“Don’t tell me you’ll call the cops, Tony. I know you won’t do that. And don’t tell me you’ll call the corporate headhunters at Skull Island. Because if you do that I’ll have to call my corporate headquarters. And I work for Freddy Gemignani over at the Casbah. You know about Freddy, don’t you?”
“He came to one of my fights. Sure. I met the wop. But I don’t see—”
“You don’t need to see, Tony. All you need to do is give me a straight answer.”
“About what?”
“About a guy named Harold Ticks.”
Katt jerked like someone had hit him in the ankles with a hatchet.
“This conversation is over,” he said.
Then the baddest man on the planet retreated into the gym, cussing a blue streak. He didn’t sound the way he did on television. He wasn’t talking like a cut-rate Don King. He sounded like a convict who was about to take it hard from a guard who had his number.
Jack followed the heavyweight through the broken window. “About this Harold Ticks.”
“I don’t know anybody by that name.”
“Yes, you do. He’s a thief. He stole something from me, and I want it back—”
“Look, I don’t care if he stole the steam off your shit. I’m telling you I don’t know any fucking Harold Ticks.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “You had your chance.”
Jack’s black T-shirt was loose around his waist. There was a reason for that. He reached behind his back and beneath the shirt, and his hand reappeared holding a Colt Python.
The gun was his ace in the hole. His last chance. Because if a Colt Python shoved under his nose didn’t get Katt’s shorts in a serious bunch, nothing would.
“Harold Ticks,” Jack said. “Tell me where he is or you’re gonna have a big problem.”
“Calm down, man.” Katt’s lips trembled. “Calm down."
Jack cocked the pistol. “Harold Ticks. You remember. He was your saddle pal in Corcoran State. The way I heard it, he was the stud and you were the—”
“Fuck you." Katt stiffened. “You’re not getting anything out of me, Baddalach. And put away that gun. I’m no kid. I’m not gonna shit my pants. I don’t care who you work for. I know you’re not gonna shoot me. I’m the motherfucking heavyweight champion of the world.”
They stood there for a moment, trying hard not to blink. Broken glass all around, but the china shop bit hadn’t worked. Jack could see that. The moment had passed and then some. Tony Katt wasn’t intimidated anymore. He’d slammed a lid on his fear.
Now he was starting to boil.
Jack glanced around the gym. He hated this kind of place. Everything was new. Hi-tech. Sanitized.
There was only one other way to play it.
Jack nodded toward the boxing ring. “If you won’t give me an answer,” he said, “I guess I could always beat one out of you.”
Katt smiled his baddest man on the planet smile. “You tangle with me, runt, you’d better pack a lunch.”
***
Jack took off his T-shirt. Katt made a point of laughing. “Looks like you’ve been enjoying the good life, Baddalach.”
“Lately I’ve been eating a lot of donuts.”
Katt tapped his forehead. “Some knot you’ve got there. Someone take after you with a ball bat or something?”
“No. I got butted with a machine gun.” Jack pointed to the bruise on his left shoulder. “This one’s from a bat, though.”
“You should take it easy, Dad.”
“Usually I do. I’m retired.”
“That’s why I’m going to be merciful.” Katt threw a pair of sixteen-ounce training gloves to Jack, pillows that wouldn’t hurt a consumptive kid. “I promise I’ll go easy.”
Jack tossed the gloves aside. “Don’t do me any favors.”
“Okay. It’s your call, champ.”
“Make it easy on yourself. How about some ten-ouncers?”
“Owww . . . Jack, you are a brave boy. I guess a couple of testosteronic terrors such as ourselves don’t need any stinking headgears, either. Huh?”
“Unless you’re worried about that pretty little nose of yours.”
“I’ll be okay.” Katt tossed a pair of ten-ounce gloves Jack’s way, then selected one for himself. Jack wrapped his hands with protective bandages while Katt shadowboxed in the ring. The Tiger was slow, even for a heavyweight. Ponderous. Like Godzilla on Quaaludes.
But Godzilla was dangerous. One swat of his tail and half of Tokyo crumbled, ’ludes or no ‘ludes.
