Norman Partridge - Saguaro Riptide

Next he thought about the man who had fucked up the whole thing by sending those roses in the first place.

That man’s name was Baddalach.

Woody smiled. The end of the toothbrush was starting to look pretty wicked.

People said it all the time, but this time it was true- Baddalach didn’t have any idea who he was fucking with.

The barber had more hair on his arms than he had on his head, and his only customer looked like he’d paid for a hair-weave that hadn’t quite taken. As far as Jack was concerned, these were portents both negative and frightening, but he entered the barbershop anyway. He was a man on a mission.

Jack traded nods with the men- Don’t squirm, goddamnit, the barber said-and took a seat in a chrome-backed chair that looked like it had been designed by Torquemada.

Felt like it too. But that didn’t matter to Jack. Because the chair sat next to a table brimming with skin magazines.

Jack fished the computer printout from his back pocket. He glanced over it, pretty sure that the list itself was proof enough that the woman who looked so good in a black bikini wasn’t conning him. The printout certainly proved that there was indeed a person named Kate Benteen who had done some pretty amazing things.

But pretty sure wasn’t going to cut it, not the way things were going. Because while the information Jack had found at the library proved that Kate Benteen existed, it did not prove that she and the woman in the black bikini were one in the same.

Only a picture could do that.

Jack double-checked the date on the printout. Then he started to dig through the magazines.

Four issues of Beaver Hunt on top. Every ’94 issue-it appeared they were on a quarterly schedule. Then he thumbed through a selection of Shaved and Tail End, but neither publication deterred him from the task at hand. He managed to resist the charms of 44 Plus, as well, digging ever deeper, working his way through two years worth of Hustler.

A jackalope head was mounted on the wall above the chrome chair. A buffalo head loomed over the front door, and a coyote head hung eternally vigilant over a door at the back of the shop. A half-dozen glass eyes seemed to study Jack as he finished off one stack and started on another, but the stuffed menagerie made no comment.

The guy with the bad hair-weave did. He fidgeted in the chair, trying to get a look at the barber, and said, “Picky bastard, ain’t he?”

“Don’t squirm, goddamnit!” the barber said.

The guy in the chair giggled. “Hey, buddy-if you’re lookin’ for the magazines with boys in ’em, Rudy keeps those in the back. Those are his favorites.”

The barber jerked and the man in the chair screeched.

“Jesus, Rudy! Watch it!”

“You got another ear, asshole.”

Jack ignored the two combatants. He continued through the Hustler collection. The last couple issues were stuck together. Jack was a novice at the detective business, sure, but he figured that this was a line that even Mike Hammer wouldn’t cross.

Gingerly, he pushed the pile away.

He pulled the next pile toward him.

Halfway through a run of Penthouse, he found it.

Playboy. September 1991.

The “Girls of Desert Storm” issue.

Rorie pulled up a chair and sat down on the right side of the chaise longue. Wyetta took the left side, flipping her chair around backward, straddling it, leaning her elbows on the back.

The occupant of the chaise longue peered over the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. “Let me guess,” she said, pointing at Wyetta, “you’re a little bit country, and she’s a little bit rock ’n’ roll.”

Wyetta glared at her, but the chicklet in the black bikini was wearing real dark sunglasses and the glare didn’t take.

But this girl was an odd one. Wyetta decided that right off. Out here under the sun with that marble skin of hers, a bottle of Coppertone 45 at her side. Trash magazine in her hand and more magazines under the lounge, probably more trash-

Wyetta did a little double take as she checked out those other magazines. She spotted the same issue of Guns amp; Ammo that had arrived in her mailbox just the other day. Bitchin’ article about combat shotguns in there. New Soldier of Fortune, too, with an article about handgun tactics in hostage situations. But along with those the little gringa gatita had a couple issues of Mademoiselle, even a battered Seventeen. Wyetta couldn’t figure the mix.

The gringa followed Wyetta’s gaze. “When it comes to magazines, we get the shit end of the stick, huh. Sheriff?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just check this out.” The chicklet tossed Wyetta the Cosmo she’d been reading, and it was all Wyetta could do not to drop the thing on general principles.

First off, the magazine was stuffed so full of fragrance cards that it smelled like Zsa Zsa Gabor’s underwear drawer. And second, there was some dark-eyed Gina Lollobrigida-looking bitch on the cover-except this bitch was skinny.

Wyetta shook her head. At least the bitch didn’t look like Cindy Crawford. Jesus, today they all looked like Cindy Crawford. Eyebrows like Tyrone Power and tits inflated like the tires on an old Huffy bicycle.

But Cindy only had a lock on it if they wanted to sell you something sexy, like perfume or nightgowns or booze. If they wanted to sell you a product you could trust-like tampons or mouthwash or douche-they’d pick a perky little blond thing who looked like every girl’s best pal, Meg Ryan.

Wyetta glanced at the table of contents. The articles were scarier than Boris Karloff, FROM HATE AT FIRST SIGHT TO FRIENDS TO MARRIED. Or; GIVING HIM A (SEXUAL) NIGHT TO REMEMBER. Or: A TOP MODEL SHARES HER (DROP-DEAD) BEAUTY SECRETS. Or: INVESTING IN LOVE (AND WE DON’T MEAN MONEY, HONEY). Or: MUST YOU DEPEND ON HIM THAT MUCH?

“These rags all look the same to me,” Wyetta said. “But I don’t see-”

“Think about it,” the chicklet said. “A woman goes down to the five-and-dime to buy a magazine and she ends up with one of these. She takes it home and reads it, ends up all depressed because she doesn’t look like any of the models on those slick pages. She doesn’t dress like ’em, either. And her man doesn’t look like any of the men in the advertisements. His name’s Fred or Bob. It sure ain’t Pablo or Antonio or Lucky.

“And if she reads the thing, well, then she’s worse off. Because pretty soon she figures out that she’s bought a magazine aimed at an audience of independently wealthy anorexic New Yorkers who while away the hours designing new ways to delight their billionaire lovers. And that’s not what she does with her life. She’s too busy scraping crusty meatloaf out of a pan that’s been in the sink for a week. She’s not fulfilled. And on top of that, she’s out two bucks and fifty cents, retail.”

The chicklet grinned. “But a man-he goes down to the five-and-dime for a magazine and what does he end up with?” She snatched up the Guns Ammo. “One of these. And he gets home, cracks a brew, settles back. Sees that all the guys in the ads are kind of tubby, just like he is. Sees that they’re all smiling. And happy. And fulfilled. And what have they had to do to get there? Did they have to let some surgeon whittle down their nose or pump up their chest with silicone? Did they have to go on a diet or move to New York City? Hell, no. They didn’t have to do any of that stuff. All they had to do was buy the right gun and the right ammunition, and they were set.”