Frank Sinatra in a Blender

by McBride, Matthew;Bruen, Ken

  No Nuts piped up, “So you’re sayin’ y’know who done it boss?”

  “Goddamn right I do.”

  There came a second where No Nuts felt like his life expectancy was heavily dependent on Parker’s next sentence. He turned around to be sure some other sneaky fuck wasn’t coming up behind him with a piano wire.

  “It’s this security guard, this cocksucker from the credit union.” Parker frowned once he realized he’d actually said the words, revealing more than he’d intended. Now he was committed to finishing the story, telling his two trusted employees more than he’d ever wanted them to know.

  “The credit union?” Sid asked, genuinely surprised for the first time since they’d got there.

  Mr. Parker nodded, finished the drink in a long gulp. This time No Nuts grabbed his glass and refilled it. They needed to get the boss drunk.

  “He was the inside guy,” Parker went on. “He gave us the layout. Told us about the dye packs, about that banker, the one Bruiser and that junkie whacked. Had to get rid of that fuck so he couldn’t set the dye packs out. We knew we had a window to get clean money without the chance of a dye pack, long as he didn’t show up for work.”

  No Nuts handed him his drink. He took it, raised the glass to his lips, and said, “How’d everything get so fucked up?”

  Sid liked the way the conversation was going. The more Parker talked, the stronger he felt their chances were of surviving.

  “If it was all part of the plan, why’d the security guard shoot Bruiser in the back?” Sid asked.

  “Fuck if I know!” Parker yelled. “I been tryin’ to figure this shit out for two days.”

  “So, how you know it’s this security guard that robbed you?”

  Parker slammed his glass down, liquor splashed out on the bar.

  “Well, isn’t it obvious? She’s fucking him! That whore! I give her everything and she wants to leave me for some Rent-A-Cop cocksucker. Gives him the key to my house, the combination to my safe. Let’s him take what he wants, then he shits on my fucking pillow!” Parker picked his glass up and flung it across the room where it shattered against the wall.

  Sid realized this was their opportunity to make things right. Let Parker think it was the security guard robbed him and shit on his bed.

  “Here, have a seat boss.” Sid set him down on the couch. “You need to calm down, Joe. Johnny, and me, we’re here for ya. We’re family.” Mr. Parker looked up into Sid’s face; his bottom lip slightly bulged out. He thanked him with a hand to the shoulder. Said, “I really appreciate this, boys.”

  Sid and Johnny said no problem, it was the least they could do. Then Mr. Parker instructed No Nuts to go clean that pile of shit off his mattress and throw the sheets in the fucking trashcan.

  No Nuts had started for a refill, but Parker’s words stopped him cold in his tracks.

  Sid was quick to meet his eyes, he told No Nuts not to fuck this up with the severe look on his face.

  With great reluctance, No Nuts went to Mr. Parker’s bedroom and rolled the sheets up in a ball. He searched through a few drawers and sniffed a pair of Cathy’s panties from the hamper.

  When he came back to the room, Parker was passed out on the couch and Sid was drinking by himself. He told No Nuts they had to go and see the security guard.

  “Now?”

  Sid said yes.

  When Sid opened the door to his Lexus he gagged at the rancid smell of secondhand chalupas on his beautiful leather. He left No Nuts standing outside in the cold while he bathed the seat in expensive cologne. When No Nuts got in he said the car smelled like Kenneth Cole and vomit.

  “I don’t wanna hear it, No Nuts.”

  They pulled out of the parking garage in the beat up Lexus and took their time getting to South County.

  “Parker gave me the low down on this guy while you were cleaning up your shit pile, Johnny.”

  No Nuts looked at Sid. “Fuck you.”

  “Parker says this security guard owes him some serious coin and it was his idea to take that bank in the first place.”

  “Credit union.” No Nuts corrected him.

  “What-the-fuck ever, Johnny. Are you with me?”

  “Course I’m with you, Sid.”

  He grinned. “I told you this’d all work out, didn’t I, old bean?”

  “Well it ain’t worked out yet,” No Nuts reminded him.

