Taking On Lucinda

by Frank Martorana

  “May-May. Figures,” he said to Lucinda. He waved the truck to pass.

  The truck’s engine roared, and as it came alongside, Kent heard a gravelly Indian war whoop. An electrical pulse rattled down his spine. He remembered what Tammy had said about May-May being out of control. She had been right too. He’d beaten her and probably killed her, and he’d raided Aubrey’s hotel room. Kent didn’t want to mess with him tonight.

  He slowed to the shoulder, giving May-May a signal to pass and be gone, but the big truck slowed to stay abreast. Kent slammed his foot onto the accelerator, but his truck was no match for a high-performance 4x4. The big truck stayed just off his left rear quarter. For half a mile, the two vehicles raced along the country road, Kent’s in front by a half-length. As they approached a tight curve ahead, he slowed. May-May pulled up even and released another war whoop. There was an explosion, then another.

  Kent ducked as his rear window disintegrated into thousands of tiny glass diamonds. He felt the steering wheel spin in his hands and the tires catch on the berm. His truck careened into the ditch, bounced along like a hay wagon in a field full of woodchuck holes, then slammed to a stop against a roadside maple. He gripped the wheel, too dazed to move except to instinctively reach for Lucinda. She whined softly. A warm trickle of blood descended his forehead.

  Beyond the wailing inside his head, he heard sodden footsteps approaching. Then, within inches, May-May’s ground-glass voice and sour breath. “I warned you to stay out of this, Kent. I’m telling you for the last time, I’ll kill you and your pretty lady if I have to. Stay out of my way!”

  Lucinda growled. The footsteps faded away. Kent relaxed his head onto the steering wheel, and his mental screen faded to black.

  “Jerry, give these boys another round,” Bo said in a tone that was meant for everyone in Kolbie’s Tavern to hear.

  The old bartender moved slowly to his bank of taps and yanked the gaudy handles. He knew each patron’s preference without asking. He could not remember the last time he’d mixed a cocktail.

  Bo swaggered back and forth in the smoke behind a row of sullen customers perched precariously on bar stools. “We fixed ’em over at Copithorn, didn’t we?”

  Several nearby faces turned him a warning stare. Jerry concentrated on the glass he was filling.

  Delighted to have caught their attention, Bo beamed to his audience. “Relax. Ain’t no one going to figure it out. Especially after all this time. Shoot. Trail’s too cold.” He looked around the bar. “Hell. There ain’t nobody here that wasn’t here the night we planned it. We can talk about it.”

  A boar-shaped man who could have just gotten off a bulldozer slammed his bottle on the bar. “Shut up, Bo.”

  “Lighten up, Frank. You and Jim snatched that little white dog, right? And Robbie, you got him inside the plant. ‘Robbie the janitor,’ our man.” Bo gave Robbie a joshing punch in the shoulder the way May-May would have done. It made a puff of dust. “All of us was involved one way or another. Like May-May said, if we want to get dogfights going around here, we have to get the US Animal Protection Council off our backs.” Bo mocked the name of the humane group as he spoke it.

  Someone made a pleading whisper loud enough to be heard throughout most of the room. “Shut your mouth, Bo. We agreed not to mention it again.”

  Bo continued to saunter around the bar. “Ah, so what? It’s kinda fun being a fireman and getting to put out a fire you know you started yourself. Ain’t it, boys?” He let out a squawking laugh that made his Adam’s apple bounce like the head of a woodpecker.

  “Won’t be so funny if somebody gets arrested for arson,” Robbie said.

  Bo waved him off. “It’ll never happen. Nobody’s going to talk. We stick together against outsiders. Right?”

  “You better sit down yourself and stop flapping your lip, or we might just let you hang out to dry.”

  Bo spread his hands in a gesture of disbelief. “I’m not talking. I mean, I’m not talking talking. I’m just visiting with my buddies.” He took a long draught of beer. “I still don’t think anybody’s even figured out that there’s been a lot of dog and cats stolen around town lately.”

  “Don’t get started on that either,” Robbie said.

