Saguaro Riptide

The woman in the black bikini swam laps and the former light-heavyweight champion of the world sat on his butt and watched her.

She said her name was Kate Benteen. Major Kate Benteen. Late of the United States Army.

Jack thought it over. Maybe Major Benteen knew Komoko from her days in the military-Freddy had said something about Komoko being some kind of war hero, hadn’t he?

Sure he had. But that didn’t mean anything. Just because the woman in the black bikini said she’d been a major, that didn’t make it so. People said all kinds of things.

And she said more than most. Jesus. She said she’d been a movie star, even an Olympic diving champion. All kinds of crazy shit.

She’d really nailed that jackknife, though. Jack had to admit that. But just because she could dive into a swimming pool without sending up a cannonball-sized splash didn’t mean she’d won Olympic silver.

Baddalach’s battered Timex ticked off fifteen minutes while he tried to sort the whole thing out. As the second hand began another circuit and the woman began another lap, he faced up to the truth-sitting on his butt and contemplating his navel while Kate Benteen played Sub-Mariner was getting him nowhere fast.

With some difficulty. Jack extricated himself from the chaise longue. Kate Benteen didn’t show any sign of slowing down. He left her sunglasses on top of the chair, got the stuff he’d bought at the Pipeline Beach Five-and- Dime from the Range Rover, and climbed the stairs to room 22.

The accommodations didn’t come close to the Mirage or Caesar’s. Truth be told, they didn’t even come close to Freddy G’s aged Casbah. But they’d do.

Jack went to take a leak. A band of white paper encircled the toilet seat, just to let you know that no one had been pissing in your toilet since the maid had finished cleaning it. Freddy G liked to rag on the things. He called them ass-gaskets and swore that they were a sure sign of a low-class establishment.

Jack thought maybe it would be interesting to see Freddy debate that particular observation with Sandy Kapalua-Dayton. Judging by his first impression of Sandy, Freddy might even rate odds in such a matchup.

Jack tore the ass-gasket loose and took care of business. Zipped up, flushed, then checked things out. The room held absolutely no surprises, but that was good because Jack wasn’t in a surprise me kind of mood. On the plus side there were plenty of free postcards, free HBO on the TV, plus a Munchkin-sized coffeepot that was a twin to the one he’d found in Vince Komoko’s house. And a few minor inconveniences to balance things out-the TV remote was bolted on a swivel which in turn was bolted to the nightstand, like someone was going to run off with it or something. The only real problem Jack saw was that the ice bucket was much too small. That was okay, though. The garbage can under the obligatory desk was bigger.

The ice machine was downstairs. Jack made the trip and tried to ignore the fact that Major Kate Benteen was still hard at it. Swimming back and forth, back and forth.

A sarcastic sigh passed Jack’s lips. He figured Benteen was probably pretending that she was Flipper. Yeah. That’s what someone who was so stuck on old TV shows would do. She’d imagine that she was a dolphin that had its own theme song.

This week’s episode-Captured by Marine World, Flipper must escape and rescue Bud and Sandy before they suffocate in a bathysphere where they’ve been trapped by wily dolphin poachers.

The sarcasm didn’t take. Jack admitted to himself that overt displays of discipline made him jealous. The only option was to ignore the good major.

Jack filled both the petite ice bucket and the garbage can with ice and returned to his room. There was a little area off the postage stamp-sized bathroom with all the stuff that didn’t fit therein-a sink, a counter, a mirror. Jack set the garbage can on the countertop and jammed the Molsons into the ice. The bottles were piss-warm after being locked in the Range Rover all day. Jack didn’t even want to think about what the beer would taste like.

He took a shower and felt a little better. Ripped into the packs of underwear and T-shirts he’d bought at the Five-and-Dime and got dressed. Almost opened the drapes that covered the big window next to the door but was afraid that by now Benteen would have worked her way up to a spectacular finish-diving through flaming hoops, doing that famed Flipper- cackle just for him. Hell, his ego had taken enough bruising for one day, being locked up by a woman sheriff named Wyetta Earp. He didn’t need to see phase two of some GI Josephine’s gung ho act.

