The Ten-Ounce Siesta

by Norman Partridge

  While incarcerated in Corcoran State Prison, the Tiger’s favorite book had been Roget’s Thesaurus. That coupled with his habit of speaking about himself in the third person made Tony Katt a great hit with the sportswriters.

  The Tiger didn’t know about any third person, though. After all, he was just one guy.

  The champ eased a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses high on his nose and checked out the action on the neighboring golf course. The ninth tee was approximately a hundred yards from the Tiger’s outdoor Jacuzzi. A group of duffers approached the tee in little white carts while the Tiger studied them with the unbridled intensity of a starved predator.

  The golfers tottered out of the carts—a cackle of old chicks, scurrying about, busying themselves with clubs and balls and other accouterments of pasture pool. Four of them, dressed in sprightly outfits that spoke of eternal spring.

  These were gold card predators. The Tiger despised them and their kind. Country clubs habitues, they had suckled too long upon the teat of indulgence and grown weak.

  No, not weak. Puny. That was a better word. They had suckled too long upon the teat of indulgence and grown puny.

  One of the women noticed the Tiger’s presence. Whispers were exchanged. The Tiger relished such attention. Fingers dared not point in his direction as the women examined him with furtive glances and puny disapproving peeps that registered awestruck disapproval.

  To the Tiger, this was the natural order of things. For what more could be expected of mere mortals when confronted by a presence so magnificent as his?

  And the Tiger’s presence was indeed magnificent— exalted, great, majestic—for he was no longer an ordinary man. He was something more.

  He was a man enhanced, augmented, redoubled . . .

  The afternoon sunshine painted the Tiger’s bronze skin. His muscles rippled and his tattoos danced, gleaming beneath a brilliant sheen of sweat. The fingers of his left hand stroked the great bronze shield on the front of the heavyweight championship belt, the image of a muscular boxer holding a globe aloft with gloved hands.

  Sunlight gleamed against bronze. The Tiger straightened to his full height of six feet two inches, gripping the belt and aiming the shining trophy like a mirror. A slashing beam of reflected light blinded one of the gawking duffers. She shielded her eyes and continued to stare, as if she were braver than all the others who had come before her.

  But the Tiger knew that this woman was not brave. She was a fool. She may as well have looked into the eyes of Medusa.

  The Tiger smiled his baddest-man-on-the-planet smile.

  If she wanted to stare, he’d give her something to stare at.

  Dramatically, the way a great artist unveils a masterpiece, the heavyweight champion of the world pulled the scarlet towel from around his waist.

  The woman fainted. Her companions, squealing in astonishment, barely managed to collect their friend’s supine body as they piled into the golf carts and dispersed as quickly as a herd of startled antelopes, leaving behind nothing save a lone white ball balanced on a tee.

  The Tiger stared down—below the gleaming shield that girded his belly, below the nest of dark pubic hair—and smiled.

  The operation had been a complete success.

  Truly, he was King of the Jungle.

  ***

  The heavyweight champion’s augmented penis bobbed in the hot tub, buffeted by a steady stream of jetting Jacuzzi bubbles.

  The champion settled back, uttering a satisfied sigh. It was funny how things worked out sometimes.

  First there’s the accident, and of course it’s frightening but you’re treated by the finest surgeon in Vegas, and he refers you to the best cosmetic surgeon, who provides you with a discreet informational video that you watch in the privacy of your own home . . . and before you know it— snip, snip, pull, pull, stitch, stitch—you end up with . . . this.

  “Oh my God . . . every time I see it . . “ Porschia marveled, searching for words. “Gosh, Tony, it’s like a big old barge or something.”

  “The Tiger sincerely hopes that you brought your tugboat, my dear.”

  Porschia laughed. She stood at water’s edge, wearing a thong bikini bottom and a Tony “The Tiger” Katt T-shirt that was knotted beneath her pert, upturned breasts. Statuesque and strawberry blond, she was a budding star in her own right. Porschia Keyes, understudy to the lead dancer in the big review at the hotel that was sponsoring the Tiger’s first championship defense.

