by Guy Johnson
Jackson stood up and pulled her into his arms and said, “I’ve missed seeing you.” He held her close against him. He felt her breasts and pelvis press against him, then he felt the smooth warmth of her cheek against the crook of his neck.
Elizabeth stood on her toes and whispered into his ear. “Just a hug. I can’t handle anything more! I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask,” Jackson replied as he began to pull away.
Elizabeth held him tight and would not slacken her grip. “I don’t want you to go anywhere. I want you to stay close to me. I want to feel your breath on my neck when you answer my questions.”
“Sure!” Jackson nodded as he put his arms around Elizabeth’s waist. He rubbed his cheek against hers while letting his head slowly fall to the crook of her neck. “In position,” he whispered.
Elizabeth tightened her arms around him and said, “Tell me everything that’s happened since I last saw you.”
“Not much has changed, except for tonight.”
“Tell me everything including tonight.”
They stood and held each other while Jackson recounted in her ear the events leading up to and including his departure from the parking lot. When he had finished, they stood in silence for several minutes before he discovered that Elizabeth was crying. When he pushed away to look at her, her arms fell limply to her sides. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
Elizabeth looked at him and said, “It won’t be self-defense when you kill the second man, will it?”
“What can I do? Let him go? He’ll be back with more of his cronies. I have no choice. When these men attacked me tonight, they intended to kill me after they got what they wanted.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I love you, but I have to walk away now. I can’t see you again.”
“Why did you invite me over here? I told you things were serious. That they tried to kill me.”
“Realistically, I had no reason to expect things to be different. I just hoped and fantasized … I just wanted to see you.”
Jackson paused a moment and gathered his thoughts then said, “You’re important to me. When I saw you this evening you lifted my heart. Maybe when this is over I can earn my way back into your good graces.”
“Don’t you see, St. Clair, we can never be together! We’re on opposite sides of the law!”
“Tell me what I can do! I will do anything to keep this relationship alive! You haven’t offered me any alternatives!”
“There are no alternatives now!”
Jackson exhaled slowly and said, “I love you. I hold you in my heart. Your voice echoes in my ears. The silky smoothness of your skin makes me long to touch it. I want you! And when this is over, I will come back to ask you to be my wife!”
Elizabeth grabbed the collar of his shirt and shook him. “Don’t say that! I don’t want to hear that!”
“Why? Why can’t I say what’s in my heart?”
Elizabeth composed herself and stared up into his eyes. “Because I don’t want you to come back! You’ll never be able to walk away and I’m not strong enough to see you again. Please leave now and don’t call me!” She turned and walked away.
Jackson was left standing by himself. He waited a few minutes then walked out the door. There were no good-byes, only silence.
After leaving Elizabeth’s, Jackson’s ride across the Bay Bridge had a tragic beauty. The evening winds had swept away all traces of clouds and fog. The night sky had settled to a dark, purplish blue. The glistening stars were sprinkled across the heavens like gleaming seeds thrown by a celestial hand. The sprawling, dark arms of the land surrounding the bay were twinkling with lights from Marin to San Jose. The majestic, nighttime skyline of San Francisco was a geometric pattern of lights and rectangular shadows, stretching dark cement fingers forty stories above the bay’s rippling surface. At the mouth of the bay where the darkness of the sky merged with the blackness of the sea, the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge spanned like an incomplete connect-the-dot puzzle, the last line of man’s construction before the vast, untamed Pacific.
As Jackson came off the bridge and headed for the Fell Street exit off the freeway, the majesty and the beauty of the city faded like a cheap illusion under close scrutiny. The burden of his conversation with Elizabeth weighed heavily upon him and as he drove up Fell Street he wondered whether he would ever see her again.
July 1961
The voices of men shouting and arguing filled the hall. There were conversations in both Spanish and English. It was the night of the long-awaited dogfight. Two champion males were to meet in the pit for a winner-take-all bout. There was excitement in the air and it was reflected in the large amounts of pesos and dollars that were being wagered.
