The Ten-Ounce Siesta

ONE

After a discreet visit to a veterinarian in Henderson, spike the Chihuahua was resting comfortably. Angel Gemignani could rest easy, too, but of course that wasn’t Angel’s style. She shifted into slam-dance overdrive. After all, her girlfriends had come to Vegas for a bachelorette party. Under Angel’s direction the affair became a forty-eight-hour nonstop marathon of indulge-o-matic bliss.

Jack was invited, of course. He bowed out politely, mostly because he wanted to give Angel some breathing room. The secrets they had shared at Jack’s condo gave them a special bond of intimacy. Jack had told damn few people anything about Kate Benteen, and Angel was certainly the first person who forced him to admit that he loved Kate. And Jack was pretty sure that there weren’t too many people who knew about Angel’s run-in with Tony Katt or the insecurities she hid beneath a rattlesnake tattoo.

Besides that, Angel had plugged the redhead at the Frank Newman’s office. Jack knew he owed her for that.

The feeling of mutual attraction that had burned between Jack and Angel the first couple of times they bumped up against each other had turned into something special. Not romance, and certainly not love. But something that might, given time, become friendship. Angel had called him just last night, saying that she wanted to get together for lunch before she headed back to Palm Springs. She didn’t say anything directly, but her tone of voice told Jack that she hoped they could be friends, too.

Jack felt good about that. There wasn’t any doubt that he’d gotten off to a rocky start with Angel. Things were working out okay, though. Spike was safe, and Angel hadn’t heard another word from the dognappers. The police were investigating the shooting at the vet’s office, but so far no one had connected Jack or Angel to the trouble. The police couldn’t identify the dead redhead, either-she wasn’t carrying ID, and computer searches of several law enforcement databases had failed to match her fingerprints.

Not that the media were screaming for more info about the dead redhead. In fact, the news reports of the incident hardly mentioned her. Journalists seemed more interested in the “murdered” Komodo dragon. Several animal rights groups were offering rewards for the endangered lizard’s assassin.

But Jack wasn’t worried about Tarzan the bounty hunter showing up on his doorstep. For now, he was willing to leave the dognapping gang to Freddy G’s hotshot investigator. The guy was trying to track Harold Ticks through the California Department of Corrections computers, but it looked like Harold had jumped parole some time back. The investigator hadn’t been able to get in touch with Tony Katt, either. Not that Jack figured the guy could sweat Tony. If Jack was any judge of human nature, the baddest man on the planet wasn’t going to give up his buddy, not now.

Jack took it easy for a couple of days. He didn’t do much more than sit on his couch and read paperbacks. Anybody called, he let the answering machine pick up.

Every once in a while he made himself a couple of White Castle Burgers or Pop Tarts. He watched some television, too. The Tony Katt/Jack Baddalach story was still going strong. Caligula Tate was lobbying for a big money fight between the two men. He had phoned Jack several times.

Jack had spoken to the sports reporter from CNN, just to get the guy off his doorstep. He pretty much spent his five minutes of prime time ducking and dodging the reporter’s questions like bothersome jabs. But the reporter couldn’t get a word out of Tony Katt. No one had seen him. His bruised ego and busted nose were obviously in hiding.

Katt’s disappearing act bothered Jack. It interfered with a decision he had made.

He wanted Tony Katt.

In the ring.

Jack wanted to make Katt pay for what he’d done to Angel. Sure, that was part of the reason he wanted a fight with Tony the Tiger.

But Jack was motivated by more than revenge. And it wasn’t just the money, either. Which was looking pretty spectacular, by the way. Johnny Da Nang was turning out to be one hell of a negotiator. He had jacked Caligula Tate’s initial offer of five million to nine million two, plus a healthy percentage of the pay-per-view action, rebroadcast rights, and live gate. The plan was to let Tate sweat for a couple more days, at least until Tony Katt showed his ugly face again. When that happened. Jack would sign on the dotted line. . he’d take a Katt fight anywhere, anytime, anyplace.

Money was nice, but it could be a pain in the ass, too.

And in the boxing world, it brought out the leeches. But Jack could deal with them. He’d dealt with them before. He wasn’t some kid who would spend a fortune before he even made one.

So he could handle the money, and the revenge angle would be sweet. . but there was more to Jack’s decision.

It was almost kind of funny, because Jack felt that the whole Tony Katt thing was the first conscious decision he’d made in a long time. Since Spike was dognapped. Jack’s run-in with Katt was the one action he had actually planned. Everything else was like one big adrenaline rush, immediate responses demanded by stimuli that were dangerous in varying degrees.

To put it another way: Jack never acted, he always reacted.

Angel kisses him in Palm Springs, and he kisses her before he can even decide if it’s a good idea or not. Dognappers lock him up with a rattlesnake, he’s got to escape or die. Punkers attack his dog, he steps in and takes the punishment. Angel puts the moves on him in a hot tub, he makes the same mistake he made when they kissed. One of the dognappers pulls his chain, he gets into a shootout at a veterinarian’s office. A Komodo dragon goes into rampage overdrive, he has to shoot it before someone gets eaten.

But the fight with Katt was different. Jack had time to think about it. He weighed all the options. The advantages and disadvantages.

And in the end his decision didn’t have much to do with Tony Katt. It had a lot to do with Jack Baddalach and how he defined himself.

Once upon a time he defined himself as the light-heavyweight champion of the world. Then he defined himself as a problem solver for the mob. Just lately he had defined himself in varying degrees as a Chihuahua’s babysitter, a lover ignored, and Jack the Giant Killer.

Back there somewhere, behind ego and pride and all the rest of that bullshit. Jack knew better. He knew that he should define himself as Jack Baddalach. Just plain old Jack. Whatever happened to him, that’s who he was.

It was a healthy attitude. Some would call it a Zen kind of thing.

Jack figured, later for that.

Because he had to admit that he wanted one last definition on top of all those others. One that would stick until the day they put him in his grave, and then some.

Jack Baddalach, heavyweight champion of the world.

Jack took a shower and got dressed. It was Angel’s last day in town. They were going to do lunch at Bertolini’s in the mall at Caesars Palace.

The phone rang as Jack was headed out the door. Johnny Da Nang’s voice came over the answering machine speaker.

Jack picked up. “Hey, Johnny.”

“Good news and bad news, champ. I got Tate up to ten million five.”

“All right. You’re earning your percentage. What’s the bad news?”

“Tony Katt’s still the Invisible Man. No one has seen him. Tate’s worried about it. So am I. If the story starts to cool off before we sign a contract, I figure Tate’s offer will go soft.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “I’ll make a few calls later today. I know a couple of Katt’s sparring partners. Maybe they know what rock he’s hiding under.”

“Sounds good.”

They said their good-byes and Jack headed for the parking lot, swinging by his mailbox on the way.

A couple bills. An Archie McPhee catalog. The new Sports Illustrated featuring cover boy Jack Baddalach over the punch line, giant killer!

A large Express Mail envelope, too. Jack recognized the return address as that of the Casbah Hotel amp; Casino.

But he knew the address was a phony as soon as he opened the envelope and pulled out the ransom note:

Jack stared at the note. The kidnapper-for this note was signed in the singular instead of plural-had used the same font as the previous note. And the smiley face looked identical, too.

But the postscript-they make nice lamp shades-what the hell did that mean? Jack peered into the open envelope. Something was stuck to the paper, glued there. .

. . glued there with blood.

The tattooed face of Colonel Harlan Sanders smiled up at him from a torn canvas of human flesh.

Jack shivered as he saw the words:

Finger Lickin’ Good. .