The Ten-Ounce Siesta

by Norman Partridge

  ***

  New Year’s Eve on the Las Vegas Strip was really slammed. No way you could drive anywhere. Still, Angel was really surprised when Tony took her to the roof of the hotel, where they boarded a Skull Island corporate helicopter.

  They flew above the lights of Vegas. It was really special. All those people partying down on the Strip. Soon they were over a neighborhood Angel didn’t recognize. A golf course surrounded by super-nice houses. Mansions, really.

  The chopper hovered lower, passing over the roof of a mansion. Angel was kind of surprised. It didn’t look like there was a party here. Only two cars were parked in the driveway.

  Angel was a little worried. Her Versace dress was riding up, and she pulled it low on her thighs. As low as it would go, anyway.

  “Is this the right place?” she asked.

  “This is my house,” Tony said. “I need to pick up a few Christmas gifts that I haven’t had a chance to deliver. Then we’ll drive over in my car. The party isn’t far.”

  The chopper touched down on the golf course next to the house. Tony opened the door and stepped out before Angel could say a word.

  He offered her his hand.

  Just like a real gentleman.

  ***

  The Christmas tree that stood in the domed living room was nearly twenty feet high. Angel stared at the twinkling white lights and decorations, cradling Spike in her arms. She wished Tony would hurry up. It was almost midnight. Even if they left his place right now, they would probably be late for the party. Angel was worried about that. Tony’s fiancee would be really mad. She’d probably take it out on him, but she might take it out on Angel.

  Either way, Angel didn’t want to be with a bunch of strangers right now. But how could she get back to the Strip? The chopper was long gone . . .

  Maybe Tony would call a cab for her. She’d say that the pink ladies were hitting her a little too hard, and that she wasn’t feeling especially well . . .

  No. That wouldn’t work, either. The Strip was jammed with people. Getting to the Casbah by cab would be impossible. Tony knew that as well as she did. No way she could get back home until—

  A pair of strong arms encircled her from behind.

  “Tony. Hey . . . Tony. Don’t.”

  Tony didn’t listen. He pulled Angel against his belly, and she was so surprised that she nearly dropped Spike.

  “Tony . . . stop!”

  His hand was under her dress, between her legs and— “Surprise, surprise,” Tony said. “The Tiger didn’t figure you for the panty-wearing type, bitch.”

  “No!” Angel shouted, and Spike jumped from her arms.

  She spun away from Tony. He let her go. She gasped for breath. Spike was over by the Christmas tree. In a second she’d pick him up and head for the door—

  Tony was wearing a black silk robe. Nothing else. He let the robe fall open. “You might as well get down on the floor and spread your legs, Angel. It’ll go a lot easier that way.”

  She was still a little drunk. She tried to think logically. She said, “But your fiancee . . . the party—”

  “There is no party. Except for the one we’re having here.” He smiled. “I do have a fiancee, though. I didn’t lie about that. The bitch walked out on me last night. It’s not the first time she’s done it, and it won’t be the last.”

  Angel backed toward the Christmas tree. “You know who I am. You know who my grandfather is. If he finds out about this—”

  “He won’t find out.” Tony slipped off his robe and followed her. “You won’t tell him. Just think how it would sound: Grandpa, I got drunk with the heavyweight champ on New Year’s Eve. You know, the jailbird with all the tattoos. I let him take me home. And then he—”

  “Stop it. Just stop it.”

  But Tony didn’t stop at all. He grabbed her and tossed her against the wall. She had nowhere to run. And then his hand closed around her throat.

  “Stop it, Angel,” he said. “Stop acting so innocent. Everyone in town knows your game. Those guys I mentioned . . . they told me all about you. Even your girlfriends are wise to you. You’re a little starfucker.”

  “No . . . I’m not—”

  “Come off it. I’ve been in the best bars in Las Vegas, honey. And I’ve seen your name written on the restroom wall in every damn one of ’em.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Tony smiled a really awful smile. “Tell me it’s not.”

  His hand slid under her dress. Angel slammed her fists against his chest, but he only laughed and shoved her back against the wall.

