The Ten-Ounce Siesta

by Norman Partridge

  “Yeah.” Tony sniffled blood. “And her little dog, too.”

  ***

  Tony killed his Olde English and popped another. “This Eden’s really special, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Harold looked out the window at the big ripe moon. “She is. Man, she’s a keeper.”

  Harold really liked times like this. Hanging with his blood brother. Tony didn’t put on airs around Harold. He didn’t talk all that fancy talk that he talked on TV. Nights like this, it was just like rapping on the block in the slams, rapping all night to keep the fucking loneliness far, far away.

  Tony popped a couple of Percodans and chased them with malt liquor. He was quiet for a couple minutes. Then he said, “Porschia walked out on me today.”

  “Again?” Harold was really surprised. “What happened this time?”

  “I think maybe I fucked up. Everything’s so fucking complicated lately. Little shit gets in the way. Little shit all of a sudden becomes big shit, and it’s like I don’t know where I stand anymore. I can’t see anything clearly.”

  “Things used to be easier.”

  “Yeah.”

  They both thought it, but neither one said it.

  Things used to be easier . . . in the Shoe.

  In the Shoe, you knew just where you stood. There was you and your blood brother, and that Mexican Mafia tag team, and that guard with the lip that wouldn’t smile. And when you took down your spic, you checked on your blood brother. And if he needed some help with his spic, you gave it to him.

  And even if he didn’t, you watched his back. You kept your eye on that fucking hack with the lip, because you knew he had it in for your bro. And if you saw that hack shoulder his rifle and take aim when your bro wasn’t even looking . . . well, you got in the way of the bullet is what you did.

  And you wore your brother’s scars.

  That’s what brothers were for.

  “That bitch Porschia,” Harold said. “I can’t believe she left you.”

  “Yeah. I thought maybe we were going somewhere. I guess she saw things differently.”

  “Her loss, amigo. Her loss.”

  They sat together in silence, drinking Olde English, watching the icy white moon rise in the night sky. Harold knew he should be getting back. Eden was wrapped way too tight. She was probably worried about him. And then there was the dog, and Eden’s snakebit daddy, and her crazy mama . . .

  But Tony was all fucked up. Harold could tell. That bitch Porschia. Why she had to leave him, today of all days—

  “You gotta get back?” Tony asked.

  “No, man,” Harold lied. “Not yet.”

  “Good,” Tony said, and the word echoed through the Chevy as if it had been spoken in a cell made of cement and steel.

  THE KID’S NAME WAS JOHNNY DA NANG, AND ONE OF THESE DAYS HE WAS GOING TO BE FAMOUS.

  He had the talent, that was for sure. He fronted Johnny Da Nang and the Napalms, the world’s best Vietnamese soul band. The Napalms were Johnny’s brothers, and the band had a regular gig at the Casbah Hotel & Casino, where they partied down at the Sheik’s Lounge five nights a week. Rocked the house and set the slot grannies to dancing in front of damn near every one-armed bandit within earshot. There wasn’t a Motown song that Johnny and his boys couldn’t do. They had sixties and seventies soul covered, and then some. Didn’t matter if the song had come out of Muscle Shoals or Philadelphia or Detroit or LA, the Napalms had ’em all knocked.

  Hell, a Saigon-born boy like Johnny could even sing ’em in Vietnamese or French if he wanted to. Do Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” en Francais: Quand j’ai cette sensation . . . Ohhh la la . . . no translation necessary. Not even.

  Multiculturalism. It was a big thick slice of all right. Up-tight and outta sight. Ditto for the Casbah gig. But the gig was just a stepping-stone. Johnny wanted his own shot at the brass ring. He wanted his own hit records. Somewhere down the line, he wanted to walk into the Sheik’s Lounge and catch some kid doing one of his songs.

  The big time. That’s what Johnny wanted. It was one reason he enjoyed living at the Agua Caliente condominium complex. Lots of show people did. And they were social types, too. Everyone hung out at the pool. Drag down a six-pack and some chips, and you had all the advice you could ask for. Actors, musicians, dancers, athletes—you could find ’em all at Agua Caliente.

  Some had enjoyed fifteen minutes of fame. A few had stretched it out a little longer. But for damn near every one of them, celebrity was a past-tense kind of thing.

