Frank Sinatra in a Blender by Matthew McBride Page B

attack.”
    I finished my beer and downed the Patron. Then I gulped down the Beam and the Captain. I thanked her for the drinks and said her nipples were magnificent. Using the madness that ensued as cover I was able to retrieve my twenty from the bar without anyone noticing.
    I rejoined the fellas at the table and wiped my bloody knuckles on the back of a fat guy I rubbed up against.
    When I took my seat at the table, the conversation stopped abruptly. Big Tony’s mouth was hanging open like the hinge on his jaw was broken and the weight of his teeth made it impossible to close.
    “What the fuck was that?” He appeared stunned.
    I took a drink and shrugged. I didn’t know what he was talking about.
    Doyle shook his head. “Get it together, man.”
    I assured both Doyle and Big Tony I was fine. I explained to them I was a highly functional alcoholic. I wasn’t afraid to admit it. I’d come to terms with my curse long ago. I accepted it. Nobody had high expectations of a drunk and I used that to my advantage.
    I finished the last of my Corona and set the bottle on the table a little too hard. “Let’s talk,” I said.
    Big Tony had his box out and tapped it with his finger. He looked around and I read his mind; he wanted another line but he was too lazy to go to the car. He’d have to wait for the right moment then break out his equipment.
    Doyle leaned into the table and cracked his knuckles, ready to get down to business.
    “Here’s what we gotta do,” he said. “We gotta follow his crew around, see what turns up.”
    “Parker’s crew?” I asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “We can do this,” Big Tony chipped in.
    Doyle was shaking his head in agreement. “It can’t be that hard. Long as we stay on ‘em, we’ll find it. If they got it, that is.” He sounded doubtful.
    “What about the tweaker?” I asked. “We think he’s dead?”
    They both said that he must be dead, or would be soon. They had to be right. Even if Telly managed to still be alive, it was a safe bet he no longer had the cash. The fact that he failed to show up for his drug deal with Big Tony only confirmed our suspicions. Not that Big Tony came through on his end. He still never found any crank.
    We talked for a while about Joe Parker and his crew.
    Big Tony dumped a small mound of blow on his mirror as casually as anyone I’d ever seen. The fact we were surrounded by guys eating chili in a strip club didn’t seem to bother him.
    Doyle didn’t like it, but as far as he could see Big Tony was getting away with it. “Hurry up and put that shit away,” he said.
    I took a bottle of Oxycontin from my pocket and looked for the closest waitress within shouting distance. I noticed that fuck with the handlebar mustache was gone but two of his buddies were giving me the stink eye. That was fine with me. But after a few more drinks I’d have something to say about it.
    As I unscrewed the pill bottle, I looked up to find Doyle and Big Tony staring me down, both beaming out a gaze of disapproval.
    “ What?”
    “Geez, Valentine,” Big Tony said. “You’re poppin’ pills, too?”
    I informed the degenerate thieves that I was going through a difficult period in my life and the medication was prescribed by my physician. I took two a day. And not because I was suffering from an injury of some kind, I just liked the way they made me feel. The temporary euphoria, short-lived though it may be, proved to be a fine companion to the liquor and coke.
    Doyle sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. He played the role of caregiver and he shot me a look of strong paternal disappointment.
    Big Tony told me maybe I should slow down.
    As much as I appreciated their concern, I found it absurd to get unsolicited counseling on substance abuse from a man about to snort cocaine. And I refused to be judged by anyone wearing the stolen watch of a dead man named Charlie.
    Doyle stood up and walked to the bar. Told me he’d get me a beer.
    “Thanks.” I told him.