Dog Eat Dog

by Edward Bunker

  “We’re not gonna hurt the kid, right?”

  “Hell, no! I wouldn’t even want you to do it if the kid was four or five, but the way it is, he won’t even know.”

  “He’s too young to snitch on you,” Alex said.

  “That’s something to consider.”

  “Look here,” Chepe said, “I’ll guarantee you a million, plus half of what he pays.”

  “Make him pay interest,” Mad Dog said. “Say another million.”

  “Hey, man,” Alex said. “You keep throwing a million here and a million there, pretty soon we’re gonna be talking about real money.”

  All of them chuckled about that, including Troy. But part of him stood watching the scene from outside. It was bizarre. The odds were good that Mike Brennan would pay what he owed. How could he abandon his child and still look in the mirror? The flaw in kidnapping was always the ransom; it was how the authorities nailed the perpetrators. This time, however, the police would have no idea a crime had occurred. It had the same advantage as robbing Moon Man: nobody could run to the cops. Mike Brennan couldn’t even cross the border into the U.S. He, too, had a federal indictment pending.

  “You got a deal, Chepe,” Troy said. “I gotta talk to my other partner, but he’ll go along with me—probably.”

  “Good, man,” Chepe said. “I’m really glad it’s you. I’ve got plenty of fools who do whatever I say. This time I’ve gotta have somebody with sense, y’know what I mean, ese?”

  “I understand. You want it smooth.”

  “I want my money … but mainly I don’t want this guy to think he can disrespect me. Wait a second.” Chepe went to a wall with a bulletin board and many slips of paper pinned to it. He found the one he wanted and brought it back. “Here.” It was an address on Virginia, in San Marino, California. Troy committed it to memory; then put it in his shirt pocket—just in case his memory failed him.

  “Look here,” Chepe said, “any message you got for me, you tell Greco. Right?” He looked to Alex and Alex nodded.

  “Hey, Chepe,” Alex said, “you know Troy’s other partner, big Diesel from Frisco.”

  “Oh yeah,” Chepe said with a grin, “a big tough kid. I bet on him when he fought that miate, what was his name, had a head like a loaf of bread.”

  All of them laughed; they knew whom he meant. “Dolomite Lawson,” Mad Dog said.

  “Diesel shoulda beat him.”

  “He went wild and ran out of gas.”

  The young woman stuck her head in the door. “La cuenta,” she said. Chepe looked at his watch.

  “You guys better hit it if you don’t want to stay the night.”

  “The night!” Mad Dog said.

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “You can stay all night. Shit, you can stay a week if you want.”

  “Quit bullshittin’,” Mad Dog insisted.

  “It’s true,” Troy said. He’d known about it for years. “We better get outta here.”

  Chepe saw them to the terrace. He seldom went down into the yard and, when he did, he had several bodyguards around him. An international drug trafficker arouses enemies from unforeseen areas.

  12

  Diesel had been home for two nights and three days and was begging God for Troy to call after the first night. As soon as he saw his kid and got laid, Gloria’s nagging got under his skin. He had to grin, remembering it: He was on his back, still sweaty and getting his breath, and she started on his case about the money: “Where did it come from? Was anybody going to trace it? What had he done?” He tried to tell her, “Gloria, goddamnit, you don’t really want to know … and I can’t tell you … so get off my back …”

  Ten minutes later, she began again. “You’re going back to prison. You’ve got a son. Don’t expect me to wait.” He noticed that her recriminations failed to include an offer to return the money. By the second evening, she drove him into the night, where he bought watered-down drinks at $4.50 a shot, while seated beside an eye-level ramp where young women danced naked except for high heels, using a barber pole for a prop. He knew one of the girls; her brother had been in the joint with him—and was back again, for heisting the bank in the Fairmont Hotel. He was a gutty guy, and she was fine—but just to look at right now. He was into serious business and following his dick could fuck things up. He used to do things like that, but three years outside prison had made him a lot more cautious. Still, he would watch the young body and imagine the legs opening for him. He filed her away; he would get to know her better after this run of crime. By then he’d be halfass rich or dead. No way he was going to jail, not with a third strike for life. That much was settled in his mind.

