Dog Eat Dog

by Edward Bunker

“You speak English?” Troy asked.

  She tried to speak; then nodded.

  “Take care of him. Get him dressed.”

  By the time his words were out, he saw an unexpected man in the doorway. He looked like a Yaqui Indian, and Troy assumed he was related to the nanny.

  Brennan frowned in surprise, for what he’d found was unexpected. Which of these jokers was the boyfriend and where was the bitch?

  Diesel raised his jacket to pull his pistol—but Mike Brennan had prepared for confrontation: his 9mm Browning was in his hand down by his leg. He raised it and stepped forward before Diesel could get a grip. “Who the fuck’re …” He didn’t finish, but instead cocked the hammer with his thumb. The muzzle with the hole of death was three feet from Diesel’s eye. He pulled his hand free, palm visible. “Take it easy.”

  The adults were frozen for several heartbeats; meanwhile the baby howled its plaint.

  “Easy! Easy! Usted’s loco …”

  “Yeah, easy! I got the kid.” As Diesel said it, he swung the baby before him and ducked his head. Unless Mike anticipated the motion, it happened too fast. The hand is not quicker than the eye, but it is quicker than the mind in such a situation.

  Mad Dog, from his niche outside, had seen headlights through the wind-whipped bushes. Were they coming in the gate? The wind made too much noise to hear a car. He crossed the road and looked toward the gate. Nothing. When he turned back, through the family room window, he saw a silhouette rise from a chair and move out of sight. Who was that?

  He moved fast to the back door and went through the kitchen into the front hall. His wet shoes squeaked; leaning against the wall, he pulled them off and put them down. He was silent going up the stairs two at a stride and at the top he saw the strange man in the doorway, facing the other way. Mad Dog raised his shotgun and pressed the safety button so the red was displayed. It was a ten-foot shot of double ought. Troy was beyond the man in the line of fire. Mad Dog moved forward and to the right on stocking feet. It gave him an angle.

  “Nobody has to get hurt,” Troy was saying.

  The range was about eight feet when Mad Dog squeezed the trigger. The shotgun sounded like a howitzer and most of Mike Brennan’s head was blown off his torso. It splattered across five feet of wall. The rest of the carcass dropped inert.

  The nanny screamed until Diesel banged her head against a wall; then she whimpered and collapsed.

  The baby wailed.

  “Douse that light,” Troy said. Had the nanny seen their faces well enough to identify them? Very unlikely. She was too distraught to see anything clearly.

  Mad Dog hit the light switch. The room dimmed. Troy picked up the baby and carried him to the nanny. “Here. Get him quiet.”

  The nanny shook her head. “I can’t.”

  Anger rose; Troy didn’t have time for this kind of bullshit. He reached out with one hand, entwined his fingers in her hair, and jerked her around. “Take the little motherfucker,” he said.

  She took him. Years of conditioning made her do the right thing to soothe him.

  Mad Dog was looking out the window. He began to laugh somewhat hysterically.

  Diesel was looking at his own clothes. Was he splattered with blood? He could find none except on his shoes. He stood in a thick pool of it. Its smell was heavy in the room.

  “Who was that guy?” Troy asked the nanny.

  She shrugged and shook her head.

  “A cop?” Diesel asked.

  “Get his wallet,” Mad Dog said.

  “You get it!” Diesel came back.

  Troy turned on him. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t like this asshole telling me what to do.”

  Troy looked toward the ceiling with exasperation written on his face. “Man, get the fuckin’ wallet. Let’s find out who he is.”

  Diesel did so. Meanwhile the nanny was rocking the baby and trying to soothe him. “Take him outta here,” Troy said; then, to Mad Dog, “Watch her.”

  Diesel opened the wallet and came out with a fistful of cards. “Joe Vasquez,” he said, handing Troy the driver’s license. He went into the other room and asked the nanny. She had no idea who he was. Troy was dubious. Should he put weight on her? No. She had to handle the baby. Who was Joe Vasquez? Never once did Troy consider it was Mike Brennan, although he did wonder if the dead man worked for Mike.

