Dog Eat Dog

by Edward Bunker

  When Diesel was gone, Troy packed his $170,000 neatly in the trunk of the Jaguar. The smell of death was gone—or at least suppressed by the mothballs he’d spread around. The carpets looked the same as when they came from the factory. Everything was neat. Nobody would ever suspect that a nearly headless corpse had rotted therein for several days. Troy wished it would leave his mind as easily as it did the trunk. He kept seeing the tongue of fire leap from the muzzle of the pistol and lick at Mad Dog’s skull. He had just fallen, like a candlewick squeezed between fingers.

  Before closing the trunk, he opened the attaché case and took out a packet of twenty-dollar bills. He debated a moment before also taking out a snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson and clipping its holster inside his waistband. It wasn’t for the police or to commit a crime; it was for self-protection in his hometown.

  As he pulled out of the subterranean garage, Troy called Alex. “You hungry, bro’?”

  “I thought you went north for the holidays.”

  “Tomorrow. What about dinner?”

  “I’m hung up on business, man. Damn!”

  “Call me if you clear the deck. Otherwise, I’ll see you when I get back.”

  Alex said something about good-bye, but it was unclear because the cellular transmission began breaking up. As Troy pushed the off button, he felt a mild letdown. He’d counted on Alex’s companionship for the evening.

  While eating at the Musso-Frank counter, Troy mulled over what to do with the evening. Maybe he should have gone with Diesel. What about a movie? No. What he really wanted was a woman, but not some hardcore streetwalker or a head job in a massage parlor. He wanted female conversation and laughter. He wasn’t against paying a grand for the night, if he got value. Alas, he had no idea where to call a call girl. Then he remembered a cocktail lounge on the edge of the Strip. It had been a watering hole for high-class hookers.

  When he walked in, he immediately knew he’d made a mistake. Instead of the dark wood and red leather and Frank Sinatra on the jukebox, it was now all mirrors, all male, and Judy Garland was singing. He beat a hasty retreat with red cheeks; then he began laughing at the absurdity of being embarrassed.

  He then found himself heading east on Sunset, away from the glitter of the Strip and the wealth of Beverly Hills, toward seedy downtown and East L.A. beyond. Where Sunset Boulevard began was also where the City of Los Angeles had originated. When he got close to Union Station, he remembered a cocktail lounge on Huntington Drive in El Sereno. Ten minutes away, it was still a hangout for Chicano ex-convicts. Not two months ago Pretty Henry Soto had returned to San Quentin and, among other tales of life outside, mentioned that Vidal Aguilar now owned the Club Clover, with someone else’s name on the liquor license, of course. Troy hadn’t seen Vidal for several years, but for three years before that, Vidal had been in the next cell, and they had eaten breakfast and dinner together many times. They were friends and Vidal had gone out and stayed out, although stories came back. He had always been a high roller in the L.A. underworld. He and Alex Greco knew each other. The trouble with Mexicans really getting it together was that too many wanted to be top dog. Too much macho, not enough cooperation.

  Beyond the bridge across the L.A. River, the graffiti marked the turf as “1st Flats.” The nicknames replicated those of Troy’s own youth. How many had he known named “Japo,” “Grumpy,” “Alfie,” “Crow,” “Wedo,” or “Veto”?

  He drove past the low, sprawling projects. Between the buildings he could see the clustered silhouettes of the homeboys hanging out. Some of the project windows had Christmas lights. Indeed, many of the small stucco bungalows had been outlined in bright-colored lights. They made him feel sad and alone. He was seldom envious, but as he thought about Diesel spending a Christmas morning with a son, he felt a pang of envy. He wished his life had allowed him to have a son.

  He turned on Soto and followed it past Hazard Park and the rolling hills of El Sereno, most of which were still empty, and from which rose several tall radio towers topped with pulsing red lights. Once, when young and drunk, he had climbed one of them to the top. He would have quit halfway up except for a macho Mexican named Gato, who was climbing the next tower and refused to stop short of the top. What he would do at twenty-two, he would never do now. He then remembered he had told Mad Dog the story less than two weeks ago. His mind quickly erased the memory.

