But none of that was really necessary. Elvis didn’t need an encore. The shotgun was enough.
More than enough. Elvis’s finger went white as it tightened around the trigger. The shotgun barrel weaved in the air, catching the morning light. Suddenly, the gun seemed to have a life of its own.
“Cool down,” Jack said. “Whatever way you want me, that’s how I will be.”
Elvis redirected the barrel and sent a blast over Jack’s head. The boxer dove for the dirt. Elvis released the gizmo that looked like a microphone, chambered another shell, and caught the cord before the mike hit the ground, swinging it up like some kind of too-smooth-for-words lounge singer and slapping it against the scarred ridge of misery that was his throat.
“Don't you fuck with me. . boy don’t you. . fuck with me at all you find out. . what happened to the last boy who thought. . he could chop my beef. . his name was Komoko and some people I know chopped him real good and. . buried his ass china-deep. . you keep out of my briar patch boy ’cause you. . ain’t gonna pick my berries and don't you dare. . speak the King’s words in my presence again or. . I'll send you to hell. . boy on a shingle.”
Jack got up. Slowly. He brushed chalky dust off of his jeans. Glanced at the Saturn sitting there with a blown-out windshield and a flat tire. Shrugging, he turned away and started walking toward the highway.
It was a hot morning, but Elvis’s voice cut through him like a Halloween wind.
“Light-heavyweight. . champion of the world I. . never knew that a hunnert. . and seventy-five pounds could fit in. . such a little sack of shit.”
FIVE
Eight-thirty in the A.M. and Jack Baddalach felt like an egg sizzling on a hot skillet, and whoever had ordered that egg liked ’em scrambled hard.
The highway stretched before him, blacktop shimmering under a blanket of heat waves. The former light- heavyweight champion of the world had been walking for fifteen minutes and hadn’t seen a single car.
He began to wonder exactly how many miles separated him from Pipeline Beach. Seven miles seemed an optimistic estimate; ten was more likely. In the old days, when he’d first turned pro, he’d run ten first thing every morning and gone on to spar ten rounds in the afternoon. But in those days he’d gone 155 soaking wet. These days his weight was closer to 180, and he’d been beat up real good a time or two. Most boxers didn’t like to admit it, but there was something about surviving a real solid beating that took something out of you forever. No matter how hard you trained, you could never get it back.
Jack hadn’t done his roadwork in Wolverine boots and Levis, either. That’s what he was wearing today. The only positive wardrobe choice he’d made was a white T-shirt. It didn’t soak up the heat the way a black one would, but it didn’t exactly make him feel like he was taking a stroll on the North Pole, either.
In fact, he felt like someone was roasting his backbone over a low fire. Still, all in all, he had to admit that his little constitutional was slightly more pleasant than the morning’s other option-a load of buckshot in the ass. And then there was that stuff Elvis had said about Jack’s family jewels hanging on a cactus spike or something. . Jack wasn’t sure of the precise quote, but it had definitely formed a mental picture that had moved into his cerebrum and set up permanent housekeeping.
So he kept on walking, and he tried to think about other things, but every time he looked at one of those goddamned saguaros he imagined his
So he looked at the sky instead. Still no clouds. No shade, no nothing.
And one less vulture, thanks to Elvis’s shotgun.
Hey, get off it, champ. What’s done is done. Sure you got scuffed up. But you survived. Get up off the canvas, take the eight count, and get back to business.
Yeah. Soon as I hump these ten miles.
Jack ran fingers through his hair, slicked it straight back, out of his eyes, and wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. So he’d suffered a flash knockdown. So what. Elvis had come out of nowhere and put him on his ass. But only because Jack had gotten overconfident. After taking out the hit man, he’d figured he was on easy street. He’d figured all he had to do was meet Komoko’s sweetie, sweat her a little, and she’d turn over Freddy G’s bankroll most expeditiously.
He’d set up a meeting with the girl last night. Her name was Priscilla and she’d been real nervous on the phone-to Jack, she’d sounded like a woman who’d been downing straight shots of Maalox since his first call. Still, he should have known to watch his back walking in. Like the referees always said, protect yourself at all times.
Jack couldn’t decide if Priscilla had actually set him up, or if Elvis’s heartachin’
Vincent Komoko was dead.
Buried.
Getting his mail from the gophers.
If gophers could live in a burnin’ hellhole like this desert.
Jack wondered about that. He really did. And he wondered about other things, too. Elvis had mentioned that “some people” he knew had “chopped” Komoko, and Jack wondered who those “people” might be. He wondered if a guy like Elvis might have a couple of friends who were especially good at chopping. Maybe a couple of friends who wore badges and brassieres.
It was something to ponder, all right. This Jack did. In fact, so intense was his consideration of the issue that he didn’t notice the battered Dodge Dakota until it was almost on top of him.
The truck pulled onto the shoulder and didn’t stop until the front bumper was about to get real familiar with Jack’s kneecaps.
The driver hung her head out the window and smiled at him from behind her shades.
“So, champ,” said Kate Benteen. “You want a lift, or what?”
Jack got into the truck and smelled strawberries.
There was a box of Pop Tarts on the seat next to him, along with a thermos. A raw tart missing a few bites lay on the dashboard. It was strawberry all right, and it was leaking.
“You hungry?” Benteen asked.
“Yeah, but not for that.”
“Your loss.” Benteen finished off the tart and poured herself a short cup of coffee. “Breakfast of champions.”
Jack squinted. “Hey, that’s my line.”
“So it is, champ.” She tossed down the coffee, capped the thermos, and hit the road. “Which way you headed?”
“Back to Pipeline Beach. I’m about ready for a real breakfast. Do you know if there’s a Jack in the Box in town?”
“Can’t help you there, champ.”
“Damn. How about MacDonald’s?”
“Jesus. I don’t work for the chamber of commerce.” Benteen’s gaze didn’t stray from the road. “And pay attention to the little details, champ. Like for instance, right now Pipeline Beach is in our rearview mirror. I’m heading the other way.”
“Leaving so soon?”
'Don’t you wish.” She grinned at him. Dark lipstick. Lower lip full and pouty. Pretty damned attractive.
“Well … if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”
'What?”
Jack shrugged. “Something my mother used to say.”
“Your mother must have had the brains in the family.”
Jack thought about that, but trying to decide if Benteen had just insulted his mother made him kind of dizzy,
