condo decorated in thrift store chic.
From beneath the coffee table. Jack’s geriatric bulldog stared up at him.
“I know,” Jack said. “We had company.”
The bulldog’s name was Frankenstein, and Frankenstein had had a rough time of it until he fell in with Jack Baddalach. The dog had the scars to show for it. But just like the dings on Jack’s Celica, the scars gave Frankenstein a strong connection to his master. Occasionally, Jack was tempted to get all misty-eyed about it, scratch Frankie behind one battered ear and say.
Jack unfastened Frankenstein’s leash from its collar and then untied the leash from the coffee table leg. Whoever had broken into his place had taken care that the dog wouldn’t wander out through the open door. America really was a kinder, gentler place these days. Even the crooks were courteous.
The culprit hadn’t trashed Jack’s place, either. His light-heavyweight championship belt still hung on one wall, bookended on each side by the boxing gloves he’d worn in his first and last pro fights. The bar that separated the kitchen from the living room hadn’t been disturbed; the Sneaky Tiki glassware that had served up Singapore Slings and Relaxers at Harvey’s Tahoe back in the fifties stood waiting and ready. The drawers to Jack’s desk were closed and the desktop seemed undisturbed-the photo of Kate Benteen he’d clipped from an old issue of
If the burglars had left Dino alone, they probably hadn’t messed with anyone else. Jack was about ready to check out the bedroom when he spotted the folded note propped near his telephone. He picked it up and unfolded it. The note was computer generated, and it had a handwritten postscript, and enclosed with it was a five-dollar bill:
Jack held the five-dollar bill in his hands and stared at it until Abraham Lincoln’s self-assured expression really started to piss him off.
He planted the dead president in the center of the page and refolded the note. Jack’s heart was pounding like he was in the ring again, ready to go to war, listening to the referee give the final instructions before the bell sounded for round one. He was that hyped up. Because it didn’t take a straw to break this camel’s back. What it took was a five-dollar bill.
Okay. He’d have to call Freddy, give him the note. And then he’d have to figure out why the dognappers had delivered it to him.
Simple explanation-they thought that Jack was dead. Sure. So they delivered the note to his place instead of the Casbah. Because with Jack dead, his condo would be empty. They wouldn’t have to risk being caught on videotape by a security camera. They could phone Freddy when they were ready. He’d get the note. And he’d know that this crew had done their homework, right down to casing his favorite gofer.
Jack thought it over. Maybe one of the neighbors had seen someone snooping around. He could do a little door knocking, check that out. His next-door neighbor was a retired keno runner who was deaf as a post, but maybe she’d seen something. If Jack was lucky, maybe he’d get a quick lead and-
Frankenstein rubbed against Jack’s ankle. Then the dog sauntered into the kitchen, nudged his empty bowl, and looked at Jack.
“Okay,” Jack said. “Not that you deserve it, because you’re no kind of watchdog.”
He went back to the front door and got the grocery bags. Shit. The other bags were still in the Toy, and it was a hot night. His White Castle Hamburgers were probably thawed and mushy by now.
Well, if they were wrecked, they were wrecked. He’d get them in a minute. He cradled the bag and gave the front door a shove with his foot, but it didn’t close all the way. Didn’t matter. He’d have to check the lock. The jamb, too. Make sure the dognappers hadn’t broken them.
He opened a can of dog food and scooped half of it into Frankenstein’s bowl. He might as well have scooped it directly into Frankie’s mouth, the way the dog went after it.
Jack’s stomach rumbled. Man. He was hungry too. He hadn’t had a thing since breakfast. He’d get those White Castles from the Toy, nuke a couple in the microwave and-
The set of Sneaky Tiki glasses exploded behind him, and blue shrapnel slapped his backside.
Jack whirled.
Two guys holding Louisville Sluggers stood in his living room.
And Angel Gemignani stood between them.
THREE
Jack stared at the two guys with the ball bats. For the first time in his life, he knew just what a pinata felt like.
Angel smiled. Even with a couple of troll escorts, she looked damn good. She was still wearing the Sweet Cherry Love tee she’d worn that morning in Palm Springs, along with torn black jeans, Doc Martens, and Calvin Klein’s Obsession.
She’s a rebel. Jack thought. A punker with a gold card.
Under other circumstances, the perfume might have brightened up Jack’s place. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman around. But all too soon the sweet aroma was eclipsed by the stink of beer and marijuana and fatboy sweat that accompanied her companions.
It wasn’t hard to figure out where Angel had picked them up. The barroom shine in her eyes gave that away. No beer and dope for her, though. Uh-uh. Jack was sure Angel Gemignani wasn’t a beer-and-a-joint kind of woman. She’d sip Sweet Cherry Love drinks-a pink lady, or maybe a cosmopolitan.
Jack wondered if Angel had ever had a mai tai served in a vintage Sneaky Tiki glass. He knew it was a completely inappropriate concern at the moment. But Angel’s sparkling green eyes were way past alluring, and he couldn’t help wondering.
Jack held tight to the open can of dog food. “You’re not thinking straight, Angel.”
“Sure I am. I’m thinking that you’re a smartass. And that’s okay, because I kind of like smartasses. I’m a smartass myself. But I’m thinking that you’re also a chickenshit, and I don’t like chickenshits.”
“Look, I’m really sorry about your dog. I feel pretty awful about the whole thing. But it was a setup. The people who snatched Spike knew that I was coming. They had guns. They locked me up with a rattlesnake, for Christ-sakes-”
“A setup.” She nodded. “Sure. And how do I know you weren’t in on it?”
“You’ve just got to trust me on that one, Angel.”
“Trust you.” She laughed, sharp and hard and bitter. “I don’t trust guys who fuck up. I learned that from my granddaddy. You know what he always says about guys who fuck up.”
“It’s a simple rule, Jack.”
Jack nodded. “And you just broke it.”
The two guys had to be twin brothers. They were both huge bordering on humongous, and they had the kind of faces that would definitely keep them from making it through airport metal detectors on the first trip.
Which meant they were definite pierce-aholics. They’d gone the whole twin route with that particular obsession, too. Identical earrings looped through their earlobes, bejeweled studs dotting the harder cartilage tissue above. Their bristling Neanderthal eyebrows were set off by a startling array of dainty silver loops. They wore nose studs, and an obligatory rod pierced the pouting hollow beneath their lower lips.
Jack figured he’d see identical tongue studs as soon as the twins opened their mouths. The only way he could
