Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

She got the shower going good and hot and climbed in, turning this way and that, letting the water pulse against the spot on her jaw where the boxer had punched her.

When the soreness was gone, she reached for the soap. The good kind. The honey-oatmeal bar she’d bought at that fancy shop in the mall at Caesars Palace.

The soap was gone.

Eden swore under her breath. She knew who’d used it.

She opened a bottle of shampoo and poured some into her palm, lathering up, soaping her breasts and her belly. The smell of coconuts filled the shower. It was Tura’s favorite shampoo.

The bottle was still pretty full when Eden finished her shower, so she unscrewed the cap and poured the remaining shampoo down the drain.

“Bitch,” she whispered. “That’ll show you.”

Immediately, Eden felt guilty. She knew she shouldn’t feel that way. Mama and Daddy always said guilt was a trap for the weak. They said a person should take what they wanted from the world, whatever it might be. But Eden couldn’t take the way Tura and Lorelei could, leastways not without guilt getting hold of her.

She hated having a conscience. It got in the way and made her angry. She didn’t want to be weak. She wanted to be strong.

She went to Tura’s room and poked around. Her sister never threw anything away. Dozens of Polaroids lined the frame of her dresser mirror, photos of Tura posing with drunken men when she was a lap dancer at that Fremont Street dive called Harlot’s Hollow. Sure, some of the men in the photos were famous. But a lot of them were just scuzbags with money. So they’d peeked at her beaver and given her a few bucks. Was she going to send them Christmas cards every year, or what?

Eden searched through Tura’s dresser drawers. Boytoy skin magazines, a bottle of Rio de Plata Tequila Anejo, several unopened packages of nylons-nothing she found seemed equal to her anger.

She came across Tura’s vibrator, and that was okay for starters. Eden took the batteries and returned the vibrator to the drawer, but she still wasn’t satisfied. She pawed through Tura’s cosmetics and perfume, finally turning her search to Tura’s underwear drawer. There she found a package of Fig Newtons hidden in a tangle of black leather panties. Tura loved Fig Newtons. Eden tore into the package and nibbled a cookie as she returned to her bedroom.

She lay on her bed and ate Fig Newtons. The cookies made her thirsty, so she got another glass of pineapple juice. She combed her hair and put on her makeup and sprayed herself with jasmine perfume.

But she could still smell that damned coconut shampoo on her skin. It really bothered her. She dug through her dresser drawers until she found another bar of honey-oatmeal soap.

Then she took another shower.

Damn but she was tired of this. Tired of living in a concrete bunker in the middle of nowhere, tired of hustling for every dollar, tired of living with a mother and father and a couple of sisters who could win the Dysfunctional Family Olympics hands down.

Things were going to change when they collected that fat ransom. Eden called it her good-bye money. She and Harold would use it to make a fresh start. They’d leave Hell’s Half Acre together, just like Prince Charming and Cinderella in that old fairy tale.

That kind of cash and she’d have just what she wanted when she wanted it. White silk robes to wear for her man and honey-oatmeal soap for their bath.

She knew Mama and Daddy didn’t approve of Harold. They didn’t like their daughter devoting her life to just one man. Monogamy went against everything her parents believed. But Eden couldn’t imagine thinking of another man. If she even so much as tried-

She felt guilty.

Damn. Eden stood in the shower, hot water pulsing against her lithe body. She was always going around in a circle. No matter how hard she tried to change, she always came back to the same place.

Maybe she could try looking at things differently. The way Mama did. Mama had stayed with Daddy a long time, but she’d had plenty of other men, too. She said those other men made her feel good about herself.

Eden wanted to feel good. She closed her eyes and tried to think about someone besides Harold.

He would have to be strong, Eden knew that much. She liked strong guys. He’d have to be in good shape. Like that boxer. That Jack Baddalach. She remembered the way his muscles danced beneath her fingertips.

But Baddalach was on the wrong side of things. Besides that, he was dead. But that made it okay to think about him. She couldn’t feel guilty about a guy who was dead-

Hot water jetted against Eden’s skin. She closed her eyes and eased the soap over her belly. Rising steam carried the sweet, sweet honey smell to her delicate nostrils.

“Eden, you in there?”

She nearly dropped the soap. That’s how startled she was.

“Eden?”

“Just a minute, sugar. I’ll be out in a minute.”

A slick laugh echoed through the bathroom. “If you need a lifeguard, just give your Harold a holler.”

“Sure, baby.”

“Anyway, your daddy’s watching the dog. So if you wanna-”

“In a minute, sugar.”

She listened to Harold’s footsteps as he walked to her bedroom. Then she knelt and picked up the honey-oatmeal soap.

Guilt burned her. She felt awful. Weak. Small.

No, she wouldn’t feel that way. It was all wrong. She had to stop it. Right now.

Filled with a newfound determination, Eden rubbed her belly.

She closed her eyes.

She only found one man in her imagination, and his name was Harold Ticks.

Jack visited twelve donut shops and ate three bearclaws, two glazed, one chocolate bar, and a hecka lotta donut holes before he found the shop he was looking for.

The place was called True Blue Donuts. Jack set his cell phone on the counter and slid onto a stool between a couple of Las Vegas cops and two plainclothes detectives made obvious by their skin-the-hide-off-a-sofa suits. One thing about cops-they always seemed to come in pairs.

The scent of sugar permeated the shop. Jack figured he’d need a shot of insulin if he so much as started breathing fast. Thank God this was going to be his last stop. The chunky waitress headed in his direction told him that. . or more specifically, the anaconda tattoo on her neck did.

The snake’s electric blue head glistened beneath a sheen of sweat and a light dusting of confectioners’ sugar as the waitress smiled across the counter. “What can I get you, hon?”

“Coffee.”

“Got some devil’s food donuts fresh out of the oven. How about a couple of those?”

“No thanks.” Jack tried to look like a man with a serious devil’s food Jones and an equally serious time-management problem. “Just the coffee.”

“Maybe a couple donut holes?”

“Well. .”

“They’re the best.”

“Okay.” Jack raised his hands in surrender. “I give in.”

“A dozen?”

“Half a dozen.”

The waitress poured Jack’s coffee and bustled off. She had to be Pack O’ Weenies’ ex-old lady. There couldn’t be two donut shop owners with anaconda tattoos in town. Not even in a town like Las Vegas.

One of the blue suits-a lieutenant-flashed Jack a grin. “You might want to rethink those devil’s food donuts, buddy. We’ve been waiting for them to come out of the oven.”

“Good stuff,” said the other uniform, a sergeant. “Damn good.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Jack grinned. “But I’m trying to cut back a little. Couldn’t hurt to lose a few pounds.”

“We could too.” The lieutenant grabbed a fistful of table muscle. “But, hell, we’re both desk jockeys.”

Both guys had a little snow on the roof. Probably in their late forties, but for most cops that was close to retirement age. Jack knew that cops could bail early. It was one of the few benefits of the job.