Tall and gawky, fifteen-year-old Jackson stood at the edge of the pit watching two campesinos below him sweep the hard clay floor of the pit with coarse brooms. He had a thousand dollars in his hand. He was accepting bets for his grandfather.
A fat German man in a Hawaiian shirt ambled over to Jackson. “You taking bets for El Negro?” the man wheezed in his thick, German-accented English.
“Yes,” replied Jackson as he studied the man in front of him. The German, whose name was Klaus, had small, beady brown eyes which sat in his fat cheeks like raisins. His lips were unusually red, almost as if he wore lipstick, but it was a natural coloring. He looked somewhat like a clown, but Jackson knew him to be a shrewd gambler.
“He doesn’t think that this American dog can beat Diablito, eh?” Klaus wheezed.
“No,” Jackson answered simply. He didn’t like talking to Klaus. Every time Jackson heard him wheeze, he wondered if he had contagious tuberculosis.
“He taking bets on the number of turns?” Klaus asked.
“No, my grandfather says that they’re both strong dogs. The fight could go for two hours easy. All he’s willing to bet on is the final decision.”
“What odds?” asked the German, licking his lips.
“Two to one under five hundred, even money above.”
Klaus bet three hundred dollars. Jackson took his money and wrote his name and the amount in a small book. Three more people came to him to place bets. One was a tall, wiry Mexican with a weather-beaten face whom Jackson recognized as a dog handler. It surprised Jackson, because the local handlers generally bet the same way his grandfather did. The next two bettors were American tourists who had heard about the fight through a small-time hustler. Their pale, white skins made them look anemic and out of place compared to the sunburned faces of the locals, but their money was good. Combined, they bet over a thousand dollars.
“Jax!” It was his grandfather’s voice. Jackson turned to face him. His grandfather was standing down in the pit. “We’re closed for betting. How much you got?”
“Twenty-six hundred, but fourteen hundred is at two to one,” Jackson said, leaning over the barrier to hand his grandfather the money and the notebook.
“Good. Good. Here, keep fifty for travelin’ money,” he said, quickly rifling through the money and handing Jackson back a few bills.
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Jackson said, stuffing the money into his pocket. “Do you want me to get the guns?”
His grandfather took a look around the hall and said, “Yeah, you better. There are a lot of people here who don’t know us. If we win tonight, we may have to show that we know how to keep our money. Did you clean them guns like I told you?”
“Yes, sir, but I think that the .357 Magnum has had it. There’s too much play in the cylinder.”
His grandfather laughed without humor. “Damn! That’s what I get for letting you experiment with your own loads! Bring me my forty-fives. Can you handle that forty-four Mag?”
“Yes, sir, I think so.”
“Thinkin’ so ain’t enough. Can you handle it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His grandfather turned away without another word. He walked across the p
it and disappeared in the crowd on the far side.
Jackson checked to make sure that his money was firmly in his pocket and ambled through the mass of bodies. Occasionally, he could hear over the general noise of conversation vendors calling out in Spanish, “Carne asada y frijoles!” or “Maíz con jalapeño!” As he moved through the crowd, he nodded to people that he knew or stopped to exchange brief greetings with friends of his grandfather. Near the entrance to the hall, Jackson saw Reuben and Julio Ramirez waving at him. He waved in return and headed in their direction.
As Jackson negotiated past a group of men who were bickering aggravatedly among themselves, a squat, barrel-chested man blocked his path. “You still takin’ bets?” the man asked in English with a thick Mexican accent.
“No, we’re closed,” Jackson said carefully. The man in front of him was Esteban Tejate, the father of Juan Tejate, a person he was sworn to fight. The Tejate family was almost pure-blooded Indian; it showed in their straight black hair, their broad, brown faces with high cheekbones, and in their glittering black eyes as well. They were known to be unscrupulous dog handlers. Jackson had heard that they would even use rabid dogs. They were the lowest of the low.
