Omar snarls, moves fast. The smaller dog gets up under Orion, clamps down on the animal’s throat. The crowd gasps. The skinheads go nuts—banging and kicking the plywood, screaming every racial epithet they can muster (Atlanta’s from the South and even she hasn’t heard some of them before).
It’s over fast.
Orion rolls over, and Omar keeps biting. And shaking his head. Orion howls. A jet of blood squirts up like from a broken fountain. Speckling and spattering the ground.
The worst part is, a little voice inside Atlanta has chosen a side. She wanted to see Omar win. Which means she wants to see Orion lose—Orion the bully, Orion the beast, Orion who gets what’s coming to him. But he’s just a dog, a dog who didn’t want this, a dog who was made into this…
It’s then that everything goes nuts. Karl comes at Deshawn with fists out, the tendons in the skinhead’s neck popping out like bridge cables. Deshawn backpedals, laughing like a donkey, egging the Nazi on. The ref gets between them before the two human beasts clash, pushes each apart. Atlanta can’t watch anymore. She turns and flees the ring, trying hard to find her breath and failing.
* * *
“Rough and tumble stuff, isn’t it?”
She runs into a wall, and the wall speaks.
The man is huge. Six-six. Broad shoulders, long gray hair and a big snarly beard are just the top of the mountain, a mountain that grows as it reaches the prodigious flesh of his barrel chest and massive gut. The beard is the kind of beard birds might use for a nest, and the tangled salt-and-pepper carpet parts as he smiles.
“I…”
“First dog fight, then.”
Behind her, she hears the ref call a winner—“Orion is the cur. Omar is the champ!”—and the crowd surges forth on a tide of victory and hate, of adrenalin and dopamine. The human mountain laughs again.
“That fight was a quick one,” he says. “Sometimes they go for hours. Depends on the dogs and their handlers. I run some dogs now and again. Beautiful animals, these dogs. Really amazing creatures.”
“Yeah.” She’s in his shadow and she feels like even that has weight. She thinks, this guy could give Orly Erickson—who is himself a big sonofabitch—a run for his money. For a moment she’s lost in the mini-movie of those two fighting in the plywood ring, beating the piss out of each other like a couple of Kodiak bears.
“You from the high school?” he asks her.
She doesn’t know why she’s honest but she is. “Yeah.”
“Uh-huh. You place any bets yet?”
“No, I… no.”
He winks. “Shame. Seems if you had money on Omar you’d be rolling around in cash right about now.”
Money. Cash. Foreclosure. One bet on the right animal—
Feels like she’s teetering at the crumbling edge of a dark pit—is she really thinking about betting on these fights? Putting money on this brutality? Watching the fight had her invested. Got her blood churning. Rooting for Omar. And now she’s thinking of buying in all the way? No. Hell with that. A black hole of shame blooms in her middle and draws all the rest of her toward it.
“This here is my farm, so I’m glad you found our humble operation,” the man says, clapping her on the shoulder with a hand so big he could probably crush a cantaloupe with it. His touch his gentle, however. Then the mountain moves past her, into the crowd.
She suddenly finds Guy at her side.
“Yo, you met the big man,” he says, as they both start to walk away from the ring. He sounds in awe.
“He was… big, all right.”
“Yeah, and he’s also the guy who runs this whole place. Ellis Wayman. The Mountain Man.”
“The man who is a mountain.”
“Word. All right. Listen. I gotta go sell some shit. Might as well make some bucks. You good?”
“I’m good.” She’s not, not at all, not even a little. But so it goes.
“Cool-cool.” And then Guy is gone, leaving her to wonder why she’s here in the first place.
* * *
She wanders. Feeing lost and angry. The rage burning hot—an iron skillet of hot coals searing heart-meat. She knows she has to find Bodie and Bird. Has to finish what she started here. But where to begin? What to do? Who to ask?
The sun reaches its noontime apex. Starts to slide back down the other side of the sky.
Current fight’s over, so the crowd’s starting to mill about. Over by the parking lot, a couple kids are buying a baggy of something from a dealer who’s younger than they are. She passes a pair of rich white guys in polos—one of them has his phone out, is showing off some video on the screen. She hears porny noises. They laugh. She keeps walking.
Atlanta finds herself nearing the Morton Building—a big metal building under a corrugated roof. As she gets closer to it she passes a little shed—a pump house, by the looks of it—and through the cracked door she sees a girl on her knees, head bobbing in and out of a man’s crotch. She catches a look at the girl’s face.
It’s Maisey Bott.
She starts to wonder—maybe she was coerced into it, maybe she doesn’t want to be in there, maybe Atlanta should go get her shotgun and teach that sick bastard in there a—
But then Maisey moans and laughs and again the hungry sounds of lips on flesh and Atlanta keeps moving.
As she turns back toward the Morton building, she sees Karl carrying Orion toward it. Face a twisted rictus of grief and anger. Forearms wet with the dog’s blood.