  Bo ignored the advice. “Too bad we had to waste one in the fire. Takes a lot of animals to keep a bunch of fightin’ dogs goin’. Ya know? I fed out four of them today even. Man, those dogs are coming along good.” He paused to drink again.

  “Coming along good?” one of the other dog men asked.

  This was the part that intrigued most of May-May’s local followers. Fires and petnapping were too illegal, too sinister, but dogfighting was fun and harmlessly illegal.

  May-May kept most of the information about his dogs and training progress secret, just releasing enough tidbits near meet dates to whet the other men’s appetites and give them reasons to place their bets.

  “Yeah,” Bo said, “we got a black dog name of Scorpion. Remember Little Jake that just barely got beat out in Texas? I told you about that dog. Well, Scorpion is ten times as good.”

  “Good enough to win at the championships?”

  “Me and May-May has seen fights across this whole country. We been to Virginia, Ohio, even Arizona. I tell you there ain’t no better dog. Plus”—Bo took on an erudite tone—“we got some new training techniques and a new high-energy food that guarantees us a trophy.”

  “This Scorpion dog is worth a bet, then?”

  “He’s worth a big bet. May-May says Scorpion is the dog that’s going to put the East Coast on the map for dogfighting. And I know May-May’s going to lay some big money on him come fight night.”

  Bo’s oration was cut short by his boss’s loud entry. May-May strutted to the bar, pulled off his coat, and high-fived his adherents.

  “Where the hell you been?” Bo asked with uncharacteristic boldness.

  May-May slapped his helper hard between the shoulder blades, spilling his beer. “Sit down and shut up, you skinny son of a bitch, and I’ll tell you.” May-May released an earsplitting Indian war whoop.

  Bo, realizing that the top dog had arrived, tucked his tail between his legs and retreated to a nearby table.

  Jerry set a bottle in front of May-May.

  May-May grabbed it. “Jerry, give me a shot of Jack too. I’m celebrating.”

  The crowd settled in for what promised to be an exciting update.

  May-May threw the whiskey to the back of his throat, held it for a moment, and then swallowed like a child taking medicine. He turned and leaned his back on the bar. “Well, I did a little reminding tonight,” he said slowly.

  All listeners were confused. Finally Bo asked, “Reminding?”

  “Yep. The good doctor.” May-May kept them hanging.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Bo, remember how we gave that dog, Judas, a little something to think about while he was dangling from the jaw rope?”

  Bo’s expression darkened. “That electric griddle, you mean?”

  “Yep. Well, that’s kinda what I done tonight for old Dr. Kent Stephenson.”

  “Just come right out and tell us what went on.”

  “Okay,” May-May said amiably and took another sip of beer. “I got to thinking. With some new information Kent received from a person who shall remain unnamed, he could give us a little trouble.”

  “Tammy, you mean?” Bo said.

  Quick as a snake, May-May grabbed the front of his assistant’s shirt and half lifted him from his chair. “Shut up, you idiot. I said ‘unnamed’!”

  “Sorry,” Bo said, as he wiggled loose and ducked away.

  “Anyway,” May-May went on, “I figured I ought to give him a little reminder that he’s a local boy, born and raised, and that bad things can happen if a local boy takes up with outsiders against his own people.”
>
  The crowd looked disappointed. They’d heard May-May’s small-town bluster before.

  May-May sensed it. “So I shot him,” he said.

  Every man gasped. Jerry ceased his puttering behind the bar. May-May let the moment hold.

  Suspense got the best of Bo first. “You what?”

  “Well, I guess I didn’t really shoot him, I mostly shot at him.”

  The crowd breathed again.

  Bo swallowed, the protruding lump on his throat vibrated furiously. “Is he okay?”

  “I suppose so.” May-May shrugged and took another drink. “Depends on what you call okay. Once I got the idea what I wanted to do, I started driving around town hoping I’d find him in his truck. Sure enough, I pick him up pulling out of the Red Horse.”

  “You’d better watch it. I hear you ain’t been too lucky at the inn lately,” someone joked.

