The guy peers in the window. Mid-40s, maybe. Pitted cheeks like he once had real bad acne. His left eye is tight behind puckered, puffy skin—scar tissue not suffered by the other eye. He takes off his tractor cup, runs his fingers through a length of greasy brown hair. “Fuck you want?”
“Here for the show,” Guy says.
“Uh-huh.” But Winky doesn’t budge. Just keeps staring in the car. Both eyes lingering on Atlanta.
Guy reaches gingerly into the console compartment, pulls out a big freezer baggy which is in turn filled with a bunch of smaller Ziplocs, all of them filled with a variety of pills. Little blue ones. Little pink ones. Capsules the color of chocolate milk. He shakes it. “I’m here to make a deal. Guillermo Lopez.”
“You’re cool,” Winky says. But then he snorts and starts chewing on something. Phlegm, maybe. “But these two, I don’t think they’re on the list.”
“That little shithead in the back is my brother—“
“Hey!” Shane protests.
“And her, she’s an associate looking to buy a dog.”
“This ain’t fuckin’ PetSmart.”
Guy nods to her. “Show him.”
She reaches in her pocket, pulls out a baggy all her own—as planned, it’s full of twenties. Part of her advance from Jenny. All part of the ruse. She won’t be spending it, but they don’t know that.
Winky rubs his scalp again, then screws the cap back on his head. He once more moves back around the front of the car and comes up on Atlanta’s side. He waits as she hits the button to lower the window.
“The boys can go in,” Winky says. “You can stay out here with me for a little while.”
“Like he, uh, said, I’m his associate, so. I better go with him.”
“They’ll be okay without you for five, ten minutes.”
He leans in his head. His tobacco breath is dark, earthy, acrid. Nosehairs curl up out of his nostrils and twitch as he takes a sniff of her.
“Hey,” Shane protests again.
Winky ignores it. “I like your shampoo.”
“It’s called soap,” she says, voice shaky. Suddenly she wishes the shotgun wasn’t in the back of the car. Stuffing the barrel up under his chin would go a long way toward getting him out of her personal space. Everything feels hyper-real, suddenly. Tense. Uncertain. A spinning dime about to fall off the edge of the table. She has the collapsible baton on her back. How long to reach in and get it? Snap the button, pop the baton? No room to move in here. Open the door? Push him back? She’s starting to feel claustrophobic. Do something.
But it’s Guy who does something. He grabs the bag of money, flips the zipper, and grabs a handful of twenties. He thrusts them up under Winky’s chin. Then says, “I forgot there was a toll. Can we go, yo?”
Winky smiles a mouth full of ochre teeth, then nods. “Sure thing, ess-ay.” Then he goes up to the gate, pops the lock with a key, and swings it wide over the gravel.
They drive forward and Atlanta feels suddenly like they’re heading into the mouth of hell through the front gates, pulling right up to the Devil’s own palace for valet parking.
* * *
It’s not long after the front gate that the Farm comes into view. A quick glance shows that its simple and earnest name is true: it’s a farm, plain and simple. A red barn dominates, standing tall like a demon’s church. On the other side is a Morton building, an old grungy farm tractor sitting outside, a pull-behind brush-cut mower sitting next to it (with grasses and weeds growing up all around it). Atlanta can see a house, too, off in the distance—a white stone farmhouse tucked away in the trees, making it almost hard to see.
But the centerpiece is the pit.
It sits in the middle of everything, and that’s where all the people are. She can’t see much from here—just plywood walls affixed to metal stakes forming a big dug-out octagon, dozens of people standing at the perimeter and watching whatever’s going on inside, and another dozen more milling about like ants that wandered away from the colony.
Guy parks the Scion at the edge of the lot. Atlanta stays. Draws a deep breath. The encounter with the man in the John Deere hat has left her shaken—like someone stuck an ice pick through the links of her imaginary armor and got her right in the lungs. She pulls it together. Another breath. Another. Toughen up, you dumb girl.
