Dog Eat Dog

by Edward Bunker

  Diesel got out of the shower and put on clean underwear and fresh linen slacks. Life was great now. He was getting over the values of the Catholic orphanage, juvenile hall, reform school, and prison. Anyone who stayed out of prison for three years was doing great even if they were penniless, but to have a new car and own a house made him a monumental success. He had Hickey-Freeman suits and Johnston and Murphy shoes on his feet—and ringside seats at the fights. Next week the general secretary was arranging to pay him for featherbedding. While the truck trailers loaded with new autos rode across country on flatbed railroad cars, he was being paid a teamster’s wages, with overtime. Only the guys really favored by the union got things like that.

  Jimmy the Face had provided the introduction. In return, he did favors for The Face. Tonight he was driving to Sacramento to burn up some trucks. Some fool was bidding against The Face for a trucking contract. After Diesel was through the fool would be out of business.

  From a closet shelf, Diesel took out his attaché case and unlocked it. Inside were his pistols. The .45 was for serious shooting but was too heavy to carry. It made his clothes sag. The second pistol was a .22 Colt Woodsman with its muzzle threaded for the silencer resting in the niche beside it. With a hot load and a silencer, it was the perfect murder gun. It made almost no sound and the bullet stayed inside the skull instead of blowing bone and blood all over the wall. The last weapon was a snub-nose .38 Smith & Wesson five-shot revolver. Light and small enough to carry, it still had enough hitting power to do the job. It was the ideal personal protection weapon. He checked to make sure it was loaded, then clipped the holster to the inside of his waistband. It was unlikely that he would need it, but better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it. No John Q. Square was going to bump into him committing a felony and make a citizen’s arrest—not unless he thrived on lead in his stomach.

  He returned the attaché case to the closet and took out a tan leather jacket and Bally loafers. He’d carry them along and maybe stop in the city afterward. Too bad that he’d miss the fight card, but afterward the sharp guys would be at Charlie’s in the Mission.

  He put on low-cut Reeboks and zipped up a windbreaker. In the mirror he could see no bulge. Everything was snug and he made sure nothing would fall out when he went over the fence. That had happened once and it had been embarrassing. He lingered an extra moment at the mirror. He looked pretty good, kind of handsome in a big, beefy way, the image of a big Irish cop. It made him smile. He raised his hands in a boxer’s stance, added the rocking rhythm, and snapped off a couple of jabs. He boxed smooth for his size. In the gym they said he moved like a welterweight, but the gym was not the arena. When the crowd was loud and the bell rang, he forgot all he knew about boxing. He flailed like a wild man and got his ass kicked. That ended his dream of being the great white hope and making millions in the ring. He went back to driving a rig and stealing for a living.

  Now it was time to go commit a crime.

  He looked around the bedroom. He had forgotten nothing. The sharpened screwdriver, claw hammer, and Clorox bottle of kerosene were in the car trunk. His gloves were in the glove compartment.

  When he opened the bedroom door, he was assaulted by the bump and grind of rap music. “Turn that nigger shit off,” he yelled toward the kitchen. When there was no reply, he became furious and rushed down the hallway, muttering that it was too fuckin’ loud to hear himself think.

  The kitchen was empty. Through the back window he saw Gloria hanging shirts on the clothesline. Junior sat in a stroller.

  Diesel went to the back door. “What’s wrong with the fuckin’ dryer?” he asked.

  “‘Fucking’ dryer. Honestly, Charles. Your son—”

  “Fuck all that. He don’t know words yet.”

  “He’ll learn quick.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’m goin’ now. Say, how come you listen to that rap shit? I can’t believe how stupid that shit is. It’s got as much to do with music as a fart.”

  She gestured in a manner that was half dismissal and half goodbye, and returned to what she was doing. As she raised up on tiptoes, it accented her legs, and when she reached, her breasts pushed against her shirt. Whatever her other flaws, she had a great body. Did he have time for a quickie? Naw. “How come you don’t use the dryer?”