  Except for the guy who was about to knock on Johnny’s door.

  He was the man of the hour.

  ***

  Johnny handed Baddalach a Tsing Tao. Right away the boxer started rolling the beer bottle back and forth across his knuckles. Johnny had known Jack for a couple years—after all, they both worked at the Casbah and lived in the same condo complex—and he’d seen Baddalach do that rolling thing with a beer bottle plenty of times. The boxer hardly ever popped the cap and drank one. Kind of a weird habit, but hey . . . Johnny Da Nang was not a judgmental type of guy.

  “Whatcha been up to, Jack?”

  The boxer sighed. “Well, yesterday I lost the boss’s granddaughter’s Chihuahua to a bunch of dognappers dressed in black leather. Then I got locked in the trunk of a limo and had to bite a rattlesnake in half before I could get out. Last night I beat up a couple of punk rockers who tried to smash Frankenstein with baseball bats. And today I KO’d the heavyweight champion of the world.”

  Johnny nearly dropped his beer.

  “Oh yeah,” Jack added. “Somewhere in there I ate a lot of donuts, too.”

  “Jack,” Johnny said. “Jack . . .”

  Like, Johnny couldn’t even think of anything to say. But Baddalach seemed pretty unfazed by the whole deal. He said, “Here’s the thing, Johnny. A pack of TV reporters has my place staked out—”

  “No way!” Johnny peeked through the Venetian blinds like some spy on The Man From U.N.C.L.E or something. Baddalach wasn’t kidding. A TV truck from Channel 13 was parked next to Johnny’s Corvette, and a local reporter was doing a remote setup over by the pool. Another TV reporter had staked out the hot tub. He was getting ready to interview a couple Agua Caliente residents who were pretty close to parboiled. No way they were giving up a chance to be on TV, though.

  Johnny recognized the hot tub reporter as a sports guy.

  For CNN! You couldn’t buy exposure like this. Not even. CNN meant national play. Like, everyone was going to know about this.

  Johnny said, “You’re not shitting me, are you Jack? You really knocked out Tony Katt?”

  “Like I said—”

  “Like, in the ring? You knocked out Tony the Tiger in the ring?"

  “Kind of. We were in his private gym. See, he lives in this big mansion over by the golf course. First I broke a couple windows hacking at golf balls. I wanted to piss him off, and the whole thing kind of got out of hand. And then we put on the gloves and had this fight—”

  Johnny was practically drooling. “Jack, you know how big this is? I mean, the guy is the heavyweight champion of the world. He’s undefeated. The baddest man on the planet. And you just knocked him out.”

  “To tell you the truth, the whole thing is a pain in the ass. Katt’s trainer is really pissed. He threatened to sue me. And then I come home and find all these reporters hanging around. I had to park my Celica down the street and sneak in on foot. I can’t even go home.”

  Baddalach rolled the beer back and forth. Johnny peeked outside again. The CNN guy was going live.

  Like Quick-Draw McGraw, Johnny snatched up the TV remote. He aimed and clicked and the big Sony television came on. There was the reporter, on screen in living color, standing in front of the Agua Caliente swimming pool. He was talking about Jack Baddalach. Talking about Johnny’s neighbor like he had stepped down from Mount Olympus or something.

  And forget that “Battle-Ax” stuff. Jack’s nickname of choice was suddenly very five minute
s ago. The reporter had a new tag for the light-heavyweight who’d chilled the baddest big man alive.

  Jack “The Giant Killer” Baddalach.

  Two minutes of air and the blow-dried sports guy was still going strong. Live. In prime time. On fucking CNN.

  CNN rolled clips from Jack’s old fights, but he wasn’t paying attention. “So, Johnny, I’m wondering if maybe I can sleep on your couch tonight,” he said. “I know it’s a lot to ask. But I’ll make it up to you. You want to order a pizza or something, I’ll pick up the check.”

  Johnny looked at the guy. Sitting there in a black T-shirt and jeans, wearing those same old work boots he always wore come rain or shine, rolling a frosty Tsing Tao back and forth across his bruised knuckles.

  Johnny couldn’t believe it. Man, all Baddalach had to do was open his hand and look.

  It was right there, nestled in his palm.

  The brass ring.

  And Jack didn’t know it.