Two familiar faces come out of the Morton building, heading toward Karl.
John Elvis Baumgartner and his Skanky Bitch psycho-girlfriend, Melanie.
Horror seizes every muscle in Atlanta’s body. And rage. Always more rage.
Last Atlanta saw the two of them together, she was at the gun club waving around her mother’s little revolver, making threats and stealing Orly Erickson’s family ring. After that, she caught a few glimpses of Baumgartner at school, but he didn’t pay her a lick of attention.
But now—he flicks her gaze in her direction.
No no no shit shit shit.
Atlanta ducks behind a donut stack of tractor tires, hunkering down in the weeds. A tick crawls on her leg. She flicks it away and bites her lip.
Don’t see me don’t come over here don’t see me shit shit shit.
She waits. And waits.
Hears footsteps approaching.
Her hand moves toward her pants. Toward the baton stashed there.
Maisey Bott pokes her head around. “Atlanta?”
Wince.
“Hey, Maisey.”
Maisey shows herself fully, stands there, bright-eyed and beaming. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are,” Atlanta says, instantly regretting that. The words just came out—she didn’t think before she said ‘em and now there they are.
Maisey laughs—guffaws, really, she’s got a goofy kind of gulp-snort donkey laugh—and starts to unwrap the foil around a stick of spearmint gum. Before she pops it in she wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, her braying laughter dying down. “There’s good money here. This is fun. Isn’t it?”
Oh, Maisey, what the hell are you doing?
But all Atlanta says is, “Yeah. Yep. Great money.”
“You want a piece?” Maisey asks around the wad of gum. Oo wanna piesch? She waggles the Doublemint pack.
“I’m good.” Atlanta clenches her eyes shut. “Hey, is anybody coming over here?”
“Huh?”
“Behind me. From the Morton building. Anybody heading this direction?”
Maisey peeks her head out. “Don’t think so. Ooh. Someone you’re hiding from?”
“Old boyfriend,” she lies. “Don’t want him to see me here. Doin’… my thing.”
Another donkey laugh. “Yeah, I hear that. Some of these guys get jealous! I think you’re good. I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. Or were into stuff like this. Lemme ask you something—“ And Atlanta knows the question is
coming because anytime she gets into close contact with someone from school and they have just enough rope with which to hang the conversation, they always ask. “Did you really… you know?”
“Shoot my mother’s boyfriend.”
“In the—“ And suddenly Maisey lowers her voice and squats down next to Atlanta. “In the balls?”
“Yeah.”
“Was he… touching you?”
“He wasn’t a good person.”
She neglects to say:
He came to my room three times. He told me to do things for him or he’d tell my mother that I was hitting on him. Or he’d leave her. Or he’d hit her. He made me do things for him, all kinds of things that left bruises and made my jaw hurt real bad and then the next time he came to me I didn’t want to do it anymore or ever again and so I was ready and waiting and I shot him and the birdshot tore his scrotum clean off. Or maybe not so clean.
She just says: “So I did what I had to do.”
“Cool.”
Atlanta has to clench her whole body not to give Maisey Bott a hard flick to the eye. Instead she just nods. “Yeah. Real cool.”
“Hey, why you heading toward the murder building?”
“It’s a Morton building. It’s like a type of farm building.”
“No, I mean, that’s where they Vick the—“
Just then, a gun goes off inside the building. Bang.
“The dogs,” Maisey finishes, wincing. “I hate that part.”
Vicking a dog.
“Vicking a dog.”
Maisey nods. “You know. Killin’ it? Like the, uhh, football player.”
Killing it. Out of mercy? Or as punishment? Was it Orion that went? She pictures it: Karl, angry that his prize dog had failed him this one time, decides to kill the dog who has served his master over and over again. She wants to kill Karl. She wants to find the Mountain Man and break him down into pieces. Wants to backhand Maisey. Wants to shove her collapsible baton down Skinny Skank’s throat and up John Elvis’ ass and just break bad on everyone.
Atlanta has to get out of here before she finds a way to set fire to the whole place.
But she has something to do, first.
To Maisey, she says, “You know a Bird or a Bodie? Hitchcock. Er, Haycock.”
“I know those two. Couple-a dumb-fucks. They’re over at the barn.”
“The barn.”
“That’s where they keep the dogs before the fight.”
Her hand dips into her pocket. Feels the baton there again—a small source of comfort, that baton, like a match-flame on a cold day. But it’s better than nothing.
She doesn’t know what she’s going to do. No plan is forthcoming. But her anger doesn’t need a plan—and it probably wouldn’t care if it had one.
* * *
She leaves Maisey in the dust and now heads toward the imposing structure, a massive peaked building with windows like eyes and a big broad door like a hungry sideways mouth. Barn’s got a fresh coat of paint that marks it with the color of a slaughterhouse floor but Atlanta tries not to think about it that way.
