The Ten-Ounce Siesta

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.”

“Yeah: He who fucks up gets fucked 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 tell them apart was by their rock ’n’ roll T-shirts. Your basic black Gen X-wear, oversized and overpriced, featuring the darlings of sludge lovers everywhere-Mudhoney on the left, and Garbage on the right.

Jack stood up, still holding the can of dog food. “You boys are making a big mistake. This is your chance to back out.”

Mudhoney smiled like a jack-o’-lantern, full and yellow, his only answer the percussive beat of a tongue stud against his front teeth.

Jack thought. Surprise, surprise.

“Last warning,” he said. “I used to be the light-heavyweight champion of the world.”

Mudhoney laughed. “We seen you get knocked out. And by a nigger, too.”

“We had money on your white ass,” Garbage said. “You let down your race, man.”

“Yeah. We got us a score of our own to settle with you.”

Mudhoney stepped into the kitchen. Garbage backing him up. Jack angled in front of Frankenstein, who had wedged his cowardly ass in the comer where the refrigerator met the wall. There wasn’t much room between Mudhoney and Jack. Maybe five feet. Not enough room to throw the can of dog food Jack held in his hand. But throwing it wouldn’t do any good anyway-these two behemoths weighed two-fifty a piece at least. A can of dog food wasn’t going to slow them down. Unless-

Jack lashed out with the can, open end aimed at the two men. One sharp sucking sound, and a slick gob of Meaty Treaty flew across the room and splattered Mudhoney from his yellow smile to his eyes.

He dropped his bat and fell back a step, wiping his eyes and blinking furiously.

“You shithouse rat!” Garbage started forward, his bat cocked over his right shoulder. “You’re dead.”

The kitchen was tiny. In cramped quarters, a baseball bat was hardly an ideal weapon. Garbage had maybe one swing. If Jack could elude the punker’s first strike, then he could get his licks in.

Garbage grunted. Batter up.

Jack took a quick step forward, careful to keep Frankenstein behind him, then backed off just as fast, hoping to draw Garbage off balance.

But Garbage followed the move beautifully. Jack saw that right away.

The bat rushed toward his head. He watched it come. .

. . and heard Garbage’s Doc Martens squeal across the linoleum as the punker slipped on the same lump of dog food that had struck Mudhoney in the face.

Garbage went down hard. Jack grinned at the moron. He’d dropped his bat. In a second Jack would have it and then he’d take care of business.

Jack reached for the bat and ran into Mudhoney’s knee, which slammed him against the refrigerator. The big punker laid into him before he could recover, fists banging Jack’s belly, a dog food-slathered smile on his ugly face, little bits of brown gelatin clinging to the silver rings pinned to his eyebrows.

Jack grabbed a handful of rings and pulled. Mudhoney’s scream tore the air like a Guns N’ Roses guitar solo-long and loud, covering several octaves. He stumbled back and Jack followed him, eager to get hold of Mudhoney’s bat and finish things.

Jack got the bat, but not where he wanted it. It came up from below and smacked him between the legs, not hard but certainly hard enough, and he dropped to his knees and his right fist opened and silver rings rained down on the tiled floor.

Garbage and Mudhoney towered over Jack, not looking at him, looking toward the refrigerator instead. They didn’t say a word, but Jack could hear what they were thinking.

Let’s mash the fucker’s dog.

Frankenstein could hear them, too. The geriatric bulldog was wedged into the corner, scarred from too many beatings, scared straight through to the bone.

But not too scared to fight back. Bulldog lips curled back over teeth just as yellow as Mudhoney’s.

Frankenstein started to growl.

“No!” The word split Jack’s lips as Garbage’s bat arced down. Jack barely got under it, shielding Frankenstein from the blow. The bat caught him on the left shoulder as his hands closed over Frankenstein. He clutched the dog against his belly, and Mudhoney’s bat came crashing down against his left leg as he tried to get up and his foot went out from under him, twisting the wrong way and suddenly he was on his ass.

“Let me have him,” Mudhoney said, blood gushing from his tom eyebrow.

“Okay.” Garbage nodded, wheezing hard. “But I get the dog.”

“You sick bastards,” Angel Gemignani said. “That’s enough.”

Mudhoney and Garbage didn’t particularly want to listen to her.

They didn’t want to leave Jack’s condo, either.

But they did both those things.

Because they had a couple of baseball bats.

And Angel Gemignani had a gun.

Angel smiled. “I never figured you for a dog lover.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Jack said. “And so are you. Freddy said you carried a gun, but I thought he was kidding. I never guessed that anyone who wore a Sweet Cherry Love T-shirt would pack a.45.”

“A girl’s gotta accessorize, Jack.”