“Stay in the car,” she says to Shane.
“But—“
But nothing. She’s already out and closing the door behind her. Her bag remains in the seat where she left it, but the collapsible baton sits tucked in one of her baggy pockets.
The sun is bright. Hot. The day is starting to cook the earth, dry it and split it like a hot dog left too long on the grill. Guy stands in front of her, and pops on a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses. “You good?”
“I’m good.”
“You got a plan?”
“Nope.” And with that, she starts walking. Heading right for the big stage, the main event, the really big show. That’s what they call it, Guy said. Those in the know don’t call it the “fight” or “fights.” It’s the Show. Capital-S.
Stones crunch under her boots. Guillermo walks next to her. Hands tucked into pockets, trying to look tough, or maybe trying to look like he just doesn’t give a care, or maybe those are the same thing for him.
The crowd, like the cars in the lot, is a wild mix. And fairly segregated. A cluster of black dudes there—most of them looking like gangbangers. Hispanics on the other side, and some of them look like bangers, too, but just as many look like a guy you’d expect to see in a restaurant kitchen. The whites ring the other side and they’re a mix all their own—a clot of hillbillies, a handful of sweaty suit-clad business types, and then on the other side the fucking skinheads. Some of the Nazis are punky, like John Elvis Baumgartner and his bitch bride, Melanie. Others are clean, conservative, real Hitler Youth types.
Not many women, that’s for sure. Those that are here look like pros. Short skirts, too-tight jeans, lipstick so red they look like vampires fresh from a feeding.
But it’s then she sees something that really bakes her lasagna: three students from the baseball team. One of them is Charlie Russo: weed-smoker under the bleachers. Next to him: Carlos, another from the baseball team. And wandering away from those two: Maisey Bott. Atlanta knows Maisey. Shit, they’re in bioscience class together. Or were before the school year ended. She’s a nice girl. Dumb as a bag of coconuts, but nice.
“You good?” Guy asks her.
“Yeah,” she lies. She doesn’t want the kids to see her. They won’t, she tells herself. They’re going to focus on the fight. And if they see you, so what? They’re already scared of you. Like the Beatles sang, let it be.
Atlanta’s feet carry her forward with an undeniable gravity. Feels not like she’s moving forward but rather like everything is moving toward her.
They find a space in the crowd right between the whites and Hispanics—as if the two of them form connective tissue between the two groups.
Her hands hold the plywood wall, a wall that stands about waist high. A splinter bites into the meat of her index finger and she pulls it away, a bead of blood already blowing up like a little red balloon.
Nobody’s in the ring right now. It’s between matches. The parched earth of the arena is scratched and furrowed from earlier fights. A few tumbleweeds of dog hair blow around in the faint breeze. The ground is stained dark in a few places. Or maybe Atlanta’s just seeing things.
Suddenly: commotion. Someone moves through the crowd at the far end, near to the skinheads: it’s a thick-necked white guy wearing a black wife-beater and showing off biceps that bulge with a pair of swollen swastika tats. He hauls a creature into the ring that calls to mind that old adage of how dogs and their owners start to look like one another. His tawny pitbull’s bristling with fat and muscle, a beast wreathed in mean gristle. Around the dog’s neck is a rusted chain wrapped again and again, the ends trailing in the dirt. The dog’s got empty eyes and a m
uzzle marred with a mesh of pink scar-lines.
Thick-Neck brings the beast to the far end of the arena, celebrated by the hoots and hollers of the skinheads.
The second dog comes into the arena. A brindled pit bull who enters and sits right away, his body making the shape of a pyramid—thick base, thin shoulders, tiny brick head. The dog seems happy. Mouth open. Pink tongue out. Panting in the heat, blissfully ignorant. His handler—owner? trainer? torturer?—is a big black dude in a loose-hanging Chicago Bulls jersey and with one of those helmet-strap beards that looks like someone drew a line along his jaw with a permanent marker. He gets down, nuzzles the dog, gives it a few slaps on the haunches. The dog leans into the attention. The joy of a well-loved animal, ignorant to the boos of the skinheads nearby.
