Frank Sinatra in a Blender by Matthew McBride Page A

probably had the money with him. Some detective I was.
    Big Tony headed for his table and Doyle blazed a path to the shitter. Said it was the chili he ate earlier, the stuff they served in the parking lot.
    I asked him about that.
    “Every night in November,” he said. “Gotta love Chili Month.”
    Indeed. As a man with a lifelong appreciation of strippers and chili, I found something extraordinary about the idea of combining them both under one roof. It was almost as if Cowboy Roy himself had created a Utopian Paradise to ensnare men for hours, separating them from their hard-earned dollars while giving them two of the greatest things life had to offer at the same time.
    I waited for Flames to serve me up but a baby doll took my order instead. She was topless and wore a different-colored barbell through each pert nipple.
    I asked her if that hurt.
    “I didn’t think about it.” She turned away quickly. She thought herself too good for me and maybe she was. I watched the light reflect off her jewelry. Her face radiated nausea and revulsion. Without looking up, she asked me what I wanted.
    “A shot of Patron. A shot of Jim Beam. A Corona. And a Captain n’ Coke.”
    That finally got her attention. She wanted to complain but didn’t. “Okay,” she said.
    She came back with the first two shots and I finished them both before she brought my beer. When she set the bottle on the bar, I grabbed the Captain from her hand and killed it too.
    I held up a finger. Told her I wasn’t done.
    “More?”
    “When it comes to drinking I don’t fuck around.” I threw a twenty on the counter, which wasn’t nearly enough, and told her to set me up one more time.
    I made an impressive dent in that Corona; I downed the Captain. Baby girl still hadn’t come back with my next round.
    To my right, a man wearing a polo shirt at least one size too small looked over at me and licked the foam off his tremendous mustache. It was a serious mustache to be sure, a very powerful-looking Fu Manchu, grown with diligence and trimmed with precision. I could only begin to imagine the pride of ownership and the awesome responsibility associated with a mustache of that magnitude.
    I wished baby doll would hurry up. Doyle and Big Tony were sitting at the table making plans without me. I had to get back there. They’d try and cut me out if I gave them the chance.
    At the other end of the bar I could see her flirting with a younger guy who was much better-looking than me. He was also taller and wore an expensive suit. She worked that stud like a pro, pushing her plastic tits and aluminum hardware in his face.
    I was ready for another drink but she dawdled, pursuing her own interests with little regard to my drinking schedule.
    “Hurry the fuck up, babe,” I snapped. Not loud enough to be heard over the music, but loud enough to get the attention of Captain Mustache. He asked me if I had a problem.
    “Of course I have a problem, cockbreath! I wish this girl was on roller skates!”
    He stood quick with a force that made his bar stool wobble. Then he gave me the silent treatment and let his mustache do the talking.
    I didn’t like the direction our conversation was taking. I knew I’d better act fast.
    I handed him my beer suddenly and without warning.
    “Here, hold this,” I said as I shoved my beer into his palm, my voice brimming with authority.
    His fingers close around the bottle automatically. Then he looked down at his hand for a moment, taking his eyes off of me as he wondered why the hell he was holding my Corona.
    That’s when I hit him in the throat with an open hand. I followed it with a quick right hook to the eye socket, then drove my knee into his nut bag for the takedown. Oddly enough he never dropped the bottle and I was able to grab it from his hand before he hit the floor.
    Baby girl finally came back. This time she was yelling. She asked me what the fuck just happened?
    “Call 911,” I said. “This man just had a heart