Dog Eat Dog (24 page)

“How you doin’?” he asked Diesel, after a couple minutes of silence.

“I’m okay, considering I’m not gonna be rich like I thought.”

“Maybe we’ll get a better one next time.”

“Yeah … maybe.” After a pause, he added, “When we get rid of this body in the trunk, I think I’m gonna go home for a while.”

“Yeah. And we got one more thing to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Kill Mad Dog.”

“That’s your best idea in a long time.”

“In a long time?”

“No, I didn’t mean that. But it’s good. Want me to do it?”

“No … he’s my dog. I’ve got to put him to sleep.”

“Suit yourself.”

They drove along for a while. As they neared Rosemead Boulevard, he flashed the turn signals and watched as Mad Dog did the same. A ramp to the San Bernardino Freeway, Interstate 10, was a mile away.

“When’re you gonna punch his ticket?”

“Why not put ’em in the same hole.”

“
After
he helps dig, y’know what I mean?”

“You a big old lazy motherfucker, aren’t you?”

“Shit, man, I don’t like to dig ditches. They used to make us do that shit in Preston, remember?”

“Sure do.” It was true, in reform school they’d been worked like slaves as a form of punishment. He remembered the blisters on his hands from swinging a mattock to tear up an asphalt athletic field. A hatred of hard labor had been planted simultaneously.

“You got shovels?”

“There’s one in the back … on the floor.”

Diesel leaned over and looked. “Just one?”

“We’ll take turns.”

“We need another one … and a mattock or a pick.”

“There’s nothing open. Maybe we could steal one.”

“Right. We’d probably get caught doin’ that and they’d find Mr. Smells Bad in the trunk.”

“What’re we gonna do?”

“Lemme think about it. I don’t wanna wait until tomorrow night.”

“I hear that. Shit, man, by then you’ll never get the smell out.”

“Yeah … like cat piss.”

Ahead of them, the raised freeway was visible, cars and trucks flashing by. Troy eased into the lane to turn onto the ramp. Mad Dog followed.

The eye of the storm that had drenched L.A. earlier was now stalled somewhere over Arizona, but its trailing end was still causing occasional showers between Riverside and the state line.

The two cars were specks of flotsam carried along the river of Interstate 10. Cars, trucks, buses, all rolled flat out along the ribbon of multilane road. Anyone who stayed within the 55-mile-per-hour speed limit would be blown aside by the wind from passing Kenilworths. When they rolled through L.A. County’s eastern towns, Cucamonga, Covina, and Pomona, the traffic was heavy. Big rigs formed caravans, like elephants nose to tail, while cars flashed past like whippets. Troy drove carefully, making sure nothing got attention from the Highway Patrol. If he was pulled over, the mess in the trunk would definitely be smelled. The stench of decomposing flesh would surely constitute “probable cause.” He kept the windows lowered enough to blow the odor away without freezing themselves. It was cold at night on the desert.

Conversation was broken by long pauses. Diesel said, “After we take him out … you know he’s got that hundred grand.”

Troy grunted and pursed his lips, and answered after a minute passed, “We can’t leave a hundred grand behind … but for some reason I feel kind of weird about taking it.”

“Yeah … like we’re killin’ him to rob him.”

“Uh-huh … We know it isn’t that way.”

“No, I’d wash him for free. Ha, ha, ha, ha …”

The full-throated laughter made Troy smile. God, what a thing to joke about! And what a mess. How many has he killed besides the three young women and the child? Men in prison told tales of crossroading con games, of safecracking and robberies, but very seldom did they talk of murders committed. They wanted to forget those for which they were convicted, and hide any others.

“Mad Dog reminds me of Nash,” Diesel said. “Remember him?”

“Oh, yeah, who could forget that toothless monster. I was glad when they gassed his ass. He used to sleep all day and scream all night. I’d have killed his ass, he kept me awake for a year.”

“Remember when he said that he had gutted that little boy under the Venice pier because he didn’t want him to grow up and have the life Nash never had? Mad Dog is kinda like that.”

“He sure is.” Troy wondered if Mad Dog was haunted by conscience, like Raskolnikov in
Crime and Punishment
. Not likely. Killing seemed to soothe Mad Dog’s demons, whatever they were. Troy thought it gave him a sense of power. Troy was going to kill Mad Dog, but it was going to be hard. Mad Dog idolized him. It’s hard to kill someone who idolizes you, even if he’s a homicidal maniac. It had been a bad idea, he thought, meaning the kidnapping caper. Too many things could go wrong. Unexpected things, especially like killing the goose with the gold. Jesus Christ, who could have anticipated that a drug kingpin with a federal indictment and a fugitive warrant would risk crossing the border on that one particular night? One thing was sure: no more kidnappings. He’d known better when he first heard the proposition—but, goddamn, the money was so big, maybe two million dollars.

