Saguaro Riptide, page 16
Sandy’s answer came fast. “Not until you decide where you want to run to. Then leave, and never look back.”
Kate smiled. “The old rearview mirror trick.”
“Hey . . . men know all the best tricks. Wouldn’t hurt us to learn a few of ’em.”
Safe behind her sunglasses, Kate nodded. “I don’t know about you, but talking makes me thirsty. Buy you a Coke?”
“No. You’re not the only guest here at the Saguaro Riptide who’s got problems, y’know.” Sandy pointed to the room of the man who’d gotten a dozen roses. “I’d better make the rounds.”
***
The two women watched Baddalach cross the street and enter Floyd Riley’s barber shop.
“What do you think he’s doing?” Rorie asked.
Wyetta looked at her long and hard. “Jesus, Rorie. I may not be the sharpest pencil in the box, but I think maybe it’s safe to assume that the pug’s going to the barber shop because he wants his ears lowered.”
“Well sure,” Rorie said. “He’s getting a haircut. That’s obvious. But why now?”
“Who knows? Maybe he always retreats to bastions of masculinity when women with badges whittle his dick down to size. Maybe he didn’t see a bar nearby. Who cares?”
“Well, what do we do now?”
Wyetta stared at the name Marge had written on a scrap of paper. "Kate Benteen,” she read. “Yesterday she’s standing up for the pug at the five-and-dime like they’re sharing the same sheets. But today she’s his research topic at the library. Kinda makes you wonder about the parameters of their relationship, doesn’t it?”
“You think maybe we should look her up on Marge’s computer? See what the pug found out?”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “Wyatt Earp didn’t rely on computer databases, Rorie. He went straight to the horse’s mouth.”
“Yeah, but Wyatt had his brothers to back him up. And Doc Holliday, too.”
“Cowgirl, I’ll take you over a tubercular dentist any day of the week,” Wyetta said.
And then she started walking.
WOODY SNEEZED. SHIT. It fuckin’ figured that he’d turn out to be allergic to roses.
A card had accompanied the flowers. Woody had read the damn thing at least twenty times, his lips barely moving. Didn’t matter how many times he read it, though. It set his blood to boiling each and every time.
The card said:
LOVE AND KISSES YOU DOG-BEATING BASTARD.
FROM HERE ON OUT IT GETS WORSE.
The card wasn’t signed, but Woody figured it had to be from Jack Baddalach, which meant that Baddalach had learned about the monk’s run-in with his dog and had been waiting for payback when the monk pulled into the parking lot at the Saguaro Riptide.
The Vietnamese kid had practically predicted the whole thing. Shit. Woody couldn’t figure why the monk hadn’t popped a cap on that little motherfucker. Boy had a real mouth on him. Letting him live had been a big mistake.
Just one of many. Woody looked in the mirror. Shit. He looked like something that had been scraped off the highway. His eyes were red as Ripple, and his hair was as scraggly-looking as an Airedale’s butt, and his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ lame-ass monk clothes were dirty, and his left hand was fucked up from a dog bite.
That was the hand he jacked off with, too. Shit. He couldn’t even get the least little bit of a break.
Woody tossed Baddalach’s message into the garbage can. Half this shit wouldn’t have happened if the monk had used the balls God gave him. Not that Woody cared about the monk, but, shit, a man had to look out for himself.
’Cause if the monk got his ass chilled, it meant that Woody would get his ass chilled, too.
That wasn’t going to happen. Now that Woody was in charge again, the monk was going to stay locked up in the Rahway of his mind.
A life-fuckin’-sentence. No possibility of parole, neither.
Woody was the man, now. And there were just a couple of three things he had to deal with.
First off, he had to get himself a weapon.
Second, he had to get himself a car and get the hell out of this town before those crazy bitch cops came after him again. They thought he knew something about some cat named Komoko. Shit. He didn’t know Komoko from Kiss-My-Ass. Probably the whole thing had something to do with the boxer, but at this point he didn’t even care. He just knew he didn’t want to tangle with those bitches again, because they were crazier than any cons he’d ever run up against in the slams.
