The Ten-Ounce Siesta

NINE

Jack put the wood to another golf ball and the self-described baddest man on the planet jumped away from the windows just in time to avoid a busted-glass shower.

Jack figured he’d made his point. He tossed the baseball bat into the bushes and climbed the fence that separated the golf course from Tony Katt’s mansion.

Well, that description was a little short of accurate-the mansion didn’t really belong to Katt. It was a corporate cage, a way for the casino fat cats who had signed the heavyweight champion to a multi-million dollar three-fight deal to keep an eye on their investment. As soon as that investment soured, Katt would be out on his ass. He wasn’t the first boxer to live at this address. He wouldn’t be the last.

Jack twisted over the top of the fence and dropped to the ground on the other side. He crossed a picture-perfect lawn and climbed a staircase that lead to a terra-cotta patio, just in time to see Tony Katt charge through the big empty space that a few moments before had been a window.

“Hey, Tony. I’ve been meaning to drop by.” Jack held out his right hand, ready to shake. “I’m Jack Baddalach. I used to be the light-heavyweight champion of the world.”

“What the fuck?” Katt stared at Jack’s hand as if it were a turd. “What’s the matter with you, man? Are you a fucking lunatic or something?”

Jack smiled at the bruiser. Katt didn’t look so much like the baddest man on the planet. Not right now. Right now he looked like a really confused bull that had been beaten to the ubiquitous china shop by a rampaging rhinoceros.

That was just the kind of expression Jack wanted to see on Katt’s face. A guy like Katt was used to playing the bully. Bullies couldn’t handle it when someone took the bad boy play away from them. Especially bullies who happened to be boxers. For reference check Sugar Ray Leonard defeating Roberto Duran in their famous no mas fight, or Evander Holyfield KOing Mike Tyson.

Jack peeked over Tony’s shoulder. “Gonna invite me in?”

“Fuck you, pal.”

Tony Katt stood his ground, his body a road map of personal insecurities. All those badass jailhouse tattoos on his chest-Nordic maidens and skulls and swastikas- couldn’t cover the insecurities of a big guy with a little pecker.

Neither did the tats Katt had added since becoming champ. Friedrich Nietzsche covered one shoulder, his impassive face above the philosopher’s best-known quotation: “That which does not destroy us makes us stronger.” Having Freddy Nietzsche on his shoulder probably made Katt feel like an intellectual or something, but Jack had no idea what insecurities the tattoo on Katt’s other shoulder stroked. He couldn’t understand why the heavyweight champion of the world would want the smiling face of Colonel Harlan Sanders, the Kentucky Fried Chicken king, etched on his hide, let alone what bizarre personal kink had driven him to add the famous slogan: “Finger Lickin’ Good.”

You’d have to buy the Tony Katt Cliffs’ Notes to figure that one out, and Jack didn’t want to pony up the bucks. So he left it alone and got back to business.

“Tony, I really want this to be friendly,” Jack said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Look at this.” Katt gesticulated wildly in the direction of the broken windows. “Look what you did to my fucking house.”

“I wanted to get your attention. I wanted to let you know I’m serious. I wanted to be sure that when I ask you a question, you’ll give me a straight answer.”

“Fuck you, man. You’d better get out of here. Right now. Or I’ll-”

“Don’t tell me you’ll call the cops, Tony. I know you won’t do that. And don’t tell me you’ll call the corporate headhunters at Skull Island. Because if you do that I’ll have to call my corporate headquarters. And I work for Freddy Gemignani over at the Casbah. You know about Freddy, don’t you?”

“He came to one of my fights. Sure. I met the wop. But I don’t see-”

“You don’t need to see, Tony. All you need to do is give me a straight answer.”

“About what?”

“About a guy named Harold Ticks.”

Katt jerked like someone had hit him in the ankles with a hatchet.

“This conversation is over,” he said.

Then the baddest man on the planet retreated into the gym, cussing a blue streak. He didn’t sound the way he did on television. He wasn’t talking like a cut-rate Don King. He sounded like a convict who was about to take it hard from a guard who had his number.

Jack followed the heavyweight through the broken window. “About this Harold Ticks.”

“I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“Yes, you do. He’s a thief. He stole something from me, and I want it back-”

“Look, I don’t care if he stole the steam off your shit. I’m telling you I don’t know any fucking Harold Ticks.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “You had your chance.”

Jack’s black T-shirt was loose around his waist. There was a reason for that. He reached behind his back and beneath the shirt, and his hand reappeared holding a Colt Python.

The gun was his ace in the hole. His last chance. Because if a Colt Python shoved under his nose didn’t get Katt’s shorts in a serious bunch, nothing would.

