Saguaro Riptide

ONE

High noon on the Las Vegas strip.

Cannonade rattled a hundred-plus plateglass windows.

Freddy Gemignani stood before one of those rattling windows, staring out at Las Vegas from his penthouse suite on the twenty-sixth floor of the Casbah Hotel amp; Casino. On the other side of the Strip a British frigate was battling a pirate ship in the gigantic moat which fronted the immediate competition, an animatronically enhanced casino that was currently putting a world-class financial hurt on the operation Freddy had established back in ’59 with a little help from the Teamster’s Union pension fund.

"Thar she fuckin’ blows,” Freddy G said, turning toward a man who was sitting alone on the expansive sofa which ran the length of the window.

The man was on the wrong side of thirty but the right side of thirty-five. Not that he was the kind of guy who was bothered by age. He didn’t think that way. His belly was flat, and his sandy brown hair was his own, and most days he rolled out of bed without making any of the horrible hacking sounds his old man had made after he hit thrty. That wasn’t so surprising-after all, the man had never developed his father’s three-pack-a-day habit-but the fact that he could still wear jeans and a T-shirt and cowboy boots without looking like a Hollywood poseur or a redneck or a guy who should be parking cars somewhere was.

His name was Jack Baddalach. And he didn’t bother to acknowledge Freddy G’s comment, because he knew that the casino boss wasn’t even warmed up yet.

“Christ on a cross. Jack,” Freddy said. “This salty-dog shit is driving me nuts. I mean, you’ve heard the old stories about me-even the government boys say I’ve mellowed since the fifties. Most things I can take with a modicum of good grace. But losing money to a Mickey-fucking-Mouse abortion of a casino with a couple of dolled-up rowboats out front isn’t one of them.”

Jack nodded. Perhaps he was agreeing that losing money was a bad thing, or that Freddy G had in fact mellowed since the glory days of the pink Cadillac and the platinum-blond starlet, or that protracted exposure to salty-dog shit would undoubtedly drive one nuts. Or it might have been that his unspoken affirmation simply conceded the point that Jesus Christ, indeed, had died on a cross.

Not that any of it mattered. Not really. What mattered was that (1) Jack Baddalach had heard slight variations on this particular theme a dozen times or more, and (2) he thought enough of Freddy G to suffer another rerun without complaint.

So Freddy G continued. “In the old days a guy would decide where he’d drop his load based on the essentials-which joint had the cocktail waitresses with the best tits, and which joint dressed those gals in outfits that would show off those tits to the best advantage, and which joint had one of those gals waiting for you up in your room sans outfit once you’d dropped your greenbacks. Sure, that wasn’t the whole deal-it’d be okay if you could get a decent meal cheap, or hear Frankie Laine in the big room if you felt like tearing yourself away from the tables. Maybe even shake hands with Joe Louis in the lobby or something, get in a round of golf with him if you were a high roller.”

Freddy shrugged. “Oh, maybe you had to gild up the lily just a little bit, even then. Maybe you built a sixty-foot concrete sheik straddling the parking lot or something. That I could live with. But now. Jesus. Vegas is a different place. Pirate ships lobbing invisible cannonballs at Her Majesty’s Navy, right on the Strip.

“They call ’em megaresorts. Guys running around town, talking about their visions. Pirate ships, giant guitars, pyramids and castles-I could give a shit. These guys wouldn’t know vision if it bit them in the ass.”

Freddie shook his head. “But that’s what we’ve come to these days. Guys bringing the wife and kids to town in the family wagon, like they were going to goddamn Disneyland or something.” He sighed. “And you want to know the worst of it, Jack? The most disgusting part of the whole deal?”

Jack didn’t say anything, but he tilted his head slightly. His eyebrows did a little peekaboo act above the rims of his very dark sunglasses.

