Saguaro Riptide

about him-but, hey, that was the monk’s problem.

But this-Woody sure as shit didn’t remember the monk making any phone call. Especially not to the goddamn cops. He wondered how the monk had managed to pull it off. Maybe he’d underestimated the stiff motherfucker.

“I’m waiting,” the Valkyrie said.

“I was robbed,” Woody said.

Shit. A man had to say something. Besides, Woody knew that it was the truth. The monk’s wallet was gone. His gat, too. Even that fucked up whitebread car of his. And all those stiff clothes that made the nigger look like he should be hocking a stack of Muhammad Speaks newspapers on some corner in Vegas.

The Valkyrie didn’t say shit. She was busy following her pert titties around the room, checking things out. Woody figured that was okay. There was nothing to see. Everything had been stolen.

Then he glanced at the bed. Shit. Rewind on that last part, homes. Because the monk’s shoulder holster lay on the cheesy spread, empty.

The Valkyrie must have seen it, but she didn’t say a word.

Woody decided that he’d better ease on over toward the open door.

That was when the other cop crossed the threshold, closed the door, and leaned against it.

This one was shorter. Her titties were actually larger than her partner’s, but her uniform shirt was way too baggy to show them off.

“My face is up here,” she said.

Woody blinked and found the woman’s eyes.

Shit.

Her eyes were blue and very angry.

The Valkyrie said, “What’s your real name, anyway? I mean, you registered here at the Riptide as Woodrow Jefferson. But when you called our office, you said your name was Woodrow Saad Muhammad.”

Woody blew a sour breath her way. The monk had really fucked it up. That’s how bad Woody’s note had rattled him. The church-goin’ motherfucker had actually written Woody’s name on a motel registration card. And that blew Woody’s cover cold. Man, just when he was ready to start off fresh, after all these years.

“Don’t you understand, boy?” Big Titties said. “The sheriff means, What did your momma name you?”

Both women stared at him, waiting for an answer, the heels of their gunhands resting on their pistols. Woody wanted to laugh. Seriously. Shit, he thought every word these bitches said was true. He hated all that Muslim crap. But these bitches thought that he was the monk. . and the monk wouldn’t appreciate talk like that.

Man, this was sure as shit getting complicated.

The Valkyrie smiled. “You can talk, can’t you?”

Big Titties said, “Maybe he speaks Swahili or something.”

“Maybe we could call in the United Nations-”

“Or try Esperanto.”

“I’m a Muslim,” Woody lied, trying to sound like the monk. “I changed my name when I converted.”

“Is that so?” The Valkyrie wrinkled her brow. “I gotta admit that I don’t quite get it. Not that you changed your name- that’s okay-but it’s the part you didn’t change that bothers me. See, I’d understand if you’d changed your name from Woodrow Jefferson to Ali Baba Muhammad or something like that. I mean, if you’re going to change something, change it. Go whole hog. Hell, sticking with Woodrow. . that’s lame. I mean, you might as well be Moe Saad Muhammad or Curly Saad Muhammad or Shemp Saad Muhammad. What’s the point? You’re still Moe or Curly or Shemp. You’re still one of the Three Stooges.”

Big Titties said, “Scratch a Saad Muhammad, find a Jefferson.”

Woody wanted to laugh so bad he almost pissed himself. These bitches were sure enough his kind of folks.

But he had to keep a straight face so he could get this shit over with. “Mostly I use my old name for business,” he explained. “Sometimes it makes things easier. Especially when I’m on the road. You’d be surprised- ain’t everybody as enlightened as y’all.”

The Valkyrie sat down on the bed, picked up the shoulder holster. “By the way. Woody, just what is your business?”

“I’m in ladies’ gun belts.” Woody laughed. “I’d give you gals a free sample, but the motherfucker who robbed me stole my sample case.”

The women laughed and shook their heads.

“Looks like we’ve got us a real comedian on our hands,” the Valkyrie said.

“Looks like,” Big Titties put in.

Woody kept quiet.

“What can you tell us about the man who beat you up?” the Valkyrie asked.

Woody stared at her tits, at the long blond braid draped over her right shoulder like a whip. If the opportunity arose, and he kind of hoped it might, he was really going to enjoy chilling this bitch.

Shit. Down in his pants, Little Woody was getting real hard.

He hoped the Valkyrie could see that.

If only he had the monk’s pistol. .

A grin twitched at the comers of the woman’s painted mouth. A lipstick grin the color of blood.

“Answer my goddamned question,” the Valkyrie said. “What can you tell us about the guy who kicked your ass?”

Woody tried to stare her down.

He blinked first.

Shit.

“Don’t you get it?” Big Titties said. “We’re way past done fucking around with you.”

“It’s like this,” the Valkyrie explained, “if you don’t give us an answer right now, we’ll hurt you so bad your relatives in Africa will feel the pain.”

Woody’s anger boiled. No bitch was going to talk to him like that. “I’ll tell you this much about the bastard who jumped me-he’s a dead man.”

“You don’t have to tell me a goddamned thing,” the Valkyrie said. “Whatever scam you’re trying to run, you might as well drop it here and now, because you aren’t half as smart as you think you are. Calling us up and telling us Vince Komoko robbed you, when I know the son of a bitch is dead. That isn’t news to me, idiot. I know he’s dead because I killed his ass. And if you don’t want to end up the same way, I suggest you get the hell out of my town.”

Big Titties said, “We don’t mean tomorrow or the next day.”

“We mean before sundown,” the Valkyrie said.

Baddalach stared at the directions he’d scrawled on a piece of motel stationery. Komoko’s woman had said she’d meet him at eight A.M. sharp. He was supposed to look for a double-wide trailer with a pink Caddy parked out front on the west side of the highway, then take the next dirt road heading east.

As it turned out, one was right on top of the other. Jack hit the brakes and swung the wheel hard to avoid missing the turn. The Saturn lurched through it like a man having a heart attack, and then Jack was on the dirt road.

Which was not in what you’d call good repair. There were potholes aplenty. Jack hit damn near every one of them, and about a quarter mile down the road he hit the granddaddy of them all.

The steering wheel seemed to explode. A giant marshmallow appeared out of nowhere and attempted to smother him.

A goddamn air bag. It didn’t do much to protect him-the only purpose it served was to muffle his curses.

And blind him. Jack couldn’t see a thing.