flashy and tanklike. A Caddy or something.
But maybe the hired gun was smarter than the average bear when it came to such matters. No ostentatious Caddy ragtop for him. He’d picked a car that would make him look like Joe Suburbs. That showed a little more brainpower than Jack might have expected.
So maybe the hit man was a thinking man. That didn’t worry Baddalach. Let the son of a bitch think all he wanted to. Thinking wasn’t going to change the fact that he couldn’t take a punch.
The cat was a big mother, too. Not heavy. Pure ectomorph- the kind of body type Jack wished he had. Hell, he hadn’t felt any fat at all when he’d kidney punched the dude. Good muscle mass and low body fat. Jack would’ve never lost his title if he’d had a body like that.
He’d kind of hated to clobber the guy while he was praying, though. That seemed like a low blow. But, hey, the guy was a dog-beater. What the hell did he deserve?
Jack grinned. What a beauty of a punch it had been. Half uppercut, half hook-like slamming a brick under the guy’s ribcage. Hey, for Jack Baddalach, that spelled S-A-T-I-S-F-A-C-T-I-O-N. Rabbit-punching the guy and watching him go down was even better.
First the chump dropped to his knees. Then he went face first into the gravel, sending up a puff of dust that looked kind of like a miniature Hiroshima.
Yep. It was a real Kodak moment, all right.
Jack hadn’t lingered, though. Other fish to fry, and all like that. But he did take the time to steal the hit man’s gun, wallet, and car.
That’d teach the bastard to beat up on a guy’s dog.
Jack wished he could have hung around to see the hit man come to. No car, no gun, pockets empty except for the key to his room at the Saguaro Riptide.
Room 21. Right next to Jack’s room. Jack knew where the guy was. He also knew that he wasn’t done with him yet.
The highway was clear of traffic, the road itself as straight as Jack’s right jab. Jack hit the gas and the Saturn lurched forward like a peg-legged man pushing a wheelbarrow.
In other words. Jack had plenty of time to think things through.
One of the first rules of boxing at the championship level-know your opponent. You watch films of a guy, see what he does over and over, figure out what you’re going to do to take the play away from him. You hire sparring partners that can approximate the guy’s style, and you go to school on them. You get in shape, you get your mind right, you stick to your plan. . and a lot of times you’ve got the fight won before you ever step in the ring.
Jack glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Time for a little scouting report.”
Okay, the hit man’s choice of wheels told Jack something. And Freddy G had told him something else-that the guy was a Muslim. Not some mystical kufi-wearing Muslim either. No, this guy looked like the old-fashioned kind, a throwback to the suit-and-tie era of the sixties when the heavyweight champ of the world had joined up, changing his name from Cassius Clay to Muhammad Ali.
This guy looked like a real Fruit of Islam candidate. They were the A-1 badasses who protected the Muslim elite, kind of like the Nation of Islam secret service. To a man they were purer than pure and meaner than mean, and their hearts were made of stone.
The hit man’s wallet lay on the passenger seat next to his gun-a serious enough looking piece. But Jack didn’t know anything about guns, so the pistol didn’t tell him anything.
He reached over and opened the glove compartment. The contents told him plenty:
1) A few cassettes, mostly jazz. That fifties be-bop shit where you couldn’t hold onto the melody with both hands.
2) A brand new map of Arizona, folded so that it showed Pipeline Beach and its environs.
3) A little notebook in which the hit man kept track of mileage and maintenance on the Saturn.
Jack flipped through the notebook. He had to admit that he was impressed-the hit man actually changed the oil every three thousand miles.
He tossed the notebook aside. The situation was pretty clear now. He was being tracked by an anal-retentive oil-changing dog-beater with a car named after a planet who liked to listen to the Jack Kerouac hit parade. Somehow, it didn’t seem like
Not that he was in a benefit-of-the-doubt kind of mood or anything, but Jack figured he’d make one more dip into the pond. He pushed the cassettes aside, fumbled the map out of the way, and came up with a cellular phone.
If he’d been a cartoon character, a glowing lightbulb would have appeared above his head.
He pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Pictured the hit man regaining consciousness back there in the motel parking lot-spitting loose chunks of gravel out of his mouth, his backside and neck electric with pain as he rose and stumbled to his motel room. Keying the lock like a drunk, cringing at the sound the door made when he closed it. Kidneys aching while he pissed. Then looking at himself in the mirror, figuring what a sorry way this was for such a smart guy like himself to start the day.
Jack kind of felt sorry for the guy. He flipped open the hit man’s wallet and found his Visa card. Grabbed the phone. There was only one 800 number that he’d committed to memory, but he figured that one would be more than enough.
He made a call.
Okay. Fun was fun. . but now it was time to play some mind games of the
Jack phoned information. A minute later he had the number he needed. He punched it in. One ring later, he was through.
“Pipeline Beach Sheriff’s Department.”
Jack stared down at the name on the hit man’s driver’s license. “My name is Woodrow Saad Muhammad. I’m a guest at the Saguaro Riptide Motel. I’m staying in room 21.”
“How may I direct your call, sir?”
“Someone stole my motherfuckin’ wallet and my motherfuckin’ car,” Jack said. “Oh, yeah. . and he beat the motherfuckin’ shit out of me, too.”
“All right, sir, let me transfer you to-”
“And one other thing: the motherfucker who did it is a guy named Vince Komoko.”
Woody’s head was feeling pretty fucked up when he answered the door.
Two cops stood there.
Two
Two
Shit. Woody hoped that he was seeing double. Seriously.
“Are you Woodrow Saad Muhammad?” the first cop asked.
Woody almost laughed. Stood to figure that they were after
Be a bitch explaining that one, though. So Woody just nodded.
The second cop smiled. “Mind if we come in?”
“Whatever pops your cherry.”
Both bitches glared at him.
The taller of the two entered first. Woody checked her out-blond hair pulled tight against her skull and a long braid that almost brushed her outstanding little ass. Her uniform shirt seemed tailored to show off a perky pair of titties. Put the whole picture together and she kind of reminded Woody of the Valkyrie from the old
“We’re here to follow up on your phone call,” the Valkyrie said, her painted lips expressionless. “You’d like to report a robbery?”
Woody didn’t say spit. This whole thing was fucked up. Like hearing the punch line without hearing the joke. Ever since he awoke that first time at the gas station, he’d been certain that he was tuned in to everything the monk said and did. Of course, it didn’t seem to work the other way around-the monk was real surprised to find out
