Frozen Flamingo Blues

By Jerry Sarasin

Tossed out by his girlfriend and turned away by his old
friend Frankie, Milo Thomas is broke and alone on the
mean streets of Detroit. He inadvertently absconds with
a briefcase full of the mobs money while trying to fend off
a mobster. His plan to return the money is thwarted when a
marine hitchhiker disappears with the money.
Desperate, Milo heads north in a raging blizzard to reunite
with his wealthy but estranged brother, hoping that they
can renew their friendship and perhaps his brother can
help Milo out. But when his brother does not support him,
he then begins a search to find the marine and get back the
mobs money. While trying to stay ahead of the bad guys, he
becomes embroiled with the local citizenry of of a small town
who have found a unique, if not illegal, way of dealing with its
sagging economy. They are not happy with his interference,
and the results are murder and mayhem. Milos relationship
with a local woman, Annie, blossoms into a full-scale romance,
and he develops a curious relationship with Annies brilliant
fifteen-year-old daughter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483658216

Jerry Sarasin

Jerry Sarasin is an old hand at dealing with bitter cold and mountains of snow, having been born and raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. After thirty years in high tech, he returned to school and earned an EdM. and worked as a social worker. He has previously written a pictorial biography of his father, and his first novel, The Last Deer Hunt, was published in 2008 by Outskirts Press. Jerry now lives in Massachusetts with his wife, Carol.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I stood in the falling snow, staring at the boxes and plastic bags piled up under the streetlight. I looked up and could see her silhouette in the second-story window. What the hell—Stella, what the hell are you doing? How come all my stuff’s down here on the street?

Because, Milo, you screwed me for the last time, and I mean that figuratively and literally. Another large plastic bag tumbled earthward.

I danced out of the way of the bag as it hit the sidewalk. What the hell are you talking about, babe?

You know what I’m talking about, you bastard. Taking the rent money was the last straw.

Come on, Stella, I’ll pay it back. You know I’m good for it.

Good for nothing is more like it. You know, Milo, all you ever think about is yourself.

Now you know that’s not true, babe. I only did this for us. You’ll have your money back with interest.

Yeah, sure, Milo, I’ve heard that before.

We needed that money to cut the CD and to get the posters printed and hung up. Now that was not exactly the truth. We blew most of the money at the party over at the Beam and Bottle. But, babe, this is going to launch our careers. This is going to be our biggest gig yet—

Just then, I saw the silhouette move out of the corner of my eye. Stella held up a large object at arm’s length. Speaking of gigs, Milo baby, you’ll need this. Suddenly the object was tumbling down toward me.

I screamed Christ, not my Stratocaster! and lunged for it but slipped on the icy sidewalk and landed on my butt. I watched as the guitar, uncased, hit the hard, packed snow with a loud sproing, strings popping from the broken neck. I went over to it, knelt down, and picked it up, holding it delicately in both hands, sadness welling up inside of me, and a tear forming in my eye. And I said quietly, Goddamn it, Stella, you didn’t need to do that, we can still—

I didn’t get to finish. Stella’s dark shape stood and reached up for the window. Send me a postcard when you get to Key West, baby. Behind the streetlight, the window closed and went dark. I lifted the guitar to throw it across the street then caught myself, thought about it, and went over and put it in the backseat of my ’83 Subaru wagon. Two more trips and the rest of my stuff was off the street and into my car. I stood looking up at the darkened window and wiped the snow from my face. Shit.

I was broke, and it was freezing out. In the shadow of the Ambassador Bridge, in a run-down neighborhood of Detroit, I stood shivering in the raw January air, watching my breath condensing and wondering what the hell I was going to do. When would I ever learn? I was torn between feeling anger at Stella and at the world in general and mostly at myself for being such a screwup.

I walked up Twenty-First Street and crossed over onto Vernor Highway West. The wind was driving the icy snow off the river, and I was freezing in my too-thin Detroit Tigers warm-up jacket. The snow had leeched up into my shoes, and my socks were wet. Two blocks up the street and I was back in my familiar old stomping grounds. Not exactly what I would call nostalgic. It was still run-down, still piled with garbage and litter, even still lingered with the smell. Nothing had changed in all these years.

