Read Frank Sinatra in a Blender for Free Online

window was down and my left arm was hanging out, dangling against the door.
    Somebody somewhere was yelling. “Wake up, asshole!” Then they leaned on the horn.
    I looked around and tried to get my bearings. I realized the light was now on yellow and about to hit red so I floored it. The tires barked hard, hooking up with the pavement and carrying the big car out into the intersection where I was almost hit broadside by some hipster in a Scion with a bicycle mounted to the roof.
    He locked his brakes up, narrowly avoiding my Crown Vic. He waved his arms around and started honking.
    I grabbed the brass knuckles that hung from the shifter and stuck my fist out the window. I wasn’t sure how long I’d sat at that light, but I needed to piss, and I knew the mini-fridge was running dangerously low on alcohol. The Vic could use some gas while I was at it.
    I pulled into the first station I saw and took a piss behind the car wash. I finished the rest of the Scotch I must have taken with me from the bar, then threw the empty glass up against a vacuum cleaner that ripped me off the one and only time I tried to clean the Vic.
    With all the foresight a drunk in my position could manufacture, I decided to forgo gas. However, I did go inside and fulfill my commitment for more drink.
    I walked out with a fifth of Southern Comfort, a bottle of rum, a frozen pizza, and two six packs of Corona. I climbed behind the wheel, set my bag into the seat, and pulled a stick of beef jerky from my pocket that I couldn’t remember if I paid for. I thought about an ice-cold beer. I put the window up and out of nowhere started thinking about the credit union job.
    Suddenly it all made sense and I was able to see it unfold in my mind with the absolute clarity that only an afternoon drunk at a strip joint can provide. Chief Caraway’d said all he knew about Norman Russo was that he managed a bank, but what if it was the credit union? Whatever assholes hit that credit union must have gone to Russo’s house the night before. They pumped him for information and they killed him. Then they staged that suicide with a lack of professionalism unlike anything I’d ever seen.
    I pulled the Vic onto the road and drove a few miles back to the office while I ran the scenario through my head. They used a crew of two or three guys. I was leaning toward a two-man crew. There’d only been one guy inside the credit union. There was no reason to have two getaway drivers unless they used a crash car, a driver in a second vehicle who could block the road just in case a cruiser arrived. But if that’d been the case, the crash car would’ve taken out the Neon.
    Still, it was a pretty sophisticated job for just a few guys to pull off by themselves. And anybody smart enough to set this up and pull it off, would have to be smart enough to spell correctly.
    When I climbed to the top step of my office I found a late notice taped to my door, across where it said Private Detective. I wadded up the note, slipped the key into the lock then kicked the bottom of the door open with my foot.
    Frank was there waiting. Snorting, sneezing, and turning circles.
    “Hey Frank.” I stepped through the doorway carrying two bags. My arms were full. Frank was going crazy, jumping all around. He yelped when I stepped on his foot.
    “Sorry.” I went on to explain how this could easily have been avoided and was clearly his fault. I set both bags on the cardboard box I used for a table and carried both sixers over to the mini and loaded that bastard up. Frank started barking, giving me hell. I asked him if he had to shit.
    “Aaarp.”
    I grabbed the cordless from my office and took Frank outside so he could make his logs. There was a little area between the alleys with some grass. While Frank was busy, I put a call to the Chief but he wasn’t in the office. I wasn’t surprised, but I felt like I was working this whole damn case by myself. Maybe Big Tony’d come through. You never knew