He took his seat and waited for her to come and thank him, but she snatched the money off the stage and disappeared behind the curtains. The brief fantasy that flashed through his head suddenly flamed up and disappeared into ashes. Not to mention the sixty bucks.
He slammed the rest of his Remy and dropped the empty glass on the table. Fuck it. The clock was winding down. It was almost time to roll, but he left Cowboy Roy’s one pissed off son-of-a-bitch and vowed never to return. He should’ve known better than to go on a Wednesday afternoon, when the place was packed with losers.
•••••
My phone rang and woke me from a power nap. It was Big Tony. He said there was a lot going on and we should talk. I told him I could meet him at the club in an hour but he said that was a no-go. We had to meet someplace different. He gave me the address. Said he had to go, better keep the line clear. He thought Doyle might’ve just tried to call him.
I walked into the bathroom and splashed water in my face. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and flexed. My abdominals were getting soft but they still hardened on command. My shoulders were round and hard enough.
I looked back across the room at my heavy bag and my weight bench. It sat with two 45’s on each side, all of it collecting dust. When I turned to the side and flexed my triceps, I was impressed to still see the outline of a nice horseshoe shape in the muscle, considering my failure to work out with any regularity.
“What do you think, Frank?” I struck a front double bicep pose but he didn’t look impressed.
“Hungry, pal?” Frank dropped low and barked. I walked over to my desk and he went crazy when I pulled open the food drawer. He danced and jumped and peeled out.
I dumped the very last beer can full of dog food on the floor. I’d need to restock while I was out. I couldn’t find his water bowl and could see it wasn’t in the usual corner where he liked to drag it. The water from the bathroom faucet was starting to smell funny anyway, so I dumped half a Corona in the coffee pot I no longer used, then I left for the meeting with my associates.
On my way to the Tilted Kilt I had a glass of vodka mixed with cranberry juice and a dash of peach schnapps. The snow continued to fall; I saw a handful of cars nestled in the the ditches by the time I made it to the interstate. I wanted to find out what Doyle and Big Tony’d dug up. I’d spent my whole day with Amish Ron waiting for him to let his guard down long enough so I could steal something. I realized Detective Ron Beachy wasn’t the type of guy to make mistakes. He wasn’t going to tell me anything I didn’t need to know. He didn’t trust me.
I sucked a mouthful of liquid strength up my straw and changed lanes. I smashed the pedal to the floor for a second and let that Crown Victoria speak to me. I’d pounded a handful of So Co’s back at my place and I was now working the bottom end of my second Styrofoam cup, driving the orange plastic straw into the little crevices to locate every last drop of Stoli.
As I greeted the initial feelings of intoxication with open arms, I began to notice my thoughts becoming more lucid with every drink I mixed. Like a lighting bolt from above, I realized the core truth of my life—drinking more made me a better detective.
I was putting things together and filling in the blanks. One day, the world would marvel at my detective genius. And although the legacy I would leave behind would be littered with empty beer cans, at least I was leaving a wake of some kind.
After exhausting the contents of the cup, I set it where it fit tight between the seats and the 12-gauge. I slipped the lid off, poured a little Stoli on whatever ice cubes were left, and I did a good job of holding the Vic on the road considering the circumstances. Only an experienced drunk could mix a drink with one hand while navigating his way through a snowstorm at high speeds with the other.
When I slid the Vic sideways into the parking lot, I saw Big Tony’s Lincoln parked in the far corner with him still behind the wheel, probably doing cocaine. I took a big swig from the cup and parked beside him. He motioned for me to get in.
“It’s fucking cold outside.” I sat down.
Big Tony looked at me. “Ain’t that the truth?”
He had the mirror resting on his leg and I saw it was broken. I watched him stare off into space; he was still holding the straw between his thumb and his finger.
I pointed to the mirror but he shook his head. Said, “Don’t ask.”
He played with the straw in his hand.
“Y’know,” I said, “it’s better to use a bill.”
“Huh?” Big Tony squinted at me.