“Harold Ticks,” Jack said. “Tell me where he is or you’re gonna have a big problem.”

“Calm down, man.” Katt’s lips trembled. “Calm down."

Jack cocked the pistol. “Harold Ticks. You remember. He was your saddle pal in Corcoran State. The way I heard it, he was the stud and you were the-”

“Fuck you." Katt stiffened. “You’re not getting anything out of me, Baddalach. And put away that gun. I’m no kid. I’m not gonna shit my pants. I don’t care who you work for. I know you’re not gonna shoot me. I’m the motherfucking heavyweight champion of the world.”

They stood there for a moment, trying hard not to blink. Broken glass all around, but the china shop bit hadn’t worked. Jack could see that. The moment had passed and then some. Tony Katt wasn’t intimidated anymore. He’d slammed a lid on his fear.

Now he was starting to boil.

Jack glanced around the gym. He hated this kind of place. Everything was new. Hi-tech. Sanitized.

There was only one other way to play it.

Jack nodded toward the boxing ring. “If you won’t give me an answer,” he said, “I guess I could always beat one out of you.”

Katt smiled his baddest man on the planet smile. “You tangle with me, runt, you’d better pack a lunch.”

Jack took off his T-shirt. Katt made a point of laughing. “Looks like you’ve been enjoying the good life, Baddalach.”

“Lately I’ve been eating a lot of donuts.”

Katt tapped his forehead. “Some knot you’ve got there. Someone take after you with a ball bat or something?”

“No. I got butted with a machine gun.” Jack pointed to the bruise on his left shoulder. “This one’s from a bat, though.”

“You should take it easy, Dad.”

“Usually I do. I’m retired.”

“That’s why I’m going to be merciful.” Katt threw a pair of sixteen-ounce training gloves to Jack, pillows that wouldn’t hurt a consumptive kid. “I promise I’ll go easy.”

Jack tossed the gloves aside. “Don’t do me any favors.”

“Okay. It’s your call, champ.”

“Make it easy on yourself. How about some ten-ouncers?”

“Owww. . Jack, you are a brave boy. I guess a couple of testosteronic terrors such as ourselves don’t need any stinking headgears, either. Huh?”

“Unless you’re worried about that pretty little nose of yours.”

“I’ll be okay.” Katt tossed a pair of ten-ounce gloves Jack’s way, then selected one for himself. Jack wrapped his hands with protective bandages while Katt shadowboxed in the ring. The Tiger was slow, even for a heavyweight. Ponderous. Like Godzilla on Quaaludes.

But Godzilla was dangerous. One swat of his tail and half of Tokyo crumbled, ’ludes or no ‘ludes.

Jack climbed between the ropes and pulled on the gloves. They were red leather with white labels around the wrists that bore the name of the manufacturer.

“Reyes,” Jack said, reading the label.

Great. Jack had worn Reyes gloves the night a guy named Sugar Ray Sattler cut him to ribbons and took his title. The brand had always been bad luck for Jack Baddalach.

“Puncher’s gloves.” Katt smiled, throwing a series of short hooks in the air. “You said that I should make it easy on myself.”

“I guess I did.”

“You want rounds? This ring has a computer set-up. I can activate a clock from my corner. The computer will ring the bell and everything.”

“Let’s just do it the old-fashioned way. Come to scratch and let fly.”

“Suits me.”

They slipped mouthpieces between their lips-Katt’s was custom-made, while Jack’s was a gum-buster straight out of the package.

Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Not when they were calling out the heavyweight champion of the world. At least Katt hadn’t given Jack a mouthpiece with another guy’s slobber on it.

Katt rang an imaginary bell. “Ding ding.”

The heavyweight lumbered forward. Jack shook out his arms and bopped back and forth from one leg to the other. His bruised shoulder was pretty tight, but at least his left leg wasn’t bothering him. No thanks to Mudhoney’s bat. Plenty of thanks to Angel Gemignani’s talented fingers.

Katt slammed his gloves together and smiled his baddest man on the planet smile as he crossed the ring. Coming in, the champion flicked a left jab toward Jack’s head. The punch was pathetically slow. So slow Katt could have sent it by Western Union. Jack had no trouble getting under it.

He cut to the right, avoiding Katt’s power hand. If he could stay away from the champion’s right cross, he figured he’d be okay.

Jack juked around the ring, shuffling a little, his legs nice and loose now. Katt turned, thudded his gloves together again, smiled his ridiculous smile, and followed.