“I’m hungry,” Diesel said. “In fact I’m fucking starving.”

Almost simultaneously they spotted a bright red sign:
CAFÉ.
It was on a pole raised high enough to be visible from the freeway.

“Smoking or nonsmoking?” asked the waitress who approached them when they entered. Diesel pointed to a booth with a vapor-coated window looking out on the parking lot. They wanted to keep an eye on the cars.

Diesel was the only one to eat a full meal, ham and eggs with grits instead of home fries. Mad Dog, full of methamphetamines, had no appetite and drank coffee. Troy tried milk and pie. The milk went down and soothed his burning stomach; the pie was dry and he nibbled at it.

Mad Dog asked, “You’re sure this spot we’re going to is cool? You ain’ been there in a long time.”

“What the fuck can change in the middle of the desert? It’s a dry wash on the Cabazon Reservation. Nobody goes there but Indians. We pull off the road and there’s nobody for miles.”

“We better get rollin’. The sun’s gonna be up pretty soon.”

Troy left the tip and paid at the cash register. The other two were outside. As he went out the door, Mad Dog’s back was to him. Troy looked at the flesh behind the ear. That’s where he would put the bullet. He turned off the thought. It was not something he could dwell upon. He would put it out of mind until the moment arrived. The decision had been made and indecision had to be kept at bay. No reviews, no appeals.

Diesel stopped and waited for him. “We better get some gas,” he said. Then lowered his voice. “He watches me pretty close.”

“I told you I was doing it. I think I’ll ride with him. You drive my car.”

Now Mad Dog led the way, with Troy beside him and the Jaguar following. It was long past midnight and cars were few. Only the trucks carrying commerce rolled through the darkness. Mad Dog flashed his lights whenever he passed one. Beside the highway, a lot of the buildings were adorned in holiday lights. From the car radio came Christmas carols.

“So what’s next?” Mad Dog asked. “Is the Greco gonna line us up another ripoff?”

“Ahhh, yeah, but not until after the New Year. Diesel wants to go home for Christmas. He’s got a kid, y’know.”

“He could stay home as far as I’m concerned.”

“Don’t be so mean, Dog. The big man is okay.”

“He’s okay with you … but I don’t really like the dude. I put up with him because of you. The motherfucker thinks he’s bad. Ain’t nobody bad. All the bad motherfuckers are in the grave.”

“That’s what they say.” Troy reached over and gave Mad Dog’s shoulder a Judas shake. “Take it easy. It’s gonna be okay, bro’.” He despised his own deceit, but he knew what he had to do.

Across the desert were communities where none had been before. Troy remembered some things, but others were unfamiliar. Where was the side road? A sign said
PALM SPRINGS NEXT TURNOFF.
Suddenly another sign flashed in the headlights:
CABAZON INDIAN RESERVATION.

“Turn here,” he said.

Mad Dog hit the brakes and made the turn with a screech of tires. The headlights behind made the turn easier. Off the ramp was a narrow road. Had it been dirt before? Troy was unsure. It cut through the rough terrain, arroyos and low hills with huge beds of cactus, while against the skyline rose the saguaro like sentinels. If his memory was right—if this was the place—the reservation was five miles ahead, although their destination was short of that. He was a little worried until a pickup went by going the other way. Indians en route to town. Would they turn around to check on the two cars? He watched the red taillights disappear. Good.

The headlights illuminated the turnoff, the double groove from vehicle wheels heading into blackness. “Turn up there.”

Now the car bounced and rocked and the headlight beams danced across the barren landscape. The car was filled with the glare of Diesel behind them. Beyond their narrow beams the world was total blackness, neither moon nor stars; it was a night without light. Troy knew there was nothing around them for miles.

They went on for about a mile when suddenly the tire tracks were cut by an arroyo turned into a swift stream by the recent storm. This was as far as they were going. It seemed as good a place as any. Troy’s heart was racing. He forced himself to breathe slow and steady through his mouth. Take it easy, don’t let your imagination race wildly ahead. It’s an easy thing, just squeeze the hand and finger with a couple pounds of pressure.

