Saguaro Riptide by Norman Partridge

Author:Norman Partridge [Partridge, Norman]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Mystery & Detective, Arizona, Hard-Boiled, Mafia
ISBN: 9780425156995
Google: A8TY3CTpaJEC
Amazon: 0425156990
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 1997-08-15T07:00:00+00:00

1) A few cassettes, mostly jazz. That fifties be-bop shit where you couldn’t hold onto the melody with both hands.

2) A brand new map of Arizona, folded so that it showed Pipeline Beach and its environs.

3) A little notebook in which the hit man kept track of mileage and maintenance on the Saturn.

Jack flipped through the notebook. He had to admit that he was impressed—the hit man actually changed the oil every three thousand miles.

He tossed the notebook aside. The situation was pretty clear now. He was being tracked by an anal-retentive oil-changing dog-beater with a car named after a planet who liked to listen to the Jack Kerouac hit parade. Somehow, it didn’t seem like hate was too strong a word.

Not that he was in a benefit-of-the-doubt kind of mood or anything, but Jack figured he’d make one more dip into the pond. He pushed the cassettes aside, fumbled the map out of the way, and came up with a cellular phone.

If he’d been a cartoon character, a glowing lightbulb would have appeared above his head.

He pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Pictured the hit man regaining consciousness back there in the motel parking lot—spitting loose chunks of gravel out of his mouth, his backside and neck electric with pain as he rose and stumbled to his motel room. Keying the lock like a drunk, cringing at the sound the door made when he closed it. Kidneys aching while he pissed. Then looking at himself in the mirror, figuring what a sorry way this was for such a smart guy like himself to start the day.

Jack kind of felt sorry for the guy. He flipped open the hit man’s wallet and found his Visa card. Grabbed the phone. There was only one 800 number that he’d committed to memory, but he figured that one would be more than enough.

He made a call.

Okay. Fun was fun . . . but now it was time to play some mind games of the mucho serioso variety.

Jack phoned information. A minute later he had the number he needed. He punched it in. One ring later, he was through.

“Pipeline Beach Sheriff’s Department.”

Jack stared down at the name on the hit man’s driver’s license. “My name is Woodrow Saad Muhammad. I’m a guest at the Saguaro Riptide Motel. I’m staying in room 21.”

“How may I direct your call, sir?”

“Someone stole my motherfuckin’ wallet and my motherfuckin’ car,” Jack said. “Oh, yeah . . . and he beat the motherfuckin’ shit out of me, too.”

“All right, sir, let me transfer you to—”

“And one other thing: the motherfucker who did it is a guy named Vince Komoko.”

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