“That dog’s dead,” Guy says.
“What?”
“He’s docile. A pet, not a fighter.”
Her middle tightens. “That’s messed up.”
“That’s dog-fighting.” He sniffs. “Besides, over there, the skinhead? That’s Karl Rider. His dog, Orion, hasn’t lost a match. Trains him with those chains. Forces him to drag around tractor tires. Makes him tough as balls. He’s probably over weight or close to it. But money makes that a moving target. Bribes make the world go ‘round. This world, anyway.”
“Orion.” Her teeth clench. “Figure he’d name it something more Hitlery. Adolf. Himmler. Something.”
“Nah, check it. Orion. O-R-I-O-N. Our Race Is Our Nation.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Here. Look—the ref. Match is about to start.”
The ref isn’t very ref-like. No black-and-white stripes, no whistle. He’s just a pot-bellied yokel with a fat nose over a big black beard who comes out and gesticulates with his hand almost like he’s whipping around an invisible lasso: “Orion versus Omar. To your corners now.”
Each handler brings the dogs toward the corner, and the ref goes and, using a screwdriver, carves a semi-circle line in the dirt before each dog, saying, “Behind the line, face away.” And both the skinhead and the black dude turn their dogs away from each other, toward the wall, toward the crowd. The ref asks each man to bare his arms, then his calves, then he pats each dog down.
“The heck’s he doing?” she asks.
Guy says, “Checkin’ for cheats. Some guys hide shivs or razors. Or shit to throw in a dog’s eye. I’ve even seen it where they try to put razors on the dog’s paws or in their mouths. That’s amateur hour bullshit, though. Doesn’t happen too often, but Cajun Rules says you gotta check.”
“Face your dogs,” the ref calls. Another lasso motion.
Each handler forcibly turns his dog to face the center of the arena. The animals stand just behind their handlers, head and shoulder poking through the men’s legs.
The ref shouts: “Let go.”
The men step aside—
And the fight’s on. Atlanta’s heart’s racing and she expects it to match the tempo of the fight, figuring these two beasts will barrel forward and slam into one another like two cannonballs, but that’s not how it happens. The battle unfolds slowly and clumsily, the animals hesitant—if it’s a car crash, it’s one set to a slow-mo crawl.
Gristly Orion trots out into the middle like this is old hat. The other dog—Omar, apparently—circles right, still panting, still wearing that giddy dumb dog’s face, oblivious to the thrashing that Atlanta is now certain he’s going to get. Omar’s handler gets off to the side, starts yelling at the dog and waving his hands like he’s trying to telekinetically move the animal. Handler gets too close, and the ref taps him—“Back up. No touching, no touching.”
Karl stands back. Arms crossed. Showing his teeth in a broken-toothed smile.
Omar turns back toward his handler and the ref yells out: “Turn!”
“Shit!” the black dude says.
Karl just laughs as the ref whoops out: “Handle your dogs.”
Both handlers grab the dogs and head back to their corners.
“That’s a turn,” Guy explains. “Dog faces away from the fight, that’s a cur move. Curs are losers. Winners are champs. Dog makes a turn—meaning, he turns away from the fight—
three times, match is over. Dog loses. Bonafide cur, yo.”
Atlanta’s stomach flutters. That’s what needs to happen here. Omar isn’t up for this. He’s not a fighter. Keep turning, she thinks. Keep turning.
The ref whips his hand around again, calls out the same as before: “Face your dogs.” Dog head and shoulders show again through handler legs. “All right. Let go.”
Once more the dogs are free.