Third—and most importantly—he had to get himself some pussy. Lack of trim made him real edgy. And he’d been lacking trim for a seriously long time. Locked up in the monk’s head all those years . . . shit. The monk—he didn’t jerk off, didn’t even look at no magazines, let alone shoot some beaver.
Woody thought it through. Getting a weapon, now that might be a little hard, especially if he wanted something good. He could probably find himself a pipe or something lying around over by the junkyard, but a knife or a gun might be tough.
And he might need something like that to get hold of a car. Shit. Hard to scare a person with a hunk of pipe. Somehow, folks really didn’t think you’d beat them to death just to rip off their ride. But a gun was different—wave a gun in someone’s face and they’d hand over the keys, like yesterday.
There weren’t many cars here at the motel. An old Subaru wagon was parked by the office—it probably belonged to the lady who ran the joint. A Range Rover with a Budget Rent-a-Car bumper sticker was parked below Woody’s window—he figured that Baddalach was the cat who had rented it. The Rover would be Woody’s preference. Get the pug’s car. Kill him, too, just to be doin’ it.
Woody peeked through the drapes. The only other car— actually, it was a truck—belonged to that sweet little bitch sitting by the pool.
A black bikini that fit her just right. And skin as white as cream.
Shit. Little Woody was getting hard. Woody’s heart started to trip-hammer. Without thinking, he squeezed Little Woody with his wounded left hand, then yelped in pain.
This was going to be tough. Woody bit his lip. Maybe his third priority was going to have to change places with his first.
’Cause his need for trim was seriously bad.
He lay back on the bed and thought about it. Unzipped his fly and tried to get things going with his right hand, but man, it just felt too weird.
Completely fucking unnatural.
But, shit, sometimes a man just had to have hisself some relief.
***
Damn it was good. Erupting like Krakatoa, East of Java.
Heart pounding. Head thudding like goddamn conga drums—
Shit, no. Someone was knocking at the door.
Woody jumped up, thinking. Hey, maybe the little bitch delivers.
He zipped his pants and opened the door just as the motel lady turned away.
She wasn’t the bitch in the black bikini, but she was damn fine for a woman with some mileage on her.
“Hey,” Woody said. “I was taking a nap. I almost didn’t hear you.”
“Sorry to wake you, but I wanted to make sure that you were okay.”
Woody turned on the charm. “Been better.”
‘The sheriff told me that you were robbed,” she said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. This place isn’t much, but I own it. No one’s ever been robbed here, not in twenty-six years.”
“I’m sorry to be the first.”
She smiled, and Woody noticed that she held a plastic bag in her right hand.
“It’s not much.” She handed him the bag. “Some toothpaste and a toothbrush, some shaving stuff But hopefully it’ll get you through until things straighten out.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about your bill. The room’s on me, for as long as you need it. It’s the least I can do.”
“Well all right. Hey, you want to come in?”
“I probably shouldn’t.” She pointed at the roses fanned out across one side of the bed. “Nice flowers.”
The comment brought Woody up short. So did the amused little smile on the woman’s face.
In self-defense, he tried to trap the smile on his own face, but it managed to escape. Shit. He didn’t like this bitch seeing the flowers. A man didn’t get flowers. Bitch was going to think that he was a faggot or something.
“The roses were a mistake,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.
“They weren’t for you?”
“No. They were for me. But they were a mistake.”
Now she was really smiling, like this was the fucking funniest thing she’d ever heard of “You sure about that?”
“Yeah.” A dull throb bloomed behind Woody’s eyes. “I’m sure. You want to come in? I could get us a couple of Cokes or something—”
“Maybe later,” she said, still grinning. “Right now I’ve got some work to do.”
“Sure.”
She walked away. He closed the door.
The stink of the roses burned in his nostrils.
His head pounded. His stomach churned. The bathroom was fifteen feet away. A garbage can was closer.
Woody made neither.
He didn’t bother to clean up the mess. Suddenly, he was tired, and there was too much other shit he needed to do.
