Saguaro Riptide

extent-and location-of Ms. Hepburn’s inheritance.

Parts of the picture were still pretty cute. Like Audrey ordering everything on the menu when she got nervous. Eating every bite of it, too. And, of course, her wardrobe was the best. Hey, after all, this was Paris, right?

But other parts of the picture that had never bothered Benteen before got under her skin in a surprisingly efficient way tonight. Like the way Mr. Grant wrapped Ms. Hepburn around his fucking little finger with the least little bon mot that slithered out of his mouth. Jesus. Tonight it was almost more than Kate could take.

Grant and Hepburn “met cute,” of course-movie parlance for tossing the romantic leads together in an oh- so-clever way. In this case, meeting cute involved an Alpine ski resort, a precocious child, a water pistol and a few snowballs, heavy on the witty repartee. But that Benteen could have lived with, because it was nothing compared to what Mr. Grant put Ms. Hepburn through once things got rolling.

For one thing, he had about a million stories-a different one each time Audrey batted her eyes. And the way she batted them, melting every time he turned on the charm. All that well- practiced sincerity while he tried to explain his inconsistent behavior, even though he was lying. And Audrey fell for it, hook, line . . et cetera et cetera. And then Grant reeled her in with that goofy I’m really not a narcissistic stuffed shirt act. Acting silly, taking a shower with his clothes on, like that made him some kind of boho daredevil. Christ. A guy who probably lost half a day every time he passed a mirror.

Wow. Suddenly, Benteen’s spine went dress parade stiff. The whole thing was hitting way too close to home. Like the other night, punching the button on her answering machine up there in the big lonesome called Grizzly Gulch, Montana. First message she’d gotten in three weeks, but hey, who was counting?

And then hearing his voice. Christ, her breath catching in her throat, her heart beating fast. After all this time, he could still do that to her. .

No. Forget that. That wasn’t what was bothering her. It was the movie. Cary Grant. Audrey Hepburn.

She concentrated on the television. Refocused on Audrey and the way she handled the bad guys. But that annoyed her, too. Audrey sitting in a phone booth, shaking like a scared poodle while James Coburn flicked lit matches at her darling little Givenchy outfit. Audrey’s eyes going coronary-wide when George Kennedy threatened her with his mechanical hand.

Man oh man. That was definitely more than enough. Kate snatched up the Heckler, grabbed the box of Hydra-Shoks. Tore it open and enjoyed each sharp little click as she filled the empty clip to capacity.

Yeah. That was what Audrey needed. A Heckler, or maybe something a little more elegant. Hey, after all, this was Audrey Hepburn. Maybe a Smith amp; Wesson M442.38 snubbie would do the trick. Six little Remington Golden Saber cartridges. A few tugs of the index finger, a few perfectly measured kicks of gunpowder, and that would be that for Mssrs. Coburn and Kennedy.

But those two, they were the easy problems. They were like the boxer Benteen had met poolside, kind of ham-fisted, not real fast on their feet (mentally speaking, anyway). Everything was out there where you could see it with a guy like that, easy to skate around if you had your own moves down.

In short, Coburn and Kennedy weren’t like Cary Grant. They didn’t say oh-so-witty things, and they couldn’t make you melt in that completely illogical and uncontrollable way, and they could never, ever, under any circumstances, make you do anything that you really didn’t want to do. Especially when you damn well knew better.

Kate Benteen set the gun on the night table and stared at the TV.

Cary Grant pulled Audrey Hepburn into one final clinch. She accepted it eagerly.

Benteen bristled. How could Audrey do that when the smartass had played her for such a sap? Benteen shook her head. Man oh man, the day she relied on a man to bail her size 7 ass out of a jam, that would be the day she’d hang it up for good-

And that was when it hit Benteen-like one of those cop-killer rounds that rob you of every sensation but the one they provide-the undeniable source of her inescapable unease.

Instantly, she jabbed the shackled remote, expertly spearing the OFF button with her index finger, but it was much too late.

For the image was there, a hot red wound drilled through her consciousness.

Cary Grant.

Vincent Komoko.

Two of a fucking kind.

The phone in Baddalach’s motel room was busy for a really long time. That worried Johnny Da Nang, because the boxer didn’t seem like much of a talker.

Johnny had gotten the phone number for Baddalach’s room from the lady at the front desk of the Saguaro Riptide. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to call her back, double-check the number, make sure he hadn’t gone dyslexic while writing it down or something.

Well, the lady was real nice about it. Kind of kidding him, saying he didn’t sound old enough to forget anything. Kind of flirting. Anyway, the number checked out, and then somehow one thing led to another and they got to talking. And it turned out that the lady-who had a real growly Suzanne Pleshetteish kind of voice; y’know, the kind of voice where you could picture some chick who smoked unfiltereds right down to the wrist-well, anyway, she got to talking to Johnny, and it turned out that her husband had been in the music business.

Some kind of small world, huh?

The husband was dead now, though. Too bad. Johnny had never heard of him, anyway-some guitar player from the sixties who did that Beach Blanket Banzai kind of stuff. Still, Johnny enjoyed talking to the woman. He made sure to mention the name of his band a couple times. He kind of worked it into the conversation in an offhand way-Johnny Da Nang and the Napalms. . hahaha, yeah, some things never change, you gotta have a catchy name to make it in this game, don’tcha?

It couldn’t hurt. Maybe Ms. Pleshette’s vocal clone would be down there at WalMart one day, see his CD and remember that nice kid she talked to on the phone.

Hey, you never knew, y’know?

Johnny stuck with it for a couple more minutes. He didn’t want to be rude. Then the lady said something about checking on her dog, and that gave Johnny the opportunity to bid her a speedy adieu.

He shifted the receiver to his other ear-Jesus, a couple more years of telephone networking and he’d have cauliflower ears that would make Jack Baddalach jealous-and then he redialed.

The boxer picked up on the second ring. “H’lo?”

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s me, Johnny.”

A pause. “What’s up?”

“You’re not gonna like this, Jack.”

“What?”

“Well, I went over to your place this afternoon. And there was this guy there-”

Baddalach interrupted. “Black guy? A Muslim?”

“Yeah, he had one of those little African hats and everything. . even a bow tie. How’d you know?”

“Coconut telegraph.” Baddalach sighed. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, but Frankenstein-”

Baddalach swore. “Did the son of a bitch kill my dog?”

“No. He didn’t kill him. But I took him to the vet when it was all over, and, man, I just don’t know if I can cover the bill. You should see the pathetic little sucker. I mean, he’s tough and all. Like Rin Tin Tin or something. But the poor little pup’s all doped up, mummified-looking, and the vet’s got him in some kind of doggy traction-”

“You listen to me, Johnny. You get in touch with Freddy G at the Casbah. Tell him to take care of the vet bill.”