Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

The waitress served devil’s foods donuts to the uniforms. One quick turn and she was back with Jack’s donut holes. Another turn and she was refilling coffee cups up and down the counter, laughing and joking with the customers.

Jack sipped hot coffee. He had to figure a way to ask about Pack O’ Weenies. He couldn’t just hit her with questions out of the blue. He had to make her comfortable. If he could do that, she might open up-

“Hey.” It was the lieutenant talking. “Shouldn’t I know you?”

Jack barely spared the guy a glance. “Well, I’ve never been in trouble with the law, if that’s what you mean.”

The waitress bustled by, taking an order from a couple of Clark County sheriff’s deputies who’d wandered in. Damn. The place was full of cops. Getting the woman to talk about her ex-con ex-husband in front of this crowd was probably going to be a real stretch.

“I didn’t figure you for a con.” It was the lieutenant again. “What I meant was, didn’t you used to be. . well, someone famous?”

Jack nodded.

“Jack ‘Battle-ax’ Baddalach.” The sergeant, who seemed to speak only in monosyllabic Jack Webb-ese, nudged his buddy. “Former light-heavyweight champion of the world. Five title defenses. Lost the belt to Sugar Ray Sattler by KO.”

“That’s me,” Jack said, keeping his eye on the waitress. “You look pretty good,” the lieutenant said. “Maybe a little husky. You a heavyweight these days, Jack?”

“I’m retired.”

“Hey, maybe you should make a comeback. I mean, have you seen the guy who’s got the heavyweight title now? Jesus. He makes Primo Camera look like Muhammad Ali.”

“Guy couldn’t box oranges,” the sergeant said. “Lives high on the hog, too. Mansion by the golf course. Lamborghini sports car. Showgirlfriend.”

Jack laughed. Showgirlfriend, that was a good one.

“No exaggeration,” the sergeant said. “None at all. Guy has big appetites. Big problems.”

Jack shook his head. “Man, you know everything.”

The sergeant nodded gravely. “I read the tabloids.”

“You should think it over, Jack,” the lieutenant said. “Why, a guy who can jab the way you can-”

“Like I said, I’m retired.”

The lieutenant rattled on. Jack tried to ignore him. If this stuff kept up he’d be signing autographs for every cop in the joint. He’d never get a chance to talk to the waitress with the anaconda tattoo.

She headed his way, a fresh carafe of coffee in her hand. Jack took a quick gulp from his cup, nearly burning his tongue.

“Miss,” he said, holding out his cup. “How about a warm-up?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, Maria,” the lieutenant said. “You know you’ve got a celebrity in the house?”

The waitress smiled as she refilled Jack’s cup. “No kidding? You’re famous?”

“Well, I used to be-”

The lieutenant cut in again. “He only used to be light-heavyweight champion of the world, is all.”

“Oh.” The waitress’s voice was a little wary and a little flirty at the same time. “You’re a boxer.”

The last bit came out like a dirty word. “Used to be,” Jack said. “I’m retired.”

The lieutenant laughed. “You got to excuse Maria, Jack. She’s not crazy about boxers. See, her ex-old man used to be cell mates with the guy we were talking about. The heavyweight champ. Tony ‘The Tiger’ Katt.”

“Tiger?” Maria spit laughter. “That’s not the way I heard it. The way I heard it, they should call him Tony ‘The Pussy’ Katt.”

Anger flared in the waitress’s eyes. Jack could see it. He had to take his chance right now.

“Katt’s not that bad,” he said. “I saw him win the title. A lot of people say that he won the fight with a lucky punch. I don’t know about that. If you knock out the heavyweight champion of the world, it’s got to mean something.”

Maria shook her head. “I don’t know about all that. I only know that Harold-that’s my ex-old man-knew Tony Katt in the joint. He used to write about Tony in his letters. He said that Katt was always getting grief about his little pecker-”

“Don’t hold back, Maria,” the lieutenant put it. “Give it to him straight, the way you gave it to me: Tony Katt was mostly kitty. Without Harold Ticks protecting him, Tony the Tiger would have been spreading his sweetcheeks for every fudge-packer on the cellblock.”

Maria nodded.

“You’re kidding me.” Jack laughed. “Your ex. . what’s his name again?”

“Harold Ticks.”

“This Harold Ticks,” Jack went on. “In the jailhouse, he was Tony Katt’s sugar daddy or something?”

“Harold didn’t swing that way,” Maria said. “Or if he did, I didn’t know about it. But he used to say Tony Katt was hung like a mosquito. He said Katt couldn’t find his pecker with a pair of tweezers.”

The donut shop rang with laughter. There was nothing better than a perpetrator dick joke to get a roomful of cops howling. For her part, Maria practically burst. She helped herself to one of the lieutenant’s devil’s food donuts, and that finally got her calmed down.

Jack pushed the plate of donut holes across the counter and sidled off his stool. “I guess I’d better leave these alone. Maybe I should make a comeback.”

“You do that, champ.” The lieutenant grunted as he rose and shook Jack’s hand. “Then maybe Maria and me can make back the money we lost betting against Mr. Mosquito Dick.”

The waitress blew the lieutenant a kiss. “See you later, honeybunch.”

“Sure, angel cake.” The cop leaned across the counter and gave the tattooed waitress a peck on the cheek.

Playfully, she shook a plump finger at him.

“Kiss Mama’s snake, you bad boy.”

He did.

Freddy said, “How’s it goin’, Jack?”

“Taking your advice, boss. Taking it easy.”

“Great. Hey, I’m kind of busy now. What do you need?”

“Wondered if you had any news on our problem.”

“Nothing yet. My guy’s still working on it. He couldn’t find a trail in LA. Checked the limo company and got nothing. Anything new on your end? Anyone show up on your doorstep with another ransom note?”

“Nope. Nothing much here. I went out for breakfast, is all.”

“Okay, Jack. Let us know if you hear anything. You gonna be around?”

“Well, I kinda got cabin fever. Thought I might try something different.”

“Like what?”

“Like golf.”

A year ago, in the summer, Eden left Hell's half acre for the bright lights of Las Vegas.

That summer Daddy realized the Russians weren’t going to drop an atomic bomb on Nevada after all. The world had changed quite a bit since he first came to Hell’s Half Acre in 1966. What with the Berlin Wall falling and that glasnost stuff and all. Daddy had to face reality. Still, it was hard to let go of a dream.

He had watched the signs for years. They seemed so clear. Like Gorbachev, the Russian leader with that birthmark on his head. Daddy took one look at that big purple smudge and figured it for the mark of the beast. When Gorbachev took power, Daddy battened down the hatches and kept the family inside the bunker for a full month.

But Gorbachev didn’t last long. Once his butt met Boris Yeltsin’s boot, the prospect of an all-out nuclear holocaust seemed pretty bleak.

Not entirely bleak, of course. Yeltsin was a loose cannon. It was rumored that the Russian president was a drunk who pissed on airport runways. There was no denying that the New Russia was a mess-a crazy-quilt of separate states, each one with a vodka-swilling strongman whose finger was poised on his own private nuclear trigger. Imagine Alabama and Idaho armed with fat ICBMs.