  Was there anyone else? A moment of fear; then he decided it was most unlikely. How much time did he have? What about the blood on floor and wall? The buckshot holes? He’d think about that later.

  Mad Dog motioned him to lean close. “We gotta kill this broad,” he said. “She can identify us.”

  “Lemme think about it,” Troy said. The statement had logic but was too repugnant. It was no time to tell Mad Dog, but he knew he could never murder someone so defenseless. The mother would be home in anywhere between fifteen minutes and two hours. He had to make decisions. They would move the body. They needed blankets, or something, to make sure it didn’t bleed all over the car. “We need something to wrap him in,” he told Diesel.

  “The baby?”

  “No. The body.”

  “What about trash bags?”

  “Great.”

  Diesel went to the kitchen and returned with a package of lawn bags. Perfect. They went around the remains of the head; then they spread blankets and a bedspread on the floor and rolled the carcass on top; then folded the blanket and carried the remains to the front porch. Troy ran down the long drive to the gate, opening it as he went, and brought the Jaguar back. They stuffed the body in the trunk and slammed it shut. That was covered.

  The plan had been to take both nanny and baby, but that was impossible. The mother would go out of her mind if she found blood and gore instead of her baby. Troy’s adrenaline still pumped, stirring fear and fury, the emotions of survival, but underneath he could feel the keening anguish of despair. He had to play the cards that came off the deck, but down in his guts, he felt desperate fear. Things had gone awry, the unexpected man, the killing, having child and nanny and mother to decide about.

  “Go get the kid and the nanny,” he told Diesel.

  “Mad Dog, too?”

  “Yeah … of course. Take ’em to the spot. I’ll wait here for the broad.”

  “You won’t have a car. You’ll be here stranded.”

  “Go on, man.”

  Diesel shrugged and went inside. Soon the nanny came out, carrying the now quiet baby and followed by Mad Dog and Diesel. Diesel stepped forward, opened the back door, and motioned the nanny to get in. She hesitated. “No baby seat,” she said.

  “Never mind. Get in,” he said. She did so. Mad Dog went to Troy.

  “You really gonna stay here, man?” asked Mad Dog. “We can call and say what’s happening.”

  “No, no. She’d call the cops. Here—” Troy handed over the cellular phone. You call here as soon as you get there. Have the nanny standing by.”

  “What about the … the trunk.”

  “We’ll dump that later.”

  Mad Dog nodded. He turned to Diesel beside the car. “Who’s driving?”

  “Go ahead. You know the way?”

  “Well … sort of. I mean, Troy was gonna drive.”

  They turned to Troy, who told them: “Down this road to Monterey, turn left and keep following it. You’ll cross a bridge over the freeway. Keep going. Left on Figueroa. You know the street it’s on, don’t you?”

  Mad Dog nodded.

  “Turn right, keep going. You’ll see that museum up on the hillside. Watch for the house.”

  “Got it.”

  “Keep her head down so she can’t see where you’re going … and keep the baby down low. You don’t wanna get pulled over because he isn’t in a safety seat.”

  “Right.”

  “Get going.”

  The Jaguar went down the driveway, the red brake lights flaring momentarily as it paused before turning onto the street. Troy went back into the house a
nd looked at the murder scene. What a mess the shotgun made. Blood had run down in rivulets; then soaked in. There were tiny bits of flesh and bone and hair stuck to the plaster. Should he burn the house down? Could he burn the house down? He had nothing inflammable like gasoline or kerosene.

  The headlight glare on the windows announced the woman’s return. The car pulled into a porte cochere beside the house. Troy watched from behind a dining room drape as the woman got out, reaching for her purse before slamming it shut. She had driven and she was alone. Thank God for small favors.

  She came in the side door from the porte cochere. She was coming through the house toward the stairs. “Carmen!” she called. “I’m back.”

  Troy stepped from the shadows. “Hold it, baby!”

  She jerked and gasped. Her fright knocked out her wind so she choked instead of screamed.

