Frank Sinatra in a Blender by Matthew McBride Read Free Book Online

cranked up the radio and sang “ We Built This City ”, while he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. No Nuts thought it sounded pretty gay with that accent.
    •••••
     
    I picked up the phone on the first ring , just because I was close. I expected Chief Caraway to greet me on the other end, but it was Big Tony. He said we should meet.
    “Hey, you know that tweaker who runs with Bruno and those guys? Telly?”
    I watched Frank drag his shoe across the room by the tongue. I couldn’t picture anyone named Telly. Or Bruno for that matter. I told Big Tony I didn’t know him.
    “Yeah you do, Valentine. He works for Joe Parker. Big guy. Italian. ‘Cept I dunno he’s actually Italian.”
    I had no idea who he meant.
    “Y’know, greasy lookin’ hair. He’s got this New York accent, but it sounds like shit. I hear he’s from Kansas. He thinks nobody knows.”
    Suddenly I could see his face. It was the bad accent I remembered, like he’d spent years practicing it in front of the mirror.
    “It’s Bruiser.” I said. “They call him Bruiser.”
    “That’s it.”
    “What about him?” I wanted to know.
    “Not him, that tweaker he runs with.”
    “Tweaker?”
    “Yeah, Telly,” he said. “You practically ran the guy over when you left Cowboy Roy’s.”
    I thought about it, but it was really no use. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t recall leaving Cowboy Roy’s.
    “You know who I’m talkin’ about?”
    “Yeah, sure.” I lied. “What about him?”
    Big Tony told me what happened after I left. The tweaker was in a tight spot. He was looking for crank; he wanted Big Tony to hook him up.
    Big Tony said Telly was into something heavy, it could’ve been the credit union by the sounds of it.
    “What’d you say?”
    “I told him I’d see what I could do. Supposed to meet him here in a minute.”
    I slid my feet into my shoes and looked around for the keys to the Vic. I stuck a bottle of Corona in each pocket of my suit jacket and grabbed a yellow plastic cup from my cardboard table. I filled it with the four remaining cubes from my useless little ice tray. Then I grabbed a half-empty bottle of flat Mountain Dew from the mini and the bottle of Southern Comfort from my desk.
    I made a drink, then said good-bye to Frank, who was crashed out in the corner with his chin on his Converse. I hurried to the Vic.
    •••••
     
    I met Big Tony at Crestwood Bowl. Doyle was sitting in the passenger seat of the Town Car. They were in the middle of a deep conversation when I climbed into the back.
    “Okay boys, what’s good?”
    Doyle turned sideways in the seat. He had the look of a salesman to him, which he was. His rusty hair was turning gray at the edges and his smile spread wide over pudgy jowls. His brown suit looked stiff enough to stand on its own without a hanger, like the victim of a dry cleaning experiment gone wrong. He had the abrupt look of a guy you’d never want for a neighbor.
    Doyle was a con man, a jewel thief, and a burglar. And he was good at what he did, connected with all the right people. The one guy you could count on to always be setting up scores.
    I asked Doyle how he’d been and I took a drink from my yellow plastic cup.
    “Jesus, Valentine,” he said. “You smell like a goddamn brewery.”
    I swallowed a mouthful of poison and told him I was out of cologne.
    Then I told him what I thought. It looked to me like he should lay off the chilidogs. “Maybe you should ride a bike. Climb a few stairs.” I thought about Frank when I said it.
    Big Tony tried to turn sideways in his seat but he was bigger than Doyle. He grunted, hung his tongue from the side of his mouth like he was concentrating, but failed to actually rotate as far as I could tell. Defeated, he turned back toward the windshield and watched me through the rear-view mirror as he talked. He said they had some news.
    “Sounds like Joe Parker’s crew,” Doyle said.
    “Word is that dead guy in the middle of