He sat on the bed and fumbled through the contents of the bag of toilet articles until he found a razor. Two tiny blades were embedded in the plastic cartridge. Woody twisted the plastic until it broke. The blades dropped to the green bedspread, glinting there like tiny fish in a huge ocean. Woody picked up the one closest to him, then searched the bag for the toothbrush the smiling bitch had mentioned.
His fist closed around the bristles.
He dropped the bag on the floor.
Sighed.
Shit, he was seriously tired. He wanted to lie down.
Instead, he sharpened the end of the toothbrush.
But his thoughts drifted, because he really was tired. First he thought about the woman, and how things might have ended up with her if those goddamn roses hadn’t been in the room. Then he thought about the way the bitch had smiled when she’d seen them, like she was in on some little faggoty secret.
Next he thought about the man who had fucked up the whole thing by sending those roses in the first place.
That man’s name was Baddalach.
Woody smiled. The end of the toothbrush was starting to look pretty wicked.
People said it all the time, but this time it was true— Baddalach didn’t have any idea who he was fucking with.
***
The barber had more hair on his arms than he had on his head, and his only customer looked like he’d paid for a hair-weave that hadn’t quite taken. As far as Jack was concerned, these were portents both negative and frightening, but he entered the barbershop anyway. He was a man on a mission.
Jack traded nods with the men—Don’t squirm, goddamnit, the barber said—and took a seat in a chrome-backed chair that looked like it had been designed by Torquemada.
Felt like it too. But that didn’t matter to Jack. Because the chair sat next to a table brimming with skin magazines.
Jack fished the computer printout from his back pocket. He glanced over it, pretty sure that the list itself was proof enough that the woman who looked so good in a black bikini wasn’t conning him. The printout certainly proved that there was indeed a person named Kate Benteen who had done some pretty amazing things.
But pretty sure wasn’t going to cut it, not the way things were going. Because while the information Jack had found at the library proved that Kate Benteen existed, it did not prove that she and the woman in the black bikini were one in the same.
Only a picture could do that.
Jack double-checked the date on the printout. Then he started to dig through the magazines.
Four issues of Beaver Hunt on top. Every ’94 issue—it appeared they were on a quarterly schedule. Then he thumbed through a selection of Shaved and Tail End, but neither publication deterred him from the task at hand. He managed to resist the charms of 44 Plus, as well, digging ever deeper, working his way through two years worth of Hustler.
A jackalope head was mounted on the wall above the chrome chair. A buffalo head loomed over the front door, and a coyote head hung eternally vigilant over a door at the back of the shop. A half-dozen glass eyes seemed to study Jack as he finished off one stack and started on another, but the stuffed menagerie made no comment.
The guy with the bad hair-weave did. He fidgeted in the chair, trying to get a look at the barber, and said, “Picky bastard, ain’t he?”
“Don’t squirm, goddamnit!” the barber said.
The guy in the chair giggled. “Hey, buddy—if you’re lookin’ for the magazines with boys in ’em, Rudy keeps those in the back. Those are his favorites.”
The barber jerked and the man in the chair screeched.
“Jesus, Rudy! Watch it!”
“You got another ear, asshole.”
Jack ignored the two combatants. He continued through the Hustler collection. The last couple issues were stuck together. Jack was a novice at the detective business, sure, but he figured that this was a line that even Mike Hammer wouldn’t cross.
Gingerly, he pushed the pile away.
He pulled the next pile toward him.
Halfway through a run of Penthouse, he found it.
Playboy. September 1991.
The “Girls of Desert Storm” issue.
***
Rorie pulled up a chair and sat down on the right side of the chaise longue. Wyetta took the left side, flipping her chair around backward, straddling it, leaning her elbows on the back.
The occupant of the chaise longue peered over the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. “Let me guess,” she said, pointing at Wyetta, “you’re a little bit country, and she’s a little bit rock ’n’ roll.”
Wyetta glared at her, but the chicklet in the black bikini was wearing real dark sunglasses and the glare didn’t take.
