Saguaro Riptide

ONE

When Jack awoke the next morning, he couldn’t quite remember where he was. He knew he was in a motel room in Tucson and that the coroner’s slab of a bed he’d slept on had made him dream about Magic Fingers machines, but he decided pretty directly that he really didn’t need to know a hell of a lot beyond that because he wasn’t long for this bed, this motel, or Tucson itself.

He opened the little refrigerator by the TV, pawing through the expensive goods therein until he found a beer. He rolled the bottle back and forth between his hands until his knuckles loosened up.

When he returned the beer to the fridge, he noticed that the message light was flashing on the telephone. Deciphering the instructions printed on the face of the phone was kind of like getting through something by Camus, but Jack managed to figure it out. He punched three digits and was connected with the front desk. A woman with an impossibly pleasant voice informed him that a FedEx Letter had arrived from Vegas. Jack said send it up.

Minutes later, the bellman arrived with an envelope. This he gave to Jack, and then he hovered. Jack handed over a dollar and closed the door before the guy had a chance to ask for his autograph or tell him that he looked bigger on television.

He sat down on the concrete bed and tore open the envelope.

A little hunk of plastic fell out.

Corporate plastic.

Jack hadn’t had time to pack before leaving Vegas. He bought the essentials in the hotel gift shop. A disposable razor, some shaving cream, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. Old Spice was the only pit-stick available. Jack knew that it would make him smell like someone’s grandpa, but it was better than nothing.

A couple of things he couldn’t find. He asked the little blue-rinsed lady behind the counter if she stocked jockey shorts and socks, and she informed him that she did not in a tone that made him feel like he’d better run right out and perform an act of contrition or something.

He needed a clean shirt, too, and he could see without asking that the little lady stocked a somewhat limited assortment. The shirts on display were silk, kind of classy. The material anyway. As for patterns, Jack had his choice of horseshoes, bucking broncos, mesas, or cacti. He chose the latter, figuring that subliminally it would make him seem more intimidating once he caught up with Vince Komoko.

If he caught up with Vince Komoko.

If Vince Komoko was still alive.

And if Vince Komoko could be intimidated by a guy whose face had quite recently looked like several pounds of raw hamburger.

Jack shook his head. Those and many more ifs were out there in front of him somewhere, but there was no sense thinking about them right now.

He piled the merchandise on the counter. The blue-rinsed lady sniffed over said merchandise as she rang it up.

At the last moment Jack noticed a pair of tweezers on a little display rack and added them to the pile.

He glanced at the price tag. Eight ninety-five for a pair of fucking tweezers.

Jesus, that was crazy.

Jack handed over his corporate plastic.

Back in the room. Jack checked his shorts and was heartened to find that they were free of skid marks. Then he got cleaned up, after which he dressed and stowed everything except the tweezers in one of the plastic bags that the motel provided for wet swimming trunks. Not the most elegant luggage. But, then again. Jack was a guy going off to face the world in dirty underwear and soiled socks.

In the mellow glow of the bathroom light, the Elephant Man could have convinced himself that he was Brad Pitt’s twin brother. Translation: the light was unsuitable for Jack’s purposes. He unplugged the nightstand lamp, removed the shade, and plugged it in next to the bathroom mirror. He still felt like he was in a cave, but there wasn’t much else he could do about it.

Jack looked himself over. His face was pretty much free of swelling, and the bruises had faded. But there were those goddamn stitches, jutting under his eyebrows like the thick hairs on a sewer rat’s tail.

Jack’s fingers traveled his forehead, kind of sneaking up on his eyebrows. Then they blitzkrieged, squeezing the stitched flesh tentatively at first, and then not so gently.

Nothing busted open. The new scar tissue held tough.

Jack chuckled. “And Freddy G said your skin was shot. Said you were all washed up. You’re in your prime, laddie. They’ll need a silver bullet to stop you.”

He grabbed the tweezers and went to work.

That was when Jack remembered that he’d left Frankenstein all alone in his condo back in Vegas.

Damn. More unfinished business. He’d have to find someone to feed the monster while he was gone.