Jack nearly laughed. The heavyweight’s footwork was horrible. Tony the Tiger dragged his back foot behind him like it was stuck in a bucket of horseshit. Two more Western Union jabs and Jack was gone. He was wearing a pair of Wolverine work boots, but Katt made him feel like the Flash.

Katt slurred words through his mouthpiece. “You want to fight or what?”

“Bring it on.”

Katt did. Thudding his gloves, smiling his baddest man on the planet smile, he crossed the ring faster this time. Jack stood his ground, catching the champion’s jabs on his gloves, but he couldn’t stand in with the big man forever.

A wild right slammed his bruised shoulder as he moved away. Jack felt the power in the punch right down to the bone. Katt could bang, and then some. That was for sure. Barroom rules, he’d probably take anyone. But this was boxing. And until someone designed a ring that included a juke box and a pool table, Tony the Tiger was going to have to play it the Marquis of Queensberry way.

Katt turned, gloves down, ready to give chase. But Jack jumped in, surprising the heavier man before he could set himself, driving a series of hard jabs into Katt’s face before moving out.

Katt touched his nose. His Reyes glove came away stained with blood.

“You little bitch,” he said, slapping his gloves together one more time.

Smiling his smile beneath a scarlet curtain.

Jack waved him on. The heavyweight came at him just as before, swinging wildly. Against opponents his own size. Jack had never been very fast. But with Katt he felt like a welterweight. He double-jabbed hard to the champion’s face, dipped low, and ripped a right hook to the big man’s ribs, following up with a hook to the head that missed by a whisper.

And then he was gone.

Jack grinned around his mouthpiece. This was the guy who was pulling down millions for every fight. Jack had never made that kind of money. He wasn’t even in shape, and he was boxing rings around the chump-

Katt wasn’t going to quit, though. Jack had to give him that. The heavyweight snorted and wiped fresh blood from his nose. Another slap of his gloves, another smile, and the big man really came on, a blur of suntanned flesh and neon tattoos. Aryan Brotherhood swastikas, grim reapers, grinning skulls wearing Nazi helmets. Jack laid leather on all of them, but his punches didn’t slow Tony Katt.

The jab that had seemed so pathetic moments before caught Jack dead in the face. Once, bam, twice, bam, like a jackhammer rattling his skull. Suddenly Jack couldn’t remember how to get his mouth open, and he needed to breathe. . because his lungs were burning and the jab was coming again-

bam! bam!

And then Katt’s right hand slammed Jack’s bruised shoulder. His entire arm went numb. He needed to move. He had to get out of the way-

But he couldn’t. The ring ropes burned his back as he fell against them. If he couldn’t get off the ropes before he lost his balance. . If he couldn’t slip away before Katt had a chance to launch another punch. .

Katt grunted as he set himself. Again the right hand, but this time it was whistling toward Jack’s head, and the smaller man did sink back against the ropes because there was nowhere else to go.

The punch grazed Jack’s nose and Katt’s momentum forced him off balance. He stumbled toward Jack. .

. . and Jack remembered how to breathe. .

. . and he spun away from Tony Katt, leaving the champion hanging on the ropes. .

The heavyweight was tangled up. He dropped to one knee, then pawed his way up the ropes until he was on his feet again. Jack needed the break. He still couldn’t feel his left arm, but he wasn’t going to need it. He had spotted his opening. As long as he could catch his breath-

Katt’s trainer came through the door with a couple of sparring partners. The old guy nearly had a coronary. “Tony!” he yelled. “What the hell are you doing!”

Katt waved him off and turned toward Jack. The heavyweight’s hands were down. He didn’t raise them right away. Instead, he launched into that chump move, banging his gloves together for the fifth time in as many minutes.

In just a second he’d smile that stupid smile.

It was a robotic move. Predictable as it was necessary, like a kid winding up a toy soldier before sending it into battle.

This time. Jack was ready for it. As Katt’s lips twisted upward. Jack banged a hard right against the champion’s skull.

Once. Twice. Three times.

bambambam!

Blood geysered from the champion’s nose. The lower half of his face was draped in red, and the upper half was all startled eyes.

The Tiger went down hard, his lips contorted in pain.

His trainer’s expression was worse. After all, Tony Katt was supposed to defend his title in three weeks. If his nose were broken, none of his corner men would be getting a check anytime soon.

“Oh, Jesus!” The trainer moaned. “Oh, Jesus!”

The baddest man on the planet writhed on the canvas. He wasn’t smiling now. Jack watched him. He didn’t smile, either. No one in the gym smiled.

Except for the man on Tony Katt’s left shoulder.

Colonel Harlan Sanders.

He wore a chicken-eating grin.