“It’s better to use a bill to do lines. If a cop pulls you over, there’s just a bill. Maybe it’s got residue on it, maybe it doesn’t. But either way, you’re gonna say you just got it from the clerk at the last gas station you stopped at. You can always blame somebody else. If you get pulled over with a straw in your pocket that’s only two inches long. . .”
“They’re gonna think you was doin’ coke.” Big Tony got my drift.
“Well, I’ll go out on a limb here and say it’ll raise their level of suspicion.”
I took another drink from my cup and hoped he would spare me a return lecture about driving drunk in a snowstorm. At this stage in my career I was much better suited to give advice than to receive it.
“Here’s Doyle.”
We watched him walk across the parking lot, rubbing his hands in front of him. Doyle dove into the backseat and ordered Big Tony to turn the fucking heat up quick.
“It’s already on high.”
Doyle looked around. “This piece of shit doesn’t have rear heat?”
“Watch it you cocksucker.” Big Tony took a great deal of pride in his stolen Town Car.
“Maybe you’ll just have to buy a new one with your cut.”
I looked back at Doyle, beaming.
Big Tony was too big to turn around so he burned holes in Doyle’s forehead through the rear-view as he looked down and pulled something from his pants pocket.
“What the fuck’re you talkin’ about?”
“I’m talkin’ about this, man.” Doyle tossed a bundle of $100 bills into the front seat.
I almost spilled my drink. “Doyle, what the fuck?”
He pitched another stack of Franklins up front. I couldn’t believe it. Finally, something good was happening.
The next few minutes were filled without words or complete sentences. Just three now-rich guys, one of us coked up, one of us half-drunk, but all yelling and laughing, slapping each other’s shoulders and backs.
Doyle said he hadn’t had time to count it but each stack of hundreds held fifty bills. “So that’s like five thousand dollars you’re holding,” he said, doing the math.
“So how many stacks of five thousand are there?” Big Tony asked.
“Maybe a hundred. Maybe two hundred. I don’t know.”
Stunned, Big Tony and I looked at each other with open mouths. No one could stop smiling.
“We could be lookin’ at a million dollars?” I asked.
Doyle said maybe.
I finished off the rest of my vodka and gripped the cash in my hand. My first question was how much Doyle put back for himself but I didn’t ask. He did all the work and I knew I would’ve done the same thing. If I could walk away from this with a few hundred grand who was I to complain?
“I’m going to Florida,” Doyle said.
Big Tony slipped a fat Don Pepin Garcia between his lips and said he was going to Vegas.
Now that we actually had the money, I didn’t know what to do with it. I couldn’t move too fast; it would look suspicious. I couldn’t spend the money in the same city it was taken from with any degree of comfort. Not to mention that Amish Ron’s bullshit detector was on high alert. Sooner or later I’d end up as a suspect. Maybe that’s why the Chief had the Amishman watching me so close. The thought suddenly occurred to me I didn’t have a place to store that much loot. I couldn’t start filling my sad, overdrawn bank account with cash stolen from a credit union.
I shook the ice in my cup and announced I was ready for a drink, but Doyle told me to hang on a minute. He may have bad news.
That was the moment I started wishing I hadn’t gotten involved. The moment he said we’d have trouble. I knew there was no such thing as a free ride. Everything came with a price. Especially a duffel bag full of money other men died for.
“What do you mean, you may have some bad news?”
Doyle put his head down, shook it from side to side and said, “Well, I guess you could say I do have some bad news. That English bastard got in the elevator with me on the way down. I’m pretty sure he recognized me.”
“What?” Big Tony demanded.
“You’re pretty sure he recognized you?” I screeched.
Doyle said it was true. He felt bad about it.
“Jesus Christ, we’re fucked now.” Big Tony said.
“We’re gonna end up in a Federal Prison gettin’ our assholes stretched out by convicts,” I said.
Doyle waved his hands. “Hang on a minute. There must be something we can do.”
“Like what, run? Cuz that’s about all we can do.”