  Of course, Tony viewed their relationship in completely realistic terms. Cut beneath the hearts and flowers and Porschia was just another perk from hotel management, no different than the big house or the private gymnasium. That didn’t mean the Tiger was uncomfortable with the arrangement. Perks like this he could definitely live with.

  Tony modulated his voice at a low, sexy growl. “How about fixing us a drink, darling? The Tiger will have a kamikaze. You have whatever you like. We’ll spend the whole afternoon together.”

  “Don’t you have to train?”

  “The Tiger ran four miles before breakfast. He ate his Wheaties. He hasn’t had a cigarette in a month. The fight is not for another three weeks. A day off will do the Tiger a world of good. It will keep him from getting stale.”

  Porschia thought it over. “Okay. I’ll phone the hotel and bag my afternoon rehearsal. But you have to help me come up with an excuse.”

  “Tell them you tangled with a tiger.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell them you were mauled.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because you’re gonna be.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So hurry back.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And then we’ll luxuriate."

  Porschia flushed. “God, Tony, I just love it when you talk smart.”

  ***

  The Tiger offed the Jacuzzi jets and was enveloped by the afternoon silence of a wealthy neighborhood.

  A year ago Tony Katt was holed up in a crackerbox apartment in Fresno. Sure the apartment was a step up from the slams, but not much of a step. Then he had that fight on ESPN. Not even a main event. Just a ten round prelim. But Caligula Tate—the guy who promoted the heavyweight champion of the world—watched that fight, salivating over the big white boy covered over with jailhouse Aryan Brotherhood tattoos. When he turned off his television, Tate knew he’d found a pug that would bring in the long green when matched with Alexis Shabazz.

  Shabazz was a proud member of the Nation of Islam. Having finally won the title after a long and distinguished career, he was looking for a few good paydays against limited opposition before hanging up the gloves. Which was another way of saying that Alexis Shabazz was over the hill.

  His people figured he’d have no trouble taming Tony the Tiger. They were wrong. About that, and about a few other things.

  Shabazz trained for a short fight. He knew his old legs couldn’t carry him for twelve rounds, so he planned to starch Tony the Tiger as soon as the opening bell rang. Shabazz was a little used up and a little slow, but he still had amazing power. Boxing writers said he had Liston’s jab and Foreman’s right hand.

  Shabazz planned to topple Tony with a big right hand, pocket his check, and be on the next plane to Philadelphia. He warmed up in his dressing room, shadowboxing several rounds in advance of the fight, and by the time he entered the ring he was primed and ready to knock the jailhouse tattoos off the Tiger.

  There was only one thing Shabazz didn’t count on—the national anthem. Because for all intents and purposes there were two of them.

  That was the promoter’s fault. Caligula Tate figured he’d do the anthem as a duet to promote racial harmony, because he was taking a real beating in the press for matching a Black Muslim with a guy who had a swastika tattooed over his heart.

  Tate hired a redheaded C & W queen with skin the color of Bisquick and a has-been soul mama singer from darkest Detroit to do the honors. What Tate didn’t know was that the soul mama had a crack habit an
d was in desperate need of some serious career revitalization.

  The big moment arrived. The cowgirl kicked things off like a true Texican— “O-ooo say kin yew seeee ...” Her pinched wail set every dog within ten square miles to barking, but at least she finished up her part of the tune in under a minute.

  Then the soul mama stepped into the spotlight. A vision in purple sequins and scarlet feathers, she was determined to send every member of the pay-per-view audience scurrying to the nearest music store for a copy of her remastered greatest hits CD.

  The soul mama wailed. She screeched. She jumped up and down and squinted and stomped her feet, and by the time she reached “the land of the free and the home of the brave” she had stretched the national anthem to a record time of six minutes and fifty-five seconds.

  All the while, Alexis Shabazz shadowboxed in his corner, trying to stay warm but actually blowing his load. Like the boxing wits said: Shabazz left his fight in the dressing room. When the bell rang for round one, the champ had nothing left.

  Two rounds passed before the Tiger figured it out. When the bell rang for the third, he knew his time had come.

