Norman Partridge - Saguaro Riptide

No. It wasn’t a weapon. Jack could see that now. But it wasn’t a microphone, either.

Because Elvis didn’t hold it to his mouth. He raised his chin just a notch and lay the thing against a section of throat crisscrossed with scars that were as thick as pencils, as angry-pink and blood-purple as the heart of a rare steak.

The scars wriggled into a knot, and a reptilian smirk squirmed molasses-slow on Elvis’s perfect face. But his eyes were as cold as graveyard dirt as he opened his mouth and thumbed a button on the side of the silver rod.

Jack shivered. Elvis’s voice sounded like a cross between the Robot from Lost in Space and a can opener with stripped gears.

He said, “If. . you’re looking for. . trouble. . you came. . to the right. . place. .”

Jack didn’t move quickly, but he did move. No way was he going to touch the hit man’s gun, but he did manage to pocket Woodrow Saad Muhammad’s wallet as he eased out of the Saturn.

Jack closed the car door and Elvis backed up a couple of steps, maintaining a distance of six or seven feet. Even if Jack Baddalach had had moves like Sugar Ray Sattler, there was no way he could close a gap like that and not come out looking like a butchered side of beef.

So he held up his hands and shrugged. “Man, you got me shakin’ like a leaf on a fuzzy tree.”

Elvis’s smirk slithered higher, “What. . brings you ‘round. . here boy?”

Jack didn’t answer. Elvis brought the shotgun off his shoulder. Aimed it one-handed, still holding the microphone thing to his throat with the other. If Jack could get to him, it wouldn’t take much to knock the gun aside.

Jack took a step forward.

Elvis took a step back.

"You. . stay offa my blue. . suede shoes boy. . and answer my God. . damned question what. . are you doing. . 'round here?"

Jack pointed at a weather-beaten sign posted near the highway. The one that went some distance toward explaining the situation. The one that read:

FUTURE HOME OF ELVIS PRESLEY MUSEUM AND MEMORIAL MINIATURE GOLF COURSE

“I’m a miniature golfer from way back,” Jack said. “Never miss a chance to get in eighteen holes before breakfast. I’m hell on those windmills, especially.” He shaded his eyes, glancing over Elvis’s shoulder. “I don’t see any windmill here, though. You do have windmills, don’t you?”

“We don't got. . no stinking windmills and. . don't you fuck with me boy. . I know why. . you’re here you're here to chop. . my beef you’re here to. . put the pork to my woman. . and I'm. . here to fix your God. . damned wagon for you you’ll be. . picking your bloody balls off a. . cactus spike if you cross me. . boy. .”

Jack backed up. The scars on Elvis’s neck wriggled like a fistful of bloodworms. His upper lip twitched uncontrollably, transforming from smirk to snarl with near-lycanthropic intensity, as if he were about to sprout fangs and claws, do the whole Michael Landon teenage werewolf bit for an encore.

But none of that was really necessary. Elvis didn’t need an encore. The shotgun was enough.

More than enough. Elvis’s finger went white as it tightened around the trigger. The shotgun barrel weaved in the air, catching the morning light. Suddenly, the gun seemed to have a life of its own.

“Cool down,” Jack said. “Whatever way you want me, that’s how I will be.”

Elvis redirected the barrel and sent a blast over Jack’s head. The boxer dove for the dirt. Elvis released the gizmo that looked like a microphone, chambered another shell, and caught the cord before the mike hit the ground, swinging it up like some kind of too-smooth-for-words lounge singer and slapping it against the scarred ridge of misery that was his throat.

“Don't you fuck with me. . boy don’t you. . fuck with me at all you find out. . what happened to the last boy who thought. . he could chop my beef. . his name was Komoko and some people I know chopped him real good and. . buried his ass china-deep. . you keep out of my briar patch boy ’cause you. . ain’t gonna pick my berries and don't you dare. . speak the King’s words in my presence again or. . I'll send you to hell. . boy on a shingle.”

Jack got up. Slowly. He brushed chalky dust off of his jeans. Glanced at the Saturn sitting there with a blown-out windshield and a flat tire. Shrugging, he turned away and started walking toward the highway.

It was a hot morning, but Elvis’s voice cut through him like a Halloween wind.

“Light-heavyweight. . champion of the world I. . never knew that a hunnert. . and seventy-five pounds could fit in. . such a little sack of shit.”

Eight-thirty in the A.M. and Jack Baddalach felt like an egg sizzling on a hot skillet, and whoever had ordered that egg liked ’em scrambled hard.

The highway stretched before him, blacktop shimmering under a blanket of heat waves. The former light-heavyweight champion of the world had been walking for fifteen minutes and hadn’t seen a single car.

He began to wonder exactly how many miles separated him from Pipeline Beach. Seven miles seemed an optimistic estimate; ten was more likely. In the old days, when he’d first turned pro, he’d run ten first thing every morning and gone on to spar ten rounds in the afternoon. But in those days he’d gone 155 soaking wet. These days his weight was closer to 180, and he’d been beat up real good a time or two. Most boxers didn’t like to admit it, but there was something about surviving a real solid beating that took something out of you forever. No matter how hard you trained, you could never get it back.

Jack hadn’t done his roadwork in Wolverine boots and Levis, either. That’s what he was wearing today. The only positive wardrobe choice he’d made was a white T-shirt. It didn’t soak up the heat the way a black one would, but it didn’t exactly make him feel like he was taking a stroll on the North Pole, either.

In fact, he felt like someone was roasting his backbone over a low fire. Still, all in all, he had to admit that his little constitutional was slightly more pleasant than the morning’s other option-a load of buckshot in the ass. And then there was that stuff Elvis had said about Jack’s family jewels hanging on a cactus spike or something. . Jack wasn’t sure of the precise quote, but it had definitely formed a mental picture that had moved into his cerebrum and set up permanent housekeeping.

So he kept on walking, and he tried to think about other things, but every time he looked at one of those goddamned saguaros he imagined his cojones dangling from on high like bloody Christmas ornaments.

So he looked at the sky instead. Still no clouds. No shade, no nothing.

And one less vulture, thanks to Elvis’s shotgun.

Hey, get off it, champ. What’s done is done. Sure you got scuffed up. But you survived. Get up off the canvas, take the eight count, and get back to business.

Yeah. Soon as I hump these ten miles.

Jack ran fingers through his hair, slicked it straight back, out of his eyes, and wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. So he’d suffered a flash knockdown. So what. Elvis had come out of nowhere and put him on his ass. But only because Jack had gotten overconfident. After taking out the hit man, he’d figured he was on easy street. He’d figured all he had to do was meet Komoko’s sweetie, sweat her a little, and she’d turn over Freddy G’s bankroll most expeditiously.

He’d set up a meeting with the girl last night. Her name was Priscilla and she’d been real nervous on the phone-to Jack, she’d sounded like a woman who’d been downing straight shots of Maalox since his first call. Still, he should have known to watch his back walking in. Like the referees always said, protect yourself at all times.