  Soto became Huntington Drive at its origin. The green sign, clover club, stood out even though the “L” was a bare shadow of its original glow. Troy parked half a block down a side street and walked back. The evening was warm despite the late December date. He could hear the excited voices of children playing in nearby backyards.

  The Clover Club’s front door was opened, and the sound of mariachi music poured forth as Troy entered. The tables, booths, and bar were all full. A four-piece band was on a low stage at the other end. A few couples were on the tiny dance floor; they were pressed tight and swaying fast, doing the banda. Damn, Troy thought, fuckin’ Vidal has a winner.

  Troy made his way to the bar. A few eyes turned to look him over—a gringo in Aztlan—but nobody said anything or radiated hostility. At the bar the one open space was the station between brass rails used by the cocktail waitress. She was leaving with a tray of drinks. Troy noticed that she had a big round ass, the kind that Mexicans prefer, although it would be considered too heavy in Beverly Hills. Troy squeezed to the bar. The bartender, who was big for a Mexican, had the mashed nose and thick eyebrows of an ex-fighter.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m a friend of Vidal’s. Is he around?”

  The bartender looked him over. Just then the cocktail waitress returned and Troy had to step aside while she unloaded empty glasses and gave an order for “Two screwdrivers, two Buds …”

  In the mix of English and Spanish that is the lingua franca of East L.A., the bartender told the waitress, whose name was Delia, to tell Vidal that someone wanted to see him. The bartender turned to Troy. “What’s your name, ese?”

  “Troy.” He found himself looking into Delia’s dark eyes, and then watching her move across the room to the hallway with the rest-room sign. His attention was pulled back when the bartender asked if he wanted anything. Troy shook his head.

  A minute later, Delia appeared in the archway with a man. It wasn’t Vidal. She pointed out Troy for the man. He beckoned.

  As Troy crossed the room, he plowed through a layer of cigarette smoke. Secondhand smoke freaks would be in big trouble here; their eyes would water and if they complained they would get punched in the nose. The man awaiting him grinned. Troy knew the face but could not put a name to it. Delia went by, smiling at him. Was there anything in the smile? He turned his head for a glance at her swishing hips. When he turned back, the man in the arch was grinning at him. “You like that, huh?”

  “You might say that. How many kids she got?”

  The Chicano held up two fingers. “They all got two kids.”

  “Where’s her old man?”

  “Soledad Central. You wouldn’t know him. He’s a youngster.”

  They shook hands and the Chicano led the way down a narrow hallway with a closed-circuit TV camera at the far end. The rest-rooms were on one side. On the other was a door covered with sheet metal. The escort knocked. A buzzer sounded, freeing a lock. The Chicano pushed the door open. The room was combination storeroom and office, and along the walls were cases of beer and liquor.

  Vidal sat behind a narrow, scarred desk. It had a wire basket, telephone, and a small TV monitor showing the corridor outside the office. Vidal grinned, his even white teeth showing against his dark skin and high cheekbones. His Indian blood was evident. Except that his hair was grayer, he had not aged in the six years since his parole. He stood up and extended his hand.

  “It’s good to see you, Big T,” he said as they shook. “When did you raise?”

  “Last month.”

  “Where the fuck you been? You need some dough?”

  “N
o. I’m okay. How you been, bro’?”

  “Chicken today, feathers tomorrow. Siddown, man. You want a drink? Whaddya want?”

  “Bourbon … Jack Daniel’s or Wild Turkey, with a little splash of Seven-Up.”

  “Why don’t you do that, Tootie,” said Vidal.

  “Be right back.”

  Now Troy remembered: Tootie Obregon from Mateo. He’d worked in the kitchen and was a top handball player.

  Tootie went out.

  “How’d you wind up with this joint?” Troy asked. Vidal had been raised in the Ramona Gardens projects. His criminal career had begun in junior high school when he had started selling loose joints. He’d remained in the marijuana business because those he dealt with were far less violent and marijuana was far down the list of police priorities. Loose joints grew into ounces, then kilos, and finally truckloads. His one conviction was for a thousand kilos in a panel truck, although the drug agents turned in eight hundred and kept two hundred to sell for a thousand dollars apiece. Vidal’s term was cut when the agents were indicted for skimming money and drugs from their busts. Indeed, half the Sheriff’s Department narco squad were indicted. Vidal had changed his game when he got out. Word came back that he was a fence, buying and selling stolen merchandise. It was a crime with an even lower priority than marijuana.

