Saguaro Riptide

THREE

Baddalach punched the Saturn’s gas pedal and frowned. Damn, but he hated cars that were named after astronomical phenomena. The Ford Galaxie, the Mercury Comet, the Chevy Nova. . and now the Saturn.

Not that they weren’t okay automobiles-it was the old game of heightened expectations that bothered Jack. Some marketing guy in Detroit decides that people want to feel like Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise when they climb behind the wheel and pretty soon you’ve got automobiles named for every heavenly body this side of Uranus, as if a metal box on four wheels could really send you soaring through the stratosphere.

And what was worse was that people fell for it. All kinds of people. Even hit men.

Jack laughed at that. He sure hadn’t expected the hired gun to show up in a Saturn. He’d expected something flashy and tanklike. A Caddy or something.

But maybe the hired gun was smarter than the average bear when it came to such matters. No ostentatious Caddy ragtop for him. He’d picked a car that would make him look like Joe Suburbs. That showed a little more brainpower than Jack might have expected.

So maybe the hit man was a thinking man. That didn’t worry Baddalach. Let the son of a bitch think all he wanted to. Thinking wasn’t going to change the fact that he couldn’t take a punch.

The cat was a big mother, too. Not heavy. Pure ectomorph- the kind of body type Jack wished he had. Hell, he hadn’t felt any fat at all when he’d kidney punched the dude. Good muscle mass and low body fat. Jack would’ve never lost his title if he’d had a body like that.

He’d kind of hated to clobber the guy while he was praying, though. That seemed like a low blow. But, hey, the guy was a dog-beater. What the hell did he deserve?

Jack grinned. What a beauty of a punch it had been. Half uppercut, half hook-like slamming a brick under the guy’s ribcage. Hey, for Jack Baddalach, that spelled S-A-T-I-S-F-A-C-T-I-O-N. Rabbit-punching the guy and watching him go down was even better.

First the chump dropped to his knees. Then he went face first into the gravel, sending up a puff of dust that looked kind of like a miniature Hiroshima.

Yep. It was a real Kodak moment, all right.

Jack hadn’t lingered, though. Other fish to fry, and all like that. But he did take the time to steal the hit man’s gun, wallet, and car.

That’d teach the bastard to beat up on a guy’s dog.

Jack wished he could have hung around to see the hit man come to. No car, no gun, pockets empty except for the key to his room at the Saguaro Riptide.

Room 21. Right next to Jack’s room. Jack knew where the guy was. He also knew that he wasn’t done with him yet.

The highway was clear of traffic, the road itself as straight as Jack’s right jab. Jack hit the gas and the Saturn lurched forward like a peg-legged man pushing a wheelbarrow.

In other words. Jack had plenty of time to think things through.

One of the first rules of boxing at the championship level-know your opponent. You watch films of a guy, see what he does over and over, figure out what you’re going to do to take the play away from him. You hire sparring partners that can approximate the guy’s style, and you go to school on them. You get in shape, you get your mind right, you stick to your plan. . and a lot of times you’ve got the fight won before you ever step in the ring.

Jack glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Time for a little scouting report.”

Okay, the hit man’s choice of wheels told Jack something. And Freddy G had told him something else-that the guy was a Muslim. Not some mystical kufi-wearing Muslim either. No, this guy looked like the old-fashioned kind, a throwback to the suit-and-tie era of the sixties when the heavyweight champ of the world had joined up, changing his name from Cassius Clay to Muhammad Ali.

This guy looked like a real Fruit of Islam candidate. They were the A-1 badasses who protected the Muslim elite, kind of like the Nation of Islam secret service. To a man they were purer than pure and meaner than mean, and their hearts were made of stone.

The hit man’s wallet lay on the passenger seat next to his gun-a serious enough looking piece. But Jack didn’t know anything about guns, so the pistol didn’t tell him anything.

He reached over and opened the glove compartment. The contents told him plenty:

1) A few cassettes, mostly jazz. That fifties be-bop shit where you couldn’t hold onto the melody with both hands.

2) A brand new map of Arizona, folded so that it showed Pipeline Beach and its environs.

3) A little notebook in which the hit man kept track of mileage and maintenance on the Saturn.

Jack flipped through the notebook. He had to admit that he was impressed-the hit man actually changed the oil every three thousand miles.

He tossed the notebook aside. The situation was pretty clear now. He was being tracked by an anal-retentive oil-changing dog-beater with a car named after a planet who liked to listen to the Jack Kerouac hit parade. Somehow, it didn’t seem like hate was too strong a word.

Not that he was in a benefit-of-the-doubt kind of mood or anything, but Jack figured he’d make one more dip into the pond. He pushed the cassettes aside, fumbled the map out of the way, and came up with a cellular phone.

If he’d been a cartoon character, a glowing lightbulb would have appeared above his head.

He pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Pictured the hit man regaining consciousness back there in the motel parking lot-spitting loose chunks of gravel out of his mouth, his backside and neck electric with pain as he rose and stumbled to his motel room. Keying the lock like a drunk, cringing at the sound the door made when he closed it. Kidneys aching while he pissed. Then looking at himself in the mirror, figuring what a sorry way this was for such a smart guy like himself to start the day.

Jack kind of felt sorry for the guy. He flipped open the hit man’s wallet and found his Visa card. Grabbed the phone. There was only one 800 number that he’d committed to memory, but he figured that one would be more than enough.

He made a call.

Okay. Fun was fun. . but now it was time to play some mind games of the mucho serioso variety.

Jack phoned information. A minute later he had the number he needed. He punched it in. One ring later, he was through.

“Pipeline Beach Sheriff’s Department.”

Jack stared down at the name on the hit man’s driver’s license. “My name is Woodrow Saad Muhammad. I’m a guest at the Saguaro Riptide Motel. I’m staying in room 21.”

“How may I direct your call, sir?”

“Someone stole my motherfuckin’ wallet and my motherfuckin’ car,” Jack said. “Oh, yeah. . and he beat the motherfuckin’ shit out of me, too.”

“All right, sir, let me transfer you to-”

“And one other thing: the motherfucker who did it is a guy named Vince Komoko.”

Woody’s head was feeling pretty fucked up when he answered the door.

Two cops stood there.

Two women cops.

Two white women cops.

Shit. Woody hoped that he was seeing double. Seriously.

“Are you Woodrow Saad Muhammad?” the first cop asked.

Woody almost laughed. Stood to figure that they were after the monk, the self-righteous prayer-sayin’ nigger who shared his head. They didn’t want him at all.

Be a bitch explaining that one, though. So Woody just nodded.

The second cop smiled. “Mind if we come in?”

“Whatever pops your cherry.”

Both bitches glared at him.

The taller of the two entered first. Woody checked her out-blond hair pulled tight against her skull and a long braid that almost brushed her outstanding little ass. Her uniform shirt seemed tailored to show off a perky pair of titties. Put the whole picture together and she kind of reminded Woody of the Valkyrie from the old Incredible Hulk comic book.

“We’re here to follow up on your phone call,” the Valkyrie said, her painted lips expressionless. “You’d like to report a robbery?”

Woody didn’t say spit. This whole thing was fucked up. Like hearing the punch line without hearing the joke. Ever since he awoke that first time at the gas station, he’d been certain that he was tuned in to everything the monk said and did. Of course, it didn’t seem to work the other way around-the monk was real surprised to find out about him-but, hey, that was the monk’s problem.

But this-Woody sure as shit didn’t remember the monk making any phone call. Especially not to the goddamn cops. He wondered how the monk had managed to pull it off. Maybe he’d underestimated the stiff motherfucker.

“I’m waiting,” the Valkyrie said.

“I was robbed,” Woody said.

Shit. A man had to say something. Besides, Woody knew that it was the truth. The monk’s wallet was gone. His gat, too. Even that fucked up whitebread car of his. And all those stiff clothes that made the nigger look like he should be hocking a stack of Muhammad Speaks newspapers on some corner in Vegas.

The Valkyrie didn’t say shit. She was busy following her pert titties around the room, checking things out. Woody figured that was okay. There was nothing to see. Everything had been stolen.

Then he glanced at the bed. Shit. Rewind on that last part, homes. Because the monk’s shoulder holster lay on the cheesy spread, empty.

The Valkyrie must have seen it, but she didn’t say a word.

Woody decided that he’d better ease on over toward the open door.

That was when the other cop crossed the threshold, closed the door, and leaned against it.

This one was shorter. Her titties were actually larger than her partner’s, but her uniform shirt was way too baggy to show them off.

“My face is up here,” she said.

Woody blinked and found the woman’s eyes.

Shit.

Her eyes were blue and very angry.

The Valkyrie said, “What’s your real name, anyway? I mean, you registered here at the Riptide as Woodrow Jefferson. But when you called our office, you said your name was Woodrow Saad Muhammad.”

Woody blew a sour breath her way. The monk had really fucked it up. That’s how bad Woody’s note had rattled him. The church-goin’ motherfucker had actually written Woody’s name on a motel registration card. And that blew Woody’s cover cold. Man, just when he was ready to start off fresh, after all these years.

“Don’t you understand, boy?” Big Titties said. “The sheriff means, What did your momma name you?”

Both women stared at him, waiting for an answer, the heels of their gunhands resting on their pistols. Woody wanted to laugh. Seriously. Shit, he thought every word these bitches said was true. He hated all that Muslim crap. But these bitches thought that he was the monk. . and the monk wouldn’t appreciate talk like that.

Man, this was sure as shit getting complicated.

The Valkyrie smiled. “You can talk, can’t you?”

