Saguaro Riptide

though Jack didn’t remember any of it, he saw what was coming when he watched the tape. First he sighed. Then he shook his head. His lip twisted into a disgusted smirk. And all the while, the promoter kept on yapping.

Once more, the word complexion reared its ugly head. As the promoter spat the second syllable, Jack launched the best left hook of his career. It landed flush, and the promoter bit off the final syllable and a quarter-inch of overworked tongue. Going down, he looked like a side of beef that happened to be wearing a tuxedo.

“You need some dough. Jack?” Freddy asked.

“Naw. You already did enough, Pops. Hell, you could have bought your own pirate ship with the money you put up for my bail.” He shrugged. “And you know me, I don’t live all that big.”

“Yeah. But these days even that costs money.” Freddy G sat down next to Jack. “Don’t worry about it, kid. The guy won’t press charges. He’ll just play it for publicity. With his record, he doesn’t want any part of you in a court of law.”

“Yeah. . well. . we’ll see about that.”

“I gotta tell you, Jack: you impressed me the other night. Flattening the guy the way you did. It was something to see.”

“C’mon. It wasn’t much. I mean, I already had the gloves on. I sure didn’t do much to Sattler with ’em. Seemed a shame to call it a night without cleaning someone’s clock.

“Naw. I ain’t talkin’ about the punches. I’m talkin’ about the trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Yeah. You got a talent for it, Jack. I can see that now. How you’re handling this whole mess. Like it doesn’t faze you. I never knew you were built that way. Christ, you’re a born pro.” He sipped his Bloody Mary. “You know me, Jack. I like to cut to the chase. Bottom line is this-I think you’ve come to the end of one road, and I’d like to help you get started on another.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “I need it a little plainer than that, Freddy. I came here expecting the big kiss-off. You know: you’ve seen your day, kid. It’s time to hang ’em up. Maybe we’ll get you a job playing golf with the shmoes.'

“That ain’t what this is.”

‘Then what is it?”

“You said you want it plain. Okay. I’ll make it plain.” Freddy drained the Bloody Mary but didn’t go after another. “Got a guy been working for me the last six months. Name of Vince Komoko. Vince, he’s a go-getter. Some of the boys met him out in Hollywood last year-guy was actually some kind of war hero who rode the fast track to celebrityland. Went to work for us out there, made some moves smoother than Ex-Lax. Lately he’s been running the vig for us. That’s the money we skim off the top-”

“C’mon, Freddy. I’ve been around this town a few years, you know?”

“Okay. Well, he’s running the vig, Vince is. Where it comes from, you don’t want to know. Where it goes, you don’t need to know. All you need to know is that in between it’s supposed to detour through a bank in Dallas, and Vince gets it from here to there in a car. Vince was supposed to show up in Dallas two days ago, and he never made it.”

“So somewhere between here. . and there. .”

“You’re getting the picture.”

“What kind of money are we talking about?”

The big man swore. “Close to two mil in hundred dollar bills.”

“Shit.”

“That’s a fucking understatement.” Freddy sucked a deep breath. “Now, here’s my proposition. You seem to have some free time on your hands. You have a pretty decent head on your shoulders-”

Jack waved him off. “You’ve got plenty of guys working for you, Freddy.”

“But they ain’t you.' Freddy threw up his hands. “They ain’t smart like you. They’re not the kind of guys got the stones to get in the ring with a hotshot like Sugar Ray Sattler, and they sure ain’t got the stones to punch out a millionaire boxing promoter. They’re guys just like Vince Komoko. . and he’s the guy caused me this problem in the first place. Christ on a cross, if my guys found out how much those pirates are making across the street, they’d be first in line when Captain Kidd gets waterlogged and takes early retirement. I don’t need a guy like that. What I’m looking for is a little thing called loyalty.”

“Dogs are loyal, Freddy.”

“Dogs don’t make what you’ll be making.”

“Which is?”

“I figure fifteen percent is an appropriate finder’s fee.”

“You give a waiter fifteen percent, Pops.”

The big man laughed. “Make it twenty.”

“Off the top of my head that sounds pretty good.”

“You get out your calculator when you get home,” Freddy said. “It’ll sound a whole lot better.”

Jack set his beer on the table. The bottle was still full, still cold, but he didn’t need it anymore. Somehow, his knuckles felt a whole hell of a lot better.

“So,” he said, “how’s the Casbah’s health plan, boss?”

“You ain’t gonna need one,” Freddy said. “You’re gonna make out fine.”

An envelope changed hands.

“What’s this?” Jack asked.

“The key to a pirate’s treasure trove,” Freddy said, and then he laughed.

TWO

Baddalach waited at a traffic light on the corner of Casbah Avenue and the Strip, his ’76 Toyota Celica vibrating like a cymbal in a strip club, aka overtime.

These days the Strip practically stretched all the way to the desert hamlet of Baker, California. Baker was famous as home of the world’s tallest thermometer, which was sometimes known to hit the 120-degree mark. Jack didn’t know how accurate the amazing colossal thermometer was. Skeptic that he was, he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that it was the world’s least accurate, a scam to drag sun-roasted tourists into town for a couple of cold brewskis.

But Baddalach knew better than that-the “least accurate” part of the equation, anyway-for he actually owned the world’s least accurate thermometer. Well, thermostat, anyway, but Jack wasn’t one to quibble when it came to definitions, especially definitions of the automotive variety.

The thermostat in question was part of Jack’s Toyota, and at present he was staring down the gauge that tracked its efficiency with such murderous intensity that he might have been mistaken for Mike Tyson himself.

But staring didn’t seem to intimidate the gauge. The Celica’s radiator needle edged toward the danger zone.

Sweat beaded on Baddalach’s upper lip.

The needle clipped the red sliver at the high end of the gauge.

Menacingly, a red light ignited on the dashboard.

At the same moment, the traffic light flashed to the cool, unreal green of a suburban lawn. Baddalach dug out while the digging was good. He shut down a coughing Pinto and cut in front of a VW bus that looked like it had survived the summer of love, the days of disco, the era of voodoo economics, and was still holding tough in the days of corporate downsizing.

Such a maneuver was quite an accomplishment on the Toyota’s part. Making it gave Baddalach an undeserved sense of confidence. Or maybe it was the vision of Freddy G’s twenty percent dancing in his head. Whatever the cause, Baddalach’s adrenaline had risen to Mario Andretti levels, and he took the corner of West Dunes Road like a man who wasn’t riding on retreads.

Baddalach hit the freeway. Fourth gear kicked in with only the slightest grinding sound. The clutch slip-slided just a little as Jack made fifth. Once secure, he wasn’t downshifting for anyone.