  “I starched your shirts the way you like them. The dryer pulls the starch out.”

  “That’s reasonable. I’m outta here, baby.”

  “When’ll you be back?”

  “Tonight sometime.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I’m always careful, baby.”

  “Give me a call if you’re later than midnight.”

  “That I’ll do,” he said, adding to himself: If I remember.

  Walking down the driveway to his new red Mustang GT convertible, Diesel felt good. Since running away from the Sisters of Mercy Catholic Home for Boys at age ten—and going to juvenile hall for the first time when they caught him breaking into a mom and pop market—he had never gone six months without an arrest. Not all were felonies, and not all were convictions, but they were damn sure arrests where he went to jail. That was, until now. Had he outgrown jail? Now he knew men who lived entirely by crime; they made big money and never went to prison. Maybe he could do it, too, especially with Troy doing the planning and calling the shots. Diesel smiled, thinking about how Troy would appreciate how things were ready for him. In the garage were his tools for crime, oscillators that they would use on electronic burglar alarms, a scanner to follow police calls, and even a Navy surplus portable acetylene torch.

  Diesel got into his car, started the engine, and put down the convertible top. He was backing out when the front door opened. Gloria stuck her head out. He braked. “Telephone,” she called.

  “Who is it?”

  “McCain.”

  “Mad Dog?”

  She nodded.

  “What’s he want?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Tell him you couldn’t catch me.”

  Gloria shut the door and Diesel continued out. As he drove away he asked aloud, “Why’d that dingy motherfucker call me?” The last time he’d talked to Mad Dog was a year ago when they had heisted the merchant ship payroll. Because Mad Dog’s girlfriend worked for the shipping company and she had fingered the score, when they were splitting up the money, Mad Dog wanted a share for her. He hadn’t mentioned it before. “Sure,” Diesel said, “and I’ll take a cut for Gloria.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “If Sheila gets a cut, why not Gloria?”

  “That’s bullshit, man.”

  They confronted each other across a kitchen table. The moment had been tense. Diesel half rose from his seat and leaned forward. He outweighed Mad Dog by over a hundred pounds. Mad Dog’s pistol was holstered. He would never get it before Diesel broke his jaw. Mad Dog backed off from the confrontation, but Diesel knew a seed of hate had been planted in a mind already fertile with madness. He’d kept away from McCain ever since. Troy said he could manage the little maniac. Time would tell if Troy was right. Troy was up for parole in two months or so, and he had a plan for a three-man mob that would specialize in heisting pimps, drug dealers, and gangsters, all people who couldn’t go to the police. Diesel had one good thought about Mad Dog: “At least he ain’t no stool pigeon. But why is he calling me?”

  Three hours later, Diesel stood in the shadows of an oak tree in a field of dry grass. Thirty yards away was the raised Southern Pacific right-of-way. Beyond that was a sloped embankment that ended at the fence of Star Cartage. As the moon moved in and out of clouds, he saw the silhouettes of the big trucks and the quonset hut offices. The windows were dark. Jimmy the Face had arranged for the watchman to call in sick. It seemed The Face was right again.

  Beyond the trucking company was U.S. 99. Traffic was light, mainly trucks of farm produce rolling through the night. Several hundred yards down the highway was a liquor store with a neon sign. It looked easy.r />
  Diesel rolled up the canvas bag with the tools and kerosene. It was easier to tuck it under his arm like a football than carry it dangling from his hand. Bending over to lessen his silhouette, he trotted across the field and over the railroad tracks. The gravel dislodged as he slid down the embankment to the fence.

  He had wire cutters in the bag, but as he looked around it was obvious that he could climb the fence more easily than he could cut it. It was equally safe, too, for the buildings hid the fence from the highway. He pitched the canvas bag over and jumped up, hooking his fingers over the top.

  The fence rattled down its entire length. No matter. Nobody was around to hear. He dropped to the ground and froze in a crouch, watching for any sign of arousal or alarm.