He checked the beer. Still miserably warm. Checked out the telephone. Damn. Local calls were free, but it was going to cost him a buck every time he made a long-distance call. Plus the long-distance carrier was some company he’d never heard of-probably one of those outfits that skinned you for a buck a minute if you called anyone beyond walking distance.

Jack figured what the hell. It wasn’t his problem. The room was on his corporate plastic.

He dialed Freddy G’s number.

Deputy Rorie Holloway admired her boss. Wyetta Earp was a woman who made her way in the world completely on her own terms. She didn’t take shit off of anyone. Spend a day with the sheriff of Pipeline Beach and you knew for sure and for certain that a woman could scorch her own personal brand on a public office.

Rorie had seen it happen with her own two eyes. She’d watched Wyetta put the fear of God into a swarm of politicians before lunchtime, bust up a ring of horse thieves before dinner, top off the day by kicking some wife- beater’s balls into his throat. The lady deputy figured that the lady sheriff could do just about anything she set her mind to and do it pretty damn well, to boot.

Except decorate a house, that is.

Wyetta owned a big adobe outside of Pipeline Beach. Inside and out it reminded Rorie of a castoff set from an old John Wayne movie. Longhorn skulls were mounted over most of the doorways, countless Remington statues featuring bucking broncos and cowboys in twisted positions that defied the limitations of both human and equine anatomy, rough pine cabinets stocked with enough Winchesters and Sharpes and Remingtons to hold off Victorio and every damn Apache warrior who had ever lived.

Rorie liked it better when they went to her place. She’d bought all her furniture at Sears. At Wyetta’s she always felt like she should be wearing a gingham dress while she bustled around in the kitchen, rustling up a mess of chuckwagon biscuits and sonofabitch stew. But there was no arguing with Wyetta, especially not tonight. Not after the way things had gone in the last forty-eight hours.

Wyetta hadn’t said one word since leaving the office an hour earlier. They’d left in separate cars, of course- Rorie in her Camaro and Wyetta in the bashed-up Jeep Cherokee the county provided (and boy oh boy Rorie knew she better keep her mouth shut about that). Things hadn’t gotten any better when they arrived at Wyetta’s place-no conversation, not even a God it’s been a tough day kiss. Wyetta had taken the time to get Rorie an O’Doul’s out of the fridge, but that was it.

And now Wyetta just sat there in a cowhide chair with arms and legs made from the horns of dead cattle, her face washed in the dull leathery glow of a Conestoga wagon lamp with a jerky-colored shade. The sheriff was working on a fistful of Jack Daniels on the rocks, but there were damn few rocks in the big tumbler that weighed heavy in her hand. Rorie didn’t like to see Wyetta drink so much-the sheriff was on her third tumbler in less than a half hour.

Wyetta’s drinking seemed to be getting worse ever since the Komoko thing had started up. Just last week Rorie had found a bottle of JD stashed in the filing cabinet in Wyetta’s office. Not that she was snooping or anything-she’d opened the cabinet at Wyetta’s direction, looking for a file. But she hadn’t dared say a word about the bottle because she knew what Wyetta would do.

She’d get mad. Accuse Rorie of invading her privacy. And then Rorie would be the one who’d end up feeling guilty, like she’d done something wrong.

She wondered if the boozing was what the sheriff was thinking about right now. Wyetta looked sure enough disgusted. Maybe she was disgusted with herself. Maybe she was about to say, “Okay, Rorie. This is gonna be the last one. Ever.” Slam it down her gullet, savor one long and appreciative sigh, then throw the bottle into the fireplace with the cactus andirons that she’d ordered from that Ralph Lauren catalog. And maybe she’d just forget all about the Komoko thing while she was at it, and then they could get back to the way things used to be.

Slap leather to the night. Do something crazy. Take off in the Camaro. Ride hard and ride fast until they hit Vegas. Go buckin’-bronc-wild with their charge cards in some of those fancy all-night boutiques the big casinos had.