Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

“I couldn’t quite hear you. Tiger.”

She was so close. If he could just get his hands on her. .

“You want a drink, you’d better answer me.”

Tony could barely remember the question.

“The other night.” She slapped his cheek. “Who was stronger? You or me?”

“You were,” Tony began, because he really needed that fucking drink. “You outsmarted me. . and you were stronger”

“I guess I did get the better of you that night, Tiger.” She laughed. “But you were drunk. And you weren’t expecting any trouble.” She patted his skinned shoulder very lightly, and an electric jolt of pain threatened to blow several circuits in Tony’s brain. “That’s why I’ve got to keep you weak,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you getting any ideas about escaping.”

“I won’t get ideas,” Tony said. “I can’t escape. . but I need a drink. .”

No pride. Not here. Pride doesn’t exist. Only the tree exists, only the barbed wire and the memory of the knife. .

The woman tipped the canteen against Tony’s lips. He sucked greedily, managing a long swallow. His tongue was wet now. It felt wonderful. Water cooled his aching throat. For a moment he felt a little stronger.

A cool oasis nestled under his ribs as the water hit his stomach. . cool. . and inviting. . the waters deep, and dark. .

Tony remembered the price he’d paid for a drink of water. The pills were dissolving in his gut. Soon a slow numbness spread to his arms and legs and iced his flayed shoulder.

Tony started to drift.

No, he couldn’t let that happen. He had to fight. God. If he could just get loose. If he could only wrap his hands around this bitch’s slender neck. If he could manage one hard twist, just one. .

The yucca trees stretched far in the distance.

The sun burned down.

Tony blinked against the great white ball, head lolling on his thick neck.

A blinding glint as sunlight slapped the woman’s knife.

She touched the blade to Tony’s other shoulder and began to carve.

Tony couldn’t move. He moaned, soft and low, because his throat was dry all over again.

The woman didn’t say a word as she worked. Tony closed his eyes. He moaned low. . a seashell moan. . and his blood flowed hot and wet, droplets raining on dry desert sand. . pattering, pattering in the seashell silence.

Jack drove through a quiet neighborhood-industrial park redux-which was okay with him. He didn’t say a word. Neither did Angel.

He pulled to the curb just as a starved-looking brunette stepped though the glass doors at 36 Arroyo Blanco. She yawned, pulled at her microminiskirt, and slipped behind the wheel of a battered Malibu.

A moment later she was gone. One vehicle remained in the parking lot. A Jeep Cherokee. Jack hoped the owner of the Jeep would know something about the kidnappers.

Jack figured the faster he could get to the gang, the better. He needed Tony Katt in one piece. Was that selfish? Sure. But Tony Katt was no prince. If the Tiger didn’t have the heavyweight title, Jack would let the kidnappers have their way with him. It wouldn’t be any skin off Jack’s ass. Or Tony’s shoulder, as it were.

But Jack really wanted that title. And he had to admit that he wanted the kidnappers, too. They had screwed him once, with Angel’s dog. That was plenty. They’d damn near killed him with a rattlesnake. And now they were trying to screw him again. Jack didn’t like that much. He didn’t want anyone thinking that they could make a habit of doing him like some chump.

He remembered the kidnapper’s note. Remember, the difference between champ and chump is “U. ” Jesus. These people were nuts. Either that, or they wrote Rocky movies for a living.

Jack pulled into the lot and parked the Celica. The air conditioner kicked off as he killed the engine.

“I guess this is it,” Angel said.

“Yeah. I guess.”

Jack grabbed his pistol and stepped out of the car. Man, it was hot. He started sweating almost immediately.

Angel glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Then she pulled the nylon stocking over her head.

“You’re kidding, right?” Jack said. “Angel, its too hot for this shit. I put one of your stockings over my head, I’m gonna suffocate.”

Angel checked her.45 and walked toward the building. “Do what you want, Jack. Just remember that you’ve been on television all week long. Anyone with an IQ above plant life is bound to recognize your face, even an idiot who makes porno movies for a living.”

Jack pulled on the stocking. Man oh man, he could hardly breathe-

Angel angled toward the door, peeking through a window, her gun raised.

Jack adjusted the stocking, smiling as he filled his lungs with nylon-filtered air.

Calvin Klein’s Obsession.

Angel Gemignani. She was something.

When it came to perfume, she had really nice taste.

As the sun settled low in the sky, Eden finished peeling the tattoo from Tony Katt’s shoulder The heavyweight champion of the world was unconscious, his body a study in sunburned flesh and spilled blood. So too were the heavens, violent shades of red staining the horizon the color of a dark bloody smear.

Eden entered the chapel. Daddy lay on the altar. Oh, but his expression was so peaceful. She brushed flies from his wounds and straightened his arms. She opened his hands and pressed them together at waist level, palms facing upward, gnarled fingers slightly bent.

Two hands. Daddy’s right hand. The Devil’s left hand. And now they were one. A callused cup that lay open and waiting on Daddy’s belly.

Eden laid the tattoo in Daddy’s palm. An odd-looking man, staring at her from a patch of singed flesh. And those words below his face: That which does not destroy us makes us stronger.

Yes. These words were indeed true. Eden recognized that. For she was much stronger now.

But not nearly as strong as she wanted to be.

Eden opened the old spell book. It was written in the last century by Estrellita Dolores Refugio Cavendish, a blind witch of some notoriety who had spent her last days in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.

Eden flipped to the correct page and studied the text. For mortar and pestle: a dead man's hands and a reprobate’s thumb.

She had Harold’s thumb. It would do.

Combine the tattooed flesh of a crucified sinner. A green pear and a whore’s hair-

Eden had a lock of Tura’s hair, fragrant with coconut shampoo. She’d bought the green pear at a grocery store on her way to kidnap Tony Katt.

— the powdered tongue of a hyena that has laughed its last. . and fat from the back of a baboon, boiled down to a pound dinner spoon.

Daddy’s shelves were jammed with elixirs and nostrums and potions of every description. Magical ingredients gathered from the four corners of the earth stood next to prosaic products such as Ban Roll-On, Del Monte Prunes, and Poligrip. A wide assortment of prescription drugs filled one shelf. Daddy had stolen these from sacrifice victims, hijacked truckers, and other unfortunates who had crossed his path over the years.

Eden ignored the drugs. Impatiently, she sorted through jars and phials and cruets until she found the magical ingredients she wanted.

Baboon fat and hyena tongue. Daddy had them both, two small jars jammed in a small wooden casket bearing African stamps.

Eden sliced the pear into small bits and laid it on the face of Friedrich Nietzsche. She added her sister’s hair, powdered hyena tongue, and baboon fat. Gripping Harold’s thumb tightly, she mixed the ingredients in Daddy’s weatherbeaten palms.

Eden glanced at the yellowed page. One last time, just to be sure.

She was sure. Tonight, true strength would be hers. Satan’s strength would protect her forevermore. No one would ever hurt her again.