before he died.”
Big Tony looked over at Doyle. “Yeah, what was that?”
“Never wear sweatpants to a strip club.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what he said.”
“That’s the best advice your old man ever gave you?”
Doyle shrugged. “That’s it.”
The fat man behind the wheel began to laugh.
Doyle looked over from the passenger seat. “What?”
“That’s just funny, is all.”
“Yeah, well what’s the best advice your old man ever gave you?”
“Only advice he ever give me was with his belt.”
“Yeah, but that makes sense about the sweat pants if you think about it.” Doyle reached over and turned off the radio when Rush Limbaugh came on. “I hate that asshole.”
“He’s okay,” Big Tony countered.
They drove in silence for a couple of minutes until they hit traffic. They were stopped next to road construction and the guy on Doyle’s side was working a jackhammer. Doyle put his window up all the way and checked his stolen watch.
“We got plenty of time,” Big Tony said.
Doyle knew what time it was; he just didn’t want to be late, and didn’t want to end up listening to Rush the whole time.
They found the parking garage with no problems. Big Tony parked next to the van at the end of the aisle and Doyle stepped out.
“You stay close, case I need ya.”
Big Tony said he would, he let his foot off the brake and the car started to roll.
“Good luck,” he yelled, as Doyle slammed the car door, then unlocked the driver’s side door of the van.
He climbed into the seat then turned and made a quick inventory of his equipment. Everything he needed was in an oversize hockey bag. A high-speed drill, two sledgehammers, chisels, hacksaws, an oxyacetylene torch, asbestos gloves, and a portable hydraulic jack. Doyle was prepared. When it came to a job he left nothing to chance.
He let the van warm up in the garage as he studied the floor plan to the building. The floor plan he was clever enough to procure a month ago. Getting it was the easy part. He found a unit for sale then went to the real estate agent as the concerned son of a perspective buyer.
“I’m looking for something for my parents, you see. Getting up there in years you know. How’s the Security?”
It worked, like it always did, and they gave him all the information he required, including the floor plan.
Doyle left the garage and fell in with the bulky, concentrated flow of the traffic as he made his way to the heart of the Central West End. He passed the Tivoli Theater, then Meshuggah Coffee House on his left. He sat for a minute in front of the Delmar Lounge while a group of girls in bright-colored jackets sloshed across the street in the snow, their matching scarves blowing in the wind. He made a few turns, then pulled into the parking garage of the Indigo building.
•••••
I got back to my office just before the sun went down. It was colder than a well digger’s ass in January and I drove like a maniac considering the road conditions. Amish Ron fucked me good when he noticed that back door unlocked. I’d planned on returning within minutes and doing a much more comprehensive search. Right after I drank that Cabernet Sauvignon and took a shit in Norm Russo’s toilet.
I climbed the stairs two at a time with a respectable stride that even Frank would’ve envied. I slammed my key in the lock, hit the handle, and kicked the bottom of the door open with my foot.
Frank was sleeping in my office chair when I burst across the room, stumbled over a basket of dirty clothes, and knocked a box over. Frank started barking when everything spilled out onto the floor, but he directed his anger specifically at an oversized yellow plastic blender that bounced across the tile.
“ Rarp, rarp, arp!”
I kicked the bathroom door so hard the wood popped and splintered at the top around the antique hinge. My pants hit the floor and my ass made contact with the seat without a moment to spare. As much as I’d enjoyed
Big Tony looked over at Doyle. “Yeah, what was that?”
“Never wear sweatpants to a strip club.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what he said.”
“That’s the best advice your old man ever gave you?”
Doyle shrugged. “That’s it.”
The fat man behind the wheel began to laugh.
Doyle looked over from the passenger seat. “What?”
“That’s just funny, is all.”
“Yeah, well what’s the best advice your old man ever gave you?”
“Only advice he ever give me was with his belt.”
“Yeah, but that makes sense about the sweat pants if you think about it.” Doyle reached over and turned off the radio when Rush Limbaugh came on. “I hate that asshole.”
“He’s okay,” Big Tony countered.
They drove in silence for a couple of minutes until they hit traffic. They were stopped next to road construction and the guy on Doyle’s side was working a jackhammer. Doyle put his window up all the way and checked his stolen watch.
“We got plenty of time,” Big Tony said.
Doyle knew what time it was; he just didn’t want to be late, and didn’t want to end up listening to Rush the whole time.
They found the parking garage with no problems. Big Tony parked next to the van at the end of the aisle and Doyle stepped out.
“You stay close, case I need ya.”
Big Tony said he would, he let his foot off the brake and the car started to roll.
“Good luck,” he yelled, as Doyle slammed the car door, then unlocked the driver’s side door of the van.
He climbed into the seat then turned and made a quick inventory of his equipment. Everything he needed was in an oversize hockey bag. A high-speed drill, two sledgehammers, chisels, hacksaws, an oxyacetylene torch, asbestos gloves, and a portable hydraulic jack. Doyle was prepared. When it came to a job he left nothing to chance.
He let the van warm up in the garage as he studied the floor plan to the building. The floor plan he was clever enough to procure a month ago. Getting it was the easy part. He found a unit for sale then went to the real estate agent as the concerned son of a perspective buyer.
“I’m looking for something for my parents, you see. Getting up there in years you know. How’s the Security?”
It worked, like it always did, and they gave him all the information he required, including the floor plan.
Doyle left the garage and fell in with the bulky, concentrated flow of the traffic as he made his way to the heart of the Central West End. He passed the Tivoli Theater, then Meshuggah Coffee House on his left. He sat for a minute in front of the Delmar Lounge while a group of girls in bright-colored jackets sloshed across the street in the snow, their matching scarves blowing in the wind. He made a few turns, then pulled into the parking garage of the Indigo building.
•••••
I got back to my office just before the sun went down. It was colder than a well digger’s ass in January and I drove like a maniac considering the road conditions. Amish Ron fucked me good when he noticed that back door unlocked. I’d planned on returning within minutes and doing a much more comprehensive search. Right after I drank that Cabernet Sauvignon and took a shit in Norm Russo’s toilet.
I climbed the stairs two at a time with a respectable stride that even Frank would’ve envied. I slammed my key in the lock, hit the handle, and kicked the bottom of the door open with my foot.
Frank was sleeping in my office chair when I burst across the room, stumbled over a basket of dirty clothes, and knocked a box over. Frank started barking when everything spilled out onto the floor, but he directed his anger specifically at an oversized yellow plastic blender that bounced across the tile.
“ Rarp, rarp, arp!”
I kicked the bathroom door so hard the wood popped and splintered at the top around the antique hinge. My pants hit the floor and my ass made contact with the seat without a moment to spare. As much as I’d enjoyed
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