  “This joint was for sale and some vatos from Tucson hijacked a truck and trailer full of booze, six hundred cases of Johnny Walker and Jack Daniel’s and whatever. They had it in three garages in East L.A. I gave ’em twenty-eight dollars a case and I bought this joint for the price of the license. Nobody else wanted it. I don’t make what I made selling grass—but I’m doin’ pretty good. Me an’ Tootie, we run a football ticket, too. You sure you don’t need a little dough? I can loan you five or ten grand, man.”

  “No, no, I’m good, Vidal. Thanks anyway.”

  “Yeah, you always did okay. You’d be surprised how many dudes come in here beggin’ money. Some of ’em are scared to death because of that three strikes law.”

  “It’s enough to scare anybody. They’re givin’ suckers life for nothin’.”

  “I know. You remember Alfie from White Fence?”

  “Little guy in the eme?”

  “Yeah. They’re tryin’ to give him life for stealin’ a tire off the back of a truck. He’s fightin’ it like a murder beef. He says they may get him, but he’s gonna cost ’em a million before they do. It said in the Times they’re gonna build twenty more prisons in the next ten years. They oughta put a fence topped with barbed wire around the whole motherfuckin’ state.

  “Oh, yeah, you know Sluggo?” Vidal continued.

  “I know three of ’em, two Mexicans and one crazy honky from Louisiana.”

  “The peckerwood—Sam whatever his name is. He was in here the other day. He’s hooked on junk and been boostin’. He had one of those MAC whatever, those little stubby semiautomatics, not very accurate but they fire a lotta lead quick as you can pull the trigger.”

  “I know what they are.”

  “He said if they’re gonna give him life for shopliftin’, he might as well get it for robbin’ banks and killin’ cops. They changed him the wrong way. They took a shoplifter and made him a maniac. I love it,” Vidal said. “I love the fuckin’ chaos.”

  “What about you? How many strikes do you have?”

  Vidal shook his head and held up thumb and forefinger in a circle denoting zero. “Where you staying?”

  Troy shook his head.

  “You ain’t homeless, are you?”

  “I don’t have a spot, but I’m not homeless. I’m going up north and see Big Diesel Carson.”

  “The fighter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Man, I remember that fight in the lower yard on Field Meet Day … him and that nigger. What was his name? Spotlight Johnson?”

  Troy nodded. Vidal rocked back and forth in his laughter. Then came a light knock on the door. In the TV monitor they saw Tootie and the waitress, Delia. She had a tray with their drinks.

  Vidal pushed a buzzer under the desk and Tootie pushed open the door. Delia came in and put the tray on the desk. “Who gets what?” she asked.

  “The bourbon’s here,” Troy said.

  She had to lean over the desk to put it in front of him. Vidal was looking at her ass. “Oh, my God, so fine. I’m gonna have a heart attack!” He grabbed his chest in mock pain. Tootie laughed and Troy smiled. He was looking into her eyes. Was she saying something without speaking?

  “Delia … Delia … oh, baby,” Vidal said.

  She turned and smiled and shook her head. “Vidal, stop it. You know Chita is my friend.”

  He threw his hands to the air. “What am I gonna do? What would you do?” he asked Troy.

  “I dunno … but I can sympathize.”

  “I’m leaving,” she said—but as she opened the door and it blocked Tootie and Vidal, she winked at Troy in a way that was either invitation or he was crazy. Then she closed the door and was gone.

  “Hey, Troy … she asked about you,” Tootie said. “She’s interested.”

  “She’s got a fine brown frame, no doubt of that,” Troy said.

  “She’s got tres,” Vidal said, holding up three fingers and meaning three children.

  “Damn, I only expected two,” Troy said.

  “I just thought I’d tell you.”

