Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

He planted the dead president in the center of the page and refolded the note. Jack’s heart was pounding like he was in the ring again, ready to go to war, listening to the referee give the final instructions before the bell sounded for round one. He was that hyped up. Because it didn’t take a straw to break this camel’s back. What it took was a five-dollar bill.

Okay. He’d have to call Freddy, give him the note. And then he’d have to figure out why the dognappers had delivered it to him.

Simple explanation-they thought that Jack was dead. Sure. So they delivered the note to his place instead of the Casbah. Because with Jack dead, his condo would be empty. They wouldn’t have to risk being caught on videotape by a security camera. They could phone Freddy when they were ready. He’d get the note. And he’d know that this crew had done their homework, right down to casing his favorite gofer.

Jack thought it over. Maybe one of the neighbors had seen someone snooping around. He could do a little door knocking, check that out. His next-door neighbor was a retired keno runner who was deaf as a post, but maybe she’d seen something. If Jack was lucky, maybe he’d get a quick lead and-

Frankenstein rubbed against Jack’s ankle. Then the dog sauntered into the kitchen, nudged his empty bowl, and looked at Jack.

“Okay,” Jack said. “Not that you deserve it, because you’re no kind of watchdog.”

He went back to the front door and got the grocery bags. Shit. The other bags were still in the Toy, and it was a hot night. His White Castle Hamburgers were probably thawed and mushy by now.

Well, if they were wrecked, they were wrecked. He’d get them in a minute. He cradled the bag and gave the front door a shove with his foot, but it didn’t close all the way. Didn’t matter. He’d have to check the lock. The jamb, too. Make sure the dognappers hadn’t broken them.

He opened a can of dog food and scooped half of it into Frankenstein’s bowl. He might as well have scooped it directly into Frankie’s mouth, the way the dog went after it.

Jack’s stomach rumbled. Man. He was hungry too. He hadn’t had a thing since breakfast. He’d get those White Castles from the Toy, nuke a couple in the microwave and-

The set of Sneaky Tiki glasses exploded behind him, and blue shrapnel slapped his backside.

Jack whirled.

Two guys holding Louisville Sluggers stood in his living room.

And Angel Gemignani stood between them.

Jack stared at the two guys with the ball bats. For the first time in his life, he knew just what a pinata felt like.

Angel smiled. Even with a couple of troll escorts, she looked damn good. She was still wearing the Sweet Cherry Love tee she’d worn that morning in Palm Springs, along with torn black jeans, Doc Martens, and Calvin Klein’s Obsession.

She’s a rebel. Jack thought. A punker with a gold card.

Under other circumstances, the perfume might have brightened up Jack’s place. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman around. But all too soon the sweet aroma was eclipsed by the stink of beer and marijuana and fatboy sweat that accompanied her companions.

It wasn’t hard to figure out where Angel had picked them up. The barroom shine in her eyes gave that away. No beer and dope for her, though. Uh-uh. Jack was sure Angel Gemignani wasn’t a beer-and-a-joint kind of woman. She’d sip Sweet Cherry Love drinks-a pink lady, or maybe a cosmopolitan.

Jack wondered if Angel had ever had a mai tai served in a vintage Sneaky Tiki glass. He knew it was a completely inappropriate concern at the moment. But Angel’s sparkling green eyes were way past alluring, and he couldn’t help wondering.

Jack held tight to the open can of dog food. “You’re not thinking straight, Angel.”

“Sure I am. I’m thinking that you’re a smartass. And that’s okay, because I kind of like smartasses. I’m a smartass myself. But I’m thinking that you’re also a chickenshit, and I don’t like chickenshits.”

“Look, I’m really sorry about your dog. I feel pretty awful about the whole thing. But it was a setup. The people who snatched Spike knew that I was coming. They had guns. They locked me up with a rattlesnake, for Christ-sakes-”

“A setup.” She nodded. “Sure. And how do I know you weren’t in on it?”

“You’ve just got to trust me on that one, Angel.”

“Trust you.” She laughed, sharp and hard and bitter. “I don’t trust guys who fuck up. I learned that from my granddaddy. You know what he always says about guys who fuck up.”

“Yeah: He who fucks up gets fucked up.”

“It’s a simple rule, Jack.”

Jack nodded. “And you just broke it.”

The two guys had to be twin brothers. They were both huge bordering on humongous, and they had the kind of faces that would definitely keep them from making it through airport metal detectors on the first trip.

Which meant they were definite pierce-aholics. They’d gone the whole twin route with that particular obsession, too. Identical earrings looped through their earlobes, bejeweled studs dotting the harder cartilage tissue above. Their bristling Neanderthal eyebrows were set off by a startling array of dainty silver loops. They wore nose studs, and an obligatory rod pierced the pouting hollow beneath their lower lips.

Jack figured he’d see identical tongue studs as soon as the twins opened their mouths. The only way he could tell them apart was by their rock ’n’ roll T-shirts. Your basic black Gen X-wear, oversized and overpriced, featuring the darlings of sludge lovers everywhere-Mudhoney on the left, and Garbage on the right.

Jack stood up, still holding the can of dog food. “You boys are making a big mistake. This is your chance to back out.”

Mudhoney smiled like a jack-o’-lantern, full and yellow, his only answer the percussive beat of a tongue stud against his front teeth.

Jack thought. Surprise, surprise.

“Last warning,” he said. “I used to be the light-heavyweight champion of the world.”

Mudhoney laughed. “We seen you get knocked out. And by a nigger, too.”

“We had money on your white ass,” Garbage said. “You let down your race, man.”

“Yeah. We got us a score of our own to settle with you.”

Mudhoney stepped into the kitchen. Garbage backing him up. Jack angled in front of Frankenstein, who had wedged his cowardly ass in the comer where the refrigerator met the wall. There wasn’t much room between Mudhoney and Jack. Maybe five feet. Not enough room to throw the can of dog food Jack held in his hand. But throwing it wouldn’t do any good anyway-these two behemoths weighed two-fifty a piece at least. A can of dog food wasn’t going to slow them down. Unless-

Jack lashed out with the can, open end aimed at the two men. One sharp sucking sound, and a slick gob of Meaty Treaty flew across the room and splattered Mudhoney from his yellow smile to his eyes.

He dropped his bat and fell back a step, wiping his eyes and blinking furiously.

“You shithouse rat!” Garbage started forward, his bat cocked over his right shoulder. “You’re dead.”

The kitchen was tiny. In cramped quarters, a baseball bat was hardly an ideal weapon. Garbage had maybe one swing. If Jack could elude the punker’s first strike, then he could get his licks in.

Garbage grunted. Batter up.

Jack took a quick step forward, careful to keep Frankenstein behind him, then backed off just as fast, hoping to draw Garbage off balance.

But Garbage followed the move beautifully. Jack saw that right away.

The bat rushed toward his head. He watched it come. .

. . and heard Garbage’s Doc Martens squeal across the linoleum as the punker slipped on the same lump of dog food that had struck Mudhoney in the face.