Dog Eat Dog

by Edward Bunker

  “What’s the other thing?”

  “It’s the violence. Look here,” George said, “when I was a thief, I never carried a piece except on a heist. I’d steal with a gun if the score was right. But if anybody got hurt, it was a failure. The idea was to be smooth. Now I’m an old man and I’m scared to go lots of places at night unless I’m packin’ a pistol for self-protection. The world has changed in twenty years.”

  All of it was true, Troy thought. Not that it mattered to him very much. He might go to the morgue, but he wasn’t going to jail. Never again, never more. Unlike most denizens of the underworld, his childhood had let him see what a difference money made in life, in what one experienced, in what freedom one could have if one could afford it. He had no aspiration for riches: The wealth of moguls constrained them. What he needed was enough to find a sunny town on a seacoast where he could live in a small house on a hillside, with a woman to cook and clean. A few hundred thousand would be enough, thank you, and he had nothing to invest but his life.

  Dominique leaned close and whispered, “Want to go?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be right back. Excuse me.”

  She slid from the booth and strolled between the tables toward a side hall with a restroom sign. They had to watch, her body and the way she walked made it impossible to do otherwise.

  “Damn, you look serious,” George said, leaning over the table to give him a playful slap. “Smile, sucker. Look at her ass. Goddamn, I wish I was sixty again.”

  Troy had to grin. He wished he had George’s view of life.

  “So how long are you going to be here?” George asked.

  “A day … maybe two.”

  “What about the parole?”

  “There’s no way I can do a parole. I’m not even going to report.”

  “I did a parole. I don’t know how I did it. I never intended to. I sort of staggered into straightening up. One day led to another. I even took off a couple scores way back—and got away. I feel like I quit ahead of the game.”

  “Sure you did,” Pearl said, “if you don’t think about the sixteen years you spent in prison.”

  “Not when it’s over,” George said. “Right?” he asked Troy.

  Troy nodded, but not wholeheartedly. The memory was too close.

  Pearl gathered her purse. “Time for me to go home. Are you coming?” she asked George.

  “What else can I do? We’re in your car.”

  “Let’s go.”

  George grinned. “Look here, man,” he said to Troy, “I’m supposed to be an exploiter of women—Gigolo Perry. Man, I’m a rest home for a whore.”

  “Quit running your jaws and let’s go,” Pearl said.

  “See, man, see,” George said.

  Dominique appeared. Everyone got up and gathered their things.

  “Need any dough?” George asked.

  “Uh-uh. I’m okay.”

  “We’re parked out back,” George said.

  The two men shook hands. Troy promised to call when he got to L.A. He would pass on George’s regards to Greco.

  Troy was lightheaded as he followed Dominique toward the door. Watching her body move under her clothes, he could imagine her naked, opening her legs—and he got an erection.

  On the sidewalk, Dominique stopped. “Are we getting a room or what?”

  “I’ve got one at the Holiday Inn in Chinatown.”

  “No car?”

  He shook his head.

  “I left mine at home.”

  A taxi was going by the other way. She put two fingers to her lips and let forth a blast of a whistle.

  Troy looked at her. “Damn, baby.”

  “I lived a couple years in New York City.”

  The cabbie looked and made a fast U-turn. “Where to?”

  “Chinatown Holiday Inn.”

  During the ride, the sway of turning corners and changing lanes jostled their bodies together. Each time it happened, Troy felt a surge of arousal and imagination. He glanced at her profile and confirmed her delicate beauty. Because she was quiet and her smile was soft, his imagination gave her attributes of character that he found desirable, adding an affectionate tenderness to desire. Although he liked whores, most of whom had been through hard times and had a fatalistic view of life, with this one he only felt pity. She was too pretty and nice to be a whore. He wondered why; then laughed to himself. It was the standard question of the trick.

  They crossed the lobby and took the elevator. As he unlocked the door and she walked past, he asked if she wanted a drink. She smiled softly and shook her head. She looked around, opened the bathroom door a few inches and turned on the light therein, then she turned off the room lights. Enough came from the bathroom to softly light the room. Through the window from far below came the distant muffled sounds of the city.

