The Ten-Ounce Siesta
Page 21
And he would never buckle that heavyweight championship belt around his waist.
Jack peeled the orange as he walked toward the parking lot. There was no sense thinking about any of it. Just lately, it didn’t seem that thinking had gotten him anywhere, anyway.
Because every time he needed to think things through, there wasn’t enough time for it.
When Angel Gemignani opened that door, and Tony Katt grabbed her, Jack chose his path in less than a finger snap.
He didn’t think about money, or the heavyweight championship of the world, or his place in the universe. He didn’t spare a second questioning the fate of his immortal soul. He didn’t wonder if killing another human being was immoral. He didn’t ask himself if a slime like Tony Katt even was a human being.
No. When Tony Katt grabbed Angel Gemignani, Jack shot the motherfucker in the head.
He didn’t need to think about it. He only needed to react. He only needed to draw on something that was hard-wired into his soul a long time ago.
Jack trusted that thing, whatever it was. He really did.
He finished the orange and tossed the peel into a garbage can. The morning was coming on fast, orange sherbet riding the flip side of indigo blue.
Jack felt good. He didn’t know why. But he went with it.
He wasn’t the heavyweight champion of the world. Hell, he wasn’t even the light-heavyweight champion of the world. He was just a guy named Baddalach who occasionally baby-sat consumptive Chihuahuas.
Shaking his head. Jack unclipped the cellular phone from his belt and tossed it into the Celica. Man, was he a case.
Maybe that phone would never ring.
But Kate Benteen was out there somewhere. At least he hoped that she was. He still had her picture on his desk. Maybe she thought about him once in a while. Maybe one day she would stop thinking and just go with it and dial his number.
Maybe, one of these days. Jack’s phone would ring.
If that ever happened, he knew exactly how he’d react.
Exactly.
About the Author
Stephen King says that Norman Partridge is “a major new talent.”
Joe R. Lansdale calls Partridge “the hottest new writer going.”
High praise, indeed. Here’s what earned it: Partridge’s first novel, Slippin’ into Darkness, was heralded as “nitro laced, in-your-face fiction for the ’90s” (Locus). His short fiction has made regular appearances in the “year’s best” anthologies for suspense, mystery, and horror. A collection of short stories, Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales, won the Bram Stoker Award and was a World Fantasy nominee. Another collection of short fiction, Bad Intentions, was published in May 1996 to rave reviews. Partridge’s second novel, Saguaro Riptide, was published by Berkley Prime Crime in May 1997.
Partridge has worked in libraries and steel mills. He loves fifties rock ’n’ roll, drive-in movies, and old paperbacks where the bad guys get away with murder.