“No, that ain’t all we can do,” Doyle said.
I knew where this discussion was headed. The only place it could go.
“What do you suggest?” Big Tony asked. “We kill ‘em?”
“It’s something to consider.”
I told them it wouldn’t be a bad idea but I knew we couldn’t just start killing people. Enough people’d died already. Besides, I knew Amish Ron was all over this case, and he wasn’t giving up.
Big Tony said, “Valentine, use some of your police connections and see what you can dig up.”
I said I would, told them I’d already started poking around.
“The problem’s Ron Beachy. He’s a detective and a real ballbuster. The kinda guy who lives to do the right thing. Kinda guy who tells his boss when he’s been overpaid.”
“What kind of asshole are we dealing with?” Big Tony demanded.
“The kind of asshole that spent his whole life churning butter. And now there’s a chip on his shoulder the size of Rhode Island.” Big Tony raised an eyebrow in confusion, so I tried to explain. I told him Ron was raised Amish. He did everything the hard way. But now he was a cop and he was damn good at what he did.
I told them he didn’t have any unsolved cases, just cases he hadn’t solved yet.
Big Tony busted out a mighty hoot. “You’re bullshitting me, Valentine. You gonna tell me he pulls people over in a buggy?”
Now Doyle laughed. “Wouldn’t a siren scare the horses, Nick?”
“I don’t think you fuckers understand. He’s good, this guy. Best I ever seen.”
Big Tony asked if Ron had a beard.
I was playing on both teams and I had to make a decision quick before I got called out.
Doyle said, “Well, I dunno about you guys, but I’m gettin’ the fuck outta here while I can. It’s still early. Nobody knows nothin’ about nothin’. There ain’t never gonna be a better time to run than now.”
Big Tony couldn’t agree one way or the other and I couldn’t blame Doyle for leaving. It was the only move he could make in his position. Big Tony should probably run too.
I was the only one who couldn’t leave. There were too many questions and I was right in the middle of everything. Part of me wanted to help the Chief. Part of me wanted to help Amish Ron. But most of me wanted that money if I didn’t have to kill anyone to get it.
I told Doyle, “You gotta do what you gotta do. Runnin’ may be your best chance.”
Doyle told us Parker’s guys were pretty hardcore. It looked like they’d killed the tweaker.
He showed me a license plate number to the car parked at Montgomery’s. Said it must be the tweaker’s ride, but they’d been damn surprised to find the money by the looks of it.
“Surprised?” I asked.
“It looked like they was about to leave, then that short dumb fuck gets out and checks the trunk. He’s so stunned to find the money he falls on his ass and slides halfway under the car.”
I grabbed the piece of paper and crammed it in my pocket. It sounded like Parker’s boys were going to keep the money for themselves, but then Doyle came along and fucked that up.
“This is good news,” I said. “Parker doesn’t even know he’s been robbed.” I laughed. “We’re clean, far as Parker goes. Parker doesn’t know he ever had the money. And those two fucks, they can’t even say anything to him or he’ll know they took it first.” I elbowed Big Tony’s arm; saw him nodding. “Parker will never even know he was robbed.”
Big Tony burst out laughing. He tapped on that box which held the coke. He said it was really great news.
I noticed Doyle wasn’t saying much.
I asked him if there anything else we should know.
Doyle said there was.
“I took some, uh, loose change. Maybe a watch.” He didn’t say anything about the dildo.
“Goddammit Doyle! What is it with you and those fucking watches? You could buy a hundred watches with that money.” But he didn’t have an answer. Pilfering was in his blood. He couldn’t turn down a watch any easier than I could turn down a drink.
“Oh, you really fucked us, Doyle.” Big Tony said.
Doyle said he knew it.
•••••
When they pulled into the lot at Cowboy Roy’s Fantasyland the light was fading and the corner streetlights were sputtering to life.
Sid had called Mr. Parker to tell him he was tied up with the accident. Told him he’d get him that piece of paper just as soon as he could, but said he may have to run No Nuts to the hospital first. Parker cursed Sid’s incompetence and crappy driving, told him to bring that bill of sale tomorrow.