  Spike scampered around his ankles, barking. He kicked the dog away. Then he came at Angel again.

  The point of her shoe smacked his shin and he grunted. He slapped her and called her a bitch. She slapped him back and then he caught her hand and turned her around and suddenly she was on the floor, her face buried in the thick shag carpet, and Spike was barking again and Tony’s hands were between her legs and he roughly parted her thighs.

  “No!” she screamed. “No!”

  Tony laughed. Spike growled . . .

  . . . and then Tony screamed.

  Suddenly he was off her. Angel rolled over fast and gained her feet.

  Tony lay on the white carpet.

  Spike was between his legs.

  There was a lot of blood.

  “Spike!” Angel shouted. “Spike . . . no!”

  Spike ran to her side. She scooped him up and stumbled to the door and didn’t look back. As she ran down the driveway, she heard Tony Katt’s screams.

  The cool night breeze cut through her Versace dress as she hurried down the street. Gunfire exploded behind her. She ducked into some oleander bushes, clutching Spike to her breasts.

  Not gunfire. Firecrackers. It was New Year’s Eve. It was midnight. All over Las Vegas, women were kissing men that they loved. And here she was, cold and shivering, hiding in some stranger’s oleander bushes, hoping that no one would see her at all.

  When it was quiet, Angel started down the street. Spike whined in her arms, but she wouldn’t set him on the ground. She was afraid that he might run off.

  There were no pay phones in a neighborhood like this one. Angel had to keep walking, even if she had no idea where she was. Every time a car approached, she found a place to hide.

  She didn’t know how badly Tony was hurt. She was afraid that he would come looking for her. And Spike.

  Finally, Angel found a way onto the golf course. She wandered toward a building that turned out to be the pro shop. She was circling it, looking for a pay phone, when a security guard stopped her.

  He took her to an office. Angel paid him fifty dollars for one phone call and another fifty to forget the whole thing.

  Angel phoned a girlfriend who agreed to pick her up as soon as the traffic died down. Then she sat in the office and waited, petting Spike. The guard didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The way he looked at her said it all.

  When her friend arrived a few hours later, Angel left as quickly as she could.

  The guard stuffed two fifties into his pocket and laughed at the girl in the little black dress as she crossed the parking lot, clutching a dog to her bosom like it was a baby.

  “You two have a Happy New Year,” he yelled.

  ***

  “The guy who drove the limo is an ex-con from California,” Jack said. “His name is Harold Ticks, and he did time in Corcoran State Prison with Tony Katt.”

  “They’re after more than money. If Tony Katt’s involved in this, he wants revenge.”

  “Maybe. But we don’t know that for sure. Maybe the money is the revenge.”

  “I don’t think so, Jack. One of the kidnappers phoned me . . . probably this guy Harold Ticks. He said that I was going to deliver the ransom, alone. He said if I didn’t come alone. Spike would end up dead. He’s supposed to call back with the details later today.” She shook her head. “The guy wants me to get the money from a safe-deposit box Granddad set up fo
r me a couple years ago. But if they want me to deliver the ransom . . . well, then I think they want me as much as they want the money.”

  Jack nodded. “The thing with Tony Katt . . . you never told Freddy what happened?”

  “He’s my grandfather, Jack. I couldn’t tell him about it. Freddy Gemignani is the kind of man who thinks there are two kinds of women in the world—those with rings on their fingers and whores. He wouldn’t understand.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he would. Maybe you owe him that chance.”

  “No. I’m not telling my grandfather anything. It was hard enough to tell you.” Angel rose from the couch and carried her empty coffee cup to the kitchen. “There’s got to be another way.”

  Jack sipped cold coffee. Angel was right about one thing. It was hard for her to tell him about Tony Katt. But it was harder for her to talk about herself—the private things she kept inside and the insecurities she never revealed to anyone.

  Jack knew that, because he’d heard Angel’s voice tremble when she spoke the word that cut her to the bone.

  “Starfucker.”

  That word wasn’t important to Jack Baddalach. He wasn’t going to judge Angel Gemignani’s past. Only Angel could do that.

