Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

But the fight with Katt was different. Jack had time to think about it. He weighed all the options. The advantages and disadvantages.

And in the end his decision didn’t have much to do with Tony Katt. It had a lot to do with Jack Baddalach and how he defined himself.

Once upon a time he defined himself as the light-heavyweight champion of the world. Then he defined himself as a problem solver for the mob. Just lately he had defined himself in varying degrees as a Chihuahua’s babysitter, a lover ignored, and Jack the Giant Killer.

Back there somewhere, behind ego and pride and all the rest of that bullshit. Jack knew better. He knew that he should define himself as Jack Baddalach. Just plain old Jack. Whatever happened to him, that’s who he was.

It was a healthy attitude. Some would call it a Zen kind of thing.

Jack figured, later for that.

Because he had to admit that he wanted one last definition on top of all those others. One that would stick until the day they put him in his grave, and then some.

Jack Baddalach, heavyweight champion of the world.

Jack took a shower and got dressed. It was Angel’s last day in town. They were going to do lunch at Bertolini’s in the mall at Caesars Palace.

The phone rang as Jack was headed out the door. Johnny Da Nang’s voice came over the answering machine speaker.

Jack picked up. “Hey, Johnny.”

“Good news and bad news, champ. I got Tate up to ten million five.”

“All right. You’re earning your percentage. What’s the bad news?”

“Tony Katt’s still the Invisible Man. No one has seen him. Tate’s worried about it. So am I. If the story starts to cool off before we sign a contract, I figure Tate’s offer will go soft.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “I’ll make a few calls later today. I know a couple of Katt’s sparring partners. Maybe they know what rock he’s hiding under.”

“Sounds good.”

They said their good-byes and Jack headed for the parking lot, swinging by his mailbox on the way.

A couple bills. An Archie McPhee catalog. The new Sports Illustrated featuring cover boy Jack Baddalach over the punch line, giant killer!

A large Express Mail envelope, too. Jack recognized the return address as that of the Casbah Hotel amp; Casino.

But he knew the address was a phony as soon as he opened the envelope and pulled out the ransom note:

Jack stared at the note. The kidnapper-for this note was signed in the singular instead of plural-had used the same font as the previous note. And the smiley face looked identical, too.

But the postscript -they make nice lamp shades -what the hell did that mean? Jack peered into the open envelope. Something was stuck to the paper, glued there. .

. . glued there with blood.

The tattooed face of Colonel Harlan Sanders smiled up at him from a torn canvas of human flesh.

Jack shivered as he saw the words:

Finger Lickin’ Good. .

Jack tossed the envelope onto his desk. Man, he couldn’t even get a break. His brief foray into action mode was over. The reaction express had just chugged back into town.

Only this time he didn’t know how to react. He figured he should make a phone call. But to whom? The corporate bigwigs at Skull Island. . or Freddy G. . or Caligula Tate. . or, hell, the Las Vegas cops?

No, he couldn’t call the cops. That was definitely out. There was too much back story that he couldn’t explain- the dognapped Chihuahua and the reason behind Jack’s run-in with Tony Katt, for starters. And if the cops talked him into a corner. . well, Angel had killed the redheaded dognapper at Dr. Newman’s office. Jack didn’t want her to end up as Court TV’s designated celebrity murder defendant of the season.

Jack’s hands weren’t exactly clean, either. After all, he had assassinated a rampaging Komodo dragon. According to some people, that made him Public Enemy Number One. Jesus, he didn’t want animal rights activists picketing outside his door.

A chill iced Jack’s spine. At least he hadn’t skinned anyone alive. Tony Katt, Jack’s only link to the gang, was learning some serious lessons about honor among thieves. Man, there were easier ways to get rid of a tattoo.

Hardball time, that’s what this was. The main event. The road to hell wasn’t paved with good intentions; it was paved with ten million bucks. In an effort to collect that kind of scratch, the dognappers had turned on one of their own.

Now they were Kattnappers.

Or Kattnapper, singular. That’s what the ransom note indicated. Still, Jack had a hard time believing that one person could pull off something like this.

Jack sat and stewed, playing it over and over in his mind. Who to call-

He glanced at his watch. First of all, he had to cancel his lunch date. He dialed the Casbah and the operator put him through to Angel Gemignani’s suite.

“Jack,” she said, “I was just going to call you, but I figured you’d be on your way over.”

“I kind of got sidetracked. Something pretty important. I’m going to have to take a rain check on our lunch.”

“No. You’ve got to come over here.”

“Sorry, Angel. I’m serious-”

“So am I.” She paused. “This is really important. Jack. See, we were sitting around, drinking champagne, doing the bachelorette party thing, and Evie-she’s the one who’s getting married-put on this porno video she bought at a shop near Fremont Street-”

“A porno movie? C’mon, Angel, I don’t have time for this. Someone has snatched Tony Katt. I think it’s the same bunch who kidnapped Spike. They sent me one of his tattoos in the mail. They want ten million dollars for the rest of him.”

“Jesus, Jack.”

“Anyway, I’ve got to call the bosses at Skull Island, or maybe Caligula Tate-”

“Settle down. Jack,” Angel said. “Grow some patience, huh?”

“I don’t have time for patience. Especially when it comes to porno movies. If you’ve got something to tell me, make it fast.”

“Okay. . I recognized one of the actresses in the movie-a redhead in black leather.”

“Oh shit. You’re kidding.”

“Jack, I couldn’t forget this woman if I tried,” Angel said. “Because the last time I saw her, I put a bullet in her head.”

The movie was called Little Bitches. A costume piece featuring three-way action, early American style. Louisa May Alcott was probably rotating in her grave.

“Recognize them with their clothes off?” Angel asked.

“I can make them out.” Jack sat on the bed, watching the screen. “Jo and Amy are definitely the two we ran into at the vet’s office. And the one with the wrist braces, Beth, she’s the one I knocked out when the gang grabbed Spike.”

Angel nodded. “So what are we going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.” Jack looked at the video box, but the only address he found was a Las Vegas post office box. “I guess we could get in touch with the investigator Freddy was using. Maybe the guy could use the video to track them down.”

On screen, Jo and Amy and Beth were taking turns with Professor Bhaer.

Angel shook her head in disbelief. “I guess they left this part out of the Winona Ryder version.”

Jack grabbed the telephone. “I’ll give Freddy a call.”

“Wait a minute.” Angel snatched up the remote control and thumbed the rewind button. “There’s something else you need to see. Something I forgot about.”

Oh, man, Jack thought. Don’t tell me Grandma plays the mother. .