  “Not yet, but it will. Plus, we get to shoot this cocksucker that capped Bruiser.”

  No Nuts said he didn’t care about that, said he never liked that asshole.

  “Nobody did.”

  The Lexus turned louder than ever but Sid guaranteed No Nuts it was fine. Soon they’d find the money and he’d buy another one.

  “Yeah, but what if we don’t find the money?”

  “We’ll find it, Johnny. I promise.”

  No Nuts told Sid he had an idea that would fix everything and Sid told him he couldn’t wait to hear it.

  “What if we go see the guard, we fix him up nice and proper. We tell Parker we made him talk, say all the security guard wanted was to kill Bruiser and be some hero. Say Bruiser was the one fuckin’ the Mrs. We’ll say it was him that was long-dickin’ her.”

  Sid frowned. “You think we should tell Parker, that Bruiser was long-dickin’ the missus?”

  “Trust me, Sid, it’ll work.”

  Sid turned to No Nuts with his mouth open, said, “So, to be clear, you want us to tell Parker this security guard, who owed him money, set this whole thing up just to kill Bruiser? That Bruiser was long-dickin’ his wife, and the security guard just wanted to impress her? Is that what you want us to tell the boss, Johnny”

  “Somethin’ like that. He wanted to be a hero and eliminate his competition at the same time.”

  Sid was astounded. “That’s not gonna work!”

  “And why not?”

  “Why not? Well think about it, Johnny. What about his bloody wife? At some point she’s gonna say she ain’t been long-dicked by either one of ‘em.”

  No Nuts shrugged and admitted he hadn’t thought it through. “We’ll kill her too.”

  Sid threw his hands up dramatically. “Well that’s it then. Now you’ve gone and bloody lost it, I’ll say. We can’t just kill everybody, mate.”

  They rode in silence with the exception of the fender rubbing against the back tire.

  Sid perked up. “What if we blame it on that bloke, Valentine. Say the guard had something going on the side with him. Make it look like they’re in it together. What do ya think?”

  •••••

  When I opened my eyes, Frank was standing on my chest, licking my lips with his miniature Yorkshire tongue. I pushed him away instinctively and the little bastard snapped at me. I remembered last night suddenly. I looked at the shotgun beside the couch; the .45 was there too.

  Frank kept barking and I asked him what his problem was.

  The phone rang as I stood up and peered out through the window at the ice-covered streets down below. I leaned over my desk and answered.

  “Nick Valentine, Private Investigator.”

  It was Chief Caraway. Said he’d been calling all morning. He asked where I’d been?

  I looked down at the morning wood stabbing through a hole in my boxers and told the Chief I’d been gathering information, running down leads. Told him I had my ear to the street, and he asked me what I’d come up with.

  “Hang on a minute. I got a license plate number here somewhere.” I rummaged through a pile of clothes on the floor until I found the number, then read it to him. Told him I thought it might be the man from the getaway truck.

  “Great work, Nick.”

  I told him thanks. Assured him I’d been busting my ass but I was just doing my part.

  “I need you down here soon as you can, Nick.”

  I looked at the clock. Dead batteries, still. I should ask Doyle to get me a watch.

  I nodded, told the Chief I was on my way then I grabbed a coupl
e of White Castle’s from the mini and went to take my obligatory morning piss. Frank barked the whole time.

  When I pulled up to the police station Ron was waiting for me in his car.

  I asked him how he was doing.

  He said he was good, told me to jump in with him. “Got a homicide to check out.”

  “Homicide?”

  “I’ll explain it on the way.”

  I shoved the shifter in park and laid a jacket over the shotgun. Just in case anyone felt meddlesome. Nevertheless, I couldn’t imagine a safer place for a trashbag full of stolen money than the trunk of a former police car at a police station.

  When I sat down in the passenger seat of his car, I entered a fog of cigarette smoke so impenetrable I thought I’d be forced to grab my chainsaw from the Vic and cut a path between Amish Ron and me. I ordered him to put his window down and he laughed.

  Ron exhaled, asked me was I sure I didn’t want a cigarette?