  When he got home on the second night, he was drunk and horny, and when Gloria came to berate him for making her worry, he grinned and his eyes had a gleam. He was thinking of the dancer. “Oh, no,” she said, but he pushed her against the wall and cupped his hand between her legs while blowing and nibbling on her neck and ear. She tried to struggle without making noise that would awaken the child. It was her undoing. Within a minute her body took over and she stood on one foot while opening her legs and pressing up against him; she wanted his hand to touch her more intimately.

  He carried her into the bedroom, both legs around him. He fucked her for a long time, and afterward she went to sleep without finishing her recriminations.

  In the morning he awakened to a ringing phone and awareness that Gloria was getting up to answer it. He heard her coming back and kept his eyes closed to duck her. Instead of going to bed, she shook him. “It’s Jimmy.”

  “… the Face?”

  “Yes. He called last night, too.” She held out the cordless phone.

  Diesel sensed that this was a setup deal between them. “Yo, boss, what’s up?”

  “Why don’t you drive up today?”

  “I’m waiting for a call.”

  “Tell Gloria to have ’em call here.”

  Diesel was trapped. She was watching him. He couldn’t tell The Face that he didn’t trust her to deliver the message. “Yeah, okay,” he said. He would have to explain that Gloria was a bitch at times. The old mafioso was a hick about women and wives and shit like that. A snake in business, he was a squarejohn in family values. Diesel preferred Troy’s attitude: “If you’re a criminal, be a criminal twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I’ll be here until seven,” Jimmy said.

  “I’ll be there before that.”

  When he hung up, Gloria appeared in the doorway. “What’d he say?”

  “He wants to see me.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Hell no! Fuck that old dago cocksucker.”

  “Charles!”

  He burst into laughter. “Bitch, you know you’ve been talking to him. Boo-hoo, crying about me.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Quit lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Okay, let it go. But lemme tell you this, when Troy calls, you be nice. Get his number. Tell him where I am and give him that number. If you play any games, I’m gonna go ape, y’know what I mean? I don’t hit you—not unless you hit me first—but if you fuck with me on this, give your heart to God, ’cause your ass is mine.”

  Gloria started to spat back, but she felt the electricity in the air and gave an acceding nod. “If he calls, I’ll tell him.”

  “Get his number.”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  “Just don’t play any games.”

  “You don’t have to threaten me, Charles.”

  “If I don’t have to, I’m sorry.”

  He decided to take everything he needed to go back to L.A. He could go direct from Sacramento. She could handle the hundred grand. She took good care of money. He had to say that for her.

  Ten minutes later, he was on the road.

  The setting sun sent rays through the old windbreak of eucalyptus. It reminded Diesel of sunlight through bars. He was on a secondary highway, two lanes built by the W.P.A. as part of the N.R.A. He saw the
storm fence topped with barbed wire that he was looking for. Behind that fence was another fence, just like a jail. Behind that were the self-storage rooms covering a couple of acres. Nearly all the storage rooms were rented, and Jimmy planned to build more.

  He saw the sign: ARROYO CARTAGE AND STORAGE.

  He slowed for the entrance and made the turn. The driveway’s asphalt was worn through, so dust billowed and was quickly blown away by the fast breeze that had risen. The only car parked outside the office was Jimmy’s new El Dorado. Diesel parked next to it. As he got out, Jimmy came from the office. As usual, he had a big cigar in his teeth. He seemed hurried, and a bit surprised at the sight of Diesel. He recovered with a grin. “Hey, big fella, how ya doin’?”

  “I’m good. What’s up?”

  “I wanna see you … Can you wait about ten minutes? I’ve got to pick something up before the post office closes.”

  “Yeah … sure.” What else could he say to Jimmy the Face, the capo who looked out for him?

  “Great.” Then he was gone.

  Diesel entered the empty office. A counter, a couple of empty desks, a glass-enclosed office at the rear. He remembered the first time he’d seen Jimmy Fasenella, pacing the yard in San Quentin. He’d known about Jimmy the Face, just as he knew about Lucky Luciano and Bugsy Siegel. Diesel was surprised at the mafioso’s short stature. He was supposedly the mob’s enforcer on the West Coast, supposedly “made” for blowing away Bugsy Siegel—nine shots through a Beverly Hills window. The underworld grapevine also said he’d murdered a man who thought The Face was a friend. Diesel would never make that mistake. He would laugh and jive with Jimmy the Face, but he would never really trust the little cobra—and if they ever had a dispute of any consequence, he would surely strike first, and without shooting in the head somebody who thought he was a friend. That was the fucked-up part about dago mafioso, even if the craziest of their killers were usually Irish and not even “made.” Jimmy had told him that, and Jimmy knew about such things.

