Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

The woman started crying. Tony hung up the phone. Wow. Porschia was in the hospital.

But, hey, those were the breaks.

Tony picked up the phone and dialed Caligula Tate’s number.

Tate said, “How’s it going, champ?”

“Good. The nose feels better. You get in touch with Baddalach yet?”

“No. But I’ve got a deal all ironed out with Skull Island. Baddalach will bite as soon as I pass on the offer. Believe me. He can’t turn down this kind of money. You’ll have the chump in the ring just in time for your birthday, and you know that ain’t far off.”

“All right,” Tony said. “I’ll hit him once for you.”

“Good. I never liked the son of a bitch.”

“Is the money good?”

Tate whistled. “Astro-fucking-nomical. Everyone wants to see this fight. You’ll clear twenty million. Maybe thirty.”

“I love my job.” Tony laughed. “Thirty million bucks to bust up a guy I’d meet in an alley for free.”

“Only in America.”

“Amen, brother.”

“So how’s everything going?” Tate asked. “The new fridge okay?”

“Yeah. The fridge is fine. But my girlfriend got hurt.”

“What happened?”

“Porschia got squeezed by a robot monkey. You know-that one she dances with at Skull Island. She’s in the hospital.”

“Sorry to hear it. You want me to send some flowers for you, champ?”

“Sure. Maybe some candy, too.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “Send me another girl.”

“Any particular kind?”

“As long as she can make a kamikaze, she’ll be all right with me.”

Man, it didn’t take long at all.

A car pulled up in the driveway just as Tony climbed out of a hot shower. He toweled off and peeked through the window.

Check that. It wasn’t a car at all. It was a truck. A beat-up piece of shit Chevy. This had to be a mistake-

No. It wasn’t a mistake.

The woman who climbed out of the truck was fine. Tony watched from above as she appeared, section by foxy section.

Black stiletto heels.

Black fishnet stockings.

Black leather miniskirt.

Black bikini top.

Raven hair.

Tony smiled at his reflection in the mirror.

“Brother,” he said, “it’s going to be one long night.”

After a discreet visit to a veterinarian in Henderson, spike the Chihuahua was resting comfortably. Angel Gemignani could rest easy, too, but of course that wasn’t Angel’s style. She shifted into slam-dance overdrive. After all, her girlfriends had come to Vegas for a bachelorette party. Under Angel’s direction the affair became a forty-eight-hour nonstop marathon of indulge-o-matic bliss.

Jack was invited, of course. He bowed out politely, mostly because he wanted to give Angel some breathing room. The secrets they had shared at Jack’s condo gave them a special bond of intimacy. Jack had told damn few people anything about Kate Benteen, and Angel was certainly the first person who forced him to admit that he loved Kate. And Jack was pretty sure that there weren’t too many people who knew about Angel’s run-in with Tony Katt or the insecurities she hid beneath a rattlesnake tattoo.

Besides that, Angel had plugged the redhead at the Frank Newman’s office. Jack knew he owed her for that.

The feeling of mutual attraction that had burned between Jack and Angel the first couple of times they bumped up against each other had turned into something special. Not romance, and certainly not love. But something that might, given time, become friendship. Angel had called him just last night, saying that she wanted to get together for lunch before she headed back to Palm Springs. She didn’t say anything directly, but her tone of voice told Jack that she hoped they could be friends, too.

Jack felt good about that. There wasn’t any doubt that he’d gotten off to a rocky start with Angel. Things were working out okay, though. Spike was safe, and Angel hadn’t heard another word from the dognappers. The police were investigating the shooting at the vet’s office, but so far no one had connected Jack or Angel to the trouble. The police couldn’t identify the dead redhead, either-she wasn’t carrying ID, and computer searches of several law enforcement databases had failed to match her fingerprints.

Not that the media were screaming for more info about the dead redhead. In fact, the news reports of the incident hardly mentioned her. Journalists seemed more interested in the “murdered” Komodo dragon. Several animal rights groups were offering rewards for the endangered lizard’s assassin.

But Jack wasn’t worried about Tarzan the bounty hunter showing up on his doorstep. For now, he was willing to leave the dognapping gang to Freddy G’s hotshot investigator. The guy was trying to track Harold Ticks through the California Department of Corrections computers, but it looked like Harold had jumped parole some time back. The investigator hadn’t been able to get in touch with Tony Katt, either. Not that Jack figured the guy could sweat Tony. If Jack was any judge of human nature, the baddest man on the planet wasn’t going to give up his buddy, not now.

Jack took it easy for a couple of days. He didn’t do much more than sit on his couch and read paperbacks. Anybody called, he let the answering machine pick up.

Every once in a while he made himself a couple of White Castle Burgers or Pop Tarts. He watched some television, too. The Tony Katt/Jack Baddalach story was still going strong. Caligula Tate was lobbying for a big money fight between the two men. He had phoned Jack several times.

Jack had spoken to the sports reporter from CNN, just to get the guy off his doorstep. He pretty much spent his five minutes of prime time ducking and dodging the reporter’s questions like bothersome jabs. But the reporter couldn’t get a word out of Tony Katt. No one had seen him. His bruised ego and busted nose were obviously in hiding.

Katt’s disappearing act bothered Jack. It interfered with a decision he had made.

He wanted Tony Katt.

In the ring.

Jack wanted to make Katt pay for what he’d done to Angel. Sure, that was part of the reason he wanted a fight with Tony the Tiger.

But Jack was motivated by more than revenge. And it wasn’t just the money, either. Which was looking pretty spectacular, by the way. Johnny Da Nang was turning out to be one hell of a negotiator. He had jacked Caligula Tate’s initial offer of five million to nine million two, plus a healthy percentage of the pay-per-view action, rebroadcast rights, and live gate. The plan was to let Tate sweat for a couple more days, at least until Tony Katt showed his ugly face again. When that happened. Jack would sign on the dotted line. . he’d take a Katt fight anywhere, anytime, anyplace.

Money was nice, but it could be a pain in the ass, too.

And in the boxing world, it brought out the leeches. But Jack could deal with them. He’d dealt with them before. He wasn’t some kid who would spend a fortune before he even made one.

So he could handle the money, and the revenge angle would be sweet. . but there was more to Jack’s decision.

It was almost kind of funny, because Jack felt that the whole Tony Katt thing was the first conscious decision he’d made in a long time. Since Spike was dognapped. Jack’s run-in with Katt was the one action he had actually planned. Everything else was like one big adrenaline rush, immediate responses demanded by stimuli that were dangerous in varying degrees.

To put it another way: Jack never acted, he always reacted.

Angel kisses him in Palm Springs, and he kisses her before he can even decide if it’s a good idea or not. Dognappers lock him up with a rattlesnake, he’s got to escape or die. Punkers attack his dog, he steps in and takes the punishment. Angel puts the moves on him in a hot tub, he makes the same mistake he made when they kissed. One of the dognappers pulls his chain, he gets into a shootout at a veterinarian’s office. A Komodo dragon goes into rampage overdrive, he has to shoot it before someone gets eaten.