Norman Partridge - Saguaro Riptide

When the women busted into the bathroom, Vincent Komoko knew that it was going to be nothing but bad from here on out because there was only one of him and there were two of them and both of them were wearing badges.

The sheriff slammed the bathroom door, cutting off the howling desert wind. The room was suddenly quiet, but her voice wasn’t. She asked Vince what he’d done with his gun.

“I lost it,” Vince said, his voice kind of sheepish. “Out there … in the storm.”

The sheriff nodded, and the deputy stepped over the prone figure of Elvis Presley and chopped the top of Vince’s right wrist with some weird kind of nightstick that had a handle on it. Vince’s hand went numb for an instant, and in that instant the cellular phone he’d been holding clattered to the floor.

The deputy eyed the phone like it was a big plastic cockroach that might scuttle for cover if she so much as blinked.

But she didn’t blink, and the phone didn’t move.

“Who were you talking to?” she asked.

“911.” Vince pointed at the hulking figure curled in a fetal position near the toilet. “Elvis isn’t doing too good.”

The deputy’s eyes narrowed, but Vince kept his eyes on that weird nightstick in her right hand. It was close to two feet long. The handle sprouted about six inches from one end of the thing. The stick itself shielded the length of the deputy’s forearm-one end lay flat against her elbow, the other extended a couple inches past her scarred knuckles.

That was the end that dug into Vince’s solar plexus and knocked him against the wall.

“I don’t want to have to ask you again,” the deputy said.

Vince sucked a shallow breath around the pain, nodding at Elvis. “If you don’t believe me, take a look for yourself. Feel his goddamn forehead. Elvis is colder than the abominable snowman’s ass. We’ve gotta do something. There isn’t much time left.”

“Listen, asshole. My patience is wearing real thin-”

“Wait a second,” the sheriff interrupted. “Let’s check this out.”

A look crossed the deputy’s face. One of those oh great, now I’ve got a Looney Tunes double-feature to deal with looks.

The sheriff bent low and touched Elvis’s forehead, which was as white as chalk.

“See what I mean?” Vince said. “The King’s in bad shape.”

The sheriff nodded, straightening.

“I mean, we’ve gotta get some help.”

“I want you to watch this very carefully.” The sheriff grinned at Vince, then winked at the deputy.

The deputy pivoted fast, nightstick handle whispering against her callused palm, and the long end of the stick whipped around in an arc of murderous intensity, and the head of Elvis Presley exploded.

Elvis shrapnel rained down on Vince’s expensive Bally loafers. The sheriff stepped toward him, one snakeskin Nocona cowboy boot crushing what had once been the King’s sneering upper lip.

‘The stick’s called a tonfa,” she explained. “As you can see, it’s hell on plaster statues. But believe me, you put it up against flesh and blood, that’s pretty dramatic, too.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Good.” The sheriff closed in on Vince, her right boot powdering Elvis’s nose. “Now, we’ll forget all about your telephone call. Hell, we’ll forget about everything as long as you answer one little question for us: where is the money, Mr. Komoko?”

Jesus, Vince thought, She even knows my name! This bitch must know goddamn everything! That simple realization rattled him but good, but he tried not to show it. Instead he tried to play it Steve McQueen cool, saying, “Well … I won’t tell you where the money is, but I’ll tell you where it isn’t, and it isn’t here.”

“You mean you hid it?”

“Hey, wait a minute. . you said I only had to answer one question.”

The sheriff tossed her long blond braid over one shoulder in a way that might have been kind of alluring under other circumstances. “So I changed my mind. That’s a woman’s prerogative, as my momma always says. Right now I have all kinds of questions. You answer them and maybe I’m happy. . maybe we can work something out. You don’t answer them-”

Another nod. The tonfa lashed out like the Terminator of the hardwood set and crushed Elvis’s pelvis.

The sheriff seemed pleased with the damage. “Let’s put it this way: you don’t want to get me all shook up, Mr. Komoko.”

“I can see that.”

“So. . where’s the money?”

Vince sighed. It was a simple enough question, and it had a simple enough answer, and deep in his gut Vince had known that it was a question that would be asked as soon as he’d heard a siren blasting in the desert.

He’d stepped outside to investigate the sound. Squinting in the wind. And even though dust was blowing everywhere and everything looked kind of gray and his eyesight wasn’t the best, he’d spotted the Jeep with a cherry on top on the dirt road out by the highway.

Only a half mile away.

Vince figured that Jeep spelled vamoose . But it hadn’t worked out that way. The sheriff and the deputy had seen to that. One of them wasn’t much of a driver-and that was an understatement. But it was also an understatement to say that one of them was a hell of a shot. Hell, maybe both of them were. They’d have to be a couple of stone-cold Annie Oakleys to damn near punch his ticket in the middle of a howling sandstorm.

And that was exactly what had happened.

But that was then, and this was now, and maybe now was still open for debate. Vince considered telling the sheriff where he’d stashed the cash while a hot whipcord of pain knotted the divot in his chest that had been excavated by the deputy’s tonka … or tonfa … or whatever you called the damned thing. He wondered how much begging it would take to keep from ending up on the floor of the bathroom as a busted-up twin to Elvis should he decide to sing like the King.

He’d only have to give up two million bucks.

The guys in Vegas would understand.

Sure they would.

Vince discarded that scenario pretty quickly. The guys in Vegas would not understand. More specifically, the guys in Vegas would feed him his own balls if he lost their money.

Better to try talking his way out of trouble with these two.

Vince realized that he was far from the top of his game, but he still believed his reasoning abilities were above average, his grasp of logic still Visegrip-tight. And, under more agreeable circumstances, Vince might have been right. Though he was certainly capable of self-delusion, truth be told he wasn’t a stupid guy.

But right now he was pretty tired. And whether he wanted to admit it or not his game was teetering on the edge, ready to take a one-way plunge into that biggest of all tanks. It turned out that walking into a set-up actually made him kind of nervous, and even a player of Vince’s limited experience knew that anxiety could drain the baddest bunny’s Duracells. Besides that, the windstorm had pretty much whipped him like a Jolly Roger’s mainsail. His skin was raw, as if he’d shaved every exposed inch with the dullest of razors. Ditto his lips, and he didn’t have a Chapstick in his pocket. And his eyes. . Jesus, every time he blinked, it was pure murder. Overall he felt like a peeled banana that had been rolled in ground glass.

But the deputy wasn’t moving and the sheriff wasn’t telling her to move, and Vince figured that he still had some time. Not a lot, but some. Under other circumstances it might have been enough time to reach a solution he might find amenable. But under the prevailing circumstances it was simply enough time for regret to take a hand.