  A lot of people said it was a lucky punch, but perfect punch was a better description. The Tiger landed a right uppercut that caught the old champ in the face as he went into his patented bob-and-weave. It was a punch that exploded Alexis Shabazz’s nose, nearly driving the bone directly into his brain.

  One punch, and Tony Katt had everything he had ever desired. The heavyweight championship of Planet Earth. A mansion in Las Vegas. A showgirl in his bed. And a bigger dick, too.

  Life was good.

  ***

  And sometimes life was one large pain in the ass.

  Porschia handed Tony a glass of lukewarm booze.

  In such moments, Tony tended to forget himself. And Roget’s Thesaurus. And the third person. He was liable to say things like, “Goddamn, Porschia. Where’s the fucking ice?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, the ice-maker is broken. And whoever emptied the ice trays didn’t fill them up.”

  “Well . . . Christ. I can’t drink a warm kamikaze.”

  “Don’t yell at me. It’s not my fault. This is your house, not mine. If the ice-maker is broken, it’s up to you to get it fixed.”

  “It’s not my fucking house. It belongs to the casino. And even if it was my house, it’s not up to me to worry about ice-makers. Jesus, Porschia, I’m the heavyweight champion of the whole fucking planet.”

  “Yeah. And right now you’re acting like a heavyweight asshole.”

  “Hey—”

  “You used the last of the ice, Tony. When we had our bath last night. You remember what you did with it.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “And you didn’t fill up the ice trays before we went to bed.”

  “I’m the baddest man on the planet!”

  “And I’m understudy to the lead dancer in the Beauty and the Beast Review at the Skull Island Hotel and Casino. All it takes is one little sniffle and I’m the one dancing the macarena with that big animatronic King Kong.”

  “Listen . . . baby—”

  “Don’t give me that baby shit.” Porschia threw down her lukewarm cosmopolitan and the glass shattered on the patio. “You can’t treat me this way. I’ve got a career, too.”

  “Yeah. You jiggle your hooters for a robot monkey and a roomful of idiots who just blew next month’s rent on the dollar slots. Move over, Madame Curie.”

  “That’s it. We’re finished.”

  “Not the first time. Won’t be the last.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Tony. I won’t be back. You can find some other girl to play tugboat with you.”

  “I’m sure you’ll land on your feet, Porschia. Those casino boys at Skull Island will watch out for you.”

  “You bastard—”

  “Who knows: you might even get lucky.” Tony grinned behind his Ray-Bans. “Maybe this time they’ll let you move in with the robot monkey.”

  ***

  The Tiger boiled with anger. Fuck it. He phoned his trainer. “Get your ass over here. Bring some sparring partners. No chickenshits. Anybody who climbs into the ring today better be prepared to earn his money.”

  He pulled on a pair of shorts and went to his private gym, a glass and oak vision that was a long way from the canvas and mildew sty where he’d first learned to box.

  Everything here was new. Bright sunlight poured into the room from the plateglass windows that constituted the west wall. Chrome and leather gleamed. The Tiger wrapped his immense paws. Then he punched up some hardcore on the stereo system and slammed his fists into the heavy bag.

  In Fresno, the heavy bag was filled with sawdust. Hitting it was like hitting a cement wall. The bag in Tony’s gym was filled with water, which was much easier on his hands.

  The bag had a second benefit. Hitting it excited Tony. It was like hitting a human. He could feel his fists sink into the soft leather the same way they sank into a man’s belly when he turned up the intensity.

  The Tiger’s punches thudded against leather. Jabs and hooks and uppercuts, thrown one at a time as the champ warmed up. Soon the big bag began to swing on a long chromed chain as combinations battered its skin. Three punches, four punches, coming faster and faster as the Tiger found his rhythm.

  Tony loved it. The rat-tat-tat of his punches, the chain creaking and groaning and screaming like a woman. These were satisfying sounds. The Tiger concentrated on them, fists flailing, shoulders and back knotted, hips and legs torquing blows that could drive a man’s nose bone into his brain.

