The Ten-Ounce Siesta

sharp leaves and gnarled scabs of bark dug into his naked back.

Tony heard water slosh in the canteen as the woman approached. Instinctively, he leaned forward, barbed- wire spikes tearing his flesh.

“Want another drink?” the woman asked.

Tony only moaned.

“You know the price.”

Tony remembered. He opened his mouth. Her gloved fingers brushed his dry tongue as she jammed several pills between his bleeding lips. He thought they were Percodans, the pain pills he was taking for his broken nose. But it seemed like he was hallucinating, too. All that shit with the spider. Maybe the heat was the cause of that. Or maybe his captor was feeding him world-class mind-benders, too.

She tilted the canteen and gave him a long drink. He swallowed thankfully. Then she returned to the shade. Leaning against one wall of the dilapidated shack, she unscrewed a dark bottle and oiled her pale skin with creamy white sunblock.

Tony’s tattoos flared like melting neon on sunburned flesh. The woman had stripped off his shirt while he was unconscious. He figured he was out of it for a good long while. She must have drugged him at his house, slipped something into the kamikaze she mixed soon after he invited her inside.

Tony didn’t regain consciousness until she peeled the Colonel Sanders tattoo off his shoulder with a combat knife, and by that time it was too late. He was already wired to the tree.

His kidnapper had placed some kind of mask over his head. The mask had openings for his mouth, his eyes, and his nose. It was terribly hot, tight as a second skin, but for the most part the mask kept the sun off of his face.

Other parts of his body were painfully exposed. His naked chest had begun to blister. His arms burned, biceps and triceps fiery slabs of useless meat. In a strange way, it was the barbed-wire cuts that saved him. Dried blood wasn’t the best sunblock in the world, but it was doing its job. Anything was better than flesh roasted by unforgiving Mojave Desert sunshine.

Anything was better. . anything. . because pride was useless here. Without strength, pride couldn’t exist.

It didn’t exist.

“More water,” Tony whispered. “Please.”

The woman sighed and capped the bottle of sunblock. “Okay, but not too much. I don’t want you getting any ideas.” She smiled, walking toward him, the canteen sloshing with every step. “After all, you are the baddest man on the planet, and I’m just a weak and frail woman. I certainly wouldn’t stand a chance if you managed to get loose. Right?”

The kidnapper held the canteen just short of Tony’s torn lips. He wanted to tell her exactly what he’d do to her if he got loose. He wanted to say that he’d rip her limb from limb and piss on her corpse.

But Tony couldn’t say that at all. All he could say was, “Unnngh. . Wattttterrrrr. .”

“First things first. I asked you a question, Tiger. A girl like me, I wouldn’t stand a chance against the heavyweight champion of the whole wide world. Right?”

“You. . you would.” Tony said those words, all the while telling himself. Pride doesn ’t exist.

“I couldn’t quite hear you. Tiger.”

She was so close. If he could just get his hands on her. .

“You want a drink, you’d better answer me.”

Tony could barely remember the question.

“The other night.” She slapped his cheek. “Who was stronger? You or me?”

“You were,” Tony began, because he really needed that fucking drink. “You outsmarted me. . and you were stronger”

“I guess I did get the better of you that night, Tiger.” She laughed. “But you were drunk. And you weren’t expecting any trouble.” She patted his skinned shoulder very lightly, and an electric jolt of pain threatened to blow several circuits in Tony’s brain. “That’s why I’ve got to keep you weak,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you getting any ideas about escaping.”

“I won’t get ideas,” Tony said. “I can’t escape. . but I need a drink. .”

No pride. Not here. Pride doesn’t exist. Only the tree exists, only the barbed wire and the memory of the knife. .

The woman tipped the canteen against Tony’s lips. He sucked greedily, managing a long swallow. His tongue was wet now. It felt wonderful. Water cooled his aching throat. For a moment he felt a little stronger.

A cool oasis nestled under his ribs as the water hit his stomach. . cool. . and inviting. . the waters deep, and dark. .

Tony remembered the price he’d paid for a drink of water. The pills were dissolving in his gut. Soon a slow numbness spread to his arms and legs and iced his flayed shoulder.

Tony started to drift.

No, he couldn’t let that happen. He had to fight. God. If he could just get loose. If he could only wrap his hands around this bitch’s slender neck. If he could manage one hard twist, just one. .

The yucca trees stretched far in the distance.

The sun burned down.

Tony blinked against the great white ball, head lolling on his thick neck.

A blinding glint as sunlight slapped the woman’s knife.

She touched the blade to Tony’s other shoulder and began to carve.

Tony couldn’t move. He moaned, soft and low, because his throat was dry all over again.

The woman didn’t say a word as she worked. Tony closed his eyes. He moaned low. . a seashell moan. . and his blood flowed hot and wet, droplets raining on dry desert sand. . pattering, pattering in the seashell silence.

Jack drove through a quiet neighborhood-industrial park redux-which was okay with him. He didn’t say a word. Neither did Angel.

He pulled to the curb just as a starved-looking brunette stepped though the glass doors at 36 Arroyo Blanco. She yawned, pulled at her microminiskirt, and slipped behind the wheel of a battered Malibu.

A moment later she was gone. One vehicle remained in the parking lot. A Jeep Cherokee. Jack hoped the owner of the Jeep would know something about the kidnappers.

Jack figured the faster he could get to the gang, the better. He needed Tony Katt in one piece. Was that selfish? Sure. But Tony Katt was no prince. If the Tiger didn’t have the heavyweight title, Jack would let the kidnappers have their way with him. It wouldn’t be any skin off Jack’s ass. Or Tony’s shoulder, as it were.

But Jack really wanted that title. And he had to admit that he wanted the kidnappers, too. They had screwed him once, with Angel’s dog. That was plenty. They’d damn near killed him with a rattlesnake. And now they were trying to screw him again. Jack didn’t like that much. He didn’t want anyone thinking that they could make a habit of doing him like some chump.

He remembered the kidnapper’s note. Remember, the difference between champ and chump is “U.” Jesus. These people were nuts. Either that, or they wrote Rocky movies for a living.

Jack pulled into the lot and parked the Celica. The air conditioner kicked off as he killed the engine.

“I guess this is it,” Angel said.

“Yeah. I guess.”

Jack grabbed his pistol and stepped out of the car. Man, it was hot. He started sweating almost immediately.

Angel glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Then she pulled the nylon stocking over her head.

“You’re kidding, right?” Jack said. “Angel, its too hot for this shit. I put one of your stockings over my head, I’m gonna suffocate.”