Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

Of course, Tony viewed their relationship in completely realistic terms. Cut beneath the hearts and flowers and Porschia was just another perk from hotel management, no different than the big house or the private gymnasium. That didn’t mean the Tiger was uncomfortable with the arrangement. Perks like this he could definitely live with.

Tony modulated his voice at a low, sexy growl. “How about fixing us a drink, darling? The Tiger will have a kamikaze. You have whatever you like. We’ll spend the whole afternoon together.”

“Don’t you have to train?”

“The Tiger ran four miles before breakfast. He ate his Wheaties. He hasn’t had a cigarette in a month. The fight is not for another three weeks. A day off will do the Tiger a world of good. It will keep him from getting stale.”

Porschia thought it over. “Okay. I’ll phone the hotel and bag my afternoon rehearsal. But you have to help me come up with an excuse.”

“Tell them you tangled with a tiger.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell them you were mauled.”

“Yeah.”

“Because you’re gonna be.”

“Yeah.”

“So hurry back.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And then we’ll luxuriate."

Porschia flushed. “God, Tony, I just love it when you talk smart.”

The Tiger offed the Jacuzzi jets and was enveloped by the afternoon silence of a wealthy neighborhood.

A year ago Tony Katt was holed up in a crackerbox apartment in Fresno. Sure the apartment was a step up from the slams, but not much of a step. Then he had that fight on ESPN. Not even a main event. Just a ten round prelim. But Caligula Tate-the guy who promoted the heavyweight champion of the world-watched that fight, salivating over the big white boy covered over with jailhouse Aryan Brotherhood tattoos. When he turned off his television, Tate knew he’d found a pug that would bring in the long green when matched with Alexis Shabazz.

Shabazz was a proud member of the Nation of Islam. Having finally won the title after a long and distinguished career, he was looking for a few good paydays against limited opposition before hanging up the gloves. Which was another way of saying that Alexis Shabazz was over the hill.

His people figured he’d have no trouble taming Tony the Tiger. They were wrong. About that, and about a few other things.

Shabazz trained for a short fight. He knew his old legs couldn’t carry him for twelve rounds, so he planned to starch Tony the Tiger as soon as the opening bell rang. Shabazz was a little used up and a little slow, but he still had amazing power. Boxing writers said he had Liston’s jab and Foreman’s right hand.

Shabazz planned to topple Tony with a big right hand, pocket his check, and be on the next plane to Philadelphia. He warmed up in his dressing room, shadowboxing several rounds in advance of the fight, and by the time he entered the ring he was primed and ready to knock the jailhouse tattoos off the Tiger.

There was only one thing Shabazz didn’t count on-the national anthem. Because for all intents and purposes there were two of them.

That was the promoter’s fault. Caligula Tate figured he’d do the anthem as a duet to promote racial harmony, because he was taking a real beating in the press for matching a Black Muslim with a guy who had a swastika tattooed over his heart.

Tate hired a redheaded C amp; W queen with skin the color of Bisquick and a has-been soul mama singer from darkest Detroit to do the honors. What Tate didn’t know was that the soul mama had a crack habit and was in desperate need of some serious career revitalization.

The big moment arrived. The cowgirl kicked things off like a true Texican- “O-ooo say kin yew seeee …” Her pinched wail set every dog within ten square miles to barking, but at least she finished up her part of the tune in under a minute.

Then the soul mama stepped into the spotlight. A vision in purple sequins and scarlet feathers, she was determined to send every member of the pay-per-view audience scurrying to the nearest music store for a copy of her remastered greatest hits CD.

The soul mama wailed. She screeched. She jumped up and down and squinted and stomped her feet, and by the time she reached “the land of the free and the home of the brave” she had stretched the national anthem to a record time of six minutes and fifty-five seconds.

All the while, Alexis Shabazz shadowboxed in his corner, trying to stay warm but actually blowing his load. Like the boxing wits said: Shabazz left his fight in the dressing room. When the bell rang for round one, the champ had nothing left.

Two rounds passed before the Tiger figured it out. When the bell rang for the third, he knew his time had come.

A lot of people said it was a lucky punch, but perfect punch was a better description. The Tiger landed a right uppercut that caught the old champ in the face as he went into his patented bob-and-weave. It was a punch that exploded Alexis Shabazz’s nose, nearly driving the bone directly into his brain.

One punch, and Tony Katt had everything he had ever desired. The heavyweight championship of Planet Earth. A mansion in Las Vegas. A showgirl in his bed. And a bigger dick, too.

Life was good.

And sometimes life was one large pain in the ass.

Porschia handed Tony a glass of lukewarm booze.

In such moments, Tony tended to forget himself. And Roget’s Thesaurus. And the third person. He was liable to say things like, “Goddamn, Porschia. Where’s the fucking ice?”

“I don’t know. I mean, the ice-maker is broken. And whoever emptied the ice trays didn’t fill them up.”

“Well. . Christ. I can’t drink a warm kamikaze.”

“Don’t yell at me. It’s not my fault. This is your house, not mine. If the ice-maker is broken, it’s up to you to get it fixed.”

“It’s not my fucking house. It belongs to the casino. And even if it was my house, it’s not up to me to worry about ice-makers. Jesus, Porschia, I’m the heavyweight champion of the whole fucking planet.”

“Yeah. And right now you’re acting like a heavyweight asshole.”

“Hey-”

“You used the last of the ice, Tony. When we had our bath last night. You remember what you did with it.”

“Sure, but-”

“And you didn’t fill up the ice trays before we went to bed.”

“I’m the baddest man on the planet!”

“And I’m understudy to the lead dancer in the Beauty and the Beast Review at the Skull Island Hotel and Casino. All it takes is one little sniffle and I’m the one dancing the macarena with that big animatronic King Kong.”

“Listen. . baby-”

“Don’t give me that baby shit.” Porschia threw down her lukewarm cosmopolitan and the glass shattered on the patio. “You can’t treat me this way. I’ve got a career, too.”

“Yeah. You jiggle your hooters for a robot monkey and a roomful of idiots who just blew next month’s rent on the dollar slots. Move over, Madame Curie.”

“That’s it. We’re finished.”

“Not the first time. Won’t be the last.”

“You’re wrong about that, Tony. I won’t be back. You can find some other girl to play tugboat with you.”

“I’m sure you’ll land on your feet, Porschia. Those casino boys at Skull Island will watch out for you.”

“You bastard-”

“Who knows: you might even get lucky.” Tony grinned behind his Ray-Bans. “Maybe this time they’ll let you move in with the robot monkey.”

The Tiger boiled with anger. Fuck it. He phoned his trainer. “Get your ass over here. Bring some sparring partners. No chickenshits. Anybody who climbs into the ring today better be prepared to earn his money.”

He pulled on a pair of shorts and went to his private gym, a glass and oak vision that was a long way from the canvas and mildew sty where he’d first learned to box.