Big Titties said, “Maybe he speaks Swahili or something.”

“Maybe we could call in the United Nations-”

“Or try Esperanto.”

“I’m a Muslim,” Woody lied, trying to sound like the monk. “I changed my name when I converted.”

“Is that so?” The Valkyrie wrinkled her brow. “I gotta admit that I don’t quite get it. Not that you changed your name- that’s okay-but it’s the part you didn’t change that bothers me. See, I’d understand if you’d changed your name from Woodrow Jefferson to Ali Baba Muhammad or something like that. I mean, if you’re going to change something, change it. Go whole hog. Hell, sticking with Woodrow. . that’s lame. I mean, you might as well be Moe Saad Muhammad or Curly Saad Muhammad or Shemp Saad Muhammad. What’s the point? You’re still Moe or Curly or Shemp. You’re still one of the Three Stooges.”

Big Titties said, “Scratch a Saad Muhammad, find a Jefferson.”

Woody wanted to laugh so bad he almost pissed himself. These bitches were sure enough his kind of folks.

But he had to keep a straight face so he could get this shit over with. “Mostly I use my old name for business,” he explained. “Sometimes it makes things easier. Especially when I’m on the road. You’d be surprised-ain’t everybody as enlightened as y’all.”

The Valkyrie sat down on the bed, picked up the shoulder holster. “By the way. Woody, just what is your business?”

“I’m in ladies’ gun belts.” Woody laughed. “I’d give you gals a free sample, but the motherfucker who robbed me stole my sample case.”

The women laughed and shook their heads.

“Looks like we’ve got us a real comedian on our hands,” the Valkyrie said.

“Looks like,” Big Titties put in.

Woody kept quiet.

“What can you tell us about the man who beat you up?” the Valkyrie asked.

Woody stared at her tits, at the long blond braid draped over her right shoulder like a whip. If the opportunity arose, and he kind of hoped it might, he was really going to enjoy chilling this bitch.

Shit. Down in his pants, Little Woody was getting real hard.

He hoped the Valkyrie could see that.

If only he had the monk’s pistol. .

A grin twitched at the comers of the woman’s painted mouth. A lipstick grin the color of blood.

“Answer my goddamned question,” the Valkyrie said. “What can you tell us about the guy who kicked your ass?”

Woody tried to stare her down.

He blinked first.

Shit.

“Don’t you get it?” Big Titties said. “We’re way past done fucking around with you.”

“It’s like this,” the Valkyrie explained, “if you don’t give us an answer right now, we’ll hurt you so bad your relatives in Africa will feel the pain.”

Woody’s anger boiled. No bitch was going to talk to him like that. “I’ll tell you this much about the bastard who jumped me-he’s a dead man.”

“You don’t have to tell me a goddamned thing,” the Valkyrie said. “Whatever scam you’re trying to run, you might as well drop it here and now, because you aren’t half as smart as you think you are. Calling us up and telling us Vince Komoko robbed you, when I know the son of a bitch is dead. That isn’t news to me, idiot. I know he’s dead because I killed his ass. And if you don’t want to end up the same way, I suggest you get the hell out of my town.”

Big Titties said, “We don’t mean tomorrow or the next day.”

“We mean before sundown,” the Valkyrie said.

Baddalach stared at the directions he’d scrawled on a piece of motel stationery. Komoko’s woman had said she’d meet him at eight A.M. sharp. He was supposed to look for a double-wide trailer with a pink Caddy parked out front on the west side of the highway, then take the next dirt road heading east.

As it turned out, one was right on top of the other. Jack hit the brakes and swung the wheel hard to avoid missing the turn. The Saturn lurched through it like a man having a heart attack, and then Jack was on the dirt road.

Which was not in what you’d call good repair. There were potholes aplenty. Jack hit damn near every one of them, and about a quarter mile down the road he hit the granddaddy of them all.

The steering wheel seemed to explode. A giant marshmallow appeared out of nowhere and attempted to smother him.

A goddamn air bag. It didn’t do much to protect him-the only purpose it served was to muffle his curses.

And blind him. Jack couldn’t see a thing.

But he didn’t need to see to slam the brake pedal to the floor.

Once more, the Saturn had a heart attack.

This time, it died.

The air bag deflated like a whoopee cushion that had done its duty and done it well.

The car had come to a stop sideways on the road. Jack stared through the windshield. Nothing but saguaro and rocks and brush, all under a morning sky the color of deep water.

There wasn’t one cloud in the sky.

But thunder boomed in the distance.

A bloody vulture landed hard on the Saturn’s hood, flapped around for a second or two, then squawked its last.

Jack rolled down the driver’s door window.

The road stretched for another quarter mile.

A big old southern plantation-style mansion loomed at the end of it.

Elvis Presley was halfway between the mansion and the Saturn. He held a smoking shotgun in his hands, and he was coming in Jack’s direction.

His pace was brisk.