Jackson was in the act of stepping around Esteban when he heard Juan say loudly in Spanish, “Don’t waste your time on the little Negro, Father. He doesn’t have the balls to bet with us.”
“Fuck you, Juan!” Jackson retorted as he swiveled to face a taller, thinner version of the father.
“Any time you want to try, sissy!” Juan sneered in English, his accent as thick as his father’s. Juan’s black eyes glinted in the hall’s lights. He was seventeen, two years older than Jackson, and had a reputation for being tough. Although Jackson was over four inches taller and outweighed him by a few pounds, Juan looked more physically mature. He had the musculature of a man, while Jackson still looked like a gangly boy. But looks were deceiving. Jackson could deadlift his own weight and pull himself, hand over hand, up twenty feet of rope. He was not afraid of Juan; in fact, the prospect of fighting him excited him.
A horn blared, signaling that the dogfight would start soon. Jackson turned on his heel and resumed making his way through the throng of fight fans. He had to get the guns. He heard Juan jeer something in Spanish and then heard Esteban’s crude laugh, but the words were lost in the milling sounds as people began making their way to their seats. The crowd was mostly men, however there was a significant number of women interspersed among them. At the door, he stopped and spoke briefly to the Ramirez brothers and then he went out into the darkness to his grandfather’s truck.
When he returned the dogs were already in the pit. Their handlers were walking them up and down, building the dogs’ excitement. The American dog was a big, chestnut-colored Staffordshire bullterrier. His broad head and shoulders bespoke the centuries of breeding that had developed his tremendous physical strength and fighting heart. His coat gleamed in the stark lights of the pit. His ears were cropped and they stood up like little triangles on his head. The dog pranced lightly beside his handler, eager to be at the other dog. The American dog’s name was Prince and Jackson thought he looked like one. He was the most handsome pit bull that Jackson had ever seen. He knew that if he had such a dog, he would never put him in the pit to fight, but of course, he would never put any dog in the pit. Jackson only attended dogfights because of his grandfather.
His grandfather had seats in the first row above the pit. Jackson sat down next to him and passed him his pistols wrapped up in an old sweater. His grandfather took the sweater and casually slid one gun into a holster that he had sewn into his jacket; the other pistol he pushed into his waistband.
The second dog was named Diablito. He was a thickset mongrel terrier. His coat was black and his muzzle and neck were covered with scars from previous pit battles. He looked like a mix between an English bullterrier and the American Staffordshire. He was built stockier and closer to the ground than Prince.
Unlike Diablito, Prince had no scars visible on the chestnut sheen of his coat. When Jackson mentioned this to his grandfather, his grandfather said, “His owner got class; he only fights him twice a year.”
The dogs were brought to the scratch lines. Diablito’s handler shook the carcass of a dead cat in front of the dog to excite its blood lust. A referee stepped forward and announced that the fight would be conducted under standard rules. Then everyone cleared the pit except for the handlers.
A horn blared and the dogs were loosed on each other. Diablito shot across the pit. It looked as if the fight would be over in seconds, for Diablito was within inches of Prince’s throat. With sheer power and heart, Prince fought off the wall and forced Diablito back to the center of the pit. The crowd roared its approval at Prince’s effort.
Despite himself, Jackson found himself transfixed by the snarling, guttural action in the pit. It soon became apparent why Prince had such a horde of supporters: The dog had both speed and strength. After the initial clash, Prince began to elude Diablito’s short, quick lunges and began making parrying attacks himself. In the first five minutes, it was obvious to all observers that Prince was quicker than his adversary, but he did not possess Diablito’s massive strength.
Fifteen minutes into the fight, the first turn occurred. Prince, in an attempt to avoid Diablito’s lunging attack, leaped against the pit wall and was immediately pinned by Diablito. Diablito gained a head hold and Prince’s head was turned. The dog handlers entered the pit at once and separated the dogs. Prince was bleeding from the muzzle and Diablito’s head and shoulders were a mass of oozing cuts.