Jack nodded. They were sitting in the hot tub near the condo swimming pool. The whole thing was crazy. One minute Freddy’s granddaughter was thirsty for his blood, the next they’re deep into a witty repartee kind of thing. All because Jack had a soft spot for dogs.

And he was letting Angel get away with it. That was the really crazy thing. But there was something about her. Jack had tangoed with a couple of poor little rich girls in his time. He’d been run through the slap slap kiss kiss mill by experts. The whole big-money-breeds-big-emotions routine.

With Angel it didn’t seem like a put-on. Of course, Jack had to admit that he really didn’t know her at all. But he was beginning to think that maybe he wanted to know her. His phone sure as hell wasn’t ringing off the hook. He was beginning to think-

No. He wasn’t thinking at all. In fact, he was real tired of thinking about anything.

Angel was still wearing her T-shirt. Now it was wet and nearly transparent, but no one needed to feel embarrassed because Angel was still wearing that black brassiere, too.

Jack wore a pair of old boxing trunks. The tub jets were going full blast. Hot water bubbled against his sore shoulder and leg. He’d been hit plenty of times before tonight, but never with a baseball bat. The Jacuzzi jets, as well as a stiff drink, were dulling the pain.

“You ever have a mai tai before?” Jack asked.

“This is my first.” Angel raised her Fred Flinstone jelly jar glass and took another sip. “Here’s to Fred. . and Barney Rubble, too.”

“Don’t forget Dino.” Jack shook his head. “Sorry about the glass. It kind of ruins the effect, but your friends broke my Sneaky Tiki collection.”

“Yeah. . well. . I’m beginning to see that I made a mistake about you. And that’s not an easy thing for me to admit.”

“Hey, you’re a rich girl. You can make it up to me. A couple hundred bucks at an antique store and you can replace my entire collection of Sneaky Tiki glassware. Get lucky at the right thrift shop and you might even find a real steal.”

“You really like all that old Trader Vic’s stuff, huh?” She chewed on a piece of pineapple. “Anybody ever tell you your place looks like the Tiki Room at Disneyland?”

“Yeah. The editors of Better Homes amp; Gardens. They’re doing a spread on my place next month. Tiki chic. It’s going to be all the rage.”

Angel smiled again. Her smile looked really different without the makeup. She didn’t exactly look younger, but maybe a little more innocent. And Jack knew that impression was a few clicks south of accurate because-

Angel came across the tub. Jack didn’t do anything to stop her. She massaged his bruised shoulder. Jack closed his eyes. A prickle of pain jabbed him to the bone as her strong fingers worked deeper, and then his muscles began to loosen, and the pain went away.

“Feel good?”

“Great.”

“I took lessons.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

Angel’s fingers departed Jack’s shoulder and found his thigh. Again, she went to work on him. Again, Jack felt a prick of pain. Before long, a feeling that was a long way from pain replaced it.

“I really am sorry about tonight,” Angel said. “You were really brave, protecting your dog that way. When I saw you do that, I just knew you couldn’t have been part of any scam that might hurt Spike.”

She took a deep breath. “I really really miss Spike. We’ve never been separated, not even for a day. He’s the one constant thing in my life, the one thing I can really count on. I know it’s crazy to feel that way about a dog, but Spike is. . well, he’s a lot more than just a pet.”

Jack didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. He was concentrating on Angel’s fingers as they kneaded his thigh muscles, concentrating on that feeling that was a long way from pain-

Angel whispered in his ear. “They hit you somewhere else, didn’t they?”

Jack nodded, settling back, his eyes still closed.

Angel moved closer.

A collage of sound-Angel’s throaty chuckle, almost girlish; water bubbling merrily in the hot tub; desert wind whispering through the surrounding palms.

The patter of Bally loafers on concrete.

Jack’s eyelids flashed open like a couple of window shades that had been yanked really hard.

Steam wafted from the tub, hiding the lower half of the man who stood at water’s edge, but to Jack it didn’t look like steam at all. It looked like smoke. It had to be smoke. Because the man staring down at him looked way too much like Lucifer.

“You two look like a lobster dinner.”

“Yeah, Freddy, I guess we do.”

“Don’t be mad, Grandad,” Angel said. “It was my idea.”

Freddy G stared at Jack, then at Angel. She didn’t say another word. The casino owner snapped his fingers, and one of his boys handed Angel a towel. No one got a towel for Jack.

“The boys will drive you home, Angel.”

“No. I’ll drive myself.”

Angel started walking. She was still dripping wet, the towel draped over her shoulders. Freddy’s bodyguards trailed her without a word.

When they were alone, Freddy G pulled up a lounge chair and leaned toward Jack. “We had a call from the dognappers.” The casino owner’s face bore no sign of emotion as he spoke those words, but there was a definite tremor in his voice as he asked Jack, “What’s this I hear about you holding a ransom note?”