  Dominique knew how to stir a man’s fire and she began to strip and taunt. Watching him with eyes that glittered, she slowly unbuttoned her blouse while doing a slight shimmy with her shoulders. Her smile was full of tease. She pulled the blouse open, flashed her breasts, which were small but erect; then pulled it shut and turned away, finally rolling her shoulders so the garment fluttered to the floor.

  She wiggled from the tight skirt in a provocatively graceful way. When it dropped to the carpet, she stepped out and stood in bikini panties, high heels, shiny white stockings, and garter belt. He thought she had the prettiest ass he’d ever seen, round and smooth. Her body was shapely and firm—she was either a dancer or worked out, and although men would say she epitomized the sexually attractive body, she would be insufficiently thin for the fashion of the era. She put a foot on a chair and reached to unsnap her garter belt.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Oh, you like that,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” he said, “with legs … like yours.” It made him grin; passion had made him momentarily lightheaded. Was he going to faint over pussy before he got it? He was like a horny schoolboy in the clutches of a horny housewife. He wanted to laugh at himself, but he wanted to put his hands on Dominique even more.

  “Do you fuck with your clothes on?” she asked.

  “Uhhh. No, no, no …” He kicked his shoes off and nearly tore the shirt buttons loose while unfastening them.

  The pistol! He remembered it as he started to slip from the shirt. Too many women were weird about firearms. As he took the shirt off, he turned and shielded the pistol as he pulled it and the clip-on holster from his waistband and put it under his jacket on the chair. She was pulling down the bedspread and missed it. Good. Even a whore might get antsy if she saw a piece.

  When he took off his socks, he remembered that wearing them now would be the most unromantic thing in the world.

  Dominique removed the bedspread and fluffed the pillows. Her breasts danced with the motion.

  She took something small from the nightstand and turned toward him. As she crossed the room, naked save for garter belt, stockings, and high heels, he was hypnotized by radiant warmth from her body; he felt it five feet away. He had no wish to say anything. He was too seduced, blind as Samson from desire.

  On reaching him, she grabbed him between the legs with such perfect pressure that he trembled—and then with the dexterity of a farmer preparing a stallion for a mare, she slipped the latex condom down over his penis. He didn’t care what she did, as long as she spread her legs and he could slip it into her. Never in life had he wanted to fuck a woman the way he wanted this one.

  She took his hand and led him to the bed. Whores had taught him how to give a woman pleasure. It was no esoteric secret from the Kama Sutra; it was simply patient and prolonged touching and stroking, with gentle hands and the tip of the tongue. A woman’s body took much longer to get ready to fuck, a truth that horny youth found difficult to appreciate.

  Troy had the same difficulty this time. His fingers touched the warm silky skin inside her thighs and then he got dizzy as she spread them like the wings of a
resting butterfly.

  “Want a little head?” he asked.

  “That’s nice … I love it … but this one’s for you. I’m gonna fuck your brains out. Come on …” She pulled his hand and moved to open her legs for him. She clipped the dark mound of hair so it was a neat V. Its bottom tip marked the spot.

  She guided him inside. She was a little tight, but she could take it, and she quickly relaxed her body. She dug her heels into his butt and pressed her pelvis upward so he was totally inside her. “Let’s fuck,” she said.

  He kept his arms extended as he fucked her, so he was up above her, looking down at her face looking up from the pillow. He was blind except for the sight of her face and the feel of her pussy and thighs cradling him.

  She fitted her rhythm to his and began to coach him, “Cum for me, baby … cum for me, sweet man. Ohhh, fuck me good.”

  It goaded him and he reached for the orgasm. Up … up … strain the brain … and when he reached the top, he fell down through it in a series of convulsions. His arms ached and he was dripping sweat.

