Saguaro Riptide

TWO

Baddalach waited at a traffic light on the corner of Casbah Avenue and the Strip, his ’76 Toyota Celica vibrating like a cymbal in a strip club, aka overtime.

These days the Strip practically stretched all the way to the desert hamlet of Baker, California. Baker was famous as home of the world’s tallest thermometer, which was sometimes known to hit the 120-degree mark. Jack didn’t know how accurate the amazing colossal thermometer was. Skeptic that he was, he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that it was the world’s least accurate, a scam to drag sun-roasted tourists into town for a couple of cold brewskis.

But Baddalach knew better than that-the “least accurate” part of the equation, anyway-for he actually owned the world’s least accurate thermometer. Well, thermostat, anyway, but Jack wasn’t one to quibble when it came to definitions, especially definitions of the automotive variety.

The thermostat in question was part of Jack’s Toyota, and at present he was staring down the gauge that tracked its efficiency with such murderous intensity that he might have been mistaken for Mike Tyson himself.

But staring didn’t seem to intimidate the gauge. The Celica’s radiator needle edged toward the danger zone.

Sweat beaded on Baddalach’s upper lip.

The needle clipped the red sliver at the high end of the gauge.

Menacingly, a red light ignited on the dashboard.

At the same moment, the traffic light flashed to the cool, unreal green of a suburban lawn. Baddalach dug out while the digging was good. He shut down a coughing Pinto and cut in front of a VW bus that looked like it had survived the summer of love, the days of disco, the era of voodoo economics, and was still holding tough in the days of corporate downsizing.

Such a maneuver was quite an accomplishment on the Toyota’s part. Making it gave Baddalach an undeserved sense of confidence. Or maybe it was the vision of Freddy G’s twenty percent dancing in his head. Whatever the cause, Baddalach’s adrenaline had risen to Mario Andretti levels, and he took the corner of West Dunes Road like a man who wasn’t riding on retreads.

Baddalach hit the freeway. Fourth gear kicked in with only the slightest grinding sound. The clutch slip-slided just a little as Jack made fifth. Once secure, he wasn’t downshifting for anyone.

Fifty-five mph. The engine started knocking. Jack sang a snatch of “I Hear You Knocking But You Can’t Come In” and headed for North Vegas, which had once been nothing more than the first step into the biggest sandbox this side of the Sahara. Currently it was one big housing tract on top of the biggest sandbox this side of the Sahara. Baddalach wasn’t surprised that one of Freddy G’s flunkies would live there. As far as Jack Baddalach was concerned you’d have to be an idiot to scam Freddy G, and only an idiot would live in the suburban wasteland called North Vegas.

For one thing, the place had to be the air-conditioning capital of the world. Jack had read that many thoughtful residents went so far as to provide air-conditioned dog houses for their pets. On an afternoon like this one-a real sidewalk egg-frier- Jack figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to learn to fetch and roll over if those skills could get him belly to belly with a chilly Airtemp, don’t spare the Freon. .

Jack eyed the A/C button on the dashboard, barely resisting the temptation to press it. He didn’t want to push the engine any harder than he had to.

He settled for the fan instead. Notched that sucker to the max. The hot air that blasted from the vents sent a collection of white tabs torn from the lids of fast-food coffee cups dancing across worn floor mats. The shards of white plastic kind of looked like big snowflakes. Jack sucked a deep breath, inhaling the wintery scent of the pine tree air freshener that dangled from the rearview mirror, but he didn’t feel any cooler.

Maybe singing would help. A chorus of “Jingle Bell Rock” or something.

Jack resisted the temptation. The off-ramp he wanted was just ahead. Reluctantly, he geared down. Reluctantly, the Celica cooperated, taking the ramp without complaint. Jack was just about to double-check the directions Freddy G had scrawled on the back of a cocktail napkin smeared with Bloody Mary mix when he noticed a garage on the corner.

A new thermostat, how much could it cost?

Hell, how much could a new radiator cost?

A new clutch? Tires? Maybe a rebuilt tranny?

Baddalach didn’t know. He only knew that however much it was, it wouldn’t put much of a dent in Freddy G’s twenty percent.

The service manager’s name was Pablo, and Pablo could write up one hell of a work order. Took him two forms to prep Jack’s rice rocket. He even had to stop and sharpen his pencil.

It didn’t matter to Jack. He was feeling pretty good. Finally, it looked like he was going to make some dinero that would be his and his alone.