  Not even.

  ***

  They ate Popeye’s Fried Chicken for dinner. That was Johnny’s idea. He figured Jack could maybe get a commercial gig with Popeye’s since he’d KO’d a guy with a Colonel Sanders tattoo.

  All through the meal Johnny talked about name identification and product placement and pay-per-view and the talk show circuit and a whole bunch of other stuff that Jack didn’t need to hear. All he wanted was a little sliver of peace and quiet so he could think. But the only time Johnny Da Nang shut up was when he was asleep. And he hardly slept at all.

  But Jack was in luck, because Johnny had to go to work. The singer managed to slip in an offer to be Jack’s manager before he left, though. Jack said he’d think it over.

  Man, he couldn’t believe all this stuff on the TV. His ruckus with Tony Katt had turned into the hot sports story of the night. Tomorrow morning the newspapers would be full of it.

  As it stood, the reporters had pretty much run the initial story dry and were shifting into speculative overdrive. Of course Katt was going to have to cancel his next fight, they said. The champion couldn’t do battle with a broken nose. And the nose couldn’t heal in three weeks’ time.

  No one would want to see Katt fight some no-name contender, anyway. A fight like that wouldn’t draw flies at the box office. No. Only one opponent loomed large in Tony Katt’s future.

  Jack Baddalach.

  Jack the Giant Killer.

  The Giant Killer shook his head. Man oh man oh man. All this crazy adrenaline was burning him down. It really did feel like a fire, the same hungry fire that had torched his belly when he climbed into the ring with the heavyweight champion of the world.

  Jack hadn’t felt that fire for a very long time.

  And there was the money, too.

  Money like Jack had never seen.

  Heavyweight money. Millions.

  Jack lay in the darkness, his face bathed in the dull blue glow of the digital clock on Johnny’s VCR. The hours slipped by. One o’clock. Two. Then three. And still Jack was the same guy he’d always been. In the darkness, his beef with Tony Katt didn’t seem like such a big deal. By the glow of a VCR clock, it was easy to believe that the whole thing would blow over by the time he finished breakfast.

  And what would he do with a couple million bucks, anyway? Trade in the Celica for a cherried-out Mustang? Buy more Dean Martin records? Track down every paperback Dan J. Marlowe had ever written? Replace his busted set of Sneaky Tiki glasses?

  Jack’s tastes weren’t exactly expensive. A couple million bucks . . . hell, he wouldn’t even know what to do with it. And if having that much money meant dealing with investment counselors and lawyers and accountants and IRS agents, Jack figured he was better off without it.

  Around four, he peeked through the Venetian blinds. The bushes seemed free of lurking reporters. Frankenstein was waiting at home. The surly old bulldog was probably hungry. So was Jack.

  He left Johnny’s place and crossed the courtyard. He’d eat some breakfast. Get some sleep. And then he’d figure another way to track down Harold Ticks.

  That plan went out the window when Jack checked his answering machine.

  There were forty-three messages.

  ***

  Most of the messages were from reporters—TV, print, radio, even some guy who did a boxing website on the Internet.

  And it seemed like everyone Jack had ever met had left a message, too. Well, everyone except Kate Benteen.

  A friend in Hawaii said Jack could chill out at her place as long as (1) he didn’t mind her dog and (2) he understood that everything would have to be platonic because her new kahuna wouldn’t have it any other way. Freddy G wanted to know where to commit Jack’s crazy ass. The tattooed waitress from True Blue Donuts called to say that there was a bag of devil’s food donuts waiting for him, on the house. Even Jack’s mother checked in—she wanted to know when her son had taken up golf.

  The important messages didn’t come until the end of the tape. The first one sounded like it was made from a pay phone. Cars rushed by in the background, and the speaker’s words seemed garbled and indistinct. But that was understandable, because it was hard to talk when your nose had been taped to a Popsicle-stick splint and your nasal passages were stuffed with a couple yards of cotton.

  Tony Katt did his patented King of the Jungle rap; Jack Baddalach had disturbed the balance of nature. Jack Baddalach had upset the natural order of the universe. Jack Baddalach knew not what disaster he had wrought upon mankind. Jack Baddalach now walked the road of death, and that road was paved with misery and pain and suffering eternal.