  Dominique smiled in the manner of the Cheshire Cat. George had paid her well, but this was more than business. It wasn’t love, but it was a pleasurable roll in the hay. She enjoyed the obvious ecstasy she’d provided. Some women had the power to lead men by their dicks; Dominique was among them, and she enjoyed her power. She had exercised so she could control the muscles of her vagina. She could knead a man’s penis with her pussy as surely as her fingers could milk a cow. It took but a few minutes to arouse him again.

  It took longer for the second orgasm, and afterward he flopped, dishrag weak and soaked with sweat, beside her on the bed.

  Dominique ran a finger down his sweaty chest. “Mind if I smoke?” she asked.

  “Smoke away.”

  “Do you want one?”

  “Nope.”

  As she fired the match, lighting the cigarette and making a momentary glow around her face, he felt warm affection, protective and tender. Did she have an old man? He’d have to ask Gigolo Perry. Then he realized what he was thinking, and remembered what George had warned about falling in love. He began laughing. Sweet Jesus, he could see what George was talking about.

  7

  Diesel tossed socks and underwear into the overnight bag. Gloria stood in the bedroom door, arms folded as she glared at him and tapped her foot. Her short fuse was burning down; she was ready to explode any moment. Diesel knew it and kept his eyes averted. Maybe he could get away before she got all the way worked up.

  He zipped the bag shut, grabbed the suitcase from beside the bed, and started for the door.

  “I see you took your arsenal,” she said.

  “So?”

  “I want to know where you’re going.” As she spoke, she stood away from the doorframe and blocked the doorway just as he arrived at it. He had to stop or drive over her. He wasn’t ready for that—not yet. He raised his eyes to the heavens, a charade of seeking patience from God. Then he backed away from her.

  “Please lemme go, baby. I don’t wanna fight.” It was as true as anything he’d ever said. He would brawl while choking on his own blood. He would fight anybody who walked the earth—but he was gun-shy of Gloria. He loomed over her, and he could flatten her with one punch. He outweighed her more than two to one. He would rather do anything than hit her; yet she would goad him until it was either submit or physically throw her aside. He’d done that once—and when he got out the door, she came behind him and jumped on his back. What a scene, him spinning around as he tried to dislodge her. Curtains stirred in neighbors’ windows. That musta caused a lotta gossip. He wanted anonymity.

  “Either you tell me … or it’s a fight. Look, Carl, you’ve got a son. You can’t run around whenever you feel like it anymore. Grow up, man.”

  He looked down at her face, her jaw muscles flexing hard ridges. He decided to tell her. Troy would disapprove, but Troy would never know. “We’re going to Sacramento to pick up Mad Dog.”

  “Mad Dog! You said he’s crazy.”

  “Yeah … Well, a lotta people are crazy. I’m crazy, too.”

  “You don’t even like the guy.”

  “Troy okayed him.”

  “Oh, that’s all it takes … Troy’s okay. If he’s so fuckin’ smart, how come he spent so much time in the penitentiary?”

  “You wanted to know, I told you. Don’t push it … don’t try to tell me what to do …” He stopped, leaning back, looking down his nose, his blue eyes flecked red and glassy. She bit her lip and stilled her tongue. He kept talking to mollify her. “When we get done in Sacramento, we’re probably going to LA.”

  “What’s in L.A.?”

  “A lawyer Troy needs to see.”

  “How long before you get back?”

  “Maybe five days … at the outside.” It was a lie. It would be ten days minimum.

  “If you get busted and go back to prison, don’t expect me or Junior to be around when you get out. This body isn’t going to shrivel up waiting for a fool.”

  “Yeah, you’ve said that fifty times already.”

  “And you don’t seem to give a shit.”

  Her scornful tone got under his skin. In reflex, he dropped his bag and started forward to grab her blouse. He stopped himself, but she knew it was time to step aside. She did so. He retrieved the bag and walked out, pushing the screen door open with his shoulder and letting it slam afterward.

  Gloria watched him reach the convertible, where Troy waited behind the wheel. Diesel threw his bags in the backseat and got in. He didn’t look back as Troy took off.

