Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

When they were alone, Freddy G pulled up a lounge chair and leaned toward Jack. “We had a call from the dognappers.” The casino owner’s face bore no sign of emotion as he spoke those words, but there was a definite tremor in his voice as he asked Jack, “What’s this I hear about you holding a ransom note?”

It was a long night, and Jack spent it thinking about Piranha.

That was Freddy’s fault, of course. Before leaving Jack’s place with the dognapper’s ransom note tucked in the inside pocket of his Brioni jacket, Freddy told Jack a little story.

Freddy said, “Sometimes I think that Vegas has changed a lot in the years since I first come here, and sometimes I don’t think it has changed at all. Like these theme casinos we got lined up and down the Strip-all these little Disneylands. We got pirates and we got New York City and we got the Cowardly Lion and the Scarecrow and that mousy bitch with the braids and we even got her little dog Toto, too.

“But really, we always had that kind of stuff. Vegas has always been Disneyland, only with tits. Jay Sarno knew that.

“Sarno was the guy who started Caesars Palace. You never knew him, Jack. But let me tell you, he was something. The Roman Empire fell a couple centuries ago, but Sarno kick-started the sucker. He not only brought it back to life, he made it pay.

“He had vision, Sarno did. More than these guys today. That’s what made him different. These guys today, everything they do is fake. Plastic. Remote-controlled. It wasn’t that way with Sarno. Everything he did was real. He even dreamed real. Flesh and blood dreams, if you know what I mean.

“Like for instance Sarno had this plan for Caesars first-class restaurant, the Bacchanal. Jay was gonna have a big pool in the middle of the room, all the tables situated so the pool would be the center of attention. Not that he was gonna forget about the cuisine-a meal in this joint was going to be as close to a Roman orgy as you could get and still keep your clothes on. None of this eat-your-cold-primerib-and-let-me-make-a-decent-tumaround-time-on-your-table shit that maitre d’s pull these days. No, Sarno wanted course upon course upon course, the whole experience enhanced by a wine list that would set the most jaded sommelier’s little medallion jingling.

“When the diners were reaching their culinary climax, so to speak, the house lights were gonna dim, and the pool in the center of the room would be illuminated, one bright spotlight aimed at a suckling pig hanging over the water by a chain. There’d be dramatic music from hidden speakers. Trumpet fanfares and such. Shit that would make you think of Kirk Douglas in Spartacus.

“Then the little oinker would descend, and when it was close to the pool’s surface and the water started to chum beneath it and the music hit its crescendo and the piggy started to squeal so loud that those blaring trumpets sounded like whispering flutes, why then the chain would release and that poor little porker would make one hell of a splash.

“At that moment, a hungry school of piranha which had waited patiently beneath the surface of the pool would chow down on our pal Porky the Pig.

“Fuck your bread and circuses. Jack, this idea was the real deal, the real Las Vegas right there for everyone to see at a hundred bucks a plate.”

Freddy sighed. “What a fucking great idea. But that’s all it ever amounted to-an idea. As it turned out, Sarno couldn’t get permission to import the piranha. Nevada Fish amp; Game shut him down. But it would have been something, that restaurant.

“I like to think about it, Jack. Fact is, the older I get, the more I think about it, because I can never quite pin the whole thing down the way I want to. I’ll start off thinking about pigs fattened for the kill. Then I’ll think about guys who do up the chains and the stiffs who pay to watch those chains come loose. And I’ll end up thinking about piranha, and how they only do what they’re built to do.

“I ain’t sure what it adds up to. Not yet. But I’m gonna keep on thinking about it. And I figure the time has come for you to start thinking about it, too.”

Jack thought about the story long into the night, long after Freddy had departed. He thought about that suckling pig hanging from a chain, and he thought about the people watching it.

Some of them might see the little porker as a living thing. They might feel their expensive dinner churning in their guts as that chain let loose. Even so, they wouldn’t look away. Horrified, amused, or fascinated-every one of them would watch.

And the piranha would do what piranha do, unrestrained by morality or emotion. They wouldn’t feel a damn thing for the pig. To them, it wasn’t anything more than a slab of bacon with a pulse.

Jack knew he could never be a piranha, but he didn’t want to be a pig hanging from a chain, either.

He wondered if there was something in between. He thought of Freddy and all the things he owed the casino owner, and how his stubborn pride had gotten in the way of those things when Freddy sent him on an errand boy’s job. Too much pig and not enough piranha and he’d screwed that job up. Screwed it up for Freddy, and Angel, and a Chihuahua named Spike.

It seemed the more he thought, the less he knew. But the time had come to stop thinking so much. Whether it was Kate Benteen or Freddy Gemignani or Angel or a Chihuahua named Spike, it was time to put the pedal to the metal and get down to business.

Morning dawned, literally and metaphorically. Jack didn’t know where he stood on the piranha-pig scale, but he did know that he was hungry.

He wanted donuts.

The little bastard wouldn’t eat.

Harold Ticks ran one hand over his bald pate and swore under his breath. What he really wanted to do was yank his.357 and plug the Chihuahua, but he wasn’t going to do that.

No. The furry little bastard had to stay alive for one more day. After that Harold knew that little ol’ Spike was a goner.

Tough luck, muchachito. Tomorrow night Harold would have a half a million bucks in cold hard cash. Man, what a trip. Harold Ticks rolling in the long green. Mr. Harold Ticks, moving among the money men in their Giorgio Armanis, investing in some shit that earned twenty percent. Senor Harold Ticks, a gringo ready for some serious Mexican-style kickin’ back while he watched the money roll in just like a warm Pacific tide.

But that was tomorrow. Right now Harold had to take care of business. And that meant getting the fucking can opener and opening another can of dog food.

This Harold did. He flipped the top of the can into the garbage and emptied a gelatin-spackled lump of turd-colored food into the Chihuahua’s bowl.

The dog sniffed the food and looked at Harold with its big brown saucer-eyes. Harold gave the little bastard a big smile and sniffed the empty can encouragingly.

“It’s good fucking stuff, Spike,” Harold said. “It’ll make you a fucking world beater. A couple bites of this and you’ll fuck like a German Shepherd. Turn your little pene into a ball bat. You’ll have hardcore pitbull bitches screaming for mercy, believe you me.”

The dog licked its muzzle and coughed feebly. Its spindly legs quivered and shook like pencils at a senior citizens’ art class.

The little bastard gave in and settled down on all fours, whining. Swearing under his breath, Harold tossed the empty dog food can into the garbage with all the others. Damn. Ten bucks’ worth of dog food wasted.

Harold’s ten bucks, too. Every penny. None of the others had chipped in on it. Just like with the tuxedo-the limo driver’s outfit he’d used to fool that asshole Baddalach. Harold had spent nearly a hundred bucks on that, every dime straight out of his own pocket. Plus a deposit he was going to lose because things were much too toasty to show his face in Vegas.