Saguaro Riptide

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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 wasn’t. She asked Vince what he’d 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 Vince’s right wrist with some weird kind of nightstick that had a handle on it. Vince’s hand went numb for an instant, and in that instant the cellular phone he’d 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 didn’t blink, and the phone didn’t move.

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