Saguaro Riptide

“Oh, man.”

“Second question-bachelor number one, what’s your idea of an ideal first date?”

Jack curbed the temptation to swear. This was nutty. But if this woman knew something about Komoko, and he was pretty sure that she did-

“I’m waiting.”

Jesus, Jack thought. This is bar none the weirdest fucking job I’ve ever had.

“C’mon, champ.”

“Okay. Ideal first date.” Jack leaned in, furrowing his brow like he was really thinking about it even though she wasn’t looking at him at all. “First, we get a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken-”

“Original recipe, extra crispy, or rotisserie gold?”

“Oh, man. Give me those original seven herbs and spices and forget the rest of it, okay? And don’t interrupt me-”

“That wasn’t an interruption. That was a clarification.”

Jack cracked his knuckles. He could only put up with so much of this dancing around shit. He didn’t like it in conversation any more than he did in the ring, where some guys would juke around holding their dicks for a couple rounds before getting down to business. Baddalach didn’t have the patience for that. With him it was nothing but bad intentions from the first bell forward.

So he figured he’d try seriously sarcastic, which was probably the way the major liked it best if you judged by her questions.

Baddalach said, “That’s a lovely outfit you’re wearing today, Mrs. Cleaver. And those pearls of yours sure do have a way of catching the afternoon light, but how about you shut the fuck up and let me answer your questions?”

“Sure, Eddie.” Not missing a beat, this little hardcase. She squirted a line of sunblock across her belly, rubbed it in real low and real slow. “But don’t you think you’re being a little hard on the Beaver?”

Baddalach sighed. Some battles just weren’t worth fighting, not when there was no way of winning them.

She said, “Now, back to my original question-”

“Like I was saying: one bucket of original recipe, maybe a six-pack of something real cold to wash it down. Drive out of Vegas-that’s where I live-head for the Valley of Fire. Climb up on some sandstone and watch the sunset. If she doesn’t complain about the heat or the wind ruining her hair or sand in the chicken, she’s in like Flint.”

“You mean in like Flynn.”

“I mean James Coburn. That goofy spy movie. In Like Flint.”

“I know what you think you mean. In Like Flint. 20th Century-Fox, 1967. Sequel to Our Man Flint. But what you really mean is in like Errol Flynn. He of the rape trial and not-so-unwilling nubettes-Hollywood, 1942.”

“I don’t mean fucking Errol Flynn at all. That guy was a Nazi spy.”

“Wrong-o, champ.” One sharp little exhalation registering exasperation. One withering, haughty glance. “In any case, your allusion doesn’t fit your date’s gender. How could a woman be in like Flint?”

“All my allusions are non-gender specific, Major Benteen.”

“Good one.” She smiled. “You’ll get this witty repartee stuff down in no time, Mr. Bond.”

“Why thank you. Miss Moneypenny.”

“What about the second date?”

“A movie. She picks it. If the people in it don’t talk too much and if lots of things blow up, I’ll buy the popcorn and Junior Mints and even hold her hand. But if she picks a movie about a middle-aged English butler pining for the fields, it’s over. If she picks a movie about weeping old maids visiting foreign countries and pining for the fields in the company of foreign men, it’s over. Ditto for movies with Meryl Streep pining for the fields with a foreign accent. Or Oliver Stone movies. Or anything with subtitles.”

“What if it’s got subtitles, but it’s also got Toshiro Mifune carving up half the Tokogawa Shogunate?”

Baddalach laughed. “That ever happened, we’d go straight from the Cineplex to the mall, pick out curtains and place settings for two, is what we’d do.”

She actually laughed at that one. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he figured that they’d be a little different than they’d been just a minute before. Maybe a little gleam in them. Maybe-

She didn’t give him a chance to complete the thought. “Now let’s play picture-if-you-will. I’m visiting Jack Baddalach’s bachelor pad. I inspect the coffee table. What magazines do I see?”

“A TV Guide. Boxing Illustrated. Maybe a couple Weekly World News.'

“You like to keep up with the Elvis sightings?”

“No, I’m more of an unexplained phenomenon kind of guy. You know-Titanic Survivors Found! Sasquatch Wins Winter Olympics! Mermaid Marries Captain of Russian Sub! That kind of thing.”

“So. . Weekly World News. No Wall Street Journal. No Barrons. No Money Magazine. Anybody ever tell you that you’re not a kid anymore, champ? Don’t you care about your future?”

“Sure, I’m gonna make some plans. Someday. But for now. .”

“What about CDs?”

“I just told you. I’m not much on investments-”

“Not certificates of deposit. Compact discs.”

“You mean, like music?”

“Yeah. . like music. What’s on the Jack Baddalach hit parade?”

Baddalach’s scarred eyebrows arched. “Well, first off, I don’t have a CD player. I do have a hi-fi, but it needs a new needle. I got it at a garage sale last year. Guy died who used to play vibes at the Sands back in the fifties and his daughter was selling off a bunch of his stuff. Anyway, I picked up the hi-fi and a pretty healthy stack of records, too. You know- romantic stuff. Just in case I ever run across a girl who picks movies where things blow up.”

“What kind of romantic stuff?”

“Stuff with vibes in it, mostly. Easy listening, Henry Mancini.”

She laughed.

“Lots of Dean Martin, too. Dean Martin French Style, Dino Latino, Dean “Tex” Martin Rides Again. Herb Alpert-I love “The Lonely Bull.” A couple Julie London albums for rainy days, but I don’t listen to those too much because they make me morose. I guess my favorite is this one by Robert Mitchum-Calypso is Like So. Old Bob can really sing. Anyway, that album always makes me feel like I’ve just been shanghaied to some exotic port of call where Jane Russell is waiting around the next corner, desperate for my help.”

“My my my. . visions of tiki lights and flaming hibachis are dancing in my head. You must have made the dead vibe player’s daughter’s day.”

“Fact is, I did. She was so happy she even tossed in a complimentary martini shaker. In fact, the word ecstatic was bandied about.”

That earned another laugh. Jack smiled. A couple more of those, and he’d be IN. . LIKE. . FLINT. She’d invite him up to her room, maybe grab a bite afterwards. She’d tell him everything, he’d catch up to Vince Komoko and-

“Hey, you’re not listening,” she said.

“Oh, sorry.”

“I asked what kind of car you own.”

Jack pointed across the lot. “Range Rover.”

“No. I didn’t ask what kind of car you rented. I want to know what kind of car you own.'

Jack felt the blush creeping up on him again.

She waited him out.