Inside, the floor is hay-strewn. Big spears of sunlight beam in through windows and skylights, motes of swirling dust and pollen suspended in those illuminated channels. She’s surprised at how calm it is, given the dozen or so dogs stuck in wire cages—cages that are piled one on top of the other. Whatever fighting instinct these dogs have is neatly contained, bottled up and somehow saved for the fights. What she sees are mostly pit bulls of various sizes and colors—black and brindle and fawn, big and small. At the far corner is a boxer, gooey drool hanging from its flappy jowls, and Atlanta thinks, one of these things is not like the other.
Handlers mill about. Some of them tending to their dogs. Others talking. Others still staring each other down from across the barn. It’s quiet, yes; but behind the apparent serenity lurks a thread pulled taut.
Atlanta wants to kill all these people.
Not just hurt. But kill. She tells herself that’s just the anger talking. That she doesn’t really want to kill anybody. Kids say that all the time, right? “I’ll kill you if you touch my beer! I’m going to kill her for stealing my man. Teacher gave me a bad grade and now I want to kill her ass.” But they don’t mean it. Right?
But she really honestly wants to kill someone.
It’s not the first time she’s felt that way, and that’s worrying her most of all.
Someone shoulders into her—a dirtball kid with ash-blonde hair that segues into a mullet that then segues into an even-longer rat-tail braided and hanging down to the middle of his back. He smiles with pebble teeth and blinks his tiny eyes at her. “Oh, shit, I’m so frickin’ sorry.”
He clutches a choke chain leash to his chest.
“It’s awright,” she says. Looking around, he looks to be the least threatening person in here—seems like a good tour guide. “Hey, I’m lookin’ for someone.”
“Sure. Whozat?”
“Bird and Bodie Haycock.”
The kid’s eyes bug out and his jaw drops like he’s seeing a pair of braless breasts for the first time in his life. “That’s me! Well. I’m one of those two, I’m not both of them. Man, how frickin’ crazy would that be? To be two people?” He offers his hand. “I’m Bird.”
“Bird.” She says his name, doesn’t take his hand, feels a hot gush of bile geyser up from her belly and into her throat. Images of Sailor the little white terrier flip through her mind. But at the same time she’s having a hella hard time reconciling the person that could do such a thing to a helpless dog with the gawky marble-eyed and thimble-dicked hick in front of her. “You’re Bird.”
“Yup!” So proud of it, too.
“And your brother is Bodie.”
“Yup!”
“Where’s he at?”
“Oh, he’s out back. Trainin’ one of the dogs at the catpole.”
Hit him now. Break his stupid dumb face.
But she doesn’t. “Can you… take me to him?”
“Sure, c’mon!”
Bird heads to the back of the barn, waving her on, rat-tail bouncing between his shoulders. Atlanta’s hands ball into fists, her jagged chew-bitten nails digging into the flesh of her palm.
* * *
As they walk, they pick up a small trail behind the barn that leads into the woods. Rough pavers mark the way.
Bird won’t shut up. He’s a squawky one.
He’s all, So where you from? and You go to the high school? and Yeah me and my bro we’re totally frickin’ home schooled, it’s awesome. He’s like a broken spigot—much as you want him to turn off, he won’t. I like the woods. It’s frickin’ peaceful and whatever. I got allergies though and they frickin’ SUCK and my uncle is what got us the job here and man it’s sweet and I like to work outdoors even though I got allergies oh I already said that and you seem really nice I like nice girls man some girls are frickin’ not frickin’ nice and y’know, you got, like, the coolest red hair and—
She’s about to whip out the baton and give him a good whack in the kidneys just to shut him up. But then a sound cuts through the woods—a half-growl, half-scream, all-panic animal cry. In the tree cover above, a pair of startled turtledoves take flight over their heads.
“Yo, those frickin’ things are loud,” Bird says, waving her on.
“…Those things.”
“Yeah, like, one time my frickin’ aunt decided to take one in as a pet and stuff? I was five or something and I was just y’know doin’ my thing and playing with my Tonka truck and stuff and then here comes the coon and he’s all frickin’ fired up about something and scratches the hell out of my arms and legs. Stupid coon.”
They come into a clearing. Paved with concrete.
It’s a training ground for fighting dogs.
Tractor tires. Heavy chains. Two big cages dangling from a pair of chestnut trees, both cages empty. Atlanta spies a rusty washtub. A small shelf with soaps and sponges. A car battery and battery cables.
The concrete is spattered brown in places. Maybe blood. Maybe animal waste. Probably both and definitely like that spot in the Shakespeare play: never to wash out.
Out, out, damned dogsblood.
Bodie stands there. He’s the only one here and he looks like an older, better-put-together version of Bird. He’s taller than his brother by a good six inches. Handsomer, too, though given how Bird looks a little like the son of two close cousins, that’s maybe not saying much. Bodie’s hair is cropped short, though just as blonde.
Bait Dog: An Atlanta Burns Novel Page 20