Jack climbed between the ropes and pulled on the gloves. They were red leather with white labels around the wrists that bore the name of the manufacturer.
“Reyes,” Jack said, reading the label.
Great. Jack had worn Reyes gloves the night a guy named Sugar Ray Sattler cut him to ribbons and took his title. The brand had always been bad luck for Jack Baddalach.
“Puncher’s gloves.” Katt smiled, throwing a series of short hooks in the air. “You said that I should make it easy on myself.”
“I guess I did.”
“You want rounds? This ring has a computer set-up. I can activate a clock from my corner. The computer will ring the bell and everything.”
“Let’s just do it the old-fashioned way. Come to scratch and let fly.”
“Suits me.”
They slipped mouthpieces between their lips—Katt’s was custom-made, while Jack’s was a gum-buster straight out of the package.
Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Not when they were calling out the heavyweight champion of the world. At least Katt hadn’t given Jack a mouthpiece with another guy’s slobber on it.
Katt rang an imaginary bell. “Ding ding.”
The heavyweight lumbered forward. Jack shook out his arms and bopped back and forth from one leg to the other. His bruised shoulder was pretty tight, but at least his left leg wasn’t bothering him. No thanks to Mudhoney’s bat. Plenty of thanks to Angel Gemignani’s talented fingers.
Katt slammed his gloves together and smiled his baddest man on the planet smile as he crossed the ring. Coming in, the champion flicked a left jab toward Jack’s head. The punch was pathetically slow. So slow Katt could have sent it by Western Union. Jack had no trouble getting under it.
He cut to the right, avoiding Katt’s power hand. If he could stay away from the champion’s right cross, he figured he’d be okay.
Jack juked around the ring, shuffling a little, his legs nice and loose now. Katt turned, thudded his gloves together again, smiled his ridiculous smile, and followed.
Jack nearly laughed. The heavyweight’s footwork was horrible. Tony the Tiger dragged his back foot behind him like it was stuck in a bucket of horseshit. Two more Western Union jabs and Jack was gone. He was wearing a pair of Wolverine work boots, but Katt made him feel like the Flash.
Katt slurred words through his mouthpiece. “You want to fight or what?”
“Bring it on.”
Katt did. Thudding his gloves, smiling his baddest man on the planet smile, he crossed the ring faster this time. Jack stood his ground, catching the champion’s jabs on his gloves, but he couldn’t stand in with the big man forever.
A wild right slammed his bruised shoulder as he moved away. Jack felt the power in the punch right down to the bone. Katt could bang, and then some. That was for sure. Barroom rules, he’d probably take anyone. But this was boxing. And until someone designed a ring that included a juke box and a pool table, Tony the Tiger was going to have to play it the Marquis of Queensberry way.
Katt turned, gloves down, ready to give chase. But Jack jumped in, surprising the heavier man before he could set himself, driving a series of hard jabs into Katt’s face before moving out.
Katt touched his nose. His Reyes glove came away stained with blood.
“You little bitch,” he said, slapping his gloves together one more time.
Smiling his smile beneath a scarlet curtain.
Jack waved him on. The heavyweight came at him
just as before, swinging wildly. Against opponents his own size. Jack had never been very fast. But with Katt he felt like a welterweight. He double-jabbed hard to the champion’s face, dipped low, and ripped a right hook to the big man’s ribs, following up with a hook to the head that missed by a whisper.
And then he was gone.
Jack grinned around his mouthpiece. This was the guy who was pulling down millions for every fight. Jack had never made that kind of money. He wasn’t even in shape, and he was boxing rings around the chump—
Katt wasn’t going to quit, though. Jack had to give him that. The heavyweight snorted and wiped fresh blood from his nose. Another slap of his gloves, another smile, and the big man really came on, a blur of suntanned flesh and neon tattoos. Aryan Brotherhood swastikas, grim reapers, grinning skulls wearing Nazi helmets. Jack laid leather on all of them, but his punches didn’t slow Tony Katt.
The jab that had seemed so pathetic moments before caught Jack dead in the face. Once, bam, twice, bam, like a jackhammer rattling his skull. Suddenly Jack couldn’t remember how to get his mouth open, and he needed to breathe . . . because his lungs were burning and the jab was coming again—
bam! bam!
