Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

Everything here was new. Bright sunlight poured into the room from the plateglass windows that constituted the west wall. Chrome and leather gleamed. The Tiger wrapped his immense paws. Then he punched up some hardcore on the stereo system and slammed his fists into the heavy bag.

In Fresno, the heavy bag was filled with sawdust. Hitting it was like hitting a cement wall. The bag in Tony’s gym was filled with water, which was much easier on his hands.

The bag had a second benefit. Hitting it excited Tony. It was like hitting a human. He could feel his fists sink into the soft leather the same way they sank into a man’s belly when he turned up the intensity.

The Tiger’s punches thudded against leather. Jabs and hooks and uppercuts, thrown one at a time as the champ warmed up. Soon the big bag began to swing on a long chromed chain as combinations battered its skin. Three punches, four punches, coming faster and faster as the Tiger found his rhythm.

Tony loved it. The rat-tat-tat of his punches, the chain creaking and groaning and screaming like a woman. These were satisfying sounds. The Tiger concentrated on them, fists flailing, shoulders and back knotted, hips and legs torquing blows that could drive a man’s nose bone into his brain.

Sweat rolled off him. Hot droplets pattered against the floor. His muscles were molten steel. His fists drummed leather. Wham, bam, thank you-

Another sound slashed the Tiger’s reverie.

The sound of shattering glass. Sharp slivers rained down from one of the large plateglass windows on the west wall. The Tiger barely leaped out of the way as deadly shards sliced divots in the oak floor.

Hot desert air swept into the room, overpowering the state-of-the-art air-conditioning as easily as the Tiger had overpowered Alexis Shabazz. The Tiger rushed to the broken window, his boxing shoes crunching over broken glass.

A man stood alone on the ninth tee. He didn’t look like he belonged there. He wore a black T-shirt and black jeans, and he had a baseball bat instead of a golf club.

The stranger tossed a golf ball into the air and hit it in the direction of the heavyweight champion of the world.

Jack put the wood to another golf ball and the self-described baddest man on the planet jumped away from the windows just in time to avoid a busted-glass shower.

Jack figured he’d made his point. He tossed the baseball bat into the bushes and climbed the fence that separated the golf course from Tony Katt’s mansion.

Well, that description was a little short of accurate-the mansion didn’t really belong to Katt. It was a corporate cage, a way for the casino fat cats who had signed the heavyweight champion to a multi-million dollar three-fight deal to keep an eye on their investment. As soon as that investment soured, Katt would be out on his ass. He wasn’t the first boxer to live at this address. He wouldn’t be the last.

Jack twisted over the top of the fence and dropped to the ground on the other side. He crossed a picture-perfect lawn and climbed a staircase that lead to a terra-cotta patio, just in time to see Tony Katt charge through the big empty space that a few moments before had been a window.

“Hey, Tony. I’ve been meaning to drop by.” Jack held out his right hand, ready to shake. “I’m Jack Baddalach. I used to be the light-heavyweight champion of the world.”

“What the fuck?” Katt stared at Jack’s hand as if it were a turd. “What’s the matter with you, man? Are you a fucking lunatic or something?”

Jack smiled at the bruiser. Katt didn’t look so much like the baddest man on the planet. Not right now. Right now he looked like a really confused bull that had been beaten to the ubiquitous china shop by a rampaging rhinoceros.

That was just the kind of expression Jack wanted to see on Katt’s face. A guy like Katt was used to playing the bully. Bullies couldn’t handle it when someone took the bad boy play away from them. Especially bullies who happened to be boxers. For reference check Sugar Ray Leonard defeating Roberto Duran in their famous no mas fight, or Evander Holyfield KOing Mike Tyson.

Jack peeked over Tony’s shoulder. “Gonna invite me in?”

“Fuck you, pal.”

Tony Katt stood his ground, his body a road map of personal insecurities. All those badass jailhouse tattoos on his chest-Nordic maidens and skulls and swastikas- couldn’t cover the insecurities of a big guy with a little pecker.

Neither did the tats Katt had added since becoming champ. Friedrich Nietzsche covered one shoulder, his impassive face above the philosopher’s best-known quotation: “That which does not destroy us makes us stronger.” Having Freddy Nietzsche on his shoulder probably made Katt feel like an intellectual or something, but Jack had no idea what insecurities the tattoo on Katt’s other shoulder stroked. He couldn’t understand why the heavyweight champion of the world would want the smiling face of Colonel Harlan Sanders, the Kentucky Fried Chicken king, etched on his hide, let alone what bizarre personal kink had driven him to add the famous slogan: “Finger Lickin’ Good.”

You’d have to buy the Tony Katt Cliffs’ Notes to figure that one out, and Jack didn’t want to pony up the bucks. So he left it alone and got back to business.

“Tony, I really want this to be friendly,” Jack said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Look at this.” Katt gesticulated wildly in the direction of the broken windows. “Look what you did to my fucking house.”

“I wanted to get your attention. I wanted to let you know I’m serious. I wanted to be sure that when I ask you a question, you’ll give me a straight answer.”

“Fuck you, man. You’d better get out of here. Right now. Or I’ll-”

“Don’t tell me you’ll call the cops, Tony. I know you won’t do that. And don’t tell me you’ll call the corporate headhunters at Skull Island. Because if you do that I’ll have to call my corporate headquarters. And I work for Freddy Gemignani over at the Casbah. You know about Freddy, don’t you?”

“He came to one of my fights. Sure. I met the wop. But I don’t see-”

“You don’t need to see, Tony. All you need to do is give me a straight answer.”

“About what?”

“About a guy named Harold Ticks.”

Katt jerked like someone had hit him in the ankles with a hatchet.

“This conversation is over,” he said.

Then the baddest man on the planet retreated into the gym, cussing a blue streak. He didn’t sound the way he did on television. He wasn’t talking like a cut-rate Don King. He sounded like a convict who was about to take it hard from a guard who had his number.

Jack followed the heavyweight through the broken window. “About this Harold Ticks.”

“I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“Yes, you do. He’s a thief. He stole something from me, and I want it back-”

“Look, I don’t care if he stole the steam off your shit. I’m telling you I don’t know any fucking Harold Ticks.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “You had your chance.”

Jack’s black T-shirt was loose around his waist. There was a reason for that. He reached behind his back and beneath the shirt, and his hand reappeared holding a Colt Python.

The gun was his ace in the hole. His last chance. Because if a Colt Python shoved under his nose didn’t get Katt’s shorts in a serious bunch, nothing would.

“Harold Ticks,” Jack said. “Tell me where he is or you’re gonna have a big problem.”

“Calm down, man.” Katt’s lips trembled. “Calm down."

Jack cocked the pistol. “Harold Ticks. You remember. He was your saddle pal in Corcoran State. The way I heard it, he was the stud and you were the-”