Again Orion boldly steps into the middle. He knows the drill and Karl doesn’t have to do anything to egg the animal on. But the black dude—whose name Atlanta still doesn’t know until someone from the audience tells him to “Whip that bitch, Deshawn!”—stands behind his dog, clapping his hands and snapping his fingers.
It works. Atlanta grips the plywood as Omar moves to the middle. But not like a fighter. The brindled pit’s got a lean, slack posture—a happy doggy face like he’s going to greet an old friend and maybe tussle in the dirt over a chew-toy. Orion just stands there. Head low. Shoulder hair starting to bristle. A hellhound ready to pounce.
The crowd is whooping it up, now. The skinheads cheering. Everybody else gasping or booing. It’s like watching a lamb bobble off toward a waiting lion.
Orion moves. Fast. Scary fast.
His jaw wraps around Omar’s muzzle. Orion dominates. Pushes the smaller pit bull down into the dirt, coughing up a plume of brown dust. Omar squeals, cries out—a sharp keening whimper. The crowd is loud, now—Atlanta’s own strangled cry is lost amongst their catcalls and monkey hoots.
Omar’s wriggling. Trying to move. Trying to roll over. But Orion isn’t letting it happen. As Omar whines and thrashes, Deshawn hops up and down, wide-eyed and screaming, the corners of his mouth wet with spit-froth: “No! No! C’mon! C’mon, son! Get up!” Deshawn hunkers low, suddenly waves his hands like he’s a man drowning at sea. “Fanged! Fanged! Omar’s fanged, yo! Ref, ref—you listening to me?”
The ref hurries over, hunkers down, then yells out: “Fang. On Omar. Handle your dogs, back to corner.”
Karl finally shows some life—and he’s pissed. He gets up in the ref’s face disputing the call, banging his two fists together like boulders. The ref acts like Karl isn’t even there.
“I said, handle your dogs.” It’s then Atlanta sees that the ref has a sparking stun gun in his hand. Karl backs off.
As the two handlers go for their dogs, Guy nods. “Karl bought his dog another five, ten seconds there. Dick move. But smart.”
“What’s fanged mean?” Atlanta asks, but the answer becomes plain:
As the handlers break the magnetic blood-bond between the two dogs, Atlanta gasps as she sees Omar’s face. His nose and muzzle are ragged. Blood patters down into the dirt, bubbling up in the dust, leaving a trail of red. His face looks like ground meat. She thinks: Go now. Get away. Stop watching. Or better still: Get the gun. Put these rabid animals down. And by rabid animals, she doesn’t mean the dogs.
But she stays. Transfixed. Held fast in the quicksand of her own horror.
She barely bears Guy tell her that being fanged means that the other animal’s tooth gets stuck in the other dog’s skin. Like the splinter in your hand.
She’s trembling now.
The dogs move back behind the scratch lines.
“Water test,” ref says.
Deshawn pulls a bottled water from the corner, uncaps it, pours a little into his own mouth. The ref gives him the thumbs up then looks to Karl, who waves off the opportunity. Deshawn pours the water over the dog’s face with shaking hands and then into the animal’s mouth. Omar leans in against his handler, whining in the back of his throat. Teeth marks still pumping fresh blood over his muzzle. Water and blood, water and blood. The earth below the brindle damp with both.
Guy leans in to her, “Handlers got
ta test the water first. Make sure it’s not juiced.”
“That dog. He’s really hurt.”
Guy nods. Grim as the grave. “And it’s only going to get worse.”
It all unfolds again. Face the dogs. Let them go. Back to center. Atlanta wants to run in there. Turn the smaller dog away before he gets his throat ripped out.
The two dogs move toward one another. Orion is slow and methodical. And once more Omar waddles out there like he’s going to make best friends, like that whole muzzle-biting thing was just a casual misunderstanding between two old friends.
Orion aims to end it now. The big beast lunges again.
And his jaws snap closed on open air.
Bait Dog: An Atlanta Burns Novel Page 19