And then Katt’s right hand slammed Jack’s bruised shoulder. His entire arm went numb. He needed to move. He had to get out of the way—
But he couldn’t. The ring ropes burned his back as he fell against them. If he couldn’t get off the ropes before he lost his balance . . . If he couldn’t slip away before Katt had a chance to launch another punch . . .
Katt grunted as he set himself. Again the right hand, but this time it was whistling toward Jack’s head, and the smaller man did sink back against the ropes because there was nowhere else to go.
The punch grazed Jack’s nose and Katt’s momentum forced him off balance. He stumbled toward Jack . . .
. . . and Jack remembered how to breathe . . .
. . . and he spun away from Tony Katt, leaving the champion hanging on the ropes . . .
The heavyweight was tangled up. He dropped to one knee, then pawed his way up the ropes until he was on his feet again. Jack needed the break. He still couldn’t feel his left arm, but he wasn’t going to need it. He had spotted his opening. As long as he could catch his breath—
Katt’s trainer came through the door with a couple of sparring partners. The old guy nearly had a coronary. “Tony!” he yelled. “What the hell are you doing!”
Katt waved him off and turned toward Jack. The heavyweight’s hands were down. He didn’t raise them right away. Instead, he launched into that chump move, banging his gloves together for the fifth time in as many minutes.
In just a second he’d smile that stupid smile.
It was a robotic move. Predictable as it was necessary, like a kid winding up a toy soldier before sending it into battle.
This time. Jack was ready for it. As Katt’s lips twisted upward. Jack banged a hard right against the champion’s skull.
Once. Twice. Three times.
bambambam!
Blood geysered from the champion’s nose. The lower half of his face was draped in red, and the upper half was all startled eyes.
The Tiger went down hard, his lips contorted in pain.
His trainer’s expression was worse. After all, Tony Katt was supposed to defend his title in three weeks. If his nose were broken, none of his corner men would be getting a check anytime soon.
“Oh, Jesus!” The trainer moaned. “Oh, Jesus!”
The baddest man on the planet writhed on the canvas. He wasn’t smiling now. Jack watched him. He didn’t smile, either. No one in the gym smiled.
Except for the man on Tony Katt’s left shoulder.
Colonel Harlan Sanders.
He wore a chicken-eating grin.
HAROLD KISSED EDEN LONG AND DEEP. “How does it feel to almost be rich, sugar?”
“It feels good,” she whispered, “to be in love.”
They stood next to the bed in Eden’s room. Over Harold’s shoulder, through the pillbox window’s open lead shutters, Eden watched heat waves undulating off the belly of the desert. Outside it was hot, even for the Mojave. A real scorcher.
And it was a scorcher inside, too, in this cool room lined with thick cement walls.
Eden’s fingers drifted over the tattooed SS lightning bolts on Harold’s neck, across his hairless chest, down his white belly. A thick purple scar puckered low on his left side, a permanent reminder of the bullet Harold had taken for his friend while they were in prison.
Eden knelt and kissed the scar tenderly. When they had the ransom money and things cooled down, Harold was going to introduce her to Tony Katt. She couldn’t wait to meet him. Not because he was heavyweight champion, but because he was the person Harold cared about most in the world.
Next to Eden, of course.
Her tongue darted between her lips, and she teased the rough purple circle on Harold’s side with a slow lick as her long black hair brushed his thigh.
“Oh, baby,” Harold said, and more than once.
Eden smiled up at him. “Looks like I didn’t wear you out, after all.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Guess I’ll have to try again.”
“Guess you will.”
Harold closed his eyes. His fingers drifted through Eden’s black hair, knotting at last into a fist as he pulled her closer. Eden was glad they were alone, glad Daddy wasn’t in the next room listening at the heat register, glad Mama wasn’t peeking through the pillbox window. This was the way she wanted Harold, all to herself. Just the two of them. No interruptions. No distractions—
The question flashed in her mind quite suddenly. “Where’s the Chihuahua?”
Harold sighed. “I couldn’t get the mutt to eat anything. Your daddy took it out to the chapel. Said he had some herbs or something that would give it an appetite.”