  He pounced on her, grabbed her arm. Her eyes were huge with terror in the shadowed light. “Be quiet. Your baby’s all right.”

  “My baby! Where—”

  “He’s okay.”

  “Ohhh … ohhh … ohhh.”

  “Hey!” He squeezed and shook her. He felt queasy; he took no joy from this; it was terrible. “Settle down, baby.”

  He could feel her shaking. Oh, God, why had he done this?

  For money, asshole, replied the Mr. Hyde of his mind.

  “Where is he?” As she spoke, he felt her pull toward the stairs.

  “He’s not upstairs, baby. We got him.”

  “Please … don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want. He’s just a little boy.”

  “I know … I know. Shhh. Listen.”

  “Take me.”

  “Shaddup! Listen, goddamnit!”

  She stopped talking and nodded, although she still trembled.

  “Nothing is going to happen to your baby … but the best way to get him back quick is to cooperate. You wanna cooperate?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Michael.”

  “After his father?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is about Mike the father. Do you know where to call him?”

  “I … I have a number in Ensenada. Sometimes I reach him, sometimes I leave word. He calls back or has somebody call for him.”

  “Good. He cares about his kid?”

  “He might kill me over this.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “You don’t know him. He’s vicious.”

  Troy found himself thinking that she was not merely attractive, she had a clean-cut quality. She belonged in a sorority or something, not with a drug kingpin. He wanted to ask how she’d gotten involved with Mike Brennan, but stopped himself. He had to stay focused on the serious matters at hand.

  “Does he have you watched?”

  “Huh?”

  “Does he have anyone watch you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

  Should he tell her now about the gore upstairs? He had to tell her something sometime.

  The phone started ringing. “Answer it,” Troy directed.

  She picked it up. “Hello.” She listened for a moment; then handed it to Troy.

  “Yeah.”

  “Everything’s cool,” said Diesel’s voice. “They’re down in the wine cellar. We need some baby food.”

  “Go get some … No, send the Dog.”

  “Okay. How’s it going? I see the broad got home.”

  “Yeah. I’m running it down now.”

  “Want somebody to come and get you?”

  “No. That’s okay.”

  “How you gonna get outta there?”

  “Never mind.” He avoided saying that he planned to take the mother’s car. He would park it half a mile from the hideout and walk the rest of the way. “Just hang until you hear from me.”

  “Good. Maybe it’s gonna be okay.”

  “Maybe. Later.” He hung up and looked at the girl. “Well, Mike Brennan had one of his pistoleros—”

  “His what?”

  “Pistoleros … torpedo … gunman … Anyway, he was watching you. He got killed.”

  “You … you killed him?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Oh God. Is he still there?”

  “No … but it’s messy up there.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  Maybe she wasn’t as soft as he had first thought. “Forget about that. You can clean it up later. Right now, I want you to call that number. If you get Mike, gimme the phone. If you have to leave a message, have him call you. When you talk to him, tell him that his kid is collateral on money he owes to an old man in jail. When he pays it, he gets the baby back. You got it?”

  “What if he won’t pay?”

  “He’ll pay.”

  “But if he doesn’t?”

  “If he doesn’t, I’ll give you the baby back. But if you tell him that, I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out.” He hardened the last few words for emphasis. Inside himself, he disliked the scene more and more. But hard times make hard people, and Troy felt himself extremely desperate. He, too, was fighting for life; that was how he saw it. “Here,” he said, handing her the telephone.

  She made the call. Mike Brennan, of course, was not available. He was expected tomorrow morning. “Be sure to have him call. It’s urgent.” She was looking at Troy as she spoke. When she hung up, Troy told her, “I need to use your car.”

  “Okay. Just … my baby.” Her eyes welled with tears, and so did his. What the fuck was he doing? But what the fuck could he do this late in the game? “He’ll be okay. Carmen’s with him. You trust her, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The keys to the car?”

  She got them from her purse.

  “If you call the police—”

  “I won’t. I know better.”