  But no matter what Angel had done in the past, she didn’t deserve Tony Katt.

  No woman deserved Tony Katt.

  “What do you think we should do?” Angel asked.

  Jack told her. It was kind of involved, but none of it mattered.

  When the phone rang a second later, everything changed.

  ***

  The voice on the other end of the line was cold as ice cream but twice as sweet. Jack recognized it right away.

  He said, “You’re the one with the wrist braces, right?”

  “That’s right, Jack. I never thought I’d be talking to you again. How’d you handle that rattler, anyway?”

  “I ate it.”

  She laughed. “Well, I guess I don’t want to tangle with you . . . or maybe I do.”

  “Yeah . . . right . . . how’s the Chihuahua?”

  “Sick. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Look, if Spike needs a vet—”

  “We’re way ahead of you, Jack.”

  “You’ve got a vet?”

  “Yes, we do,” she said, “and he’s in Las Vegas. In fact. Spike’s in for an office visit even as we speak. Want the address?”

  “Sure.” Jack laughed. “But first I’d like to know why you’d give it to me when I haven’t given you half a million bucks.”

  “Because there’s trouble in paradise, Jack.”

  “Huh?”

  “Look,” she said, “do you want your Chihuahua back or not?”

  “Sure I do, but—”

  “Then get a pencil. Here’s the address . . .”

  ***

  Jack slipped the Colt Python into his shoulder holster.

  “This is all pretty complicated for a guy who’s used to getting hit in the head for a living,” he said. “But I’d better check it out, anyway.”

  “You’re not going alone.”

  “Yes, I am. Listen, Angel, these nuts kidnapping your dog is bad enough. If they snatch you, Freddy will kill me.”

  “One thing I decided after my night with Tony Katt— nobody’s going to make me do anything I don’t want to do. And I don’t want to sit around waiting to see if some refugee from a Russ Meyer movie ambushes you or not.”

  “Angel, these people . . . they’re nuts."

  “So is Tony Katt. And I handled him, didn’t I?”

  Jack laughed. “Well, you had some help. If I remember the story right, it was Spike who chewed on Tony’s balls.”

  “That’s right.” Angel slipped her .45 out of her purse. “And now Spike is in trouble. Which means that it’s time for me to return the favor.”

  Jack wanted to argue the point.

  But he didn’t know how.

  “WHAT WE’RE LOOKING AT IS MOST LIKELY A CASE OF CHRONIC BRONCHITIS. That’s what the endoscopic examination indicates. We’ll start Spike on some corticosteroids to reduce the inflammation. In addition I’ll give you some cough suppressants, but don’t use those unless Spike has trouble sleeping.”

  The vet handed the Chihuahua to Tura. “I did a bacterial culture, too. Just to be certain there’s no infection. Why don’t you give me your phone number, and I’ll contact you when I receive the test results.”

  “I don’t think that would be such a great idea.” Tura smiled. “We’ll call you, Doc.”

  Dr. Frank Newman, veterinarian to the stars, pushed his thick glasses high on his nose. Casually chic in a summer suit and bow tie, even at five-thirty in the morning, Newman was tall and cadaverously thin. Nearly seventy, he enjoyed playing the part of the kindly country doctor. His clients recognized that, and he knew he owed a good percentage of his business to the image he had created.

  People needed to trust their veterinarian. They wanted a sense of old-fashioned American values when they brought Spot or Rover in for treatment. And who better to provide that than Dr. Frank Newman, who looked as if he had stepped out of a Norman Rockwell wall calendar?

  Of course. Dr. Newman did not own a Norman Rockwell wall calendar. No. He had a Harlot’s Hollow wall calendar, featuring twelve of the finest lap dancers known to man. It was posted in the private bathroom adjacent to his office.

  The only problem with the calendar was that it was a year out of date. That was Dr. Newman’s fault. He could never get past October, for that was the month that featured a startling erotic pose by none other than Tura Lynch. My, but she knew how to make a pumpkin look good.

  Harlot’s Hollow wasn’t the same since Tura quit. Dr. Newman was sure that he missed her more than any of her other former customers.