That was one thing that always annoyed him-everybody assumed that boxers were rich. Sure, some of them were rich. Filthy rich. The Tysons, the Foremans, the Leonards, the Haglers, the De La Hoyas. But guys like that came few and far between. The truth was that most fighters-even the ones who had once been world champions-were left out in the cold once they retired. At the end of the trail they were no better off than guys who had toiled in steel mills with bad pension plans.

The economics were actually pretty brutal. The championship purses announced in the media might sound good, but some promoters were financial butchers who’d cut them down to size before paying off, blaming their losses on weak pay-per-view or any number of dodges that were difficult to track. And even under the best circumstances, a fighter’s cut dwindled considerably after the payoff.

It worked this way-first, of course, came the tax man. Then the fighter’s manager took a big cut. Next came training camp expenses. Sparring partners had to be paid. Cornermen too-a name trainer like Georgie Benton or Emanuel Stewart didn’t come cheap. And neither did a decent cutman, of which there were maybe five in the entire business. And if a fighter was young and impressionable and stupid enough to take on an entourage. . well, the human leeches who hung around the fight game knew how to make boxers bleed green, and there wasn’t a cutman alive who could staunch that kind of wound.

Fortunately, Baddalach had never gone that route. Sure, he’d had a good time or two, but for the most part he’d watched his money. But the sad truth of the matter was that the Sattler fight had provided his first decent purse since losing his title four years before, and those four years had pretty thoroughly tapped out his savings account.

Jack shook his head. It didn’t matter. Now, with this new setup. . Well, things were going to be good again. Tracking down some guy. Some Hollywood guy. How hard could it be?

Pablo finished scribbling and passed the work order to Jack. “Fill out your name and address and we’re in business, amigo.” Jack did as asked, then returned Pablo’s clipboard.

The service manager stared at the name. ‘Thought that was you behind those shades.” He shook his head. “Jack ‘Battle-ax’ Baddalach.”

“Never much cared for that nickname.” Jack grinned. “I always thought there was kind of an uncomfortable Nordic-Viking-KKK ring to it.”

“Oh yeah? Why didn’t you change it?”

“When I turned pro, they wouldn’t print the word Badass in Sports Illustrated.”

Pablo nodded. “I see your point. These days marketing is everything.”

“You got that right.”

“Well, she’ll be ready to roll manana, buddy. Me and my boys, we work all night.”

Jack thanked him, and they shook hands. “Maybe you can help me with one other thing-I’m crashing out at a friend’s tonight. He lives in this neighborhood. You know where Rancho Rojo Lane is?”

“Sure thing. Three blocks up, turn toward the Pacific ocean, one block over. Can’t miss it.”

‘Thanks.”

“De nada.” Pablo smiled. “Fact is, I should be thanking you.”

“Why’s that?”

“A couple weeks ago I had five hundred bucks in my pocket and didn’t know what to do with it. So I put it on Sattler’s black ass. . even got odds.”

“Smart man.”

Pablo shrugged. “You want to know the funny part?”

“Sure.”

“If you would have come in here a couple of weeks ago, I would have bet a thousand.”

“Why’s that?”

Pablo grinned. “Amigo, you look a lot bigger on television.”

A huge saguaro cactus stood guard in the front yard at 1333 Rancho Rojo Lane, surrounded by a dozen senors intent on serious siestas.

The gentlemen were uniformly hunkered down-legs covered by colorful serapes, arms folded over their knees. Their chins rested on their arms, and on their heads they wore sombreros of the mucho grande variety.

Plaster sombreros on plaster cabezas.

Jack shook his head. Sure, he’d come across the Southwest’s peculiar version of the lawn jockey before, but never had he confronted such an impressive assemblage as the one that occupied Vince Komoko’s front yard.

Jack moved forward. His boots crunched over the speckled gravel that stood in for a lawn, but not a single plaster sombrero bobbed in acknowledgment of his presence.

Jack glanced at the giant saguaro as he passed by, noting with some measure of irony that it was concrete, as phony as the sleeping senors. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would buy a concrete cactus. It wasn’t like the real thing would inflate the ol’ water bill or anything.

He rang the doorbell. The merry strains of “La Cucharacha” echoed through Casa Komoko, but no one answered the door.

Baddalach used Freddy G’s key.

He opened the door.

He entered Vince Komoko’s house.