  Diesel went to the rear office. It was unlocked. He sat behind Jimmy’s desk and speculated on making a phone call. No. The odds were too good that the feds had it tapped. That was routine.

  He put his feet on the desk and leaned back. Yeah, he could do this if there was money in it—sit with his feet on a desk. He spotted a newspaper folded in the wastebasket. He took it out. Sacramento Bee. SERBS SHELL SARAJEVO.

  What was that? He was totally oblivious to the news of the last week or so, he never paid much attention anyway. Sometimes he leafed through a newspaper or watched the evening news, but he usually only kept up with sports, especially boxing. The word war caught his attention and he read that portion of the article on the front page. He snorted derisively. He believed America had lost its guts. It was getting soft—like Egypt, Rome, China, Spain, and England before it. None of those empires thought they would go down the drain. Troy had once given him an article to read, “The End of the White Man,” that drew the parallels between the earlier mighty empires and the United States of today. Congress bought every weapon in the world, even the useless, but would not fight anyone. Oh my God, there might be a casualty. What the fuck were soldiers for? Blaaah!

  He turned pages, read about the bust of a pot-growing operation in Grass Valley. Two men, two women, and a juvenile. The names of the adults were listed. Nobody he recognized.

  He turned another page—and there was a quarter-page picture of Jinx, the girl who had been with Mad Dog in Sacramento. A second girl’s picture was there, too. She was a friend of Jinx. Both were missing. Under both photos was the question: “Have you seen them?” A $20,000 reward.

  Yeah, it was Jinx, no doubt of it. They had disappeared a week ago. The second girl’s car was found at the County Airport. Beyond any doubt, Mad Dog had killed both of them and buried the bodies in the wilderness.

  A weakness spread through Diesel’s stomach. He believed Mad Dog had killed Jinx because Troy had reprimanded him about giving the girl their names. Oh my God … Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned … The knowledge was an awesome burden that he had to share with Troy.

  He tore out the page and folded it. Then he heard a car engine and the crunch of tires on gravel. He went outside. Jimmy the Face was in a hurry. “C’mon, I got some dough for you.”

  Back inside, Jimmy opened a file cabinet and took out a fat envelope that he plunked into Diesel’s hand. “A little thank-you. I got that contract.”

  Contract? Oh yeah, the trucks he’d burned up left no competitive bidder.

  “Five g’s,” Jimmy said.

  “Thanks, boss.” Five grand was nice money for lighting a fire.

  Jimmy looked at his watch. “I gotta go … but I wanted to talk to you about that maniac you’re running with.”

  Diesel frowned. How did Jimmy know about Mad Dog?

  “… a smart guy,” Jimmy was saying, “but there’s lotta smart crazy people, y’know what I mean?”

  “Uh-huh.” Diesel realized that Jimmy was talking about Troy, not Mad Dog. Diesel was indignant, but he stifled the indignation with an acquiescent nod.

  “Get away from that guy,” Jimmy Fasenella said. “You don’t need him. We’ve got things going. C’mon, walk me to the car.”

  On the way outside, Jimmy continued: “… got no sense of propriety. He’s too loose. He takes risks. Crime is a game where you don’t take risks you don’t have to. One bad move, you know—bang, you serve a decade in the garbage can. They got no idea what kind of a maniac you can create in ten years. That guy is fucked up. You don’t need him. You got friends. You’ve got a wife and kids. That guy … he’s got nothing to lose.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy. You make sense.”

  “Great.” He winked and gave Diesel a tap on the arm with the heel of his hand. “Take it easy. Keep in touch.”

  “Will do, Mr. J.”

  Diesel watched the El Dorado back out and spit gravel as it headed for the open gate. When it turned onto the road, he said aloud: “Gloria … you’re a jive-ass bitch. I ain’t going home now ’cause I’m mad enough to smack you for gettin’ in my business.”

