ditch the bread truck. The Neon kept riding his ass and drawing too much attention.

  Telly found the alley and made a fast right, then turned the truck at an angle to block the alley. By the time he had the duffel bag in his hand, the guy from the Neon was pounding on the door and screaming about kicking Telly’s ass.

  Okay, then. Telly pulled a gun from his waistband and pointed it out the window at the Neon guy’s mullet. “Get in the back, you motherfucker.”

  “Huh? Whoa, sorry man. It was probably my fault anyway.” The Neon guy raised his hands and tried to back up, suddenly willing to forget all about it.

  “Fucking right it was your fault, you dumb bastard,” Telly sputtered. “You pulled out in front of me!” Telly jumped out and waved the gun around, played tougher than he was. He told Neon guy to climb inside the truck and walk to the back. “You fucked up now, man. You seen me.”

  “No really, it’s cool. Look, I don’t really care about the dent. It’s just a Neon.”

  Telly smiled, showed his gold fronts. “Get in the truck right now, fuck face. You’ll be fine.”

  Finally, Neon guy took his mullet and bad tattoos into the truck.

  “I got my kid in the car, man. Please.” His voice echoed in the back of the truck, full of racks of stale bread and now a trembling witness.

  Telly glanced at the Neon and saw a car seat and a tiny figure strapped in it. He turned back and looked at the mullet guy. “Yep. He’s a handsome one. Looks just like his daddy.”

  Telly raised the gun and shot him twice in the chest. A third round missed and went through a rack of wheat bread and tore through the side of the truck. His ears rang from the shots.

  Telly took the straw from his pocket and reached back into the truck for the clipboard. He dropped down to one knee. Most of the crank was still on the clipboard. He snorted what was left but resisted the urge to lick. No DNA left behind. Telly was smart. He watched the Discovery Channel.

  He wiped off the clipboard and tossed it in the back with the dead body and the smashed bread.

  Telly slipped the straw into one pocket, the gun into another. He pulled a water bottle from the glove compartment and squirted gas on the driver’s seat and dashboard. He sprayed the rest of the gas on the dead Neon guy, then tossed in a match.

  Poof! The fireball warmed his face.

  As Telly ran toward Park Avenue he heard screaming from the Neon.

  •••••

  I woke up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around my waist. Frank was sleeping soundly in a little burrow he’d created down between my feet. I’d been living in my office for the last few weeks. Too many problems with the landlord at my other place. I had a few issues with the neighbors, too. Seems they didn’t appreciate me coming and going at all hours of the night.

  When the Chief told me somebody called the station about screams coming from the basement I decided it was time to move. I brought a few things with me but I kept most of my belongings in a storage shed as I navigated my way through this phase of personal adjustment and transition.

  I took a piss, brushed my teeth, shaved my face, took a shower, took a shit, made a pot of strong coffee, and kicked a petrified dog turd across the room with my bare foot—and it wasn’t even noon yet.

  I walked down the steps to get my newspaper from the sidewalk. Assuming there was a paper. I didn’t have a subscription but more often than not I could find a paper if I looked hard enough.

  I brought Frank along and let him do his business outside in the weeds. It’s amazing how much piss a bladder that size can hold. For a dog as small as Frank, he never seemed to run out. After making his rounds and taking pisses too great in number to record, his very last leg-hike produced nothing at all.

  “I think you’re outta juice, Frank.”

  He yapped once, then gave a powerful little snort.

  “C’mon ya mutt.”

  He raced up the stairs ahead of me and waited outside the door of my office slash apartment doing circles.

  Frank followed me inside where I dropped into my chair and heard the sound of its familiar screech under my weight. For me, this was the best moment of the day. A fresh cup of coffee, a smoke, and a scrupulous review o
f what’s going on in my city courtesy of the St. Louis Post Dispatch.

  Then I remembered I had just quit two of those three things I enjoyed so much.

  I took a hard look at my favorite cup, empty now, and imagined creamy ripples across the surface. Four days without so much as a sip. I couldn’t believe I was considering a cup of coffee. At least I couldn’t smoke. Hadn’t bought a pack of those cocksuckers in two weeks.

