Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  Cash followed suit. "She could be if I wanted her." He tossed the remainder of the crustacean body back onto the platter and picked up another.

  Schyler blotted her mouth with the paper napkin she took from the metal dispenser. "It's that easy for you? Any woman you want is yours for the taking?"

  "Interested?"

  "Curious."

  "Curious to know what attracts them?"

  "No, curious to know what attracts you."

  "Curiosity."

  With belying composure, Schyler ate another crawfish, took another sip of beer, and blotted her lips before she looked at him.

  He took a long drink from his beer bottle first. Then, lowering the bottle back to the table, his eyes captured and held hers. They intimated, "Come and get it."

  Up from Schyler's stomach rose a trill of sensation that had nothing to do with the spicy ethnic food and beer. Cash Boudreaux was dangerous in a variety of ways. His allure was undeniable; he was sexually attractive. He was also street smart and cunning, wise in the art of bullshitting. But he was no slouch in serious verbal warfare either.

  "You don't like me, do you?"

  He answered her intuitive question honestly. "No. I guess I don't. Don't take it personally."

  "I'll try to remember that," she said dryly. "Why don't you like me?"

  "It's not so much you I dislike. It's what you represent."

  "And what is that?"

  "An insider."

  She hadn't expected so succinct and simple an answer. "That's not so much."

  "To an outsider it is."

  His prejudice struck her as being unfair. "I had nothing to do with that."

  "Didn't you?"

  "No. I didn't even know you."

  His eyes narrowed accusingly. "You didn't make a point to get to know me either."

  "That's not my fault. You weren't ever exactly friendly."

  Her flare of temper seemed to amuse him. "You're right, pichouette. I guess I wasn't."

  She used that to get them off the track the conversation had taken and onto something else. "You've used that word before. What does it mean?"

  "Pichouette?" He hesitated, watching her face. "It means little girl."

  "I'm hardly that."

  He twirled the neck of the beer bottle between his fingers as he stared at her across the candlelit table. "I remember you as a little girl. You had long blond hair and long skinny legs."

  Schyler responded spontaneously and smiled. "How do you know?"

  "I used to watch you playing on the lawn at Belle Terre."

  She knew better than to ask why he hadn't joined her to play. He would have been ordered off the place by her parents if she hadn't run inside out of fear first. Neither Cotton, nor Macy, nor Veda would have allowed her to play with Monique Boudreaux's boy. Not only had he been several years older, he was an unsuitable companion for a young girl under any circumstances. His reputation as a troublemaker was well founded and well known.

  "I remember one particular birthday party you had," Cash said. "I think it was the day you turned four. There must have been fifty kids at that party. Cotton was giving them rides on a pony. A clown performed magic tricks."

  "How do you remember that?" she exclaimed.

  "I remember because I wasn't invited. But I was there. I watched the whole thing from the woods. I wanted like hell to see those magic tricks up close."

  His antipathy was understandable, she supposed. He carried a chip on his shoulder, but it was justified. Whether overtly or not, he had been slighted. She hadn't been di­rectly responsible for it, but she intuitively knew how it would affect her now. "You're not going to kill Jigger Flynn's dogs for me, are you?"

  "No. I'm not."

  She twisted her damp napkin. "I guess it was unfair of me to ask you to do my dirty work, as you put it."

  "Yeah, I guess it was."

  "I didn't mean to insult you."

  He merely shrugged and nodded toward the platter be­tween them.

  "Finish eating."

  "I'm finished."

  Red chastized them for not eating enough and invited them back soon. As they went down the rickety steps of the restaurant, Schyler thanked Cash for bringing her. "I haven't had a good-tasting meal since I got here. The new housekeeper my sister hired took an instant dislike to me. The feeling is mutual. I can't stomach her any more than I can the food she serves."

  "Just how weak is your stomach?"

  The serious tone of his question brought Schyler's head around. "Why?"

  "Because it's about to be tested."

