Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

Oh, man. This was too much. But Jack wouldn’t think about it. He couldn’t. Because it didn’t matter. Not now. What mattered right now was getting to hell and gone out of this trunk.

He clutched the screwdriver in his right hand, afraid of losing it in the darkness. As he shifted onto his side, something rounded and long dug into his ribs. Jack raised up on one elbow and pulled that something free.

It was an emergency flare. In a second he’d have light, and then he’d crawl over Pack O’ Weenies dead fucking carcass, and he’d pop the trunk with the screwdriver, and he’d get down on his hands and knees and give the dusty Mojave Desert a big sloppy kiss.

Jack struck the flare.

It sizzled alive, hissing white fire.

The corpse’s face was washed in the sickly glow, a twitching mask of shadow and light that would have frightened Stephen King.

It wasn’t Pack O’ Weenies. The face belonged to a young blond woman dressed in a smartly tailored tuxedo. A bullet hole drilled the spot where her left eye should have been, and Jack knew instantly that he’d touched that spot, just as he knew he’d touched the woman’s open mouth, passed his fingers between those full lips that were smeared with lipstick and touched her teeth-

An inescapable wave of horror washed over Jack. Forget wave-this was a fucking tsunami. God, he would have crawled into that suffocating mummy bag right now if only he could have. Crawled into that sucker and zipped it tight over his head. Anything to escape the horror that lay before him.

But he wouldn’t do that. No. A minute ago he was ready to crawl over Pack O’ Weenies’ corpse to be free of the trunk. And now he would crawl over this woman. Dead was dead, after all. And nothing dead would stop Jack Baddalach.

Jack exhaled sharply-a low, rushing sound. But the sound didn’t end when he took another breath, it only grew louder in Jack’s head, bringing with it a memory, the memory of a man who pulled fistfuls of black clouds from the sky as he locked Jack in the limo trunk, a tall man dressed in a frock coat and a top hat, a man who wore lengths of garden hose around his neck.

No. Not lengths of hose. Seeing the snake curled around the woman’s throat with its head nestled in her long blond hair. Jack knew that the things the man wore around his neck were a long way from lengths of garden hose.

The snake drew back, away from the hissing flare, retreating, its head pressing against the hollow of the woman’s chin.

And then came another sound, a sound that told Jack he’d made another mistake, a sound that told him the snake wasn’t retreating at all-a sharp, angry rattling that played unrelenting counterpoint to the hot hissing of the emergency flare.

Jack pulled the flare away. The rattlesnake slithered forward, its head pressing between the dead blond’s small breasts.

Not that the blond seemed to mind. She stared at Jack with that one murky hazel eye, the one that hadn’t been shot out of her head, the one that was both unblinking and dead. Her mouth was open and her lipstick was smeared as if from a kiss. She didn’t blink, and she didn’t move, not even with a rattler coiling around her slim and elegant neck like some hideous living necklace-

You won’t have it bad, Jack, she seemed to say. Just a couple of fangs pricking your skin. Just a little poison pumping through your veins. Not like facing down a gun. . not like watching a long black barrel spit fire inches from your face. . not like feeling a couple of ounces of lead blow your eyeball through the back of your skull.

Cold scales whispered over the woman’s silk blouse. The snake began to coil near the corpse’s belly. In just a few seconds its rattles would be free of the woman’s neck.

Jack coughed. The flare was burning, sure, but it was smoking too, filling the trunk with fumes that burned his lungs and stung his eyes.

Maybe Jack could burn the rattler with the flare. But if he missed. And if the snake didn’t. If the reptile sank its fangs into his flesh. He was in the middle of nowhere. Even if he got out of the trunk, he might not get help in time. He didn’t know anything about the killing efficacy of rattlesnake venom, and he sure as hell didn’t want to find out.

The snake’s rattles beat hollowly against the woman’s trachea, then slipped free.

Jack dropped the flare, and a shadow curtained the corpse’s face, and she seemed to smile, whispering. Not a bad place to die, Jack. I’m here. At least you won’t be alone.

Fuck no. Jack twisted away from the corpse and the coiling rattler, thinking now of the skinny bastard in the frock coat and the top hat, gas from the flare burning his lungs as he pulled at the rug that covered the trunk compartment, eyes watching the rattler all the while as he tore the carpet free of its Velcro moorings like he was tearing into that jerky-faced man who’d left him locked in a trunk with a corpse and a rattlesnake, crawling under the carpet when it finally came free, putting it between his body and the rattler and he could hear the flare hissing like a whisper as the carpet caught fire, or maybe it was just the woman’s corpse inviting him to relax, to stay with her, or maybe it was the hissing sound of the rattler as it sprang. .

. . its fanged head sailing over the thick carpet. .

. . just missing Jack as it struck the metal fire wall that separated the rear compartment of the limo from the trunk. .

. . striking hard, dazed, scales slapping against the metal floor as it fell next to Jack, stunned, slowed, but still a creature of instinct, coiling again. .

. . until one strong human hand closed around its throat and silenced its hiss, and another gripped its rattles, and it spit fitfully as its coiled body was pulled to its full length. . and its scaled belly was ripped open as human teeth tore it in half and then it was nothing. .

. . it was dead.

***

“Goddamn,” Jack said. “Goddamn."

The carpet blazed in the trunk. He’d escaped just in time. He beat back the flames with his leather coat, then doused them with the seltzer bottle from the limo’s wet bar.

The snake was well done. The woman’s corpse was blackened but definitely rare. Jack threw the former into the desert and closed the trunk on the latter.

He put some distance between himself and the limousine. The hot desert wind blew at his back, strong and clean. Cars rushed by on the highway, passengers oblivious, their minds blissfully free from speculative exercises involving kidnapped Chihuahuas, women with machine guns, men with top hats, and rattlesnakes.

Jack wiped rattler blood from his mouth as he walked to the rear of the gas station. There was no sign of Pack O’ Weenies. As he returned to the limo, Jack wondered what had happened to the driver.

Pack’s fate wasn’t important at the moment. Getting to Vegas was. Jack had to explain things to Freddy G.

He was behind the wheel, ready to key the ignition, when he heard his cellular phone ringing.

The dognappers had left it behind.

Jack followed the ringing sound-by now it was surprisingly familiar-and found the phone in a tangle of brush. C’mon, Kate, he thought as he picked it up. I’ve waited damn near a year. Don’t let me down now. Not today. Not after all this corpses ‘n’ reptiles shit.

If it’s you, I’ll take all this shit in stride.

If it’s you, I’ll forget every damn bit of it.

Jack answered the phone.

Angel Gemignani said, “Where’s my goddamn dog?”

There were four other men with Jack Baddalach and Freddy Gemignani in the big penthouse office high atop the Casbah Hotel amp; Casino, but it was Freddy who held Jack’s attention.