  “Troy’s driving the whole show now,” she muttered, while inside she felt the hollowness of fear. Her husband was lost. “No,” she said, shaking her head; she didn’t want to think something that might jinx him or worsen his odds.

  She closed the front door and went into the kitchen. Whatever happened, life went on—and she had to fix dinner for her son. Maybe the child would make something of his life. She hoped so. As she opened the refrigerator and looked at its meager contents, she thought: “Why wasn’t I born rich?” Then she grinned at her momentary self-pity. As she took out the bottle to warm, she hoped Carl would call regularly. He’d been better about that lately. Maybe there’d be a miracle and he would straighten up. Yeah … and they might hit Lotto, too.

  Eighty miles an hour was fast enough even for flat empty stretches. More than that might attract the Highway Patrol. Seventy was better if there was any traffic whatsoever. Stay in the fast lane and keep a distance. Seventy split the difference just right—faster got a ticket, slower was wasting time. He remembered reading that long ago. Was it true now? He would see.

  “How’m I driving?” he asked Diesel.

  “Cool, man, considering.”

  “It’s like fuckin’: Once you’ve learned it, you never forget.”

  “Man, who was that chick I ran into?”

  “Some chick Gigolo Perry cut me into.”

  “I’d buy some pussy off her.”

  Troy was surprised to feel a flash of possessiveness, and of consequent anger at Diesel’s casual remark. It was a meaningless nothing in their world. It wasn’t about a wife or lover, and it wasn’t even uncomplimentary by street thief standards. After all, she sold pussy for a living. If it wasn’t for George’s astute observation on life, Troy might have wondered if he was half in love. God knew that being with her was pleasurable, and he might look her up when they came back from L.A. She was lovely enough to have on his arm while dining in all the right places.

  They crossed the Golden Gate at twilight. Westward an orange half disk sank below the horizon, making a fiery path across the sea and turning the pillars of the bridge into flaming monuments for a moment. The highway followed canyons whose bottoms were already dark. When they came out of the hills, the sun was gone and the light was inky. All the cars had their lights on, an opposing double river, white and ruby red.

  A Highway Patrol cruiser passed them on the r
ight.

  “Will my driver’s license stand a check?” Troy asked.

  “If they call in? Yeah, it’s cool.”

  “Al Leon Klein. Born twelve fifteen fifty-nine. Denver, Colorado.” Troy made sure he had his pedigree ready. He remembered Boonie going down because he couldn’t spell the name on the driver’s license he was using for an alias. To give the devil his due, it was a Polish name. Still, he should have been able to spell the name he was using. “Who was this guy?” he asked. “Do you know?”

  “Yeah. It’s his ID. We just changed the picture. He was a fruiter. He died in the Gay Men’s Hospice. He had that bad shit.”

  “Cancer?”

  “Cancer, my ass. AIDS!”

  “Yeah, I know,” Troy said. “You don’t even like to say it, do you?”

  “Scares me, man. It kills motherfuckers all kindsa ways. Some of ’em die horrible deaths. Shit growing in their throat, eating at their brain. How many dudes got it in the joint?”

  “I dunno. I guess a few hundred are infected without bein’ sick—”

  “They will be somewhere down the line.”

  “So will all of us.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Anybody that comes up HIV positive, they get put in a segregated unit.”

  “Dudes are scared of ’em, I bet.”

  “You got it,” Troy said. “Some of ’em are scared shitless. You know how stupid they are. And you’d be surprised at some of the dudes that got it. The ones that are already sick are mostly faggots, but those that are infected are mostly dope fiends. I knew a lot of ’em since reform school. Jimmy Villa, Don Wilcox, Wedo Karate. And guys I don’t know their names.”

  “Al Leon Klein,” Diesel said.

  “Yeah, now you make me a dead fruiter.”

  “Better’n being a live fugitive.”

  “Better quit fuckin’ with me. I’ll hurt your big ass.”

  “You will?”

  “Yeah.” Troy reached down with his right hand and grabbed a fat piece of inner thigh between four fingers and the heel of his hand. The pain was so great that it froze Diesel.