Norman Partridge - Saguaro Riptide

When the women busted into the bathroom, Vincent Komoko knew that it was going to be nothing but bad from here on out because there was only one of him and there were two of them and both of them were wearing badges.

The sheriff slammed the bathroom door, cutting off the howling desert wind. The room was suddenly quiet, but her voice wasnt. She asked Vince what hed done with his gun.

I lost it, Vince said, his voice kind of sheepish. Out there in the storm.

The sheriff nodded, and the deputy stepped over the prone figure of Elvis Presley and chopped the top of Vinces right wrist with some weird kind of nightstick that had a handle on it. Vinces hand went numb for an instant, and in that instant the cellular phone hed been holding clattered to the floor.

The deputy eyed the phone like it was a big plastic cockroach that might scuttle for cover if she so much as blinked.

But she didnt blink, and the phone didnt move.

Who were you talking to? she asked.

911. Vince pointed at the hulking figure curled in a fetal position near the toilet. Elvis isnt doing too good.

The deputys eyes narrowed, but Vince kept his eyes on that weird nightstick in her right hand. It was close to two feet long. The handle sprouted about six inches from one end of the thing. The stick itself shielded the length of the deputys forearm-one end lay flat against her elbow, the other extended a couple inches past her scarred knuckles.

That was the end that dug into Vinces solar plexus and knocked him against the wall.

I dont want to have to ask you again, the deputy said.

Vince sucked a shallow breath around the pain, nodding at Elvis. If you dont believe me, take a look for yourself. Feel his goddamn forehead. Elvis is colder than the abominable snowmans ass. Weve gotta do something. There isnt much time left.

Listen, asshole. My patience is wearing real thin-

Wait a second, the sheriff interrupted. Lets check this out.

A look crossed the deputys face. One of those oh great, now Ive got a Looney Tunes double-feature to deal with looks.

The sheriff bent low and touched Elviss forehead, which was as white as chalk.

See what I mean? Vince said. The Kings in bad shape.

The sheriff nodded, straightening.

I mean, weve gotta get some help.

I want you to watch this very carefully. The sheriff grinned at Vince, then winked at the deputy.

The deputy pivoted fast, nightstick handle whispering against her callused palm, and the long end of the stick whipped around in an arc of murderous intensity, and the head of Elvis Presley exploded.

Elvis shrapnel rained down on Vinces expensive Bally loafers. The sheriff stepped toward him, one snakeskin Nocona cowboy boot crushing what had once been the Kings sneering upper lip.

The sticks called a tonfa, she explained. As you can see, its hell on plaster statues. But believe me, you put it up against flesh and blood, thats pretty dramatic, too.

Ill take your word for it.

Good. The sheriff closed in on Vince, her right boot powdering Elviss nose. Now, well forget all about your telephone call. Hell, well forget about everything as long as you answer one little question for us: where is the money, Mr. Komoko?

Jesus, Vince thought, She even knows my name! This bitch must know goddamn everything! That simple realization rattled him but good, but he tried not to show it. Instead he tried to play it Steve McQueen cool, saying, Well I wont tell you where the money is, but Ill tell you where it isnt, and it isnt here.

You mean you hid it?

Hey, wait a minute. . you said I only had to answer one question.

The sheriff tossed her long blond braid over one shoulder in a way that might have been kind of alluring under other circumstances. So I changed my mind. Thats a womans prerogative, as my momma always says. Right now I have all kinds of questions. You answer them and maybe Im happy. . maybe we can work something out. You dont answer them-

Another nod. The tonfa lashed out like the Terminator of the hardwood set and crushed Elviss pelvis.

The sheriff seemed pleased with the damage. Lets put it this way: you dont want to get me all shook up, Mr. Komoko.

I can see that.

So. . wheres the money?

Vince sighed. It was a simple enough question, and it had a simple enough answer, and deep in his gut Vince had known that it was a question that would be asked as soon as hed heard a siren blasting in the desert.

Hed stepped outside to investigate the sound. Squinting in the wind. And even though dust was blowing everywhere and everything looked kind of gray and his eyesight wasnt the best, hed spotted the Jeep with a cherry on top on the dirt road out by the highway.

Only a half mile away.

Vince figured that Jeep spelled vamoose. But it hadnt worked out that way. The sheriff and the deputy had seen to that. One of them wasnt much of a driver-and that was an understatement. But it was also an understatement to say that one of them was a hell of a shot. Hell, maybe both of them were. Theyd have to be a couple of stone-cold Annie Oakleys to damn near punch his ticket in the middle of a howling sandstorm.

And that was exactly what had happened.

But that was then, and this was now, and maybe now was still open for debate. Vince considered telling the sheriff where hed stashed the cash while a hot whipcord of pain knotted the divot in his chest that had been excavated by the deputys tonka or tonfa or whatever you called the damned thing. He wondered how much begging it would take to keep from ending up on the floor of the bathroom as a busted-up twin to Elvis should he decide to sing like the King.

Hed only have to give up two million bucks.

The guys in Vegas would understand.

Sure they would.

Vince discarded that scenario pretty quickly. The guys in Vegas would not understand. More specifically, the guys in Vegas would feed him his own balls if he lost their money.

Better to try talking his way out of trouble with these two.

Vince realized that he was far from the top of his game, but he still believed his reasoning abilities were above average, his grasp of logic still Visegrip-tight. And, under more agreeable circumstances, Vince might have been right. Though he was certainly capable of self-delusion, truth be told he wasnt a stupid guy.

But right now he was pretty tired. And whether he wanted to admit it or not his game was teetering on the edge, ready to take a one-way plunge into that biggest of all tanks. It turned out that walking into a set-up actually made him kind of nervous, and even a player of Vinces limited experience knew that anxiety could drain the baddest bunnys Duracells. Besides that, the windstorm had pretty much whipped him like a Jolly Rogers mainsail. His skin was raw, as if hed shaved every exposed inch with the dullest of razors. Ditto his lips, and he didnt have a Chapstick in his pocket. And his eyes. . Jesus, every time he blinked, it was pure murder. Overall he felt like a peeled banana that had been rolled in ground glass.

But the deputy wasnt moving and the sheriff wasnt telling her to move, and Vince figured that he still had some time. Not a lot, but some. Under other circumstances it might have been enough time to reach a solution he might find amenable. But under the prevailing circumstances it was simply enough time for regret to take a hand.

So it didnt really matter if the cause of Vinces fatigue was job-related anxiety or minor dermatological distress or the mental impact of the deputys martial arts demonstration. What mattered was that his shields were definitely down.