For Freddy G, the response was sufficiently encouraging. “I’ll tell you the worst of it, boy. The goddamn fairies don’t even care if they even get laid anymore. All of them are scared of AIDS. The shmoes come all the way to Vegas, and they ride goddamn roller coasters, and they slide their fat asses down water slides, and they sleep with their wives. Christ! They bring their wives to goddamn conventions in goddamn Vegas!” Freddy laughed. “Wife’s got her husband’s balls in a jar back home. Keeps ’em in the laundry room on a high shelf. The shmoes, they don’t even ask to take ’em down anymore, ’cause the wife is always reminding ’em. You remember what happened the last time I let you have ’em. You watched ESPN for twenty hours straight, ate red meat, farted all night and practically asphyxiated me. I saw a talk show told all about it the other day-Guys who keep their balls in a jar and the women who love them. Can you believe it, boy?”

Of course Jack didn’t believe it. He knew well enough that Freddy couldn’t make the least little point without about a half mile of exaggeration. Even so, the simple truth was that Jack had a whole lot of trouble believing even the slightest tidbit of information gleaned from the CBS Evening News, let alone a bubbleheaded talk show, but he didn’t want to take that particular detour on the conversational highway. So he simply sighed and shrugged, staying the course, casually reaching for the beer that waited on the glass cocktail table before him. The bottle was glacier-cold, but Jack didn’t lift it to his lips. Instead he held it in his left hand and rolled it back and forth across the aching knuckles of his right.

For Freddy G, just the fact that Jack had touched the bottle was a cue of more than sufficient proportion. The casino boss reached for a Bloody Mary that waited on the bar. He took a healthy swallow, then gobbled the celery stick, chewing loudly.

One more time, the roar of cannonade rose from the Strip.

One more time, the windows in Freddy’s suite rattled.

So did Freddy.

“Hear that. Jack? Night and fucking day, I hear it. I got the whole show memorized.” He waved his drink in the direction of the window. “Next thing, the captain of the British frigate is gonna start bellowing in that phony Charles Laughton voice of his. The limey bastard’s gonna go down with his ship, gonna sink to the bottom of briny Vegas. Gonna throw in the towel to a bunch of candy-ass pirates, every one of them a ringer for that Fabio asshole. Pumped up on steroids like a bunch of prize Herefords. Waxed chests. Hair like Gorgeous George. And dicks the size of sardines, believe you me.”

Jack fought it, but he knew he couldn’t win. His poker face collapsed in a wide grin.

Freddy finished off his celery, smiling slyly. “Shiver me pectorals and pass that blow-dryer, you old sea dog,” he lisped, his Liberace imitation dead-on as always. “Never knew they had Miz Clairol on the Spanish Main, didja, Matey?”

Jack laughed at that last one and was surprised to find that laughing felt good. “Someday you’re going to get into trouble with that shit, Freddy. These days you’re politically incorrect.”

“Christ on a cross, Baddalach. Liberace himself used to laugh at that one.”

“Yeah, well. That was the fifties. You weren’t so mellow then, remember? You had a temper.” Baddalach shook his head. “You weren’t any funnier back then, you were just scarier.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’d laugh like a fucking hyena if the alternative was taking a high dive off of Hoover Dam.”

“Go ahead, Jack. Rain on my fucking parade. Kick me when I’m fucking down.”

The smile stayed put on Jack’s face. “Not when I can sink your fucking battleship.”

Two Bloody Marys later, Freddy G settled down to business.

“So,” he said. “Take off the cheaters. Let Papa see.”

Jack sighed but did as he was told, folding his sunglasses and setting them on the table.

“Christ on a cross, will you look at that. Are those your eyelids, boy, or did you get kidnapped by a mob of little old ladies who tried to make a patchwork quilt out of your face?”

“C’mon, Freddy. Give me a break. It’s not that bad. The stitches come out next Tuesday.”

“Your skin’s getting too old for this shit.”

