Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

No. When Tony Katt grabbed Angel Gemignani, Jack shot the motherfucker in the head.

He didn’t need to think about it. He only needed to react. He only needed to draw on something that was hard-wired into his soul a long time ago.

Jack trusted that thing, whatever it was. He really did.

He finished the orange and tossed the peel into a garbage can. The morning was coming on fast, orange sherbet riding the flip side of indigo blue.

Jack felt good. He didn’t know why. But he went with it.

He wasn’t the heavyweight champion of the world. Hell, he wasn’t even the light-heavyweight champion of the world. He was just a guy named Baddalach who occasionally baby-sat consumptive Chihuahuas.

Shaking his head. Jack unclipped the cellular phone from his belt and tossed it into the Celica. Man, was he a case.

Maybe that phone would never ring.

But Kate Benteen was out there somewhere. At least he hoped that she was. He still had her picture on his desk. Maybe she thought about him once in a while. Maybe one day she would stop thinking and just go with it and dial his number.

Maybe, one of these days. Jack’s phone would ring.

If that ever happened, he knew exactly how he’d react.

Exactly.