  Troy grinned and winked. The gesture said whatever Vidal read into it.

  “What about Jimmy Baca?” Troy asked. “Have you seen him since he beat that murder beef?”

  “Yeah. He’s got cancer … in the liver.”

  The statement made Troy’s heart jump a beat. Jimmy Baca! He was the toughest man Troy had ever met—and Troy had known many of the toughest men in America. None were tough as Jimmy. All men were mortal, but it was hard to think that Jimmy’s body would betray him. His mind had never done so.

  “He’s not that old,” was all he could say.

  “I know,” Vidal said. “It’s a bitch. Sonny Ballesteros—”

  “That’s my pal,” Troy said.

  “Yeah, I know. He’s got it, too, but they say he’s gonna make it okay.”

  Death and cancer in friends were not what Troy wanted to think about, although they had taken his mind off Mad Dog for now, and when he thought of Mad Dog again, the horror would have slightly faded.

  They were silent as they drank from their glasses. Through the walls vibrated the sound of banda.

  “What’s happenin’ in the joint?” Tootie asked. “Give us some news.”

  “They finally killed Sheik Thompson.”

  “They got his ass, huh? Oh, man, what a fuckin’ animal he was,” Tootie said.

  “Sheik Thompson?” asked Vidal. “Should I know him?”

  “You should know about him. But I think he was in Folsom or Vacaville when you were there. He was some kind of throwback.”

  “A nigger?”

  “Yeah … they made the word nigger for fuckers like him.”

  “How’d they get him?” Tootie asked.

  “He was coming out of the coach’s office. Slim and Motormouth Buford, they broke his leg with a baseball bat, and when they had him down, they cut his throat.

  “Check this,” Troy continued. “They busted ’em right away, and took ’em to the Captain’s Office to question ’em. Later on, when it was time for lockup, every convict in the joint was lined up, and they bring Slim and Motormouth out of the Captain’s Office, taking ’em to the hole. Every convict in the yard started cheering and applauding ’cause they killed Sheik.”

  “I know Motormouth,” Vidal said. “Little black vato, used to be key man in the South Block.”

  “That’s him,” Troy said.

  “How come everybody hated Sheik so much?”

  “’Cause the fool wasn’t human,” Tootie said.

  “Lemme tell you about him,” Troy said. “He used to work in the stone quarry, up that road you can see from the lower yard. It’s abo
ut two miles and it’s got a little grade. He used to run to work with some little sissy on his shoulders. On Field Meet Day, when they used to have that, he used to run the four-forty, eight-eighty, and the mile … in the morning. Then in the afternoon, he would fight for the middleweight, light heavyweight, and heavyweight title. Sometimes he’d get a boxing lesson, but nobody ever knocked him out. He had the worst attitude.”

  “Yeah,” inserted Tootie. “He used to spit in people’s faces.”

  “That’s dangerous in prison. And they stabbed him so many times. Mapa hit him in the head with a weight bar, hit him so hard it popped one of his eyes out—it was hanging by some kind of tendon. They tucked it back in and three weeks later he was on a fight card. Death Row Jefferson and a couple others jumped him with shivs. He beat the shit out of all three of ’em—and then went out and testified. Death Row Jeff went to Death Row for it. That’s where he got his nickname.

  “Then there was the fight he had with Johnson, in Folsom. It was around behind number-one building, and three gun-towers opened up on ’em. They were gettin’ hit with thirty-thirties and thirty-ought-sixes … and they’d get knocked down by bullets, and jump up at the other guy. Johnson bit Sheik’s ears off—and swallowed ’em. When they finally broke it up and got ’em to the hospital, the loudspeakers asked for blood donors. Not one dude in all of Folsom would give Sheik any blood. They went over and said they’d give Johnson some blood, but fuck Sheik Thompson. Except one guy who was HIV tried to donate, but after they checked him they didn’t take it.”

  “It’s funny I never heard of him,” Vidal said.

  “He was probably in Folsom when you were in Quentin.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably it.” Vidal glanced at his watch. “Me and Tootie gotta go take care of some business pretty soon. You can stay here and party, you can come with us …”