The only sign of life was the blue neon sign blinking erratically, announcing the location of Frankie’s Tavern, a seedy bar located in a seedy neighborhood. Frank Karpowski bought the old place about five years ago, but I and Frankie and the bar went way back together long before that. Back in those good old days, this tavern rocked. Frankie was the bouncer, and I played blues guitar three nights a week. One night, the bar was full, and everybody was living it up. A fight started, and Frankie went in to break it up. Suddenly he was in trouble, surrounded by three young hoodlums. One of them pulled a knife and was going for Frankie’s back when he tripped over my foot and fell on his face. Frankie looked down at the guy on the floor and the knife and gave me a thumbs-up, figuring I had saved his butt. That was the start of our friendship.

Frankie even invited me to go with him to the Polish district of South Chicago and meet his mama and the rest of his family. Now, Frankie was a weird bird. He always thought of himself as a tough mafioso. He wanted everyone to think he hung around with Detroit mobsters and liked to look the part. He dressed in black, wore a black fedora, and wore a permanent little crooked smile with a Clark Gable mustache that he thought made him look tough. His three younger brothers all drove city buses and worshiped Frankie. His beautiful younger sister, Alinka, adored him.

But Mama was not happy with his behavior. She was worried about his lifestyle—that he was a member of the Kielbasa Posse and that he was a mobster. She wanted him to get a job driving a bus like his three brothers. I told her that Frankie was a decent guy, that he went to church regularly, and that he stayed away from gambling and fast women.

She still didn’t look convinced. She stood with one hand on her hip, the index finger on her other hand like a windshield wiper. I stood up for Frankie and told Mama that she shouldn’t worry. I personally would watch over him and vouch for his safety. She looked at me for a minute, gave me a small pat on the cheek, smiled, and said something in Polish. Frankie’s brothers smiled, the brothers’ wives all smiled, Alinka smiled, then Frankie smiled and then I smiled. We drank Chopin Vodka from bottles and danced the night away. Frankie said that what Mama said in Polish was that she liked me and that I was to be trusted and that if I said Frankie would be okay, she was sure he would be and she would not worry about him.

Everything went smoothly after that for a while. While Frankie’s career path led him up the corporate ladder of crime, mine went in a different direction. I found that my navy duty as a shore patrolman qualified me to be a civilian policeman, so I joined the Detroit police force. I didn’t particularly like being a cop, but it supplemented my meager income from doing gigs and allowed me to do what I loved best—playing the blues. Then about six months ago, I did it again, another stupid mistake. I got into hot water with the precinct captain and was told to either leave or suffer serious consequences. I left.

But Frankie and I were still pals, hanging out together and mostly staying out of trouble.

Then on one of our trips to Chicago, Frankie caught me making a pass at his younger sister, Alinka, in a bedroom while the rest of the family watched The Godfather on television. Frankie waited until we were back in Detroit and proceeded to tell me the facts of life. Actually, he pounded them into me with his fists. That was our last trip to Chicago.

After that, we started to drift apart. Since his lesson on dating etiquette, we barely crossed paths. So tonight, I didn’t have any great expectations, but I needed some money and kinda hoped that he would remember we were good buddies at one time. And desperation being the mother of stupidity and with me not having too many options, I had to give it a try.

I went inside the bar, into the blue haze of cigarette smoke and the smell of stale beer. About half a dozen regulars sat on tall stools along the bar with their heads down and drinking boiler makers, cheap booze followed by beers, trying to block out the pain of reality on their way to oblivion. There were another dozen or so customers hanging around with beers or drinks in their hands and cigarettes dangling from their lips. The area around the pool table was crowded with boisterous young men vying for the quarters strung along the pool-table railing.

It was just another Saturday night at Frankie’s bar.

Holy bejesus, if it ain’t Milo Thomas! Frankie boomed out from the end of the bar. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? He was dressed in his usual black suit, black tie, black shirt, and black fedora.

I walked toward him holding out my hand. Hi, pal, I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by to say hello—you know, a friendly visit. Two large bodies moved between Frank and me. The one on the left was a very large black man in a dark-blue silk shirt who had no neck. The one on the right wore a tight-fitting black top and suspenders, tall and lean and all muscle.

Call off your boys, Frankie, I said. I come in peace.