  Chapter Ten

  "I thought I knew every road in the parish, but I've never been on this one." Schyler braced herself against the dashboard as the pickup jounced over the road. "Where in God's name are you taking me?"

  "To a place you've never been." He gave her a sidelong glance. "And this time I'm sure of it."

  It was a hot, still night. Away from the town's lights, the stars were visible, a panoply of brilliance. Having lived in a city for the past six years, Schyler had forgotten just how dark it could get in the country once the sun went down. Beyond the beams of the pickup's headlights, there was nothing but inky blackness.

  But then the pickup topped a rise, and she spotted the building. She looked at Cash inquisitively, but he said nothing. To reach the building, they crossed a narrow wooden bridge that she prayed would hold up until they were safely on the other side. Despite the difficulty in reaching it, the corrugated tin structure was a popular place.

  It was built like a barn and may have served that purpose at one time. Apparently it was some kind of meeting place because there were dozens of cars parked on the flat, marshy ground surrounding it.

  Cash drew the pickup alongside a sleek new Mercedes, which seemed ridiculously out of place in this remote rural area. Schyler looked at him for an explanation. He gave her a smirking grin.

  Ill at ease, she alighted when he came around for her, and they started toward the entrance. It was distinguished only by one bare bulb suspended above the uninviting door. There were no signs posted, nothing to indicate what was going on inside the building.

  She wanted to turn around and leave. But she wouldn't give Cash the satisfaction of seeing her back down or showing any fear or reservation about stepping through the tin door he held open for her.

  It was suffocatingly hot inside, as dank and humid and airless as a sauna. And dark. So dark that Schyler nearly stumbled into the table that was positioned a few steps inside the door. She would have walked right into it if Cash hadn't placed both his hands on her hips and stopped her.

  "Hiya, Cash."

  The toad of a man sitting in the folding chair behind the table looked Schyler over with a grin so lecherous it made her skin crawl. "Who's the new broad?"

  "Two please."

  He added Cash's ten-dollar bill to a metal box that was already stuffed with money. "We can always count on you to find fresh meat. Yessiree, that we can do," he said in a singsong voice.

  "How'd you like to eat your balls for breakfast tomorrow morning?" Cash's steely tone of voice wiped the grin right off the man's face.

  "I was just jokin' with ya, Cash."

  "Well don't."

  "Okay, sure, Cash. Here're your tickets." The man care­fully reached past Schyler to hand Cash two tickets he'd ripped off a roll.

  Suddenly a roar issued up from behind the partial wall in back of the table. It rocked Schyler, who wasn't expecting it. Again Cash placed his hand on the curve of her hip just below her waist. The ticket seller glanced over his shoulder at the wall behind him.

  "Y'all are just in time for the next fight. If you hurry, there'll be time for the little lady to place a bet before it starts. Be more fun for her that way, don'tcha know."

  "Thanks. We'll keep that in mind." Cash nudged Schyler toward the end of the partition. When she seemed reluctant to move, he pushed a little harder.

  She did an angry about-face and hissed, "What is
this?"

  She had been to the Soho district of London. She had seen the pornographic stage shows there, but it had been her choice to go. She had been in the company of several friends. It had been harmless. She had known what she was getting into when she paid her admission.

  This was vastly different. All her life she had lived in southwestern Louisiana, but she had never heard of a place such as this, much less been to one. She was afraid of what she would find beyond the partition and afraid of the man who had brought her here. His hard, sardonic face did nothing to reassure her that his intentions were good.

  "It's a dog fight."

  Her lips parted in shock. "Pit bulls?"

  "Oui."

  "Why'd you bring me here?"

  "To show you what you're up against if you hold to that fool notion to even the score with Jigger."

  That was tantamount to calling her a fool. Schyler re­sented that, especially coming from someone with as tainted a history as Cash Boudreaux. "I told you I wasn't afraid of him and I meant it." Turning her back to Cash, she led him around the end of the partition.