  “I hope you do.”

  He made her walk him to the car. As he got in, she asked: “Will you let Carmen call me and tell me he’s okay?”

  “I’ll do that. But I can tell if the wire is tapped.”

  “Don’t worry. I swear I won’t call the police.”

  Troy watched her through the mirror until he passed through the gate, the slight figure standing in the rain. He ached with pain for what he’d done, but he could not erase half a line.

  He was passing giant houses brilliantly lighted for Christmas. That, too, added to his anguish.

  14

  The first dozen hours were as relaxed as such a situation can be. The nanny kept the baby quiet. Troy talked to Alex on the phone, and then they waited. By the following night the baby seemed to be crying for his mother and the phone conversations were tense. Troy even wondered if someone was playing games. Maybe he should call the girl and see if she knew anything. He decided against it.

  On the third evening, Alex called. “That guy that walked in on you—”

  “What about him?”

  “You still got him?”

  “He’s starting to smell real ripe.”

  “You know what, bro’, it might be Mike Brennan.”

  “You’re jiving.”

  “I wish I was.”

  “This guy looked one-hundred-percent Indian. He didn’t even look like a Mexican, much less half Irish.”

  “That’s what Mike Brennan looks like.”

  “Oh, man, don’t tell me that.”

  “Nobody’s seen him over there. The old man has somebody in Brennan’s mob, and nobody’s heard from him since last Sunday.”

  “Oh, man, I can’t believe it.” But he did believe it. Indeed, the moment Alex described Brennan, Troy knew the body belonged to the drug lord.

  “I never seen Chepe so fucked up. He’s mad.”

  “At me?”

  “At Mad Dog. He said to take him out or he’s puttin’ a contract on you.”

  Swelling anger was Troy’s first reaction. “Fuck him in his ass … old motherfucker.”

  “Cool it. Chill out. Think about it.”

 
“I don’t let people tell me what to do. That’s why I’ve been in trouble all my life.”

  “Yeah, well, I can understand that … but if you think about it, that guy deserves a goddamn good killin’ anyway. It’ll do everybody a favor.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “You know it, bro’. He’s a menace to everybody.”

  “Maybe I’ll shoot myself in the head.” Troy laughed as he said it. “At least that’d solve my problems.”

  “What about the kid and the nanny?”

  “What about ’em. I’m not gonna waste ’em.”

  “At least you’re not on the six o’clock news.”

  “Yeah, it won’t be added to the crime statistics. Damn, homeboy, it’s gonna be hard. That guy almost idolizes me.”

  “He’d turn on you in a hot second. He’d turn on anybody. He’s nuts.”

  “It don’t look like Chepe’s gonna pay us, huh?”

  Greco laughed into the phone. “No, I don’t think so. If you let it ride, you’ll be sorry afterward.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Lemme tell you, bro’, that old man looks easygoing, but he’s got Mexicans up the ass who’ll kill anybody he wants for ten cents or less. I put all the weight on the maniac. But if you don’t take care of it …”

  “I got the picture.” Indeed, Chepe had hundreds of millions, maybe a billion, and access to countless killers on both sides of the border. Some were idiots ready to murder for a couple of thousand dollars, and if some were too dumb to commit the crime, others were cunning, cold, and deadly. Troy was afraid of nothing that walked the face of the earth, including Chepe—but he preferred to keep the old man’s friendship if he could.

  As soon as Troy and Diesel opened the garage’s side door, the stench of rotting flesh assailed and nauseated them.

  “Good God, it smells bad,” Diesel said, putting a hand over his nose and mouth. Troy turned away and pulled out a handkerchief. He had almost vomited. He hit the garage opener and the door rose. Outside the night was cool and fresh. Smog had been washed away by the recent rain. The storm had blown east across the southwestern deserts. The sky sparkled with stars. He breathed deep and thought: “Why can’t life be easier than this?”

  Diesel lugged the sack of quicklime to the car and slid it onto the rear floorboards. “Okay,” he said.

  “Go tell ’em let’s go.”