But this girl was an odd one. Wyetta decided that right off. Out here under the sun with that marble skin of hers, a bottle of Coppertone 45 at her side. Trash magazine in her hand and more magazines under the lounge, probably more trash—
Wyetta did a little double take as she checked out those other magazines. She spotted the same issue of Guns & Ammo that had arrived in her mailbox just the other day. Bitchin’ article about combat shotguns in there. New Soldier of Fortune, too, with an article about handgun tactics in hostage situations. But along with those the little gringa gatita had a couple issues of Mademoiselle, even a battered Seventeen. Wyetta couldn’t figure the mix.
The gringa followed Wyetta’s gaze. “When it comes to magazines, we get the shit end of the stick, huh. Sheriff?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just check this out.” The chicklet tossed Wyetta the Cosmo she’d been reading, and it was all Wyetta could do not to drop the thing on general principles.
First off, the magazine was stuffed so full of fragrance cards that it smelled like Zsa Zsa Gabor’s underwear drawer. And second, there was some dark-eyed Gina Lollobrigida-looking bitch on the cover—except this bitch was skinny.
Wyetta shook her head. At least the bitch didn’t look like Cindy Crawford. Jesus, today they all looked like Cindy Crawford. Eyebrows like Tyrone Power and tits inflated like the tires on an old Huffy bicycle.
But Cindy only had a lock on it if they wanted to sell you something sexy, like perfume or nightgowns or booze. If they wanted to sell you a product you could trust—like tampons or mouthwash or douche—they’d pick a perky little blond thing who looked like every girl’s best pal, Meg Ryan.
Wyetta glanced at the table of contents. The articles were scarier than Boris Karloff, FROM HATE AT FIRST SIGHT TO FRIENDS TO MARRIED. Or; GIVING HIM A (SEXUAL) NIGHT TO REMEMBER. Or: A TOP MODEL SHARES HER (DROP-DEAD) BEAUTY SECRETS. Or: INVESTING IN LOVE (AND WE DON’T MEAN MONEY, HONEY). Or: MUST YOU DEPEND ON HIM THAT MUCH?
“These rags all look the same to me,” Wyetta said. “But I don’t see—”
“Think about it,” the chicklet said. “A woman goes down to the five-and-dime to buy a magazine and she ends up with one of these. She takes it home and reads it, ends up all depressed because she doesn’t look like any of the models on those slick pages. She doesn’t dress like ’em, either. And her man doesn’t look like any of the men in the advertisements. His name’s Fred or Bob. It sure ain’t Pablo or Antonio or Lucky.
“And if she reads the thing, well, then she’s worse off. Because pretty soon she figures out that she’s bought a magazine aimed at an audience of independently wealthy anorexic New Yorkers who while away the hours designing new ways to delight their billionaire lovers. And that’s not what she does with her life. She’s too busy scraping crusty meatloaf out of a pan that’s been in the sink for a week. She’s not fulfilled. And on top of that, she’s out two bucks and fifty cents, retail.”
The chicklet grinned. “But a man—he goes down to the five-and-dime for a magazine and what does he end up with?” She snatched up the Guns Ammo. “One of these. And he gets home, cracks a brew, settles back. Sees that all the guys in the ads are kind of tubby, just like he is. Sees that they’re all smiling. And happy. And fulfilled. And what have they had to do to get there? Did they have to let some surgeon whittle down their nose or pump up their chest with silicone? Did they have to go on a diet or move to New York City? Hell, no. They didn’t have to do any of that stuff. All they had to do was buy the right gun and the right ammunition, and they were set.”
Kate Benteen dropped the magazine and settled back.
Wyetta glanced at Rorie. The deputy looked like someone had beaned her with a blackjack. Wyetta felt kind of the same way herself.
It was definitely time to put this gatita in her place before she got to feeling that she had any wiggle room.
Wyetta dropped the Cosmo. Patted the butt of the cedar-handled .44 American that filled her holster. “Me, I found the right fit a long time ago,” she said. “I’m happy. Hell . . . maybe I’m even fulfilled. But I didn’t come here to talk about me.”