  From the outside the building had looked large. Even so, Schyler was astonished by just how immense it was. It was rimmed by crude bleachers, ten or twelve rows deep. It was difficult to count exactly how many because the whole place was dark except for the pit located in the center of the arena. It was lit by brilliant overhead spotlights. The large rectangular pit had a dirt floor and was enclosed by wooden slats that were bloodstained.

  On opposing sides of the pit, the owners and trainers were readying their pit bull terriers for battle. Though it had been years since she had seen him, she recognized the trainer facing her as Jigger Flynn.

  Cash moved up close behind her. "Want to place a bet on your favorite dog?"

  "Go to hell."

  He merely laughed and edged her toward the nearest set of bleachers. There was room enough for them at the end of the fourth row. Those around them were distracted from the activity in the pit when Schyler climbed the bleachers and took her seat. Realizing that she was one of notably few women in the place, she assumed a haughty, parochial school posture that Macy would have been proud of and tugged her skirt down over her knees.

  "That won't help," Cash said close to her ear. "You stick out like a sore thumb, baby. If you cover your knees, they'll ogle your tits."

  Her hair whipped across his cheek when she brought her head around with a snap. "Shut up."

  His eyes glowed threateningly in the darkness. "Be care­ful how you talk to me, mon cher," he said silkily. "When they get all riled up," he nodded toward the crowd, "I might be the only thing standing between you and gang rape."

  By an act of will, she kept her face composed, not want­ing him to see her anxiety. She returned her attention to the pit. A shudder went through her when she recognized the dog snarling across the dirt floor of the pit at his opponent as the one who had attacked her.

  Uglier and meaner looking than the two pit bulls, how­ever, was Jigger Flynn. Schyler watched him in fearful fascination as he closed his hands around his dog's jaws and, straddling the animal's back, lifted it up until only its back feet touched the ground.

  Flynn's thinning, gray hair had been slicked back with oil that made his pink scalp glisten beneath the spotlights. His eyes were deep-set, small, and dark. Surrounded by puffy flesh, they looked like raisins set in bread dough. His nose was fleshy, his lips thin and hard. Schyler doubted they could form a smile. His chin melted into the loose, wobbly flesh beneath it. He wasn't tall. Generally, he was a small man, but his neck was thick, and he had a beer gut that hung over his belt. His baggy trousers looked as though they were losing a battle to stay up on hips that were unsupported by a butt. He had thin, bandy legs and comically small feet.

  No one knew his worth, but it was estimated that he was one of the richest men in the parish, all of his money earned through illegal enterprises. Whatever his wealth, he certainly didn't flaunt it. His clothes could have been sal­vaged from a welfare bin. They were old and soiled. He reeked of malevolence.

  "What's he doing with that dog?"

  Cash, who had been intently studying Schyler, glanced toward the pit. Jigger was holding his dog to face the other. He shook the animal slightly while continuing to squeeze its broad face between his hands. The other trainer was doing likewise. The dogs' back legs were thrashing, kick­ing up puffs of dirt whenever their sharp claws touched.

  "That's called scratching. The trainers are deliberately provoking them, rousing their inbred instincts to fight, in­furiating them so they'll charge each other. The fight is over when one dog kills the other or when one refuses to scratch and charge."

  "You mean—"

  "They try to rip one another's throat out."

  The only thing that kept Schyler sitting on the bleacher was her stubborn determination not to lose face in front of Cash. A man whom she assumed was a referee signaled for quiet and enumerated the rules. Obviously this was a rou­tine practice and of no interest to anyone except her. Everyone was shifting restlessly, ready for the action to begin.

  She actually jumped when the two animals were released and charged across the pit toward each other. By nature of the sport she had expected violence, but nothing to equal the ferocity with which they attacked each other. The dogs were amazingly strong and tenacious. Time and again they went for each other, but their stamina never seemed to flag.

  When first blood was drawn, Schyler turned her head away and pressed her face into Cash's shoulder. She was revolted, but also horrified, realizing how lucky she was to have come away with only superficial wounds from the dog's attack.