  Nothing. Silence except for a truck shifting gears as it went by. Oh yeah, this was going to be easy. He’d taken three Dexamyl spansules and was glowing inside. He kept the buildings between himself and the highway as he moved toward the trucks.

  Again he paused; again no alarm. He grabbed the big, sharpened screwdriver. It easily went through the fuel tanks. No need for the hammer. Diesel fuel ran out into dark wet circles on the ground. When it was pouring from all five trucks, he poured kerosene between them, so all the inflammable liquids were connected. He was a little winded. Too many goddamned Marlboros, he thought.

  He brought out the wooden matches. Would it blow up?

  If it blows, it blows. Fuck it. He snapped a match alight with a thumbnail and pitched it into the kerosene.

  As the bluish flame crept across the ground, Diesel raced the other way.

  No explosion, but the fire was swift. He saw it light as he went over the fence, and it was blazing high by the time he reached the oak tree.

  He was on the highway, half a mile away, when the fire engines with screaming sirens and flashing lights came the other way. Dutifully he pulled over and watched them go by. “Good luck, fellas,” he said with a grin.

  On the interstate, he was exhilarated by what he’d done. The pressure was off. Jimmy the Face would appreciate what he’d done. Diesel liked torch jobs. They were easy. The problem was finding customers to trust. He couldn’t advertise in the classifieds: ARSONIST FOR HIRE. Too bad. Such things were gifts. What would Troy say? “A bird’s nest on the ground.”

  It was 3:30 A.M. Diesel had gotten home and was in the kitchen eating cornflakes and milk. The telephone rang. He looked at the clock. “Who the fuck …?” He picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  “It’s me, Mad Dog.”

  “What’s up, man?”

  Gloria appeared at the kitchen door. “He called three times.”

  “I need help, bro’,” Mad Dog said. “I’m in big trouble, man. I’m busted up here. It’s a chickenshit credit card beef, but if I don’t make bail by Monday, the parole officer’s gonna put a parole detainer on me. You know how it is.”

  Diesel understood. “What kinda bail?”

  “Just fifteen hundred. A hundred and a half to the bondsman and security.”

  “What about Sheila?”

  “She’s in Colorado visitin’ her folks. I don’t have the number. I got fifteen bills at the pad.”

  “Send the bondsman. He’s gonna make money. Throw him a little extra.”

  “Naw, man, I don’t trust bail bondsmen. What if he stole it and said it wasn’t there.”

  Diesel said nothing. He resented this imposition even though he knew he would go when the plea came. It came next:

  “Look, man, I swear I got the dough at the pad. I wouldn’t bullshit you about that. I’ll kick back what you put up … and give you whatever you want.”

  “You already got it, right?”

  “Yeah, homeboy, swear to God.”

  “That really makes me believe you. Ha, ha, ha …”

  “Hey, man, don’t put me on. Please, man, don’t leave me in the slammer.”

  Diesel would have let Mad Dog McCain rot in jail—but what would Troy want? He would say to post the bail. “I need five hundred for my expenses.”

  “You got it, man. As soon as I raise.”

  “Don’t fuck me around, Dog. If you’re bullshittin’, we’re gonna have serious motherfuckin’ trouble, y’know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, D. We know each other. I wouldn’t fuck you around.”

  “Okay. The cavalry is on the way. I’m rollin’ right now. I should have you out sometime tomorrow.”

  “I’m countin’ on you.”

  “Hey, if I say a pissant will pull a plow, hitch the harness to him.”

  3

  The speedometer hovered between eighty-five and ninety as the Mustang tore north along Interstate 5. The lush vineyards and rolling landscape of the Napa Valley became rougher terrain as the interstate climbed the Sierras. The car’s tires whined on the curves and it flew past the giant trucks that inched up the grades. Passing Lake Shasta, Diesel looked at rows of houseboats that waited at the docks. That would be fun. Maybe after Troy had a girlfriend they could rent one for a few days, explore the many miles of waterway. Gloria would like it for sure. Then again, it might not be ideal for Troy, who preferred bright lights and fast action.