Frankie waved off the two bodies on steroids and ignored my hand. He took a few puffs from a large cigar and then slowly said, Milo, first of all, I thought you’d be down in Key West with that buddy of yours at, you know, that Flamingo bar deal you’ve always talked about. Secondly, you don’t come around here for any friendly visits anymore. Frankie leaned down close to my face—so close I gagged on the cigar smoke. If I remember right, Milo, you used up all your goodwill, and I called us even.

Not what I had hoped to hear. Come on, Frankie, why you copping an attitude?

The way I see it, Milo, you don’t owe me, and I don’t owe you.

I started to protest, but Frankie waved me off. So why are you here? What happened this time, besides getting canned by the police department? Did you get thrown out on your ass again by some dame?

Ah, you know how it is, Frankie. Dames, they’re all the same.

Did you ever think, Milo, that it just might be you that’s all screwed up? Every time I hear about you, some broad is giving you the old heave-ho. It seems like you’re the common dominator.

"You mean denominator?"

Yeah, sure, whatever. Frank motioned me forward. So how much you need?

Ah, Frankie, do you think that’s the only─

Milo, Milo. There’s only one reason you’re here. How much do you need?

Five hundred, I said quietly.

Oh boy, poor little Milo’s gone big-time. Frank laughed, and his two thugs smiled back.

This was not going the way I hoped. I could feel myself getting angry. I knew I had better back off, or I’d go too far. I gotta be cool. I really need this loan. Hell, Frankie, remember all the great times we had here at the bar? Remember that night—

Frankie interrupted. It’s kinda pathetic, hearing you begging for a few bucks.

That did it; I had enough. What’s with you, Frankie? Did your Mama tell you to stop acting like a two-bit thug, come home, and get a job driving a bus like your brothers?

Frankie’s face tightened up, and his body tensed.

Uh-oh, I thought, now I’ve gone too far. I waited for the hammer to fall.

It didn’t take long; Frankie stood and looked at me for a minute then said, Milo, you’re an ass. Now this loan will cost you the usual interest rate plus 25 percent.

Shit, I really blew this chance big-time. But my temper was now running into the red. Wait a stinking minute, what the hell is with this extra 25 percent? I couldn’t believe he was doing this to me.

It is because you’re a bad risk. You know, Milo, like when your credit rating is piss-poor, you get piss-poor interest rates.

And how come all of a sudden I’m a bad risk?

Well, good buddy, let me put it this way. First of all, you don’t got no steady job no more. Second of all, you ain’t got no place to stay, no home address, and third, you are stupid. I don’t like you talking about my mother.

Come on, Frankie, I come here as a friend and ask for a small favor, and you go all ballistic on me. Whoa, I thought, I gotta remember that I’m really desperate. Come on, Frankie, can’t you cut me a break here?

Frankie shook his head. I ain’t in any mood for your crap tonight. Right now, I got bigger problems than you. How about it, do we have a deal or what?

You got to be kidding. What kind of fricking deal is that?

Take it or leave it, my friend, Frankie said, a smirk growing across his face. And you know the rules, right? Rule number one: you pay the loan back on time. Rule number two: don’t forget rule number one.

I’m dead. There’s no way Frankie’s going to cut me a break tonight. I sure as hell ain’t gonna beg. "Screw you, Frankie, I don’t need your money. I’ll figure out something else. I shook my head and, under my breath, whispered, Small-time-punk mama’s boy."

Frank leaned forward and hissed, I heard what you said, you fricking loser. You look like you ain’t changed your clothes or shaved in two weeks, and you could grow potatoes in that mat of hair you have.

Yeah, you’re one to talk. Look at you, acting like a mafioso, driving around in that big black Lincoln Continental. Your mama see you now, she’d take a belt to you. I quickly got up and headed toward the front door.

The two hoods stepped toward me, cutting me off. I remembered that the back door to the place exited out into the alley, and I quickly backed up toward the rear of the tavern, moving back into the smoky haze.

Frank put a hand on the backs of the two men. Hell, let him go. He’s a fricking loser. The three of them turned back toward the bar.

I know I have blown it tonight. Tomorrow I could try again, but tomorrow will be too late.

I continued feeling my way back through the smoke-filled hallway. I felt a doorknob and turned it, thinking I remembered it as going out into the alley behind the tavern. Instead, I found myself entering Frankie’s office. There was a small light on the desk with a green shade filling the room with a dim green glow. The place was a mess, papers and boxes piled up all over the place.