  Another call followed quickly on the heels of Katt’s poetic diatribe. This one was from a man Jack thought of as the greatest leech of all time, boxing promoter Caligula Tate. Let’s let bygones be bygones, Jack-o. There’s money to be made. Millions. Plenty for everyone. Come one, come all. Bathe in the spotlight of riches and glory.

  You want riches, Jack-o? Just do what you did this afternoon. Today you did it for free. Do it again for a pay-per-view audience and the world will be your oyster. Do it again and dollars beyond counting will be yours.

  Do it again and you’ll be heavyweight champion of the world.

  You’ll have the belt, Jack. Your name in the record books right along those of Dempsey, Marciano, Ali . . .

  Jack thought about it. He really did. He didn’t hear the next three or four messages. That’s how hard he was thinking.

  But he heard the last one.

  Angel Gemignani said, “I heard about what happened today with you and Tony Katt.”

  Jack sensed desperation and confusion in Angel’s voice. He listened intently as she continued. “Anyway . . . if you think Tony is involved in Spike’s disappearance, then there’s something I need to tell you . . . and it’s something that I can’t tell you over the phone.”

  A pause, fearful and wary.

  “Call me, Jack. Please.”

  THEY CALLED IT THE WOLF’S HOUR, THAT TIME OF NIGHT WHEN FEAR HELD DOMINION OVER THE WICKED AND THE PURE.

  Eden stared through the open pillbox window. Dead blue moonlight bathed the desert. Daddy’s chapel stood in a grove of twisted yucca trees. From inside, the harsh glare of kerosene lanterns slashed cracks in the walls and streamed across the desert, as if the night had been gutted and was bleeding afternoon.

  The stock of Harold’s .357 Magnum was slick with Eden’s sweat. She held tight to the pistol and watched the chapel door. Mama and Daddy were still inside. They had to be. Eden had watched the chapel for hours, and she’d seen nothing. The only sign of movement was an occasional flicker as someone—Eden imagined it was Mama—passed in front of a kerosene lantern.

  Anguish whipped Eden as she remembered bursting through the chapel door. The whole thing happened so fast. Of course she didn’t want Daddy to get hurt. She only wanted to protect the Chihuahua.

  Daddy was surprised. His concentration was broken when he needed it most. His link with Satan vanished in the wink of an ey
e and the big albino rattler sprang, biting Daddy’s face, pumping its venom into his blood.

  Mama tore the viper loose. In the time it took her to do that, Eden’s entire world changed.

  Because Eden no longer had a family. Mama disowned her, speaking those horrible words that gouged and hacked like the blade of an ax. If Daddy lived, he would do the same. Eden couldn’t blame them. Everything Mama said about her was right. She did cry too much. She was weak.

  And there was nothing she could do about it. She had tried so hard—beseeching Satan night after night, asking him for power. She had taken the fork in the road that lead to wickedness, taken it willingly. Her body was a temple to sin.

  But through it all Eden’s heart remained pure, and that was her great downfall. Guilt was the horse she rode, and she lashed it with a quirt called conscience.

  In the end she always surrendered to her weaknesses. In the end she always surrendered to her tears.

  Eden’s head dipped. Where was Harold? He should have returned long ago. She couldn’t stay awake much longer. Her eyelids were so heavy. And so was the gun. Her wrist was killing her. It felt like someone had jammed hot coals between the bones in her forearm.

  Maybe she could set down the Magnum for a minute. Just a minute. Give her wrist a rest. Maybe she could take a little break, remove her braces, run some cool water over her aching wrist—

  Or maybe she could lean against the wall and close her eyes. Just for a minute. The cement was so cool against her sweaty skin, and she needed to rest her eyes really badly.

  After all, the window was open. If Mama or Daddy left the chapel, she’d hear the creaking door. She could rest her eyes for a minute. She could trust her ears . . .

  The sound brought Eden sharply awake.

  Someone breathing heavily, behind her.

  Eden whirled, snatching up the pistol.

  The Chihuahua lay on the bed, muzzle open as it drew rasping, tortured breaths. It was so sick. It couldn’t sleep at all, not with that horrible cough. Eden tried to look at the dog and see only money. If she could only trust in Satan, truly trust in Him with all her heart, then she could see the dog clearly.