  I took a deep breath and opened my paper only to find it was from the 18th of November and this was the 21st. That was the downside to a free subscription—sometimes you got yesterday’s news. By now, the stories were old enough that I could read them again with only the slightest hint of deja vu. I stood up too quickly and my head began to spin. I was weak. I needed coffee and tobacco. In a perfect world I’d have both without guilt.

  I threw my paper in the wastebasket and walked my coffee cup to the makeshift kitchen. I put the cup in its place next to the counter, which was little more than boxes stacked together to form a crude table.

  Then I looked over at the device responsible for all this business in the first place and regarded my coffeepot with suspicion. I thought about destroying it but one look at the innocent face of my Bunn-o-Matic told me I could never find the strength. It’s hard to define the relationship between a man and his coffeepot but I can say with honesty that this machine was the best friend I’d ever had.

  In the end, I just didn’t have the strength. She was a part of me and I was a part of her. I set her gently in the corner with the appliances and quietly beseeched the Java gods not to smite me for any momentary lapse in judgment.

  I made a few calls before I left the office. I had a few questions for the Chief but the station said he was talking to reporters downtown. I said goodbye to Frank, who was busy mounting a Nerf football over by the boxes I’d come to think of as a kitchen table.

  I told him to have a good time and closed the door gently.

  •••••

  I heard about the robbery on the radio. A credit union on Peacock and Stanley. They went in heavy—strong-armed and brazen. Ten in the morning and they were laying down gunfire on the sidewalk. The radio said a United Van Lines truck dragged one of their bodies down the highway.

  Just another Tuesday in the city by the river.

  I switched lanes at the next exit. I could see the TV news helicopters hovering a few blocks from the Arch. Traffic would be backed up. I took a slow drink from the Corona clenched between my legs and watched the cars around me. Someone in this city just stole a lot of money and I wanted to find them. It was only a matter of time before the street would summon the truth.

  I parked two blocks away and left the Vic with the Styrofoam cup in my hand. I drank warm Corona through an orange plastic straw. I took my time and watched the faces in the crowd clumped on the sidewalk in front of the stores.

  The body lay under a tarp surrounded by cones, sawhorses, and yellow police tape. The officers guarding the area seemed more concerned with providing good camera angles than protecting the integrity of the crime scene. Reporters were everywhere. Two helicopters whirled above us making wind. I saw a photographer I knew from back in the day snapping pictures of a torched bread truck. I crossed the street when I saw him and made my way to the truck.

  Cameron Worthy was a photojournalist on the crime beat for the Post Dispatch. I knew him from my days on the force. He was a good enough guy. We had beers, exchanged information. Cam gave me the nod so I found a nice section of alley to hide in while I sucked beer through a straw and tried to keep the sun from my eyes. The November wind felt cold and sharp.

  I took small steps until I was close enough to slip under the police tape and get a feel for what went down. A charred body under a sheet stunk up the bread truck, which sat next to a dented red Neon with an empty car seat sitting on the roof.

  Still no sign of the Chief.

  Cam walked up and said hello. “Nick Valentine? What brings you down here to the gutter?”

  I would’ve held out my hand but it held my drink.

  “How you doin’, Cam?”

  “Better than that son-of-a-bitch.” He pointed to the van.

  “Or that son-of-a-bitch.” I pointed at the lump under the tarp.

  Cam shook his head and pushed up his hipster glasses. They were too big and they slid down his nose. His long, thin hair blew in the breeze like an old T-shirt hanging on a summer clothesline.

  I asked him what the hell happened here.

  “Couple’uh guys hit that credit union and got away with major cash.” He pointed south with his head as he slid a new smoke between his lips. “Guard capped one of them.” He pointed toward the body in the road with his head again as he lit a Marlboro Light. “Other guy ditched the bread truck here. Guess they had another car waiting.”

  “What about this piece of shit?” I kicked the back tire of the Neon.

  Cameron said he didn’t know. He thought the driver was the crispy bastard in the bread truck. He said it looked like multiple gunshot wounds from up close, but don’t quote him on that.

  “So maybe the bread truck flees the scene and tags the Neon, then the Neon chases him down. The driver takes a few slugs in his chest in the name of road rage. Sound right?”

  Cam said it did. Then he asked me if I wanted a smoke.