Eden trembled. Kneeling before her lover, staring straight at him—
“The snake,” she said. “The snake.”
***
From the distance it was just a tumbledown shack abandoned by a silver miner who had shuffled off into eternity many moons ago. But if you got a little closer you noticed the crudely fashioned sign that hung between two bleached-white steer skulls just above the weather-beaten door. Letters made of rattlesnake hide seemed to writhe on a background of black enamel that had blistered in the desert sun:
HELL’S HALF ACRE CHURCH OF SATAN
DEKE LYNCH, PASTOR & PROPHET
& THE DEVIL’S LEFT HAND
Inside the chapel. Daddy Deke stood before the altar, dressed in his old frock coat and the top hat with the snakeskin band. Trickles of heat slashed cracks and knotholes in the three wooden walls, offset by a cool breath of air rising from the abandoned mine shaft that pitted the dirt wall at the rear of the structure.
Cool air, but Daddy Deke knew that there was fire down below. He had seen it in a strychnine vision, and his strychnine visions always proved true. The mine shaft led straight to hell. Daddy had walked those tunnels in his dreams. He’d seen the black river flowing . . . Cerberus, the three-headed dog guarding the gates . . . the whole nine yards.
Deke knew that his vision of hell was a tough one to swallow. Men, by their very natures, were a skeptical lot. But so was Deke Lynch. He had trouble believing in some things until he saw them for himself. Like demons, for instance. He was skeptical about them right up until the moment he summoned one for himself. Summoned it from the black pit that yawned behind him and watched it stalk off into the desert night leaving nothing in its wake but the sour stink of sulfur.
Of course, some folks said that a man who handled rattlesnakes and drank strychnine was liable to see all sorts of things. Deke figured it this way: if a man couldn’t believe his own eyes, what in hell could he believe?
Once Deke saw something, he believed it. But there were still a few things he had to see about.
Like this Chihuahua being worth half a million bucks, fo
r instance. Deke had a real problem with that one. And he figured he was going to keep on having a problem with it until someone showed him all that money.
One thing Deke was sure of—if the Chihuahua died, he would never see that money at all. He couldn’t let that happen, because he sure could use that cash. Score a half a million and he could do a whole lot. Maybe start spreading Satan’s word again. Get hisself a television ministry, do it that way. Nobody had made much of a splash with Satanism since that Diabolos Whistler fellow had died down in Mexico a couple of years ago. The country was ripe for a fresh dose of the Devil. Deke could feel it in his bones.
Wheezing miserably, the Chihuahua looked up at Deke from its place on the altar. A full bowl of Alpo rested untouched before the little critter.
Deke closed his copy of The Necronomicon and scratched his head. The incantation hadn’t worked.
“Maybe you should try it again,” Mama suggested. She knelt before the altar, taking little sips of strychnine from a silver chalice. “Or maybe it wasn’t written to work on a dog. Maybe you gotta change it around a little.”
“No,” Deke said. “I don’t believe that would work. Mama. And even if it would, I ain’t got no idea how to say Chihuahua in Latin.”
Mama’s dark skin gleamed like a freshly polished cowboy boot, the way it always did when she drank poison. She had been drinking strychnine for thirty-two years, and she hadn’t been sick a single day. Plus she’d been snakebit forty-six times. Mama never got sick from that, either. She trusted in Satan, and Satan looked out for her. Her faith had always been strong.
Until now. She took the daintiest little sip of strychnine and said, “Maybe we should go ahead and take the little bastard to a vet.”
“Don’t blaspheme, woman.”
“Well, ain’t you the sanctimonious one all of a sudden? All I’m sayin’ is—”
“Still thy tongue, bitch!”
Mama did as Daddy ordered. But only because it was Daddy. Another man talked to her like that, she’d cut off his balls with a straight razor and feed them to him.
The desert heat cut through those cracks in the walls and set Daddy’s blood to boiling. It was too damn hot today, even for a Satanist. He lifted his silver cup and drained it of strychnine, but the poison did nothing to cool his unease.
The Ten-Ounce Siesta Page 10