Slob, I mumbled, feeling irritation build up inside of me

Just then, I heard someone coming down the hall and quickly ducked inside the office and closed the door. Without thinking, I picked up an old briefcase that was lying on top of the desk, something to protect myself with. Suddenly the door flew open, and the large black thug stood in the doorway, surprise written all over his face. He looked at me and snarled, What the hell you doing in here? Then seeing me holding the briefcase, he said, Hey, drop that. He quickly entered the room and reached out for the briefcase, and as he did, I swung it at him, catching him on the side of the head. As he slid to the floor, I quickly moved past him out of the room and into the hallway. Without waiting to see what happened next, I got my bearings and headed through the exit door and into the alley.

Outside, I headed down the street back toward my Subaru. Then I heard yelling. The thug was coming after me, and he was gaining on me with every step. Panting heavily, I stepped up my pace, but he continued to close the distance between us. Suddenly he dived for me and grabbed my pant leg. I turned and hit him again with the briefcase. He snarled at me but let go, and I raced for the car.

Before I reached the car, he was up to me again. I turned and faced him, and in my meanest voice while holding the briefcase up, I said, You want some more of this, buddy? To my surprise, he tried stopping and slid on his butt on the icy road surface. I reached the car, flung open the door, got in, and pushed the door lock just as the goon slammed into the car. He pounded on the door and rocked the car as I fumbled with the key, finally inserting it into the ignition. The creep was smashing on the window, ready to break it with every blow. Just then, the engine in the old Subaru cranked over. I stomped on the gas, and the car lurched forward; the goon lost his grip on the door handle and went flying forward into a ball of snow.

Screw you! I yelled at the man now sitting up on the street. I threw the briefcase in the backseat and gave Stella’s window the finger as I went by on the snow-covered street heading for—where? Hell, I didn’t know. I just had to get out of there. I drove west on the Goddard Expressway toward the Metropolitan Airport. I had no idea where I was going. I needed to stop and think. I was tired of this town, of the cold, and of the snow. I wanted to be someplace warm. Maybe now it was time I headed to Key West. I’d always talked about going there and getting together with my buddy Vinnie and working at his bar, the Happy Flamingo. Yeah, at least it’d be warm.

A neon sign glowed eerily through the heavy falling snow, announcing Chuckie’s Diner. I pulled into the half-plowed parking lot; I needed some time to think about this.

Chapter 2

The restaurant was empty except for an old cook, who stood over the counter and read a newspaper, and an elderly waitress with a pink uniform, a dirty apron, and a name tag labeled Mabel. She shuffled over to the counter where I sat and stood, pad in hand, and waited for my order. What can I getcha, dearie?

A large coffee, please—black.

Mabel filled a paper cup with steaming coffee and set it down on the counter. Where you headed on a lousy night like this?

Haven’t the foggiest idea.

Mabel nodded toward the TV. You checked the weather, dearie? We’re in the middle of a blizzard. Nobody should be driving in this stuff.

I was going to tell her I knew what it was like outside. But right now, I didn’t need conversation and ignored her.

Mabel shrugged and went back to talk to the cook. While I was digging in my pockets, looking for some change to leave a tip, I found the article from the Marquette Mining Journal that my Aunt Millie had sent me. According to the article, my brother, Arthur, who was living in Marquette, had acquired an extensive collection of antique autos and was refurbishing an old garage to house them. I looked at the newspaper article again. Arthur was obviously doing well for himself. But then he always said that when he died, he would have all the toys. Yeah, well, good for him, Mr. All-Sports-in-High-School-and-a-Scholarship-to-College. Now he was back in Marquette where we grew up, a big fish in a small pond.

Me? I had to laugh. Here I was, broke and with no place to go. Papa always said I was a lazy good-for-nothing and would never amount to anything. I guess I lived up to his expectations.

Now, to be fair, none of my problems had to do with Arthur. He wasn’t really a bad guy. My problem was that I was always living in his shadow. I could never be as good as him, no matter how much I tried. Papa never missed a chance to tell me that I needed to be more like my brother. It’s no wonder I always felt bad about myself and angry at Art. The more I mulled this around in my brain, the more I could recall happy times Arthur and I had together while we were kids growing up, and a feeling of sadness moved through me. I hadn’t seen Art in twelve years. And heck, he was the only family I had. So here’s my plan: I’ll head up to Marquette to see my big brother. I can make it up there with what money I have. I bet he’ll be happy to see me and, hopefully, will help me out. Yeah! I now have a plan B. I like it. I get my brother back, and he gets to help out his kid brother. Everybody wins.