Diesel had pulled up behind them and turned off the engine in the Jaguar. The sound of racing water muffled his footsteps until he was right beside them. “Is this it?”

“Unless you wanna swim.”

“Does it make any difference?”

“Uh-uh. C’mon. You got the shovel?”

“Yeah. I’m ready to do some serious digging.”

“Why don’t we just leave the motherfucker?” Mad Dog said. “Won’t the coyotes and the buzzards eat him up?”

“Sure they will … but somebody might see the buzzards and come to see if it’s one of their cows.”

“Not cows,” Mad Dog corrected, “steers out here.”

“Same difference.”

Guided by the flashlight and carrying the shovel, they went over a rise where they would be unseen if someone should happen by. Maybe an Indian would want privacy with his girlfriend, or someone would want to check on the water in the arroyo. They would see the cars, of course, but it was best if they didn’t see a couple of men digging a hole as well.

Diesel started to dig. Actually, he tried to start; the best the shovel would do was send chips flying like shards of concrete. He tried another spot. Same result. “Fuck this shit,” Diesel said, throwing the shovel down. “We’ll be here three days trying to dig a hole. A chump needs dynamite here.”

“Look,” said Mad Dog, “let’s find an overhang, a ledge that sticks out. We put him up close and knock it down on him. A kinda landslide, y’know what I mean?”

“That’s as good an idea as any,” Diesel said. “Whaddya think?” he asked Troy.

Troy’s thoughts were distracted, only half concentrating on the hole. He was fighting inside himself about what
he
had to do. “Yeah,” he said, “sounds as good as anything.”

They trudged down an arroyo. A hundred yards from the stream they found a ledge that angled out. It was as good as they would find. They went back to the car and opened the trunk. All of them turned their faces away from the stench. Diesel gagged and nearly vomited. “Goddamn, he smells bad!”

“You’ll smell the same after three days,” Mad Dog said.

“I might stink but I won’t smell it,” Diesel replied.

“Hold your breath ’til we get him out,” Troy said, holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth while reaching into the trunk with the other hand. Through the blanket he grabbed an ankle. It had swollen large, and his grip sank deep. Fuckin’ disgusting, he thought, and pulled the body up and out. It bounced off the rear bumper and plopped on the ground. “Gimme a hand,” he said to Mad Dog. “You killed him. At least help me carry him.”

“Don’t be so mean, Big T,” he said with humor—and it sent chagrin through Troy, who knew that within a few minutes he would murder the poor, tormented man. In Troy’s view of the world, Mad Dog McCain was less responsible for his evil than the men of the Red Cross and blood banks who had let HIV-tainted blood go through untested because it would have cost a hundred million dollars, and because of that reasoned decision, seven thousand hemophiliacs were dying.
That
was truly evil. Mad Dog would die because he was a dangerous menace, but whatever he was, he had been made so by the tortured tragedies of his life.

“Here, lemme do it,” Diesel said. “You lead with the flashlight.”

The body was in a fetal position and still slightly stiff as rigor mortis evolved into decay. Mad Dog and Diesel carried it. Neither wanted to touch the flesh. Diesel lifted by the ankle through the blanket, but Mad Dog only held the blanket. It was a longer, harder walk than they had expected. Troy went ahead to use the flashlight to find the shovel. Behind him, Mad Dog stumbled and dropped his end. Diesel continued to drag the carcass across the hard earth, the headless torso bouncing and sliding along. “He don’t feel it,” Diesel said.

Troy used the flashlight to find what appeared the easiest place to make the ledge collapse. “Put him there,” he said, indicating where with the flashlight. When the cadaver was against the embankment, he dug upward with the shovel.

He stopped. “We forgot the fuckin’ lime,” he said.

“Forget it,” Mad Dog said.

“No, no. In a few months it’ll erase this sucker. I’ll get it.”

“No, I’ll get it,” Diesel said. “I’m bigger’n you. Gimme the flashlight.”

Troy gave it over; then watched the light move away, going on and off as Diesel flashed it every so often to orient himself. The light disappeared and there was silent blackness. Then, faintly, he heard a rustle … or was it the beating of wings? Creatures of the desert moved in the night when the burning daylight was gone, bats and coyotes and owls—and all of the things they ate. Troy could hear Mad Dog breathing somewhere close. Farther away, something disturbed some pebbles; maybe something attracted by the smell of physical decay. Troy’s thoughts were only of killing Mad Dog. The moment was close and anguish made him weak. Whatever the mad-man had done, he was going to die at the hand of someone he loved.