Frank Sinatra in a Blender Read Online Free PDF Page A

bandanna and an American flag g-string paused in front of him and he whispered something rude. His face was up against her ear. He sniffed her like a fine Barolo.
    Bandanna Girl said she’d be right back, but when she walked away I could tell she wanted to bathe in disinfectant the first chance she got to eradicate the thin layer of funk that clung to her just from being in the presence of such clientele.
    Present company excluded.
    Big Tony took a seat while I took a hard hit of Scotch, then set the glass and the Corona bottle down on the table. I sat across from him and asked what he knew about Norman Russo.
    Big Tony shrugged. “Who the fuck is that?”
    I told him I didn’t know. Maybe just some fuck.
    “What’s he into you for, Valentine?”
    “He ain’t into me for nothin’,” I said. “He’s laid out right now with a Y carved in his chest.”
    “Dead?” Big Tony asked.
    “Yep. Gettin’ autopsied right now.”
    The waitress in cammo returned with a well-rehearsed smile and I realized at once that I had a strong appreciation for her breasts.
    She gave Big Tony a bottle of Pabst, the cheapest beer they had. He paid her with a five and said keep the change.
    She asked me what I wanted.
    “A shot of Yukon Jack. A shot of Wild Turkey, and an ice-cold Corona.” I told her, laying out the demands of a free-range drinker. “Don’t forget the lime.” Drinking had always been important to me and I did it with as much enthusiasm as possible.
    Big Tony lit a cigar and took a drink from his PBR. He set a little box on the table, opened it up, set out a mirror, then dumped powder on the glass. He asked me if I wanted a line. I told him I’d better not, but I didn’t like the way he looked at me when I said it.
    To avoid drawing suspicion, I thought I should probably go ahead and indulge just this once. I could always debate the finer points of the issue later. I’d made a promise to myself about the coffee and the cigarettes, but I never said anything about turning down cocaine.
    He did his rail first, the longest one, of course, which ran a good six inches. Then he pushed the mirror my way. It said Cowboy Roy’s Fantasyland across the top but the line he left for me was only long enough to reach from the R to the Y in Roy . I snorted it and embraced the familiar numbness like a handshake from an old friend. It was the electric cherry on top of my drunk buzz. But still, the cheap bastard could’ve put out just a little more.
    A few minutes passed and we talked about all kinds of things before Bandanna Girl made it back with our drinks. She brought him another PBR and he thanked her with a friendly slap to her perfect ass, a humiliating gesture she hated but had to endure if she wanted to get paid.
    Big Tony worked his game on the dancer with insufficient skill. While an obvious exercise in futility, it turned out to be the best part of my day. He never had a chance with any of his girls, a fact everyone seemed aware of except him.
    I downed the shot of Yukon Jack like a champ. Then followed it with the Austin Nichols. 101 proof. It tasted like kerosene going down and started a bonfire in my guts.
    A stripper walked on the stage and took her panties off and every pair of eyes in the club was raping her at once. When the earsplitting bass paused, I heard the familiar sound of a razorblade dragging small piles of blow across glass. The cocaine chased the Oxy through my system, followed by plenty of liquor. I realized suddenly that I had to get out of Roy’s before I passed out cold or jumped on stage and dragged the stripper to the back like a caveman.
    That last shot of Wild Turkey must’ve really turned me sideways. Something didn’t feel right. I focused on the door and reminded myself to slow the fuck down.
    When I stood up, I knocked over my chair and the blood rushed to my head like it always did when I moved fast. I leaned down, put my hands on the table and righted myself. I told Big Tony I was out. He