Norman Partridge - Saguaro Riptide

“Cards on the table, okay?” he said.

She nodded.

“I want the money,” Jack said. “And that’s all I want. What do you want?”

“I want to get hold of Wyetta Earp. I want her to tell me where Vince Komoko is buried. And then I want to put a bullet between her eyes, and say my last goodbye to Vince, and get the hell out of Pipeline Beach, Arizona.”

“You don’t want the money?”

“No. If you’ll back me against Wyetta, you can have the money. I don’t want a dime.”

Jack thought about it.

He didn’t think long.

He said, “I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

“Bogart you ain’t.” Kate drew the Heckler from her shoulder holster and handed it over. “But you’re going to need this.”

Jack set the gun on a table before it had a chance to go off by accident. “Uh. . about guns. There’s something I need to tell you. .”

Kate popped the Caddy’s trunk. The compartment was packed light with Ellis’s bootleg cellular phones. With Jack’s help she loaded them into the Dodge Dakota. All she’d say about it was, "Only two hundred and sixty shopping days until Christmas, champ.”

Jack hopped into Kate’s truck, and she drove him to the spot where he’d parked the Range Rover.

“I almost forgot,” he said as he climbed out. “If you see a big black guy with an African hat at the Riptide, kill him. He’s a hit man, and he’s after me.”

She shook her head. “Thanks for the update, champ.”

“Sure.”

“Any other late-breaking bulletins?”

“Nope … I think that about does it.”

“Then let’s get down to brass tacks.”

They headed toward Pipeline Beach-Jack in the Range Rover trailing Kate in the Dodge Dakota. About halfway between Ellis’s place and the Saguaro Riptide, they turned off the highway and followed a dirt road for a couple of miles. Kate pulled to a stop near an abandoned shack. Jack parked behind her.

She got out of the truck and chalked a man-sized outline on the side of the shack with a soft stone. Then she gave Jack a quick lesson with the Heckler. The cloud cover had drifted away from the moon, and the desert was painted with a tarnished glow. Jack set to work firing at the target while Kate returned to the truck and made some calls with one of Ellis’s phones.

Jack went through two boxes of Hydra-Shoks. He took a flashlight from the truck and inspected his work. He’d hit the shack plenty of times. But most of his shots had missed the target, which admittedly was closer in size to the Incredible Hulk than Wyetta Earp or Rorie Holloway.

Kate stood beside him. He hadn’t heard her coming.

She eyed the bullet holes in the side of the shack, little tsk-tsk-tsk sounds passing between her lips. Finally she said, “If you use the pistol, make sure you’re close enough to smell their perfume.”

“Maybe I should use the shotgun,” Jack suggested. “I’m more likely to hit something with it, right?”

Kate shook her head. “You’re more likely to hit me. Better stick with the pistol.”

Jack figured he’d save himself further embarrassment by changing the subject. “Who did you phone?”

“All our friends in Pipeline Beach. Wyetta still isn’t home. Neither is Rorie.”

“You think they’re waiting for us at the Riptide?”

“I think so. The heat’s on. They haven’t found the money, and now they’ve murdered Ellis. They’ll want us out of the picture. They won’t want anyone sniffing around the mess they’ve made.”

“Shit.” Jack ejected the clip from the Heckler and began reloading. He was all thumbs, though-slick little cartridges slipped between his fingers and dropped to the ground.

“Let me do that,” Kate said.

“Man,” Jack said. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this business. And if I get my ass killed by a woman named Wyetta Earp. . man oh man, talk about your embarrassing endings-”

“You’ll do fine.” Kate slapped the clip home and returned the pistol.

They were close now. Their eyes met-he had to look up because she was just a little taller than he was. Not a lot, just a little. His eyes were green and alive in the tarnished moonlight, and one corner of his mouth was kind of twitchy, like he couldn’t decide if he should smile or not, and she started to step away-

His hand found hers in the shadows. “Hey,” he said. “Just for luck, huh? Just because we’re doing this thing together.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

She kissed him. It had been a long time since she had kissed anyone. Since Vince. And Jack Baddalach was a good kisser. His lips were soft, and his mouth was warm, and he didn’t push her away, he drew her in, his arms around her, and her arms slipped around his waist and the kiss was slow and easy and wonderful.

They really took their time with it.

As if they had all the time in the world.

Their noses touched as their lips parted.

They let them touch like that for a long moment, staring into each other’s eyes.

Both smiled. Jack stepped back, hands drifting over her hips but not letting go just yet because he was a little dizzy and had to hold onto something.

“You’re something, Major Kate Benteen,” he said. “I never met anyone quite like you.”

His voice was as soft as his kiss, as soft as his hands on black leather.

Those hands were drifting away.

Kate found one of them. Held it in hers. Guided it to her breast.

Leather whispered in Jack Baddalach’s grasp.

“This outfit has thirteen zippers,” Kate said. “And every one of them works.”

Kate glanced at the pair of high beams in the rearview mirror. Baddalach was behind those headlights, following in the rented Range Rover.

God knew what he was thinking.

Kate knew what she was thinking: Goddamn-it just doesn’t get much more romantic than this. Off to kill a couple of gunslingin’ law-gals, but first let’s make a little love on an old horse blanket in the back of a Dodge Dakota. Snuggled up between a bunch of boxes filled with bootleg telephones, and not one drop of champagne between them, but who the hell needs champagne when you’ve got a tarnished moon in the sky and a hundred and seventy-five pounds of stud on top of you and good music on the radio.

An oldies station out of Tucson. Late night and hardly any commercials. The disc jockey must have known what was going on out there in the desert. He’d played “Surfer Girl” and “Sealed with a Kiss” and “Hurts So Bad.” Hell, he’d even played “Baby the Rain Must Fall.”

Kate bit her lower lip. She hadn’t felt this bad in a long time. This good, either. She hadn’t felt much of anything in nearly two years. She’d been running on that even keel, just sticking to a routine, taking things nice and easy and-

Damn, but it felt good to be with a man again.

Damn, but she was miserable.

Jack Baddalach. If only she had been with him. . and only him. His breath warm on her neck while the cool evening breeze brushed her brow, his lips finding hers in the shallow glow of moonlight.

If only she hadn’t closed her eyes and given in while her heart dredged up the memory of Vincent Komoko.

Because then it was Vince’s breath warming her neck while the cool evening breeze brushed her brow. Vince’s lips finding hers in the shallow glow of moonlight. .

The telepathic disc jockey up in Tucson was still in touch. He dropped the needle on Roy Orbison’s “Only the Lonely.” Kate turned off the radio.

“Goddamnit,” she said, slamming her palm against the steering wheel. “Goddamnit!”

Why did Jack Baddalach have to turn out to be such a fuckin’ nice guy, anyway?