  When he got into his car, his anger surged. He slammed his hand into the dashboard. The glove compartment popped open. When he slammed it shut, it bounced open again. It made him laugh at himself.

  He turned the key. The engine kicked in; so did the radio. He headed toward I-5. The interstate had very light traffic. A sign said it was patrolled by planes. They would have a hard time giving him a ticket. He pressed the accelerator and watched the speedometer climb quickly past ninety.

  When he stopped for gas in Bakersfield, he used a pay phone to call home. He called collect.

  “Yes, I’ll accept the charges,” Gloria said. “Charles, what’re you doing in Bakersfield?” Her tone was querulous and aroused his ire.

  “I’ll call you when I get to L.A. See if you learned how to say hello.” He slammed the receiver back on the hook and went to pay the gas station attendant. Back on the highway and beginning the climb over the Ridge Route, he remembered that he had Alex’s phone number. Greco would hook him up with Troy and Mad Dog, so he had no necessity to call Gloria. That made him grin. Fuck her. “The bitch can stew for all I give a shit.”

  The KFWB News (“Give us twenty-two minutes and we’ll give you the world”) said that rain was falling in L.A. What would Troy say when told about the missing girls? Missing, shit, the murdered girls … That was four murders he knew about. How many more had Mad Dog killed? All four were women or children, but that didn’t mean he didn’t kill men. Everybody died with a bullet in the brain or a knife in the heart. It was scary being around a homicidal maniac. Sometimes the crime life called for icing somebody, but goddamn, not everybody, or anybody, for no good reason. Mad Dog was a mad dog. Jesus.

  Troy was listening to the same newscast, but he already knew it was raining in L.A. The windshield wipers easily swept away the soft drizzle. He was careful. In another light rain, long ago, he had slid
into the rear of a car waiting at a traffic light. The truck he’d been driving reeked from broken bottles. If he was still there when the police came, he would go to jail—so he told the other driver that he had to take a piss, went to an alley—and kept going. He got away, but caught pneumonia. Now he was very cautious behind the wheel, except when police sirens and flashing lights were on his ass. Then he drove like it was LeMans. A car cut in front of him and he had to hit the brakes. He grinned, but Mad Dog reacted: “That asshole don’t know who he’s fuckin’ with. Pull up beside him.” Mad Dog started to haul out his pistol.

  “Hey, hey,” Troy said. “Whaddya wanna do … shoot the fool for cutting you off? I can see you tellin’ the dudes in the yard, “The motherfucker cut me off, so I shot him …’”

  “Those dudes would never let me forget it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But the fuckin’ punk—”

  “You can’t kill all the assholes in the world.”

  Ahead, the freeway sign announced: SOTO STREET, NEXT EXIT.

  Troy eased over and got off. This was City Terrace and Hazard, in the shadow of the General Hospital. Troy knew the area. He had Chicano pals from around here, Sonny Ballesteros, Gordo, and Crow, among others.

  He stayed on Soto as it followed the base of some low hills. On top of one was a radio tower with flashing red lights on top. The lights barely showed in the rain. As they passed the towers, Troy said, “I climbed that once. I was drunk, of course.”

  Mad Dog looked. He was a bit awed. It was a daredevil act if he ever saw one. There was no ladder, just the steel framework.

  Soto became Huntington Drive, a six-lane boulevard with a wide median that had once carried the big red streetcars east across the county to Azusa and Claremont and Cucamonga. Troy thought of how the giants of the automobile and tire industries had destroyed the biggest public transportation system in the world—one that showed a profit every year of its existence. The money stolen from the public had not been returned; it was part of empire, “Ah, well, the fuckin’ fools deserve it,” he muttered. They give some dumb junkie twenty years if he runs into a bank with a note and gets $800 from a teller—and some financial executive can gamble away a billion dollars of taxpayer money, which the Congress borrows, and when the public finishes paying the interest, it is four billion dollars. The executive signs a consent decree and buys a five-million-dollar house in Florida before he files for bankruptcy. “Now why shouldn’t I rip off a motherfucker like that?” he said, and looked playfully to Mad Dog as he said it.