  He really missed Tura. If only she’d stayed in Vegas . . . anywhere. There were plenty of other lap dancers in town, but none of them equaled Tura Lynch. None of them had her confident take-no-prisoners attitude. And none of the other girls called the man with the Norman Rockwell manner “Dr. Gooddoggy.”

  This was why Dr. Newman came to the office as soon as Tura called, even though the hour was late (or early, depending on your point of view). It didn’t matter that his exit from home required a ridiculous excuse invented for his wife’s benefit. That was a small price to pay. Infinitesimal. If Tura Lynch wanted to see him, he would cross the Sahara barefoot.

  “On second thought, maybe I should keep Spike for a couple of days.” Dr. Newman tried to keep his voice calm and professional. “I could run some tests. Just to confirm my diagnosis, you understand.”

  “Oh, Dr. Newman,” Lorelei teased in a throaty little-girl voice. “You’re not just looking for an excuse to see my sister again, are you?”

  “Well.” The vet loosened his bow tie. “The fact is—”

  Tura slipped off her leather coat in one smooth move. “The fact is that I’d like to pay my bill in full, and right now.” Her slim fingers traveled long leather strips that clung to her voluptuous body like a black highway with dangerous curves. “Sit, Dr. Gooddoggy.”

  She didn’t have to tell him twice.

  “Good boy.” Tura snapped her fingers. “Music, maestro.”

  Lorelei cued their boom box. Framed diplomas, veterinary science certificates, and autographed photos of celebrity clients swayed on Dr. Newman’s wall to the ear-splitting beat of Generation X’s “Dancing with Myself.”

  Tura slithered forward and straddled Dr. Gooddoggy like a hungry jaguar, her thighs brushing his. Her brown skin glowed, and, oh . . . her milky white scars did too. Tura had explained that the scars resulted from rattlesnake bites. Dr. Gooddoggy didn’t know if she was lying, but . . . oh, he liked the idea that she might be telling the truth.

  The music pulsed. Doctor Gooddoggy could feel it in his blood. His heart throbbed to the drumbeat. Suddenly the office was very hot—

  Tura’s exhalations fogged one side of his glasses. His perspiration fogged the other.<
br />
  Tura removed the glasses and tossed them away. “Are you ready to dance. Dr. Gooddoggy?”

  Dr. Gooddoggy didn’t say a word.

  He sat up and begged.

  Tura howled and pulled Dr. Gooddoggy’s head between her breasts.

  Then she started to move.

  ***

  Tura stroked the doctor’s angelic white hair. “You’re a good little doctor, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m very good.” Dr. Gooddoggy . . . er, Dr. Frank Newman, said.

  He straightened his bow tie and cleaned his glasses. Lorelei collected the boom box and the Chihuahua while Tura dressed.

  “Well, it’s been fun. Doc,” Tura said. “But that old highway’s a callin’.”

  Dr. Newman couldn’t surrender so easily. He had to give it one more try. “I really think I should run those tests, Tura. If you’ll just leave your phone number—”

  “No way, Doc. Like I said, we’ll call you if the medicine doesn’t work.”

  The doctor trailed Tura and Lorelei through the office door. Black go-go boots beat a hard rhythm on the tiled floor as the Lynch sisters walked down the corridor. In a moment they’d be gone. Dr. Newman couldn’t allow that to happen. He might never see Tura again.

  The sisters passed the door to the operating theater. In a few moments they’d be in the lobby. Dr. Newman hurried after them. Once again, Tura was walking out of his life. Maybe forever this time—her lithe leg muscles dancing with every step she took, bone-colored snakebite scars glowing ethereally on her chestnut thighs . . .

  “Wait a minute, girls.” Dr. Newman opened the operating theater door. “I’ve got a patient in here that you really must see.”

  Tura paused. “Sorry, Doc. We don’t have time.”

  “I think you’ll have time for this, my dear.” Dr. Newman squinted, staring at the Lynch sisters through lenses as heavy as hockey pucks.

  A playful grin crossed the veterinarian’s lips. “I know you girls like snakes . . . but have you ever seen a dragon?”