“It was those damn Reyes gloves. Everybody in the business knows they can turn a guy who punches like Twiggy into Jack the Ripper. I swear they’ve got razor blades in ’em. It would have been a different story if the commission would have gone for Everlast. But no. What Sugar Ray Sattler wants, Sugar Ray Sattler gets. Jesus. The guy’s had two title defenses. I had five. And half of mine were in the other guy’s backyard.”

“Yeah, it’s a long, sad story. If you would’ve had those Everlasts, things would have been different.” Freddy shook his gray head. “Face it. Jack. It wasn’t your night. If someone had amputated Sattler’s right hand, you still would have ended up on your butt.”

Jack grinned. “Show a little mercy, huh? Remember, Freddy, I’m in pain. And the truth definitely hurts.”

“How’s the nose?”

“Well, the left nostril kicked in yesterday. That was a relief-all that mouth-breathing was making me feel like an extra from Deliverance. I’m hoping the right will get embarrassed and join in tomorrow.”

“Like hell. You couldn’t breathe through the right side before Sattler kicked your butt. You’ve got a deviated septum, Jack. You ought to get it fixed.”

“Look, I’m not going to pay anyone to break my nose. Some guy gets a free shot at me, I’m the one who’s going to get paid. Especially if he gets to use a hammer.”

Freddy laughed. “Is that a miserable excuse for a segue, my boy?”

“Well, the commission’s still holding up my purse. And I’m sitting on my wallet, Pops. And it sure ain’t causing me any back problems at the present moment.”

Freddy moved behind the bar and freshened his Bloody Mary. Jack rolled the beer bottle back and forth across his aching knuckles. Two weeks since the fight, and it was still murder making a fist. Just a couple years ago he could have sat down at a piano and played a fucking concerto a few days after a twelve-rounder. If he’d happened to know how to play the piano, that is. But these days. . well, these days it seemed his hands always hurt.

Jack gripped the bottle. Hard. Trying to keep it light was turning out to be a much taller order than he’d expected. And there was a good reason for that. Deep down, Jack realized the hidden purpose of this meeting.

Freddy was calling him on the carpet.

Shit. Even Ray Charles could see that.

Jack Baddalach could feel it in his bones. This was going to be the big kiss-off.

The road he’d traveled with Freddy G had been a long one. He’d had most of his fights at the Casbah. Jesus, he’d made his professional debut in the stadium/parking lot behind the casino back in ’78. He’d won his title in the same ring in ’86. But it had been quite a few years since anyone had strapped a belt around his belly, and now that he’d battled a young lion and come out looking like roadkill. . Well, he’d promised himself that the fight with Sugar Ray Sattler would be his last hurrah-win, lose, or draw. It had been easy, saying that before the fight, believing he could walk away from it all.

Winning would have made it easy. If it hadn’t made him hungry all over again, of course. And a draw he could have lived with. But losing. .

And there was no question that he’d lost. Badly. The ref had counted ten over him. And if it wasn’t bad enough getting KO’d by some candyass nicknamed Sugar, there was the humiliation that came after that.

Jack didn’t remember it, not really. But thanks to the magic of videotape, he’d seen it a dozen times. Sattler’s asshole promoter, he of the electric hair and audiophile-quality bullshit, had jumped in Jack Baddalach’s bloody face after the fight, barking, telling Jack that he was nothing but a washed-up pug. He opined that Jack Baddalach was an embarrassment to the pugilistic brotherhood, nothing less than a fraud. Him, a guy who’d never laced on a pair of gloves in his life, an ex-numbers runner with a big mouth. And when Jack shoved the promoter, the guy started in on Jack’s skin tone, saying that Jack’s complexion was the only reason he’d made the connection with a class act like Sugar Ray Sattler.

In light of the words that followed, that comment was actually polite. Quaint, in its own way, like calling Jack a great white hope.

The barrage that crossed the pay-per-view airwaves that evening was rattler-mean and gutter-nasty. Even 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.