Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

Jack nodded. “The thing with Tony Katt. . you never told Freddy what happened?”

“He’s my grandfather, Jack. I couldn’t tell him about it. Freddy Gemignani is the kind of man who thinks there are two kinds of women in the world-those with rings on their fingers and whores. He wouldn’t understand.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he would. Maybe you owe him that chance.”

“No. I’m not telling my grandfather anything. It was hard enough to tell you.” Angel rose from the couch and carried her empty coffee cup to the kitchen. “There’s got to be another way.”

Jack sipped cold coffee. Angel was right about one thing. It was hard for her to tell him about Tony Katt. But it was harder for her to talk about herself-the private things she kept inside and the insecurities she never revealed to anyone.

Jack knew that, because he’d heard Angel’s voice tremble when she spoke the word that cut her to the bone.

“Starfucker.”

That word wasn’t important to Jack Baddalach. He wasn’t going to judge Angel Gemignani’s past. Only Angel could do that.

But no matter what Angel had done in the past, she didn’t deserve Tony Katt.

No woman deserved Tony Katt.

“What do you think we should do?” Angel asked.

Jack told her. It was kind of involved, but none of it mattered.

When the phone rang a second later, everything changed.

The voice on the other end of the line was cold as ice cream but twice as sweet. Jack recognized it right away.

He said, “You’re the one with the wrist braces, right?”

“That’s right, Jack. I never thought I’d be talking to you again. How’d you handle that rattler, anyway?”

“I ate it.”

She laughed. “Well, I guess I don’t want to tangle with you. . or maybe I do.”

“Yeah. . right. . how’s the Chihuahua?”

“Sick. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Look, if Spike needs a vet-”

“We’re way ahead of you, Jack.”

“You’ve got a vet?”

“Yes, we do,” she said, “and he’s in Las Vegas. In fact. Spike’s in for an office visit even as we speak. Want the address?”

“Sure.” Jack laughed. “But first I’d like to know why you’d give it to me when I haven’t given you half a million bucks.”

“Because there’s trouble in paradise, Jack.”

“Huh?”

“Look,” she said, “do you want your Chihuahua back or not?”

“Sure I do, but-”

“Then get a pencil. Here’s the address. .”

Jack slipped the Colt Python into his shoulder holster.

“This is all pretty complicated for a guy who’s used to getting hit in the head for a living,” he said. “But I’d better check it out, anyway.”

“You’re not going alone.”

“Yes, I am. Listen, Angel, these nuts kidnapping your dog is bad enough. If they snatch you, Freddy will kill me.”

“One thing I decided after my night with Tony Katt- nobody’s going to make me do anything I don’t want to do. And I don’t want to sit around waiting to see if some refugee from a Russ Meyer movie ambushes you or not.”

“Angel, these people. . they’re nuts."

“So is Tony Katt. And I handled him, didn’t I?”

Jack laughed. “Well, you had some help. If I remember the story right, it was Spike who chewed on Tony’s balls.”

“That’s right.” Angel slipped her.45 out of her purse. “And now Spike is in trouble. Which means that it’s time for me to return the favor.”

Jack wanted to argue the point.

But he didn’t know how.

“What we’re looking at is most likely a case of chronic bronchitis. That’s what the endoscopic examination indicates. We’ll start Spike on some corticosteroids to reduce the inflammation. In addition I’ll give you some cough suppressants, but don’t use those unless Spike has trouble sleeping.”

The vet handed the Chihuahua to Tura. “I did a bacterial culture, too. Just to be certain there’s no infection. Why don’t you give me your phone number, and I’ll contact you when I receive the test results.”

“I don’t think that would be such a great idea.” Tura smiled. “We’ll call you, Doc.”

Dr. Frank Newman, veterinarian to the stars, pushed his thick glasses high on his nose. Casually chic in a summer suit and bow tie, even at five-thirty in the morning, Newman was tall and cadaverously thin. Nearly seventy, he enjoyed playing the part of the kindly country doctor. His clients recognized that, and he knew he owed a good percentage of his business to the image he had created.

People needed to trust their veterinarian. They wanted a sense of old-fashioned American values when they brought Spot or Rover in for treatment. And who better to provide that than Dr. Frank Newman, who looked as if he had stepped out of a Norman Rockwell wall calendar?

Of course. Dr. Newman did not own a Norman Rockwell wall calendar. No. He had a Harlot’s Hollow wall calendar, featuring twelve of the finest lap dancers known to man. It was posted in the private bathroom adjacent to his office.

The only problem with the calendar was that it was a year out of date. That was Dr. Newman’s fault. He could never get past October, for that was the month that featured a startling erotic pose by none other than Tura Lynch. My, but she knew how to make a pumpkin look good.

Harlot’s Hollow wasn’t the same since Tura quit. Dr. Newman was sure that he missed her more than any of her other former customers.

He really missed Tura. If only she’d stayed in Vegas. . anywhere. There were plenty of other lap dancers in town, but none of them equaled Tura Lynch. None of them had her confident take-no-prisoners attitude. And none of the other girls called the man with the Norman Rockwell manner “Dr. Gooddoggy.”

This was why Dr. Newman came to the office as soon as Tura called, even though the hour was late (or early, depending on your point of view). It didn’t matter that his exit from home required a ridiculous excuse invented for his wife’s benefit. That was a small price to pay. Infinitesimal. If Tura Lynch wanted to see him, he would cross the Sahara barefoot.

“On second thought, maybe I should keep Spike for a couple of days.” Dr. Newman tried to keep his voice calm and professional. “I could run some tests. Just to confirm my diagnosis, you understand.”

“Oh, Dr. Newman,” Lorelei teased in a throaty little-girl voice. “You’re not just looking for an excuse to see my sister again, are you?”

“Well.” The vet loosened his bow tie. “The fact is-”

Tura slipped off her leather coat in one smooth move. “The fact is that I’d like to pay my bill in full, and right now.” Her slim fingers traveled long leather strips that clung to her voluptuous body like a black highway with dangerous curves. “Sit, Dr. Gooddoggy.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice.

“Good boy.” Tura snapped her fingers. “Music, maestro.”

Lorelei cued their boom box. Framed diplomas, veterinary science certificates, and autographed photos of celebrity clients swayed on Dr. Newman’s wall to the ear-splitting beat of Generation X’s “Dancing with Myself.”

Tura slithered forward and straddled Dr. Gooddoggy like a hungry jaguar, her thighs brushing his. Her brown skin glowed, and, oh. . her milky white scars did too. Tura had explained that the scars resulted from rattlesnake bites. Dr. Gooddoggy didn’t know if she was lying, but. . oh, he liked the idea that she might be telling the truth.

The music pulsed. Doctor Gooddoggy could feel it in his blood. His heart throbbed to the drumbeat. Suddenly the office was very hot-

Tura’s exhalations fogged one side of his glasses. His perspiration fogged the other.