  He really loved his friend. “My main man,” he muttered, thinking that he would follow his pal through the door into Hell if Troy said there was a score down there. Troy had been the leader from their first meeting in juvenile hall; they had escaped over the fence a few days later. Of all the criminals that Diesel knew, Troy was the only one whose ambition was to be an outlaw. “I’m no heir,” he once said, “and I’m not going to be cipher in the horde.” “What’s a cipher?” Diesel asked, and Troy had laughed loudly and embraced his friend. Remembering it, Diesel felt a surge of affection. He would do most anything for Troy, and much of the reason for this trip was knowing it was what Troy wanted him to do.

  The daily rain of the green Northwest began to fall as he neared Grants Pass, Oregon. The wet road slowed him so it was nighttime as he neared Portland. The Dexamyl spansules had worn off and he had started to doze at the wheel. He stopped and put the convertible top down. The cold air would keep him awake. As long as the car continued moving, the windshield kept the rain from wetting him.

  In Portland, the traffic signs and stop lights made him put the top back up. What should he do now? Bail bondsmen stayed open twenty-four hours a day, but he was too tired to take care of business. Ahead of him appeared the green neon of a Travelodge. He turned into its driveway.

  In his room, he sat on the bed and removed his shoes; then fell back and closed his eyes, intending a small nap before looking in the Yellow Pages for Bail Bonds. Sleep pulled him down, fully clothed. Within a minute his snores could be heard through the door.

  When Diesel opened his eyes, coming instantly alert like a forest predator, he saw black sky through the window and thought it was night. Damn. Had he slept through the whole day?

  His wristwatch said 6:50. It was running. He went to the window. The sky was solid with clouds and the city was wet, although no rain was falling at the moment.

  He tore the listing for Bail Bonds out from the Yellow Pages and went to the telephone. The first listing, A.A.A. Bail Bonds, 24 hours a day, proved to be an answering service. They wanted a number to call back.

  The next one was Byron’s Bail Bonds, State, Federal, County, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year Byron will bail you.

  Diesel dialed. It rang once. “Byron’s Bail, Byron speaking. What can I do for you?”

  “All right, man,” said Diesel. “I wanna bail out a buddy of mine. He’s busted here in Portland.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “I’m not sure, something with credit cards.”

  “Could be a misdemeanor or a felony.”

  “I’d guess it’s a felony.”

  “Have you got money?”

  “I’ve got a gold Citibank Visa card.”

  “That’s money. What’s your buddy’s name?”

  “Uhhh, McCain.”

 
; “First name?”

  “I … uh … don’t know it.”

  “He’s a buddy and you don’t know his first name?”

  “I just know a nickname,” Diesel said, adding to himself, I’m not going to tell you it’s “Mad Dog.”

  “McCain’s enough, I guess. It’s not that common. Do you know what jail he’s in?”

  “Nope.”

  “I can find that out. When was he arrested?”

  “I’m pretty sure it was Friday.”

  “You’re coming down here with the money?”

  “Sure. Except I don’t know how to get there. I don’t know shit about Portland.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at a Travelodge you can see from I-Five.”

  “Good. Get back on I-Five and cross the bridge going north. Get off at the first off ramp …” Byron continued with directions; it was easy. One turn after the off ramp.

  He checked out of the motel and started driving. It was Sunday and traffic was light in the dismal weather. As he turned onto the street of two-story brick buildings, the rain started coming down. His headlights illuminated an XJS Jaguar parked ahead of him. Through rain-blurred windshield and storefront window, he saw the small neon sign: Byron’s Bail Bonds.

  As he hurried toward the door, he noted the Jag’s license plate said BAIL BND. The expensive car gleamed under the street lamp in the rain. The bail bond business was a money-maker, no bullshit—if you could bring yourself to bust people and take them to jail. Himself, he could kill a chump, but taking him to jail, that was snitching. It wasn’t snitching if a cop did it, or even a square. That was part of the game. But a bail bondsman was kind of in between, half square, half thug.