  “No, thanks.” I told him I quit.

  “Ouch.” He took a long drag off his cigarette and scrolled through this morning’s photos on his fancy camera.

  I took a long drink of beer from my cup and the straw made a quick, violent noise against the plastic lid.

  “Who the fuck robs a credit union in a bread truck?” I asked.

  Cameron said he had no idea. Bakers?

  I scanned the area for surveillance cameras but there were none in plain sight.

  “Nice place for a switch,” I said, because it was. The alley was just a few blocks from the bank, between two major intersections. Easy access to multiple escape routes.

  Cameron told me he had to get back to the newsroom. He dropped his smoke on the ground and crushed it with his dress shoe.

  I told him I’d see him around and walked down the road toward the other body. I was finishing the last of my drink when I saw the Chief wave me down. I tossed my cup in a green metal trashcan.

  The Chief’s lips pressed against my ear. “How you doin’, Nicky?” He asked. The Chief was the only one who called me that.

  I told him I was getting by.

  Chief Caraway and my old man went way back. They shared a twisted history of some kind but I never knew quite how deep the river flowed. If my old man was still alive I guess I could ask him.

  “This is a fucked-up deal, Nicky.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “They got away with a lotta money.”

  I shook my head, pretended like money didn’t mean anything. But the Chief knew me better than that.

  “Inside job?” I asked.

  He was already nodding. “Had to be.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “About a half dozen, but it went down pretty quick. Nobody saw much.”

  “What about that beat-up little shitter?” I pointed to the Neon.

  The Chief told me two different people saw the bread truck ram the car from behind then the Neon chased the truck down.

  “How big was the crew?”

  “One man inside. One, maybe two more in the truck.” Chief Caraway lit up a cigarette and and smothered me in a second-hand cloud. I took a step back. You never realize how many people smoke until you stop.

  My thoughts went back to the dead guy on the staircase. He was a banker. Could be a coincidence but probably wasn’t.

  The Chief’s walkie-talkie started to squawk about the same time his phone rang.

  “You have no idea what kinda shitstorm I’m dealin’ with,” he said.

  I said nothing.

  “Chief Caraway,” he shouted into the phone, but covered the bottom with his hand
and whispered to me. “What’d you find out yesterday? About that suicide?”

  Before I could answer, he stuck his finger up, wanted me to wait a minute.

  I wasn’t sure how to play my cards without revealing too much. I still couldn’t be sure what was what, I just knew something smelled funny and it wasn’t the guy in the bread truck.

  I said I had to run, told the Chief I’d see him later. The beer went through me quick and left me wanting more.

  I found a dumpster to pee behind then I headed to the east side to a strip joint called Cowboy Roy’s Fantasyland. I needed to see a guy about some business.

  •••••

  Telly drove an hour out of town until he found a dead-end road. He sat with the car in park and stared at the duffel bag that filled up the passenger seat. Telly watched nervously through the rear-view, sure that the cops were about to roll up on him—sirens screaming, guns drawn, bullets flying. His heart was racing and the excitement made him sweat. Or maybe it was the speed. He didn’t know what to do first—look inside the bag of money or smoke a foily?

  He pulled a baggie from the miniscule pocket above the right front pocket of his jeans, useless for anything except a small baggie of crank. He held the straw in his hand then had a better idea.

  Telly pulled a box of Reynold’s Wrap from under the seat and his mouth began to salivate. His palms sweated as he folded a crisp new piece of foil precisely. Like a veteran tweaker, his preparation ritual was an art form.

  He emptied most of the baggie on the foil then cocked his head and poured a little more. Telly held the foil at just the right angle and with the perfect mix of flame and wrist sent a clear pool of speed running down to the end. He inhaled the smoke through the hollow tube of an empty Bic pen then adjusted his hand as the boiling goo reached his thumb. Just as it hardened, he reversed the process and ran the trail back to the other end of the foil. His technique was beautiful.

  Telly was a master when it came to smoking Bob White.

  He thought about the indescribable taste of crank as he took the hit and held it, waited for a few seconds until his chest warmed, then exhaled a soft white cloud against the window and melted down into the seat. He stared up at the headliner of the car and waited for the magic to happen.