  I told him no thanks. But if I did chose to restart that terrible habit it sure as hell wouldn’t be with one of those goddamn Winston’s.

  “Hey, what you got against Winston’s?”

  “Besides the fact they taste like a hobo’s asshole? Nothing.”

  The Amishman laughed. Said that was a good one. He asked me about that license plate number I gave the Chief.

  “Tracked it down through a source,” I told him.

  He nodded, said, “I can’t wait to catch these guys.”

  Under different circumstances I’d applaud that kind of self-assurance, but his statement confirmed what I’d already suspected. He wouldn’t give up easily.

  “Glad to hear you’re confident.”

  He shrugged. “This whole credit union thing is one big clusterfuck of epic proportions, Valentine.”

  I raised an eyebrow, encouraging him on.

  “That security guard? He’s dead.”

  I was taken aback. “Dead?”

  Amish Ron was driving so slow I thought about jumping out and running on ahead to the crime scene. I glanced at the speedometer.

  “Am I drivin’ too slow for you, Nick?”

  “No, I always like to drive about 37 myself.”

  “I hate this fucking snow,” Ron said. “I try not to drive in it if I don’t have to.”

  “That’s right, your not used to the snow. Your first car was a horse and buggy.”

  Ron looked up at the ceiling, laughed hard. Told me he knew sooner or later I was bound to make a horse joke.

  I asked him if he missed it?

  “What? Workin’ my ass off for no money? Havin’ no electricity? What’s to miss?”

  I couldn’t argue with that logic. Being Amish sounded like a lot of work.

  He got onto the interstate and opened her up to 52 mph. Slow enough we had a school bus pass us. I asked him about the security guard.

  He said there wasn’t much to know. The guy’s name was Jason Baker. He asked me if that name rang any bells.

  I told Ron I’d never heard of him as I worked out the details in my head.

  “Let’s get this straight,” I began. “First, this guy, Norman Russo, he’s,” I paused, “What, murdered? We know he didn’t kill himself, right?”

  Ron nodded.

  “And now this security guard ends up dead the next day?”

  “Exactly,” Ron joined in. “Somebody’s cleaning house, tying up loose ends.”

  “But why the security guard? Retaliation? You think somebody’s pissed off he shot up one of their crew? Cause I’d be happy if that was my crew.”

  Ron shrugged. Said, “Maybe.” He asked me to elaborate.

  “Well, maybe the guard was inside on this thing.” I told Ron to bear with me. “So the guard smokes one of ‘em in the back. That’s less cash has to be drawn from the pile. And then, whoever set this up, kills the driver and the guard. Everybody who doesn’t get shot makes three times as much and there’s no witnesses.”

  Ron pulled a Winston loose and jammed it in his mouth. “There’s a thought.”

  “It might also help explain that suicide note. The guard talks to the banker, he knows this guys going through a rough divorce, he just wants to keep his house.”

  Ron was already ahead of me. “So he repeats that to whatever shit bum wrote the note, but then this guy who actually writes the note is too stupid and he fucks it up.” I pictured the tweaker being too stupid and fucking it up.

  I knew Bruiser was dead. I assumed the tweaker was dead. Now the security guard was dead. Parker assembled the heist with grandiose ambition, but he didn’t count on Bruiser getting his back blown out through his chest. He never cared about doing it right and he knew the police weren’t stupid. He knew they wouldn’t buy the suicide, but by the time they put everything together it would be too late. He was going to smoke the tweaker anyway, Bruiser too. They were disposable.

  Sounds of the road filled the car, and something on the highway vibrated every quarter mile or so that I felt in my feet.

  “Is there anything you’re not tellin’ me?” I asked.

  He nodded and lit his smoke, told me there was something I outta know.

  “What’s that?”

  He took a long drag, remembering to put down the window.

  “Dye packs,” Ron said, exhaling smoke. “That’s the one thing that ties all of this together.”

  “Bank dye packs?” Had Doyle mentioned dye packs? I couldn’t remember.

  “Norman Russo collected the dye packs at the end of each night, locked them in a safe in his office. Safe’s a combination, but he’s the only one that’s got it. Each morning he’d set ‘em out again.”