  Sweat rolled off him. Hot droplets pattered against the floor. His muscles were molten steel. His fists drummed leather. Wham, bam, thank you—

  Another sound slashed the Tiger’s reverie.

  The sound of shattering glass. Sharp slivers rained down from one of the large plateglass windows on the west wall. The Tiger barely leaped out of the way as deadly shards sliced divots in the oak floor.

  Hot desert air swept into the room, overpowering the state-of-the-art air-conditioning as easily as the Tiger had overpowered Alexis Shabazz. The Tiger rushed to the broken window, his boxing shoes crunching over broken glass.

  A man stood alone on the ninth tee. He didn’t look like he belonged there. He wore a black T-shirt and black jeans, and he had a baseball bat instead of a golf club.

  The stranger tossed a golf ball into the air and hit it in the direction of the heavyweight champion of the world.

  JACK PUT THE WOOD TO ANOTHER GOLF BALL and the self-described baddest man on the planet jumped away from the windows just in time to avoid a busted-glass shower.

  Jack figured he’d made his point. He tossed the baseball bat into the bushes and climbed the fence that separated the golf course from Tony Katt’s mansion.

  Well, that description was a little short of accurate—the mansion didn’t really belong to Katt. It was a corporate cage, a way for the casino fat cats who had signed the heavyweight champion to a multi-million dollar three-fight deal to keep an eye on their investment. As soon as that investment soured, Katt would be out on his ass. He wasn’t the first boxer to live at this address. He wouldn’t be the last.

  Jack twisted over the top of the fence and dropped to the ground on the other side. He crossed a picture-perfect lawn and climbed a staircase that lead to a terra-cotta patio, just in time to see Tony Katt charge through the big empty space that a few moments before had been a window.

  “Hey, Tony. I’ve been meaning to drop by.” Jack held out his right hand, ready to shake. “I’m Jack Baddalach. I used to be the light-heavyweight champion of the world.”

  “What the fuck?” Katt stared at Jack’s hand as if it were a turd. “What’s the matter with you, man? Are you a fucking lunatic or something?”

  Jack smiled at the bruiser. Katt didn’t look so much like the baddest man on the planet. Not right now. Right now he looked like a really confused bull that had been beaten to the ubiqu
itous china shop by a rampaging rhinoceros.

  That was just the kind of expression Jack wanted to see on Katt’s face. A guy like Katt was used to playing the bully. Bullies couldn’t handle it when someone took the bad boy play away from them. Especially bullies who happened to be boxers. For reference check Sugar Ray Leonard defeating Roberto Duran in their famous no mas fight, or Evander Holyfield KOing Mike Tyson.

  Jack peeked over Tony’s shoulder. “Gonna invite me in?”

  “Fuck you, pal.”

  Tony Katt stood his ground, his body a road map of personal insecurities. All those badass jailhouse tattoos on his chest—Nordic maidens and skulls and swastikas— couldn’t cover the insecurities of a big guy with a little pecker.

  Neither did the tats Katt had added since becoming champ. Friedrich Nietzsche covered one shoulder, his impassive face above the philosopher’s best-known quotation: “That which does not destroy us makes us stronger.” Having Freddy Nietzsche on his shoulder probably made Katt feel like an intellectual or something, but Jack had no idea what insecurities the tattoo on Katt’s other shoulder stroked. He couldn’t understand why the heavyweight champion of the world would want the smiling face of Colonel Harlan Sanders, the Kentucky Fried Chicken king, etched on his hide, let alone what bizarre personal kink had driven him to add the famous slogan: “Finger Lickin’ Good.”

  You’d have to buy the Tony Katt Cliffs’ Notes to figure that one out, and Jack didn’t want to pony up the bucks. So he left it alone and got back to business.

  “Tony, I really want this to be friendly,” Jack said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Look at this.” Katt gesticulated wildly in the direction of the broken windows. “Look what you did to my fucking house.”

  “I wanted to get your attention. I wanted to let you know I’m serious. I wanted to be sure that when I ask you a question, you’ll give me a straight answer.”

  “Fuck you, man. You’d better get out of here. Right now. Or I’ll—”