The fight crowd, which had never been quiet, roared to life. People shouted across the pit to their friends. All around the hall, people were marveling at the power and courage of the dogs. It was a good fight: speed and youth against age and strength. Everyone knew that this was a fight which would be talked about for years. It would set the standard for the future.
The dogs were brought back to the scratch line and the horn blared again. The fight commenced. Diablito shot across the pit again, but Prince had learned his lesson; he was not there. As if he had taken advice from his handler, the American dog’s strategy had changed. He began to make serious counterattacks after every lunge by his adversary. Prince was not striking for the head, but at his opponent’s legs and feet. After several near misses, the crowd, sensing a change in the fight, sat forward in their seats. It was not long in coming.
Diablito, with his tremendous fighting heart and great strength, had never learned to adjust his fighting tactics. He would keep charging at his opponents until they were dead or he was killed. Prince was a dog of a different kind. He owed his unblemished coat to the fact he had both speed and the ability to learn. It was a question of time. Coordinating his movement with Diablito’s lunge, Prince struck. His powerful jaws closed around Diablito’s right foreleg and there was a loud snap that was heard all around the pit. Diablito’s inertia caused him to flip over on his back as Prince kept a hold on his leg. Prince struck for the throat, but Diablito, being a crafty veteran of many battles, twisted away in time and Prince missed. Diablito’s head was twisted back and another turn was called.
The handlers rushed into the pit. The dogs were separated again. The crowd waited in hushed silence for Diablito’s handler to make the decision as to whether his dog could continue or not. Jackson was on the edge of his seat as well. He watched Diablito standing on three legs down in the pit. He was a mass of confusion. He wanted his grandfather to win, but he also felt that the chestnut dog was superior and if the fight continued, Prince would eventually kill Diablito.
After checking the condition of Diablito’s leg, his handler stood up and looked at Jackson’s grandfather. The two of them exchanged hand signals and then the handler went to talk with the referee.
Jackson’s grandfather stood up and took out a large wad of money from his pocket and said loudly for all to hear, “Five thousand dollars on Diablito!”
There was
a shocked silence, then pandemonium. People in the crowd had trouble believing their ears. Jackson could not believe it himself. He couldn’t understand his grandfather’s thinking. Was the bet some kind of ploy? he wondered. Jackson hoped that his grandfather did not still think that Diablito could win. People began to reach across him or lean on him in an effort to bet their money with his grandfather. He shook someone off his shoulder angrily and stood up. Men were jostling around his grandfather as he was taking bets.
Jackson asked, “Do you need me, Grandfather?”
“No, I got it covered, boy.”
“I’m going outside for some air, if that’s okay with you,” Jackson said, stretching slowly.
“Just stay close when it’s time to collect the money. I may need you,” his grandfather said without taking his eyes off the money he was counting.
Jackson walked away through the crowd. Outside under the dim light of the stars, he bought some skewered meat that an old woman was cooking on a brazier. The meat was hot and juicy and very spicy. His grandfather called it “losing dog” meat, but Jackson liked it. Lots of others had followed him out into the coolness of the night air. The old woman at the brazier was doing a booming business. People stood around in its flickering light, pulling hot pieces of meat off the skewers with their teeth. Everyone was talking about the amazing bet that El Negro had just placed. One man said loudly that El Negro was throwing money away, but someone close to him pointed out Jackson and the man fell silent.
The horn blared. People began to rush back into the hall to get to their seats. Jackson ambled to the door, but he did not want to go inside. This was the part of dogfights that he disliked the most: Both animals were bloodied and tired, yet still fighting on courage and instinct, ready to die in order to vanquish their rival. He felt particularly badly during this dogfight, because he didn’t think Diablito stood much of a chance before his leg had been broken. Now, with that impairment, Jackson thought that it was extremely cold-blooded to let the fight continue. It was like sending Diablito to his death with no veneer of fair play. Whatever his grandfather’s motive, money seemed to be a poor reason for Diablito to die.