I felt better.

I put the money for the coffee on the counter, and Mabel came over and picked it up. Figure out where you’re headed, dearie?

Yep, I’m on my way up to Marquette to visit my brother, Arthur.

Mabel looked at me with disbelief. Not tonight.

Yep, I said, putting my coat on.

You’re kidding! Marquette’s gotta be over five hundred miles up north. Is your brother very sick or something?

Nope, it’s just that I haven’t seen him in twelve years, and it’s time we got together to patch things up. I headed for the toilet.

When I came out, Mabel was staring at the weather on the TV. We could see twenty-two inches on the ground by morning. I think you’d be better off finding some place to hunker down around here tonight.

Hell, that’s what I’ve been doing the last twelve years. I put my coat on, headed for the door, waved back to them, and went out. Besides, sixty bucks can’t buy a lot of hunkering.

Just as the door closed, I heard Mabel say to the cook, I bet he doesn’t even get to I-275.

I cleaned the new snow off the car and headed west on I-94. At I-275, I waved back to Mabel then turned north toward I-75, the Straits of Mackinac, the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and Marquette to reconnect with my brother. Yeah, I think this will be cool. I had a good feeling about this. Then I remembered Vicki, Arthur’s wife. Now that might be a problem. Vicki and I did not part company on the best of terms, and I had no idea what to expect. I could only hope for the best.

The all-wheel drive on the old Subaru had no trouble with the snowy roads, but the sounds of the wipers grew louder as they were barely able to keep the snow off the windshield, and the defroster wasn’t able to keep it from freezing. I had to look through a smaller and smaller hole as the ice kept creeping over the windshield, and I stopped every twenty miles or so and scraped the ice off. The going was slow, and the only vehicles out were the usual snowplow trucks and an occasional nutcase like myself. I settled back and tried to concentrate on my driving.

At one of the roadside stops, I pulled over, and as I cleaned the window, I noticed the briefcase in the backseat. Damn, I forgot about it. Oh well, it’s pretty beaten up, not worth much. I wonder what’s inside. I turned on the overhead light, unzipped the bag, and stuck my hand in and pulled out a handful of papers. I looked at the papers: betting slips—and money, lots of money. Lots and lots of money! I counted it five times to be sure. Fifteen grand! I checked the other papers again. They all had LCN written on them. La Cosa Notsra!

The mob’s money—Christ, Frankie really does work for the mob now, and if the mob is involved, I’m in deep doo-doo.

I put the seat back down, lay back, and watched the large snowflakes pile up on the windows.

Chapter 3

I woke up about an hour later, shivering in the cold car. After I got the car running, I went out and cleaned off the new fallen snow. Then I was on the road again. Driving was difficult. The grunch-grunch of the wipers and the thumping of the ice that was building up in the wheel wells added to the tenseness in my neck caused by my straining to see out of the windows. By the time I reached Houghton Lake, the wind had picked up, blowing the snow sideways across the road and nearly wiping out all visibility. I pulled up behind a Greyhound bus, and even with the snow blowing up from the bus, I found it easier to just stay close and follow its taillights. This was okay as long as it lasted, but the bus pulled off at Grayling. Now I was on my own again. My eyeballs were going up into my head from watching the snow come at the windshield and fly up at the last second.

It was a quarter past nine, and I was just creeping along. It should have taken about two hours to get to the Mackinac Bridge, but with this weather, it could be twice as long. Another stop, another cup of coffee, and then I hit the bathroom, topped off the gas, and was back on the road again.

The money in the briefcase bothered me. They knew I had taken it, and I knew that when they caught up with me, they would not be nice about it. My only hope was that I would get the money back to Frankie before he caught up with me. I would send it back to him as soon as I got to my brother’s house. I had to admit that it was tempting to just keep the money; I sure as hell could have used it. But I found myself glancing in the rearview mirror too often, and besides, Frankie would have been in a whole world of hurt with the mob, and I couldn’t let that happen.

Big brother Arthur was back in my thoughts. We had ended our relationship on a really bad note. Papa died when I was a senior in high