The Ten-Ounce Siesta

SEVEN

As far as Tony Katt was concerned, the new refrigerator made one hell of a girlfriend. All you had to do was press a little lever in the door, and voila, ice cubes cascaded into your glass from above.

The fridge didn’t ever run out of ice, either. Tony should know. He’d been drinking kamikazes since dinnertime, and it was almost midnight now, and the fridge hadn’t let him down once. Hell, it looked like he’d run out of vodka and lime juice before he ran out of ice.

Tony downed his drink and fixed another. He couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. Harold should have phoned hours ago. The ransom drop was scheduled to take place no later than five o’clock. Harold was supposed to call when he had Angel and the dog, at which point Tony would rendezvous with the gang at the Radiation Ranch.

If the drop had gone down the way it was supposed to, Harold was now sitting plush with half a million bucks. That was enough filthy lucre to change a guy, sure. But Tony didn’t think a double cross was likely in Harold’s case. Tony and Harold were blood brothers. Aryan Brotherhood brothers from Corcoran State. Harold wouldn’t cash out on him like some jailhouse snitch.

So it had to be that something had gone wrong with the drop. What that something was, Tony couldn’t imagine. It didn’t make a bit of difference, anyway. Something had fucked up, and that was for sure, and all it meant was that Angel Gemignani and her poocherino were somewhere besides the place they were supposed to be right now-in the fucking palm of Tony Katt’s hand.

Man, the baddest tag team in the history of the Shoe had planned it good, too. Harold coming out of the deal with five hundred bills large, and Tony getting the rich bitch and her little Chihuahua.

And how he wanted that fucking dog. So bad he could taste it. Worse than he wanted the Gemignani bitch, even.

Tony had no idea why Angel G pulled that shit on him last New Year’s Eve. Man, everybody in town said that she was a little starfucker. And there he was, heavyweight champion of the world, ready to show her a good time. What did she want, roses or something?

So he’d come on a little rough. So what? Plenty of women actually liked that kind of stuff

Not Angel Gemignani, though. And not her little poocherino. Man, that Chihuahua was a terror. Worse than a jealous husband who caught another guy with his wife, in flagrante delicto.

But the way it went down, Tony’s in flagrante hadn’t gotten anywhere near delicto. That didn’t stop the Chihuahua, though. The little mutt got between the baddest man on the planet’s legs and. .

chomp! chomp! chomp!

. . Tony had come up short one testicle.

The heavyweight champion of the world had an itch, and he scratched it. The plastic surgeon had fixed him up with a prosthetic nut, but it just didn’t feel right.

Jesus. A plastic testicle. Like the doc joked-hahahaha-that, indeed, was one tough nut to crack. And sure the ordeal had given Tony the opportunity to get his Johnson stretched, but man, that didn’t change the fact that some little starfucker’s Chihuahua had gobbled his left nut.

A man couldn’t lose his left nut and not do anything about it, especially if that man was the heavyweight champion of the world.

Tony wanted that Chihuahua so bad he could taste it. He’d planned his revenge months ago. He’d lain awake many nights dreaming about it. And just a few hours ago he was sure that his fantasy was about to become a reality.

Boning knives and butcher knives waited in the kitchen. Charcoal was piled high in the barbecue out back. Lighter fluid and wooden matches stood ready and waiting.

Blackened Chihuahua, coming right up. You want red or white wine with that, my dear?

The ice had melted in Tony’s kamikaze. He didn’t fucking care. He wasn’t fixing one more fucking drink for himself.

Shit. Bitches. What more did they want from him, anyhow? He’d enlarged his vocabulary. He’d enlarged his dick, too. He’d evolved as a person. But that didn’t stop Porschia from walking out on him.

And look what had happened since Porschia left. Some geriatric light-heavyweight beat the shit out of him. The fight scheduled three weeks hence was canceled as a result. He had fucking Popsicle sticks taped to his fucking busted nose, and his voice was so whiny and nasal and terminally white that he couldn’t even recognize it.

Porschia. Man, but he missed her. Even if she did give him shit about ice cubes and stuff like that. But now he had the new refrigerator. Hey, that was a big change right there. Maybe he could call Porschia, tell her about it. Tell her about his fucked-up nose, too. Maybe she’d even feel sorry for him-

Tony glanced at his watch. The last show at Skull Island would be over by now. Porschia would be in the dressing room, changing with all the other bitches. Tony snatched up the phone and dialed Skull Island.

The switchboard operator put him through. “H’lo,” he said in his fucked-up voice. “Borschia Gees, bleeze.”

“Who?”

“Borschia Gees.”

“You mean Porschia Keyes?”

“Yes,” Tony said, trying hard to enunciate.

“Who’s calling?”

“Tony Katt.”

“Oh, gee.” The woman on the other end of the line paused. “I guess you haven’t heard, Tony. There’s been an accident.”

“Huh? Is Borschia otay?”

“What?”

“Is Porschia okay?”

“Well, we’re waiting to hear. See, Porschia danced the lead tonight. She was doing that big number with the animatronic King Kong, the one where they dance the macarena. Everything went fine until the part where Kong picks her up. .” The woman sobbed. “It was horrible, Tony. The engineers think there was some kind of computer glitch. They couldn’t get the monkey’s paw to open. . instead it kept on closing and Porschia was squeezed something awful. . we could hear her ribs breaking and the way she screamed. .”

The woman started crying. Tony hung up the phone. Wow. Porschia was in the hospital.

But, hey, those were the breaks.

Tony picked up the phone and dialed Caligula Tate’s number.

Tate said, “How’s it going, champ?”

“Good. The nose feels better. You get in touch with Baddalach yet?”

“No. But I’ve got a deal all ironed out with Skull Island. Baddalach will bite as soon as I pass on the offer. Believe me. He can’t turn down this kind of money. You’ll have the chump in the ring just in time for your birthday, and you know that ain’t far off.”

“All right,” Tony said. “I’ll hit him once for you.”

“Good. I never liked the son of a bitch.”

“Is the money good?”

Tate whistled. “Astro-fucking-nomical. Everyone wants to see this fight. You’ll clear twenty million. Maybe thirty.”

“I love my job.” Tony laughed. “Thirty million bucks to bust up a guy I’d meet in an alley for free.”

“Only in America.”

“Amen, brother.”

“So how’s everything going?” Tate asked. “The new fridge okay?”

“Yeah. The fridge is fine. But my girlfriend got hurt.”

“What happened?”

“Porschia got squeezed by a robot monkey. You know-that one she dances with at Skull Island. She’s in the hospital.”

“Sorry to hear it. You want me to send some flowers for you, champ?”

“Sure. Maybe some candy, too.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “Send me another girl.”

“Any particular kind?”

“As long as she can make a kamikaze, she’ll be all right with me.”

Man, it didn’t take long at all.

A car pulled up in the driveway just as Tony climbed out of a hot shower. He toweled off and peeked through the window.

Check that. It wasn’t a car at all. It was a truck. A beat-up piece of shit Chevy. This had to be a mistake-

No. It wasn’t a mistake.

The woman who climbed out of the truck was fine. Tony watched from above as she appeared, section by foxy section.

Black stiletto heels.

Black fishnet stockings.

Black leather miniskirt.

Black bikini top.

Raven hair.

Tony smiled at his reflection in the mirror.

“Brother,” he said, “it’s going to be one long night.”