Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

Man, it was really something. The only face he remembered really well belonged to the dead limo driver. The poor kid. Jack didn’t think he’d ever forget her. Staring at him with that one hazel eye, a scarlet hole blasted where her other eye should have been. .

Jack went over to Freddy G’s bar, opened the fridge, and grabbed himself a beer. He didn’t open it. He sat down on a plush leather sofa that ran the length of the window facing the Strip. He ran the cold bottle back and forth across the knuckles of one hand, then the other, watching an animatronic British frigate do battle with a pirate ship at the casino across the street.

A little less than a year ago he sat on this sofa, listening to Freddy rave about two million in mob money that had disappeared along with a mob courier somewhere between Las Vegas and Dallas. Freddy had asked Jack to find that money. And Jack had found it. He’d had some help from Kate Benteen, but he’d brought Freddy’s money back all by his lonesome.

Freddy was impressed. Sure. Anyone would be. He’d used Jack a couple of times since then, when he needed a guy he could count on. Used him in “situations,” which was Freddy double-speak for trouble.

But “situations” didn’t come along every day, even in Vegas. Freddy liked having Jack around. Jack liked being around. He didn’t sweat the little stuff.

Not usually, anyway.

But this last thing. This Chihuahua thing. It had grated on him. Just that Freddy would ask him to do something like that hurt. Like he was an errand boy. Sure, Freddy’s granddaughter was involved, and maybe it was just that Freddy didn’t want to send some tacky little half-a-mozzarella to his daughter’s house in Palm Springs, some gumbah he couldn’t trust around a young thing like his granddaughter, but still-

Jack shook his head. That last part was a laugh, anyway. After all, Jack Baddalach was the guy who had started the day with his tongue in Angel Gemignani’s mouth. He didn’t figure that particular performance met anyone’s definition of “trustworthy,” especially not Freddy Gemignani’s.

But Freddy had sent him after a Chihuahua, for Christ-sakes. And Jack Baddalach was the former light-heavyweight champion of the world. And you just didn’t send the former light-heavyweight champion of the world after somebody’s dog. Not even if that somebody was your granddaughter.

You didn’t send a champ after a mutt.

Jack shook his head. No. You wanted that mutt to come through in one piece, you had to send someone a lot smarter than a champ. You had to send someone who knew how to do something besides get hit in the face, because a champ would fuck things up. He’d get strung along by a guy with a pack of weenies for a neck, and he’d roll over for a bunch of leather girls with machine guns, and he’d end up locked in a limo trunk with a pissed-off rattlesnake and a dead Mafioso-ette.

Jack’s foolish pride had its ass down on the canvas. He counted ten over it. If he wanted to make things right with Freddy G, he’d better straighten up.

If it wasn’t already too late for that.

Jack rolled the cold beer bottle back and forth across his aching knuckles. Across the Strip, the frigate’s cannons spit blinding gouts of flame. Then the pirate ship returned fire, and very shortly great belches of fire and smoke poured from the frigate’s belly.

The frigate began to sink. Jack watched it disappear into the concrete deep, the British captain standing proudly on the deck, going down with his ship.

Freddy’s hand closed over Jack’s shoulder, and the former light-heavyweight champion nearly jumped out of his skin.

The casino boss sat next to Jack on the sofa. “You’re in the clear, champ. None of the boys think you had anything to do with it.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “But I don’t really care what those bastards think. I care what you think, Freddy.”

“C’mon, Jack. You and me go back a ways. I’ve known you since you came out of the amateurs. Most of your title fights were right here at the Casbah. I never figured you’d go dog on me.”

“Good. I just want to know where I stand, is all.”

“Now you know.”

“So what’s next?”

“We wait for a ransom note or a phone call. We wait to find out what some crazyass dognapping crew figures a Chihuahua is worth to the mob.” Freddy threw up his hands. “Christ on a cross. This business. Sometimes it drives me nuts. Sometimes it makes me wish I could call in the fucking cops.”

“Look,” Jack said. “I know I messed up-”

Freddy’s harsh laughter cut him off. “Yeah. You really screwed the pooch on this one. Jack. Or maybe I should say you wished you’d screwed the pooch. That would have been better than letting the little fucker get dognapped. You should see my Angel. Oh, man, is she pissed. She takes after her grandma, that one. Only difference is her grandma carried a razor.”

“As the French say, vive la difference.”

“Viva shit, Jack. Angel carries a gun.”

The beer was getting warm in Jack’s hands. He realized that he was sweating. “What I’m saying is that there has to be a way to track these idiots. The cops do it all the time. So can we.” Jack stood up and paced in front of the big window. “Now, it’s pretty obvious these guys knew what was going on. I mean, the whole thing was a complete setup. That means they know something about you-”

“Or about Angel.”

“Right. Now, if we can figure out how they set up the snatch-”

Freddy G waved Jack off. “We’re way ahead of you, champ. My boys are on it. We’re checking out the limo right now. The limo company, too. If the driver left a trail, we’re gonna find it.”

“Like I said before, the driver talked a lot. He told me about a stretch he did for murdering a guy. In California, I think. There’s got to be a way we can trace him.”

“Don’t sweat it.” Freddy was up now, patting Jack on the shoulder again, turning the boxer toward the double doors. “I’ve already got a guy on it. He’s a sharp one. Could find Jimmy Hoffa if he had to. He’ll probably phone you tonight. You give him the whole story. It’s probably bullshit, but it can’t hurt.”

“Okay.” Jack talked fast as they headed toward the doors. “But what can I do in the meantime?”

“Just take your ease, champ.” Freddy walked Jack down a corridor, heels clicking over Carrara marble. “Just take your ease.”

The casino owner punched the elevator button. The door opened instantly. Jack didn’t need Freddy to draw a diagram for him. He stepped inside.

“One thing you can tell me, champ. That rattlesnake. The one that was locked in the trunk with you and Jimmy Two-Nose’s dead niece.”

“What about it?”

“Did you really bite the damn thing in half?”

“Yeah.” Jack pressed “L” for lobby, and the elevator doors started to close. “And it’s true what they say about snakes.”

“What’s that?”

“The sonofabitches do taste just like chicken.”

Spoiled Palm Springs punkers, armed and dangerous dognappers cinched in black leather dominatrix gear, rattlesnakes and corpses and irate Mafioso to spare-it didn’t matter how much shit Jack Baddalach went through in one day; none of it was as frightening as the prospect of facing a hungry geriatric bulldog.

Jack dumped thirty cans of dog food into his shopping cart. The brand that was recommended by world-renowned pooch breeders. The brand that contained no fillers or harmful additives. The expensive brand.

It didn’t seem like he’d be scamming many free meals at the Casbah in the very near future, so he figured he might as well do some shopping for himself while he was at it. He heaped the cart with six boxes of ready-to-heat frozen White Castle hamburgers, three boxes of cherry-flavored Pop Tarts, a couple cases of Diet 7Up (because at heart Jack Baddalach was a rebellious uncola kind of guy), two six packs of the one decent beer that was on special, three huge bags of pre-popped popcorn (no palm oil!) that reminded him of the stale stuff upon which he’d gorged as a movie-going youth, and a couple pounds of coffee beans that were blacker than sin.