Norman Partridge - Saguaro Riptide

“To a man, the gym rats are pretty quiet. The cutman is beaming. He lines up his Vaseline, his Q-tips, his avetine and thrombine and adrenaline chloride 1-1000. He opens a straight razor-the dog’s whining by now-and he says. Watch this.

“Baddalach moves in just that fast and takes the razor away from the cutman. Puts it to the guy’s throat. Walks him around the ring. Has a real quiet conversation that nobody else hears. When they’re done talking he slips the guy five bucks, slaps him on the back, all grins now, saying. Gee, Mister, I sure am glad you came in here today looking to sell your dog.”

All of a sudden, the kid shut up. Stared, like he was waiting for Woodrow to say something. But Woodrow couldn’t think of anything to say, and he had the uneasy feeling that the kid had planned it that way.

“So now you know what kind of guy Jack Baddalach is.” The kid pulled the last of the duct tape from the dog’s muzzle. “I’ll tell you this much-when he finds out what you did to his dog, he won’t be a happy camper.”

“Tell him.” The words spilled from Woodrow’s mouth automatically. “Do not omit a single detail. Inform Mr. Baddalach that I enjoyed every second.”

The kid smiled now, and it was a wide smile, self-assured. “Oh, I’ll tell him, all right. As soon as you leave.”

Woodrow straightened. Suddenly, it was the oddest thing. Like the kid was dismissing him. Like he was the one in charge of the situation. Woodrow had the gun, and he was the trained killer, but the kid was the one staring him down, making him sweat.

Woodrow hesitated, wondering what to do.

Then it hit him.

There was only one thing to do. The way things stood, he had to let the kid live. Because if he killed the kid he’d look like a punk, like he was afraid to let the kid warn Baddalach.

Woodrow’s head was really pounding now. Full boogie disco throb. The little runt had manipulated him. Woodrow knew it and the kid knew it, but no way Woodrow was going to let the kid know that he knew.

So Woodrow worked up his best tougher-than-Rahway voice and said, “You tell Jack Baddalach that he is a dead man.”

Then he whirled, full of purpose now. Slammed out the door, even though the noise was pure murder. Got in his Saturn and hit the road, and he didn’t give a damn if sometimes he saw one road and sometimes he saw two, just so long as both of those roads led to Pipeline Beach, Arizona.

Her combat boots were desert camouflage. Her bikini was black. And her skin was white. Pure white. White white. Bela Lugosi white. And it appeared she wanted it to stay that way, because her sunblock of choice was Coppertone 45.

Jack used his room key to unlock the gate to the pool area, but the woman didn’t bother to look his way. At least he thought she didn’t-though she faced him, he couldn’t see her eyes behind the same pair of shades she’d been wearing at the Pipeline Beach Five-and-Dime.

He glanced at the combat boots under the chaise longue as he approached her. The boots were pretty scuffed up- probably more than a fashion statement. The black DEATH FROM ABOVE T-shirt was balled up on one side of the boots. A couple of magazines lay half-covered by the shirt- Guns amp; Ammo and Cosmopolitan and Soldier of Fortune and something called Outre.

Jack pulled up a chaise of his own and sat down. “So,” he said, “what’s the deal with this Komoko character?”

A bemused little grin. “What is this, twenty questions?”

“Sure, we can do that.”

“Okay.” She stayed with the grin. “Anytime you’re ready, champ.”

“For starters, what’s your name?”

“Kate Benteen. But come on, champ. Next you’ll be asking for my astrological sign. Or my internet address. I know you can do better than that. Let’s try for some originality, okay?”

She turned his way, sitting up and leaning forward, like she couldn’t wait to hear his next question. She was a long way from being an Amazon a la Wyetta Earp, but she had long legs and Jack couldn’t help wondering-

“C’mon, champ. I know you’ve been in prison and all, but you were only locked up for five or six hours.”

“Sorry.” Jesus, he felt like a teenager, like he was about to blush.

Either she didn’t notice or she pretended not to notice. “So, give me another question, champ. And make it a good one. You know, devastate me with your wit. Like James Bond does it in the movies.”

“Okay.” He cleared his throat. “What’s with the boots? Fashion statement? A retro Nancy Sinatra kind of thing? Or are you one of those all-American terrorists?”

She shot a little gob of sunblock on those long legs of hers and the bottle made a little farting sound. For a second Jack thought maybe that was going to be her answer, but then she started rubbing and talking. “Yeah, well I guess these boots are made for walkin’. They got me through the Saudi, that’s for sure.”

‘The Saudi?”

“Operation Desert Storm. That glorious little one-hundred-hour war. You probably sat on your butt watching it on CNN. I sat on my butt right in the middle of it, only it lasted a hell of a lot longer than four days for me.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

She smiled, the main event this time, and it was some smile, her lips drawing back but not quite showing teeth. “Oh, I don’t think we have time to get into that one right now, champ. But if you really want an answer, make your way down to the Pipeline Beach Public Library and look up BENTEEN, KATE, in the Reader’s Guide to Periodical Literature. That’s Major Kate Benteen, United States Army. You’ll find a couple of personality profiles in People and Reader’s Digest. Hell, once upon a time I even made it into Vanity Fair."

Jack gave her a little nod, the one that came complete with a wrinkled brow to show how impressed he was. “So, are you on leave or something? Is Pipeline Beach your idea of a vacation spot. Major?”

“No and no. I’m retired. Well, that’s not quite right. I was dishonorably discharged. The top brass didn’t much like it when their little darlin’ shipped stateside and turned up in Playboy.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” She shrugged. ‘The ‘Girls of Desert Storm’ issue.”

“I must have missed that one.”

“You’re the only guy in America who did. The crazy part was that I didn’t even pose for the feature. I was the interview that month. But I have to admit I kind of got wrapped up in the whole fifteen-minute celebrity thing. I mean. I’d had a little taste of it before-I won a silver medal at the ’88 Olympics in Seoul-”

“Wait a minute. You were in the Olympics? Doing what?”

“Platform diving.” She didn’t miss a beat. “That was a while ago. I don’t miss it-chlorine is real hard on a girl’s hair. And I don’t really miss the military, either-it wasn’t like those good ol’ boys were ever going to invite me to be guest speaker at Tailhook.”

“So, what’s on the resume since then?”

“I rode out my fifteen minutes of fame. Even did a movie for Roger Corman. But Hollywood isn’t my style, and-”

Jack cut her down with a burst of sharp laughter. “Behind those shades, I bet your eyes are brown.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I never met anyone who was so full of shit in my whole life.” He leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. “C’mon now. I’ll admit that you really had me going, and maybe I deserved it. But let’s drop the tall tales and get to it, okay? About this Komoko-”