“Don’t sweat it.” Freddy was up now, patting Jack on the shoulder again, turning the boxer toward the double doors. “I’ve already got a guy on it. He’s a sharp one. Could find Jimmy Hoffa if he had to. He’ll probably phone you tonight. You give him the whole story. It’s probably bullshit, but it can’t hurt.”
“Okay.” Jack talked fast as they headed toward the doors. “But what can I do in the meantime?”
“Just take your ease, champ.” Freddy walked Jack down a corridor, heels clicking over Carrara marble. “Just take your ease.”
The casino owner punched the elevator button. The door opened instantly. Jack didn’t need Freddy to draw a diagram for him. He stepped inside.
“One thing you can tell me, champ. That rattlesnake. The one that was locked in the trunk with you and Jimmy Two-Nose’s dead niece.”
“What about it?”
“Did you really bite the damn thing in half?”
“Yeah.” Jack pressed “L” for lobby, and the elevator doors started to close. “And it’s true what they say about snakes.”
“What’s that?”
“The sonofabitches
TWO
Spoiled Palm Springs punkers, armed and dangerous dognappers cinched in black leather dominatrix gear, rattlesnakes and corpses and irate Mafioso to spare-it didn’t matter how much shit Jack Baddalach went through in one day; none of it was as frightening as the prospect of facing a hungry geriatric bulldog.
Jack dumped thirty cans of dog food into his shopping cart. The brand that was recommended by world- renowned pooch breeders. The brand that contained no fillers or harmful additives. The expensive brand.
It didn’t seem like he’d be scamming many free meals at the Casbah in the very near future, so he figured he might as well do some shopping for himself while he was at it. He heaped the cart with six boxes of ready-to-heat frozen White Castle hamburgers, three boxes of cherry-flavored Pop Tarts, a couple cases of Diet 7Up (because at heart Jack Baddalach was a rebellious uncola kind of guy), two six packs of the one decent beer that was on special, three huge bags of pre-popped popcorn (no palm oil!) that reminded him of the stale stuff upon which he’d gorged as a movie-going youth, and a couple pounds of coffee beans that were blacker than sin.
A couple weeks’ shopping, done in less than ten minutes.
Four squeaky wheels bore his cart to the check stand, where he topped off his selections with a
He paid for the groceries and the tabloid, skinning several twenties from his wallet. It had been a bad day. Spending a fortune on groceries didn’t improve things. Neither did the song spilling from the in-store stereo system.
“Honey” by Bobby Goldsboro.
Jack snatched his change from the checker and exited the market posthaste, Bobby’s trembling vibrato relentlessly trailing him until the automatic doors shushed closed at his heels.
Jack opened the trunk of his battered ’76 Toyota Celica and tossed the grocery bags inside. He didn’t need to pay a fistful of twenties for the privilege of hearing a maudlin love song, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start thinking about Kate Benteen as a result. He’d suffered enough for one day, thank you very much.
Jack climbed into the Toyota, keyed the engine, and turned on the radio.
Ricky Nelson sang “Poor Little Fool.”
Jack changed the station. Righteous Brothers. “(You’ve Lost That) Lovin’ Feeling.” He changed it again and heard Little Anthony goin’ out of his head. Changed it one last time, only to find Sinatra “Learnin’ the Blues.”
That was it.
Jack punched a cassette into the tape deck and zooma-zoomaed into the night to the sound of Louis Prima’s blissfully unromantic wail.
About a year ago, the Celica was about two tanks of unleaded short of the junkyard. Then Jack put some of the money he earned from the Pipeline Beach job into the car. Some semi-serious change, but the mechanic had done a great job. Jack hadn’t had a lick of trouble with the Toy since.
He figured that the Celica was destined to be a classic- the Mustang of the seventies. He was sure car collectors would see the light one of these days, and when that happened he’d score big bucks for the car he’d bought new in 1976. Then again, Jack was a man who in his time had predicted a bright future for 8-track players, Sony Betamaxes, and Apple computers.
The only thing the Toyota lacked was some bodywork. Root beer foam brown in color, its smooth features were blemished by several dented rust spots that glowed like pools of dark Jamaican rum when the neon lights of Vegas shone just right. Jack liked the idea of pools of rum, especially under a neon glow. He also liked the idea that the Celica was a little dinged up, because he was a little dinged up, too. So the bumps and bruises would stay until he decided to sell the Toy.
He pulled into his parking space behind the Agua Caliente condominium complex. Agua Caliente was Spanish for “hot water.” Apart from the fact that every condo in the complex was indeed supplied with hot water, Jack had never uncovered another explanation for the name apart from the fact that real estate developers liked the way those south of the border phrases sounded almost as much as they liked undocumented workers.
The swimming pool looked inviting as he passed by. Empty, peaceful, illuminated with cool blue light. While he walked. Jack’s evening became clear in his mind. He’d feed the dog, have a couple White Castles while he read about the Bat Boy’s latest escapades, and then he’d blow up his air mattress and float away his troubles on a chlorinated sea.
It seemed like the perfect idea, so perfect that he made a deal with himself-tonight he’d forget everything. The kidnapped Chihuahua. Angel Gemignani. Freddy G and his wise guy minions.
Everything. Even Kate Benteen.
The path to Jack’s condo was lined with tiki torches that flickered pleasantly in the evening light. He turned the last sharp corner of the walkway, ready to set down the grocery bags and dig into his jeans pocket for his keys.
He saw that he wouldn’t need them.
The door to his condo was already open.
Jack Baddalach owned a gun-a Colt Python that he’d bought after his first job for Freddy G. He’d come up short in the shooting department during that bad bit of business down in Pipeline Beach, Arizona, and he had the scar tissue on his left forearm to prove it.
Jack was pretty good with the Python. He belonged to a shooting range and everything. But the pistol was in his condo, so it didn’t do him a hell of a lot of good at the moment
Still, he wasn’t going to turn tail. He’d fucked up enough for one day. Maybe this would be his chance to set things right
Jack set the grocery bags to one side of the door and entered the condo. Inside it was dark, and quiet. He stopped in the hallway, listening, his hands balled into fists, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The Venetian blinds were open in the living room. Slashes of ash-colored light painted the carpet and furniture. Jack scanned the room, searching for any sign of movement. He listened for the slightest sound.
Nothing.
Then he saw it. Underneath the coffee table. Something stirred.
Something that panted, then whined.
Jack flicked on the light switch.
The string of tiki lights that rimmed the ceiling glowed yellow and green and white and red, illuminating a