Sid told No Nuts they had to wrap this whole deal up tonight. “We don’t have much time.”
They searched the parking lot before they walked in but found no van. When they walked through the door they showed the bouncer their IDs then ordered drinks. Sid recognized a few people but he just sat with his back against the bar and let his eyes drift across the smoke-filled room.
He’d had a falling out with one of Cowboy Roy’s girls a few weeks ago and hadn’t been back since. He hoped he didn’t see her. That was drama he didn’t need.
Johnny ordered a beer, then handed one to Sid.
“What’s this guy look like again?”
“Kind of average, Johnny. A little taller than you, kinda fat.” Sid looked No Nuts up and down. “Bloody hell, he kinda looks like you now that I think about it.”
No Nuts dropped down onto the barstool. His stomach was a mess. One minute he thought he was a millionaire, the next minute he realized he wasn’t. And then he was in a fucking car wreck.
“Listen, it’s gonna be okay,” Sid assured him. “Johnny, we’re gonna find this wanker, I swear it. I’ve been in here plenty. He sits right over there with some other fat fuck.” Sid turned to look at Johnny. “If these cocksuckers took our money we’ll know soon enough.”
The longer Sid watched the crowd, the more he remembered about the place. A guy like him didn’t miss much. He knew about Big Tony. Knew he’d done time; he probably knew a connected guy or two. Sid wasn’t sure about his level of involvement, but he knew he was a hardcore thief. That meant his mate from the elevator was a thief too.
That meant there was a great chance they had the money.
The doorman walked by and Sid stopped him. Said he was looking for a few of his chums, had he seen ‘em? Sid pointed to the table, said, “They usually sit right over there.”
The bouncer shrugged. Told Sid, “I dunno. People come and go.”
Sid leaned forward, told the door man, “I’m pretty sure one of ‘ems a regular.”
“Listen pal, I dunno what to tell ya. You gotta picture of this guy? What’s he look like?”
“He’s a fat guy. Both of ‘em are actually.” Sid held up two fingers.
The bouncer said, “Look around, this place is full of fat guys.” Then he walked into the back room.
“What a fucking asshole,” Sid complained.
“Well, he’s right.” No Nuts looked at his watch.
“The night’s still young, Johnny. We got plenty of time.”
“Yeah Sid, I’m just a little worried. Parker ain’t called yet.”
Sid said No Nuts should relax.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Hell, he probably just doesn’t know about it yet.”
No Nuts told Sid surely a man would know something was wrong when he found a turd on his pillow. No Nuts felt that he, himself, would instinctively know such a thing.
A guy in a shirt that was much too tight leaned back on his stool and waved Sid forward. “One of those so-called buddies uh yours did this.” He pointed to his damaged face. His left cheek was black, swelled to the absolute maximum; the skin around his eye was stretched tight and misshapen. It looked like any minute it could blow, covering anyone in a three-foot radius with puss.
No Nuts took a good look at his undamaged mustache. No Nuts was drawn to it, captivated by the manly power it held.
Sid took a step forward, leaned into the guy.
“What’re you sayin’ pal? Who tuned you up?”
“His name’s Valentine. I asked around last night.”
“He fat?” Sid asked. “Looks kinda like him?” Sid gestured to No Nuts.
Captain Mustache shook his head. “No, this was a good lookin’ guy. Solid, with a whole lotta muscle. Bastard took a cheap shot.” It looked to Sid like several cheap shots.
Sid and Johnny looked at each other. Didn’t sound like their guy.
“You said he had friends?”
He stood, turned around and the cheap lighting illuminated the knotted bulge of flesh on the side of his face. It looked like someone had sliced his cheek open and inserted a tennis ball under the skin. He pointed across the bar, his detached retina floating madly.
“There was three of ‘em right over there. The other two guys were maybe who you’re lookin’ for.”
Frank Sinatra in a Blender Page 11