  I told Ron I didn’t know much about banks apart from the fact I didn’t trust them.

  He said he didn’t know much about banks either, but he did know a thing or two about dye packs.

  “Tellers have these packs by their station. If they get robbed, they slip ‘em in with the money. When you make it out the door a remote signal sets ‘em off.”

  “Then you’re pretty much fucked,” I said.

  “Yeah, then you’re fucked. But, in theory, if you eliminate the possibility of the dye packs being set out in the first place, you stand a good chance of getting away clean.”

  “As long as the security guard doesn’t pound holes into your back.”

  “Yes, there’s that.”

  “Whoever robbed the credit union knew Norman Russo set the dye packs out in the morning.” I paused, “only somebody with knowledge of their routine would know that.”

  “Somebody like the security guard.”

  Between the two of us we’d come up with a functioning hypothesis. We made the rest of the drive with the sound of highway as our third companion.

  We got off Interstate 44 and drove into South County, to a middle-class neighborhood with typical ranch homes. We turned into a cul-de-sac and I could see the last house on the left had two patrol cars and a meatwagon parked in the driveway. A familiar scene to both of us. Ron parked on the corner and lit up his smoke. He asked if I was ready.

  When I stepped out of the car the brisk air was revitalizing. I reeked of cigarette odor that covered me in a cloud of stench.

  I followed him into the house, watched him shake a few hands. Nobody said much to me, which was fine. That’s the way I like it.

  Ron approached a tall black officer with a slim build who handed us each a pair of latex gloves and asked, “What do we have here?”

  “This guy is fucked up, Ron.”

  Detective Beachy stepped inside the doorway, said, “Oh shit.” But with his hint of Dutch accent, it sounded more like sheeeit.

  I followed him through the doorway expecting a scene similar to the one at Norman Russo’s, but that’s not what I got.

  “Where’s his feet? Ron wanted to know.

  “Where’s his hands?” I demanded.

  The officer leaned back against the wall and gave us room.

  Ron looked at the officer and said,
“Well Clarence, I guess he must’a pissed somebody off.”

  “Aw, that shit is nasty. Look what the motherfuckers done to his head.”

  The victims dismembered body was propped up in a corner minus hands or feet. Blood pooled in the ears, encompassed in raw blisters. The skin around the face had been beaten. It was swelled, and bruised, and dead.

  Detective Beachy took a step forward, bent down.

  The inside of the guards ears were pallid and crusty with dried blood.

  “This is interesting. It looks like scorched pus.” He was talking to an officer named Jenkins as another plainclothes detective entered the room. He was tall, in good shape, like he knew his way around a gym. We shook hands; he said his name was Wyman.

  Ron said, “His eardrums look like they’ve been burned out with cigarettes.”

  Clarence scrunched his face up tight, created wrinkles. “Oh hail no! Somebody fucked this guy up!”

  If that was Clarence’s professional opinion, I was inclined to agree with it. The Englishman was truly a ruthless cocksucker, the likes of which I’d never seen.

  I pointed to deep grooves carved into the floor, filled with blood and fresh splinters.

  “Here’s where they chopped him up.”

  Ron took a close look, said, “They used an ax.” That’s what it looked like to me too, but I assumed he’d probably forgotten more about splitting wood than I’d ever learn. Given a choice, I would have used a chainsaw.

  Ron walked back over to the body. He bent down and removed a business card with a set of tweezers.

  “This is interesting.” He held it up to the light. “What do you make of this, Nick?”

  I’d recognize that card anywhere. It had my name on it.

  “I’ve never seen this guy.”

  Ron stood up. Said he believed me, but I don’t think he did.

  We walked out into the living room and everything was in order; there was a wallet on the end table with the edge of a twenty poking out. It was easy to rule out robbery as a motive.

  I walked into the kitchen and checked the fridge. I tried to keep my thoughts clean, but I knew those cocksuckers had been to my office. I kept a tray outside the door with a few cards in it. While I was sleeping they were out in the hall. If they’d suspected I had the money they would’ve kicked my door in and plugged me on the couch. Unless they were setting me up.