Norman Partridge - Saguaro Riptide

The card said:

LOVE AND KISSES YOU DOG-BEATING BASTARD.

FROM HERE ON OUT IT GETS WORSE.

The card wasn’t signed, but Woody figured it had to be from Jack Baddalach, which meant that Baddalach had learned about the monk’s run-in with his dog and had been waiting for payback when the monk pulled into the parking lot at the Saguaro Riptide.

The Vietnamese kid had practically predicted the whole thing. Shit. Woody couldn’t figure why the monk hadn’t popped a cap on that little motherfucker. Boy had a real mouth on him. Letting him live had been a big mistake.

Just one of many. Woody looked in the mirror. Shit. He looked like something that had been scraped off the highway. His eyes were red as Ripple, and his hair was as scraggly-looking as an Airedale’s butt, and his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ lame-ass monk clothes were dirty, and his left hand was fucked up from a dog bite.

That was the hand he jacked off with, too. Shit. He couldn’t even get the least little bit of a break.

Woody tossed Baddalach’s message into the garbage can. Half this shit wouldn’t have happened if the monk had used the balls God gave him. Not that Woody cared about the monk, but, shit, a man had to look out for himself.

’Cause if the monk got his ass chilled, it meant that Woody would get his ass chilled, too.

That wasn’t going to happen. Now that Woody was in charge again, the monk was going to stay locked up in the Rahway of his mind.

A life-fuckin’-sentence. No possibility of parole, neither.

Woody was the man, now. And there were just a couple of three things he had to deal with.

First off, he had to get himself a weapon.

Second, he had to get himself a car and get the hell out of this town before those crazy bitch cops came after him again. They thought he knew something about some cat named Komoko. Shit. He didn’t know Komoko from Kiss-My-Ass. Probably the whole thing had something to do with the boxer, but at this point he didn’t even care. He just knew he didn’t want to tangle with those bitches again, because they were crazier than any cons he’d ever run up against in the slams.

Third-and most importantly-he had to get himself some pussy. Lack of trim made him real edgy. And he’d been lacking trim for a seriously long time. Locked up in the monk’s head all those years. . shit. The monk-he didn’t jerk off, didn’t even look at no magazines, let alone shoot some beaver.

Woody thought it through. Getting a weapon, now that might be a little hard, especially if he wanted something good. He could probably find himself a pipe or something lying around over by the junkyard, but a knife or a gun might be tough.

And he might need something like that to get hold of a car. Shit. Hard to scare a person with a hunk of pipe. Somehow, folks really didn’t think you’d beat them to death just to rip off their ride. But a gun was different-wave a gun in someone’s face and they’d hand over the keys, like yesterday.

There weren’t many cars here at the motel. An old Subaru wagon was parked by the office-it probably belonged to the lady who ran the joint. A Range Rover with a Budget Rent-a-Car bumper sticker was parked below Woody’s window-he figured that Baddalach was the cat who had rented it. The Rover would be Woody’s preference. Get the pug’s car. Kill him, too, just to be doin’ it.

Woody peeked through the drapes. The only other car- actually, it was a truck-belonged to that sweet little bitch sitting by the pool.

A black bikini that fit her just right. And skin as white as cream.

Shit. Little Woody was getting hard. Woody’s heart started to trip-hammer. Without thinking, he squeezed Little Woody with his wounded left hand, then yelped in pain.

This was going to be tough. Woody bit his lip. Maybe his third priority was going to have to change places with his first.

’Cause his need for trim was seriously bad.

He lay back on the bed and thought about it. Unzipped his fly and tried to get things going with his right hand, but man, it just felt too weird.

Completely fucking unnatural.

But, shit, sometimes a man just had to have hisself some relief.

Damn it was good. Erupting like Krakatoa, East of Java.

Heart pounding. Head thudding like goddamn conga drums-

Shit, no. Someone was knocking at the door.

Woody jumped up, thinking. Hey, maybe the little bitch delivers.

He zipped his pants and opened the door just as the motel lady turned away.

She wasn’t the bitch in the black bikini, but she was damn fine for a woman with some mileage on her.

“Hey,” Woody said. “I was taking a nap. I almost didn’t hear you.”

“Sorry to wake you, but I wanted to make sure that you were okay.”

Woody turned on the charm. “Been better.”

‘The sheriff told me that you were robbed,” she said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. This place isn’t much, but I own it. No one’s ever been robbed here, not in twenty-six years.”

“I’m sorry to be the first.”

She smiled, and Woody noticed that she held a plastic bag in her right hand.

“It’s not much.” She handed him the bag. “Some toothpaste and a toothbrush, some shaving stuff But hopefully it’ll get you through until things straighten out.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about your bill. The room’s on me, for as long as you need it. It’s the least I can do.”

“Well all right. Hey, you want to come in?”

“I probably shouldn’t.” She pointed at the roses fanned out across one side of the bed. “Nice flowers.”

The comment brought Woody up short. So did the amused little smile on the woman’s face.

In self-defense, he tried to trap the smile on his own face, but it managed to escape. Shit. He didn’t like this bitch seeing the flowers. A man didn’t get flowers. Bitch was going to think that he was a faggot or something.

“The roses were a mistake,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.

“They weren’t for you?”

“No. They were for me. But they were a mistake.”

Now she was really smiling, like this was the fucking funniest thing she’d ever heard of “You sure about that?”

“Yeah.” A dull throb bloomed behind Woody’s eyes. “I’m sure. You want to come in? I could get us a couple of Cokes or something-”

“Maybe later,” she said, still grinning. “Right now I’ve got some work to do.”

“Sure.”

She walked away. He closed the door.

The stink of the roses burned in his nostrils.

His head pounded. His stomach churned. The bathroom was fifteen feet away. A garbage can was closer.

Woody made neither.

He didn’t bother to clean up the mess. Suddenly, he was tired, and there was too much other shit he needed to do.

He sat on the bed and fumbled through the contents of the bag of toilet articles until he found a razor. Two tiny blades were embedded in the plastic cartridge. Woody twisted the plastic until it broke. The blades dropped to the green bedspread, glinting there like tiny fish in a huge ocean. Woody picked up the one closest to him, then searched the bag for the toothbrush the smiling bitch had mentioned.

His fist closed around the bristles.

He dropped the bag on the floor.

Sighed.

Shit, he was seriously tired. He wanted to lie down.

Instead, he sharpened the end of the toothbrush.

But his thoughts drifted, because he really was tired. First he thought about the woman, and how things might have ended up with her if those goddamn roses hadn’t been in the room. Then he thought about the way the bitch had smiled when she’d seen them, like she was in on some little faggoty secret.