Johnny leaned back and settled in, enjoying life, celebrating the fact that he was hardly ever alone. He watched the morning sun tip the point of the Luxor pyramid. Ran his fingers through the big blond’s long hair, let his hands settle down around that big caboose and gave it a good squeeze.
“Un-guh,” said the blond.
“Baby,” Johnny said, “I second that emotion.”
Afterward the only classy thing to do was buy the blonde breakfast at the Luxor. Most guys wouldn’t bother with that, especially when they found out that the blonde was in town for a three-day dental hygienists’ convention and had a flight out later in the afternoon. But Johnny didn’t like to hurt anyone’s feelings, especially when that anyone was a blond who gave good head. Besides, his oldest brother’s girlfriend was a waitress at the Luxor. If she was on duty (which she was), Johnny wouldn’t even see the bill.
Hey. That’s what friends were for, right?
So they were eating lox and bagels in Cleopatra’s Barge, which was a little restaurant next to a faux Nile, and Johnny was sure that the whole experience made the blond feel very continental because she was from Iowa and Johnny figured that, forget the Nile, lox and bagels were probably a pretty rare commodity in the land of Ma amp; Pa Corncob. But he didn’t say anything about it because he wasn’t sure about the blond’s sense of humor and didn’t want her to get the idea that he was being mean.
Because you never knew, you know? Maybe someday he and the boys would be touring, end up in Iowa. He’d look up the blond. They’d spend the afternoon together, laugh about those lox and bagels and that wild, impulsive morning in Las Vegas. She’d tell him that she’d bought all his CDs, too. Talked all her friends into buying concert tickets when she heard Johnny Da Nang and the Napalms were playing the Corncob Dome.
Hey, it could happen, couldn’t it?
Sure it could.
“Before I forget,” Johnny said, pushing a napkin her way. “How about you write down your address and phone number for me?”
She looked a little surprised. “Are you planning a trip to Sioux City?”
“Not right now,” Johnny said. “But you never know, y’know?”
There were downsides to having lots of friends, of course. Like when Johnny got home. Seventeen messages on the answering machine.
He opened his filing cabinet and tucked the blonde’s napkin into the folder labeled IOWA.
The phone rang. He snatched it up. “It ain’t Memorex,” he said.
“Johnny.” It was a guy on the other end, but Johnny didn’t recognize the voice until the caller clued him in. “It’s Jack. . Jack Baddalach.”
Baddalach lived on the other side of the complex. Johnny knew him from the pool. The guy was always down there reading paperbacks that were about thirty years old. Seemed like he always had a couple of bruises or a black eye, but that was because he was a boxer. Actually, he had a pretty friendly disposition for a guy who beat the shit out of people for a living. And he was always ready to share a bottle of beer from his ice chest. Besides that, he’d been on TV. He knew people at HBO, suits who handled pay-per-view, too. Johnny considered him a good contact, someone he could consult about matters of fame when such matters became an issue.
So Johnny said, “Jack, how you doin’, buddy?” as if he didn’t have seventeen messages on his answering machine. He always liked everyone to feel real special when he talked to them, and notching up the old enthusiasm meter didn’t really do any harm, did it?
“I’m doing okay, Johnny. Hey, I got a favor to ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“Well, I’ve gotta go out of town for a few days. In fact. I’m already gone.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Mostly. I mean, the whole thing with the promoter is still pretty wacky, but everything else is pretty much cool.”
“Where are you going?”
“Town called Pipeline Beach.”
“Oh,” Johnny said, because he didn’t have a clue.
“Anyway …” Jack paused because he was getting to the meat of it. “I was wondering if you could feed Frankenstein.”
A chill traveled Johnny’s spine. Friendship was one thing, and greasing potentially good contacts was quite another, but this-
“Johnny? You still there?”
“Yeah, Jack. . Hey, it’s not gonna be like the last time, is it? I don’t have to yank out any stitches or anything, do I?”
“Honest, Johnny. Frankie’s all healed up. You can’t even see the scars anymore.”
“Okay, but-”
“Great,” Baddalach said. “Thanks a bunch, buddy. You’ve still got the key from last time, right?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Get my mail too?”
“Sure.”
“Great. Hey, I guess I’d better go-”
“Wait a minute. Where can I get a hold of you? In case there’s an emergency or something?”
“Hold on,” Baddalach said. “I got an ashtray here from the place I’ll be staying. It’s called the Saguaro Riptide Motel. You got a pencil? I’ll give you the phone number.”
“You’re telling me you picked your motel from an ashtray?”
“It's a long story, Johnny.”
“Most people use a travel agent.”
Baddalach laughed at that one, and Johnny felt a little better. Then the boxer gave him the specifics, and he scrawled a phone number on a note pad, along with Jack’s name and the name of the motel.
They said their good-byes. Johnny cradled the receiver, dug through a drawer that contained spare keys for nearly half the condos in the complex until he found the key to the boxer’s pad.
Johnny stared at the key.
Wow. Frankenstein.
One of these days Jack Baddalach was going to be buying a whole shitload of Johnny Da Nang and the Napalms CDs.
THREE
JACK CHECKED OUT OF THE MOTEL. The front desk arranged a rental car, and someone brought it around. Jack wondered if he could use his corporate plastic for tips, but it seemed like that might get kind of complicated. Still, he was feeling kind of generous-he traded the kid two bucks for the keys.
The rental was a Range Rover. It didn’t make any of the noises Jack’s Celica made, and the plastic interior smelled like a brand new rubber duck that had just paddled off the production line, and the dash was lined with a mystifying array of gauges that Jack blissfully ignored.
He stopped off and grabbed a couple Sourdough Breakfast Sandwiches and two large coffees at the local Jack in the Box restaurant. Figured he might as well have a couple hash browns, too. Breakfast of champions, as far as Jack Baddalach was concerned. Then he hit the highway, taking 10 east.
Pedal to the metal. The Rover moved, all right, and the gauges hung firm. Nothing smoked and nothing rattled.
Jack ate and drove. Along the way he saw plenty of sand, plenty of saguaro cacti.
He took a cutoff and headed south. Saw more of the same. Looked for something mellow on the radio, but all he could find was Johnny Rivers singing “Secret Agent Man” on an oldies station out of Tucson.
Jack turned off the radio just as Johnny got to the part about dying in a Bombay alley.
He started to feel a little uncomfortable.
Mostly, he wished he hadn’t had that second cup of coffee. He pulled over and pissed behind a towering cactus, wondering what the blue-rinsed lady at the motel gift shop would make of that.
About thirty minutes later, he hit Pipeline Beach.
First impression? Plenty of beach, all right.
The first store Jack spotted was actually called the Pipeline Beach Five-and-Dime. He pulled into the parking lot thinking, Welcome to Mayberry West, champ.
That assessment wasn’t far off the mark. As Jack entered the store, he came face to face with a portly man who hovered over the shopping carts. The guy’s ID badge said:
OF COURSE YOU CAN ASK ME!
JERRY CALDWELL
MANAGER