  May-May rubbed his lower back, flexed his knee back and forth, and took the tease like a sport. “As long as I stay off the roof, I’m all right.”

  “And as long as Doc Stephenson leaves that hound of his at home,” Bo said.

  “Yeah. That too. I’m going to kill that son-of-a-bitchin’ dog yet. But that’s another story. So I follow along behind him at a safe distance until he turns out on the old state highway where the road gets a little tight.” May-May’s eyes glazed over, his voice rose and fell, and he began to gesture like the great storytellers. “I pulled up right behind him and flashed those big ol’ high beams of mine right inside his cab. Lit her up like a propane lantern. I could tell he couldn’t see too good ’cause he was fussin’ with the mirror and all. Then he slowed right down, and I let out a war whoop. Scared the shit out of him.”

  May-May filled the barroom with a falsetto Indian cry. “He figured something wasn’t right and took off. So I come right up beside him and let those big knobby treads on my truck tires roar in his ear for a minute, then I let out another war whoop to really shake him up.”

  “Did he know it was you?” one of the listeners asked.

  “I didn’t yell my name or nothin’, but he knew. Anyway, after I figured he’d had enough of that, I took my twelve gauge and hung it out the passenger window.” May-May’s face took on a macho expression as he pointed an imaginary shotgun out an imaginary window. “And I gave him a couple loads of double-O buckshot. Blam! Blam!”

  The crowd shifted nervously.

  “You told us you didn’t kill him,” Bo said.

  “No, I pumped one through the back window and another into his rear tire. Last I saw he was bouncing his way down through the ditch.”

  “Then you might have killed him.”

  May-May shrugged. “Maybe, but I doubt it,” he hedged. He’d let them worry about it awhile. “Old Doc wasn’t going too fast. But I sure as hell gave him a warning he won’t forget real soon.”

  May-May finished his beer with dramatic flair and turned back to the bar. The crowd buzzed as it broke up into small groups discussing May-May’s exploits like armchair quarterbacks.

  When attention was off May-May, Jerry the bartender approached him quietly. “Got a phone call for you here a while ago. Man said to have you call him back.” He slid a napkin with a number on it across the bar.

  “He give a name?”

  “No. Sounded pretty secret like, so I didn’t ask.”

  May-May looked at the phone number and recognized an area code in Texas. “Give me another Jack, will you, Jerry?”

  When it came, May-May finished it in one gulp, just like the first one, and headed to the pay phone in a secluded corner.

  On the first ring a terse voice answered. “Hello.”

  “The New Yorker here. Someone called for me?”

  “Hold on.”

  A moment later a different voice, more cordial, came on the line. “Everything is set. Last Saturday of this month.”

  May-May knew it was Lester but was careful not mention his name. “Finally,” he said, feeling the excitement rising inside like the flush from the shots of Jack Daniels.

  “You ready?” asked the voice.

  “All set at this end.”

  “Good, ’cause I put the word out in the Chronicle. We’ve got a lot of people interested. Make sure you got plenty of places for people to stay. Motels that don’t watch too close, places to park RVs, you know. Turns out a lot of folks never been to New York before. They’re going to mix a little business with pleasure.”

  “We’ll show ’em a good time.”

  “You got a place to hold the fight?”

  “Yes sir. My wife—I mean my late wife—made a connection for us there. Couldn’t be better.”

  “Your wife died?”

  “It was sudden.”

  “Sorry to hear it. Now, I got your black dog. What’s his name?”

  “Scorpion.”

  “Right. I got Scorpion lined up to go against the top heavyweight from Ohio. You’ll make sure it’s a crowd pleaser?”

  “It’ll be a dandy. ’Specially if we win.” May-May chuckled into the phone.

  “Well, the best of luck to you. Watch the Chronicle. It will have a lot of details. Otherwise, it’s all rolling.”

  “Not soon enough for me. This is what us folks in New York have been waiting for.”

  “I don’t have to tell you, New Yorker—keep all this under your hat.”

  “No problem.”

  “Then we’ll see you in a couple of weeks.” The line went dead.