  Shaken, she raised her head and watched until Jigger's dog clamped down on the other's shoulder. The opposing dog closed his jaws on Jigger's dog's back. They held on.

  "That's the way they rest," Cash told her. "They'll be given a minute, but it won't last long. See?"

  Both trainers entered the pit. Each had a wedge-shaped stick about six inches long, which he put in his dog's mouth and prized open the jaws. "That's called a break stick. Rest time's over."

  The dogs were separated and the scratching process started again. "Do the dogs ever turn on their trainers?" Schyler asked. She was mesmerized by the evil light in Flynn's eyes as he purposefully antagonized his pit bull.

  "I've known it to happen."

  "Little wonder. They put them in that pit to die."

  Cash continued to watch her, even after the dogs had launched another attack on each other. The noise in the tin building began to mount in proportion to the violence going on in the ring. The Saturday night crowd had filled the hall to capacity. Men and dogs were sweating pro­fusely. The dogs waiting to fight sensed the tension. They smelled the blood and anticipated tasting it. They barked with ferocious and crazed intent from their wire cages.

  The crowd's sudden gasp drew Cash's attention back to the pit. This time, more than blood had been drawn. Hide and tissue had been ripped from the shoulder of the dog opposing Jigger's. Once the initial shock passed through the crowd, a cheer went up. Jigger's dogs were usually favored to win. Hard-eamed wages were riding on this fight and the gamblers holding those vouchers smelled vic­tory.

  So did Jigger's dog. It went after its foe with renewed vigor. It sank its teeth into the other dog's neck and tore out a chunk of flesh, severing the jugular. Blood spurted from the wound and splattered the slat walls of the pit.

  Schyler covered her mouth and turned her head away again. Cash's left hand came up reflexively, cupped the back of her head, and pressed her face into the crook of his shoulder. His right arm slid around her waist and drew her closer. He glanced over his shoulder and cursed viciously when he saw that the crowd had doubled since their arrival. Between them and the exit was a squirming, shouting sea of men with necks craned to see the finish of the fight.

  Schyler couldn't breathe, but that was all right because she didn't want to. The walls of the crowded auditorium pressed in on her
, The unventilated air was fogged with the smoke from hundreds of foul cigars. The stifling heat con­centrated the unpleasant smells until she tasted them with each breath she drew. Sweat, dog, smoke, blood.

  Her fingers curled inward and came up with a handful of Cash's shirt. "Please."

  The hoarsely spoken appeal went through him like a rusty nail. It touched a soft spot that he thought had cal­loused over forever when he was in Nam, where seeing men die was a daily occurrence.

  "Hold on. I'll get you out of here."

  Caring little now for her pride, Schyler clung to him, listening to his heartbeat in the hopes that it would drown out the yelling of the maniacal, bloodthirsty crowd. It was a futile hope. When the mortally wounded dog fell, the racket reached a crescendo that was deafening.

  "Okay, that's it. But take a good look, Schyler, at what you're up against."

  Cash hooked a finger beneath her chin and forced it up. In the pit, Jigger was leading his dog around by a leash while receiving accolades from the crowd. The dog's coat was lathered and smeared with blood. Flynn's gloating smile sickened Schyler more than the blood and gore.

  When she turned toward Cash, her face was pale. He said to her, "That animal isn't a pet. It's a machine trained to kill. It's a moneymaker. If you harm one of his dogs, Jigger will kill you."

  He waited a moment, to make certain she had under­stood, then he leaped off the end of the bleacher and ex­tended his arms up for her. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she let him lift her down. Holding her close against him and trying to shield her with his own body, he shouldered his way toward the exit. It was bottlenecked with men either coming in or going out, counting their winnings or cursing fate for their defeat, congratulating or commiserating with each other.

  From out of that mass of bodies Schyler heard, "Jesus Christ, Schyler, what the fuck are you doing here?"

  Chapter Eleven