Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

A couple weeks’ shopping, done in less than ten minutes.

Four squeaky wheels bore his cart to the check stand, where he topped off his selections with a Weekly World News. He could have resisted the story about the Nazi U-boat captain who ruled Atlantis and the one about the sasquatch recruited by the NBA, but there was a new Bat Boy story-“Half-Bat, Half-Boy Eludes Air Force Radar Team!” Jack couldn’t pass that up.

He paid for the groceries and the tabloid, skinning several twenties from his wallet. It had been a bad day. Spending a fortune on groceries didn’t improve things. Neither did the song spilling from the in-store stereo system.

“Honey” by Bobby Goldsboro.

Jack snatched his change from the checker and exited the market posthaste, Bobby’s trembling vibrato relentlessly trailing him until the automatic doors shushed closed at his heels.

Jack opened the trunk of his battered ’76 Toyota Celica and tossed the grocery bags inside. He didn’t need to pay a fistful of twenties for the privilege of hearing a maudlin love song, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start thinking about Kate Benteen as a result. He’d suffered enough for one day, thank you very much.

Jack climbed into the Toyota, keyed the engine, and turned on the radio.

Ricky Nelson sang “Poor Little Fool.”

Jack changed the station. Righteous Brothers. “(You’ve Lost That) Lovin’ Feeling.” He changed it again and heard Little Anthony goin’ out of his head. Changed it one last time, only to find Sinatra “Learnin’ the Blues.”

That was it.

Jack punched a cassette into the tape deck and zooma-zoomaed into the night to the sound of Louis Prima’s blissfully unromantic wail.

About a year ago, the Celica was about two tanks of unleaded short of the junkyard. Then Jack put some of the money he earned from the Pipeline Beach job into the car. Some semi-serious change, but the mechanic had done a great job. Jack hadn’t had a lick of trouble with the Toy since.

He figured that the Celica was destined to be a classic- the Mustang of the seventies. He was sure car collectors would see the light one of these days, and when that happened he’d score big bucks for the car he’d bought new in 1976. Then again, Jack was a man who in his time had predicted a bright future for 8-track players, Sony Betamaxes, and Apple computers.

The only thing the Toyota lacked was some bodywork. Root beer foam brown in color, its smooth features were blemished by several dented rust spots that glowed like pools of dark Jamaican rum when the neon lights of Vegas shone just right. Jack liked the idea of pools of rum, especially under a neon glow. He also liked the idea that the Celica was a little dinged up, because he was a little dinged up, too. So the bumps and bruises would stay until he decided to sell the Toy.

He pulled into his parking space behind the Agua Caliente condominium complex. Agua Caliente was Spanish for “hot water.” Apart from the fact that every condo in the complex was indeed supplied with hot water, Jack had never uncovered another explanation for the name apart from the fact that real estate developers liked the way those south of the border phrases sounded almost as much as they liked undocumented workers.

The swimming pool looked inviting as he passed by. Empty, peaceful, illuminated with cool blue light. While he walked. Jack’s evening became clear in his mind. He’d feed the dog, have a couple White Castles while he read about the Bat Boy’s latest escapades, and then he’d blow up his air mattress and float away his troubles on a chlorinated sea.

It seemed like the perfect idea, so perfect that he made a deal with himself-tonight he’d forget everything. The kidnapped Chihuahua. Angel Gemignani. Freddy G and his wise guy minions.

Everything. Even Kate Benteen.

The path to Jack’s condo was lined with tiki torches that flickered pleasantly in the evening light. He turned the last sharp corner of the walkway, ready to set down the grocery bags and dig into his jeans pocket for his keys.

He saw that he wouldn’t need them.

The door to his condo was already open.

Jack Baddalach owned a gun-a Colt Python that he’d bought after his first job for Freddy G. He’d come up short in the shooting department during that bad bit of business down in Pipeline Beach, Arizona, and he had the scar tissue on his left forearm to prove it.

Jack was pretty good with the Python. He belonged to a shooting range and everything. But the pistol was in his condo, so it didn’t do him a hell of a lot of good at the moment

Still, he wasn’t going to turn tail. He’d fucked up enough for one day. Maybe this would be his chance to set things right

Jack set the grocery bags to one side of the door and entered the condo. Inside it was dark, and quiet. He stopped in the hallway, listening, his hands balled into fists, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The Venetian blinds were open in the living room. Slashes of ash-colored light painted the carpet and furniture. Jack scanned the room, searching for any sign of movement. He listened for the slightest sound.

Nothing.

Then he saw it. Underneath the coffee table. Something stirred.

Something that panted, then whined.

Jack flicked on the light switch.

The string of tiki lights that rimmed the ceiling glowed yellow and green and white and red, illuminating a condo decorated in thrift store chic.

From beneath the coffee table. Jack’s geriatric bulldog stared up at him.

“I know,” Jack said. “We had company.”

The bulldog’s name was Frankenstein, and Frankenstein had had a rough time of it until he fell in with Jack Baddalach. The dog had the scars to show for it. But just like the dings on Jack’s Celica, the scars gave Frankenstein a strong connection to his master. Occasionally, Jack was tempted to get all misty-eyed about it, scratch Frankie behind one battered ear and say. Like father, like son.

Jack unfastened Frankenstein’s leash from its collar and then untied the leash from the coffee table leg. Whoever had broken into his place had taken care that the dog wouldn’t wander out through the open door. America really was a kinder, gentler place these days. Even the crooks were courteous.

The culprit hadn’t trashed Jack’s place, either. His light-heavyweight championship belt still hung on one wall, bookended on each side by the boxing gloves he’d worn in his first and last pro fights. The bar that separated the kitchen from the living room hadn’t been disturbed; the Sneaky Tiki glassware that had served up Singapore Slings and Relaxers at Harvey’s Tahoe back in the fifties stood waiting and ready. The drawers to Jack’s desk were closed and the desktop seemed undisturbed-the photo of Kate Benteen he’d clipped from an old issue of Vanity Fair stood in a silver frame, Kate appearing to look down her nose at a stack of old suspense paperbacks Jack had sifted through before choosing the Dan J. Marlowe book for his Palm Springs trip. The television, VCR, and stereo hadn’t been touched, either, and a cursory glance at his record collection assured Jack that his Dean Martin records were still in alphabetical order by title.

If the burglars had left Dino alone, they probably hadn’t messed with anyone else. Jack was about ready to check out the bedroom when he spotted the folded note propped near his telephone. He picked it up and unfolded it. The note was computer generated, and it had a handwritten postscript, and enclosed with it was a five-dollar bill:

Jack held the five-dollar bill in his hands and stared at it until Abraham Lincoln’s self-assured expression really started to piss him off.