  May-May’s smug grin shone like a floodlight when he returned to the bar. “Well, boys, we got ourselves a fight.”

  A round of cheers and congratulations to May-May rolled through the crowd.

  “Is that what the phone call was about?” Bo asked.

  “Yeah. Just like I promised, we got the National Dogfighting Convention coming to little ol’ Jefferson, New York.”

  Another loud cheer went up from the crowd.

  “The top pit bulls in the country are coming here?” Robbie asked in disbelief.

  “You got it.” Excitement fueled more questions.

  “When? Where we going to hold it?”

  May-May loved the control. He held up his hand. “Now wait a minute. What do you think? Would it be very smart for me to answer questions?”

  The listeners became quiet.

  “Of course not,” he said with parental certainty. “We’ve got to maintain absolute security on this. The less people who know, the less likely the wrong folks will find out. You get my drift?”

  Heads nodded reluctantly.

  “I probably told you more than I should already, but I’ll say this—it’s on for sometime real soon. And my dog Scorpion is scheduled for the championship fight against the best pit bull in Ohio. It’s all out in the Chronicle, so when you get your copy, you can read about it. But make damn sure it don’t fall into the wrong hands.” He pumped his fist into the air and whooped loudly. “We’ll show ’em that dogs from New York can fight!”

  Bo smiled broadly until May-May reached over and grabbed his earlobe like a father would hold his disobedient son. “Now you listen good here, Bo Davis. I don’t want any of this to get out. You keep your yap shut.”

  “You know I will, May-May,” Bo said, through clenched teeth.

  “And you keep your eyes and ears open for infiltrators too.”

  Chapter 22

  The tearaway sanitary paper crackled as Kent sat up on the exam table, blinked, felt a sting. He ran his fingertips along the bandage above his left eye.

  “Except for the Joe Frasier–Thrilla-in-Manila look for a week or so, you’re going to be just fine,” the doctor said.

  When Kent laughed his head felt like it would explode.

  “Just take it easy. Lots of ice on the lump. Aspirin. Stitches out in a week to ten days.”r />
  “Thanks, Doc.” Kent felt his forehead gingerly. “Taking it easy will be no problem.”

  The doctor gave a few instructions about calling her if he felt dizzy or had vision problems and then departed with a wave.

  Kent turned to Aubrey, who had been observing from a chair in the corner of the exam room. Her expression was a picture of concern.

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  She pointed her thumb toward Merrill, who was leaning against the wall. “He called me.”

  Merrill read his brother’s face. “Don’t look so surprised. Just because Ms. FOAM and I don’t see eye to eye on a few things doesn’t mean we can’t at least be civil to each other. I figured you’d want her here.”

  “Thanks. You were right.”

  Aubrey reached up and took Kent’s hand. Merrill grunted at such sappiness.

  “How’s Lucinda?”

  “She’s fine. I had Sally look her over. Not a scratch on her.”

  “Where is she?”

  The chief gave him a sheepish look. “I snuck her up to Barry’s room at the inn. You’re making a criminal out of me.”

  “Don’t blame your devious nature on me, brother.”

  The chief stepped over and closed the exam room door. “Yeah. Well, speaking of devious nature, tell us what happened out there tonight.”

  Kent told them what he knew–– wet roads, bright lights, war whoops, and a big 4x4 truck. Two explosions, their half brother’s warning, and then blackness.

  When he was finished, Aubrey gave Merrill a pleading look, her palms up and extended. “Jesus, Chief.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Chief. You know damn well there’s a bunch of crazy dogfighters out there. It was one of them, your half brother no less, who shot at Kent.”

  “I’ll thank you not to tell me what I know, ma’am. I know nothing of the kind until I have proof. I’m a cop, remember? Kent could be mistaken. He just got a thump on the head. So far, all I have is a known radical animal rights activist”—he made a grand gesture back at her—“and a veterinarian turned amateur dick”—he pointed at Kent—“telling me they’ve seen dogfighting paraphernalia at a farm in the hills whose owner has an alibi corroborated seven ways to Sunday.”