The District Manager (23 page)

The ground is a little firmer, as there has recently been little rain. But the grass and weeds are thick and knotted. Our shoes kick up thirsty wads of mosquitoes.

“Name and password,” the figure demands as he shines his flashlight into both our eyes. With the other hand he pats us down. He takes our cell phones and places them on a tiny table.

“I’m Dixon, this is Bryant; password: Rover.”

“Okay,” he says with a sadistic chuckle. “You’re clear. Go in.”

The weeds and grass that impeded my previous entry have been neatly trimmed. The Old Adobe swallows us like a whale. We are met by a collection of small spotlights on short stands pitched into the dirt as soon as we step inside.

“Mason!” A familiar voice calls from within this halogen glow. A bald head eclipses the phosphorescent haze. He takes form.

“Spider Monkey!” I announce upon recognition. I’m shaken. Rusty can tell because he taps me in the ribs.

“How the hell are you, man, and who is this?” Spider Monkey asks, offering his hand in greeting to both of us.

“This is my Uncle Howard.”

“Right, I remember. Dude, anybody ever told you, you’re the spitting image of Bear Bryant?”

“All the time,” Rusty replies with a steely smile.

He has not yet let go of Spider Monkey’s hand. They’re looking each other in the eyes like it’s a contest for who has the biggest dick.

“So where are the dogs?” I inquire, desperate to interrupt this tense introduction.

“The dogs!” Spider Monkey declares as he forcibly breaks off from Rusty’s intimidating grip. “Of course, come on back.” He guides us into the fog of light. “I guess I don’t need to explain to you how this works, Mason, as I know you’re an enthusiast. We’ve got six dogs and three fights tonight. We’ve got a total of thirteen bets, four of which are here to watch the show. And what a fuckin’ show it should be!” he says excitedly as he stuffs a cigarette into his mouth. “They brought in a beast from The Valley, motherfucker’s name is Firewater.”

“What does that mean…exactly?” No sooner have the words left my lips when I start to think:
I sound like an amateur, or worse…a beginner.

“Slobber and blood, man, slobber and blood! Like I said, a fuckin’ beast! We got some beers on ice inside,” he says, pointing towards the front. “Gettin’ started here shortly. You fellas just chill and enjoy the show!”

Spider Monkey vanishes into the spotlights, leaving Rusty and me to contemplate our surroundings. The fight ring is simple: a slight dugout maybe twenty feet in diameter, enclosed by a shoddy wooden fence. It’s in the center of the Adobe’s courtyard.

We spot only two patrons, a black guy in grimy overalls and a white guy with a dirty cowboy hat on. The two stand quietly along the ring’s perimeter, talking. Neither appears financially capable of underwriting participation.
Maybe the minimum buy-in is relative.

Rusty and I head up towards the front where the beer is.

“You sure it’s a good idea to drink alcohol?” I ask him as we enter into the same hallway complex where I discovered the surveillance room.

“I said act natural,” he snaps under his breath. “Goddamn, Mason, you don’t have to drink the whole thing, just sip it.”

Only one door is open and it’s well lit. A giant rectangular cooler sits prostate towards the back. The walls of this room are littered with graphic pictures from skin mags—and I mean fuckin’ graphic! As I peer around, making my observation, a stranger appears. He is wearing a pair of slacks and a black collared shirt, he is better dressed than the previous bunch.

“Dick ain’t getting’ hard is it?” he asks with a crooked-toothed grin. He lifts the cooler door and reaches down, pulling out a frost-covered Coors.

“Uh, no…I’m just checkin’ the place out,” I answer.
I’m really weirded out.

“Gotta love it! Gotta love it!” he laughs. This guy’s teeth are horrible.

Instead of blowing his cash on dog fights, maybe he should use it towards a dentist.
Rusty remains silent—deep in thought— studying every detail (and I don’t mean the dirty pictures).

“That looks refreshing,” he finally says. “Nephew, grab me one of those.”

“Yes, Uncle Howard,” I obey. He loves to give orders.

The three of us stand over the cooler, sipping our brews in silence.
Strange.

“Well,” the snaggletoothed tripper interjects, “Gettin’ about that time.”

Rusty signals me with a nod of his head, and we follow the creep out into the courtyard.

If I wasn’t freaked out already, the ritual to get these dogs ready to fight is over the top. The two losers I described earlier, the black farmer and the white cowboy, have just dragged their respective cages to the ring (cages similar to the ones I saw during my initial invasion). They have no visibility whatsoever, only a skinny slot with which to view the contents.

The cages are on opposite sides of the ring. The fence has been removed on both sides so to create dual entries. Both the farmer and the cowboy are squatted down before their respective cages. They slide open their cages’ slots. Both men start making strange noises. The black farmer is making high-pitched yaps. These yaps remind me of the sounds coyotes make in the wild, at dusk, when the pack is rallying for the hunt. The white cowboy is more subtle, and I can barely hear what he is doing. Rusty nudges me to move in closer. What I hear is the white cowboy flicking his tongue, snapping it against the roof of his mouth. It resembles a rattle snake.

Both men close their respective skinny slots.

Both men rise, and move themselves to the back of their cages. Both men lean over their cages, and…with a lift of a gate…

The two dogs dart out and collide in the middle of the ring. The black farmer’s dog is white and is immediately getting his ass kicked.

“Get in there!” the farmer yells at the struggling pit bull.

“That’s right, boy!” the cowboy counters.

The two dogs’ jaws are locked onto one another. As a single heap they gyrate like some constantly flipping yen and yang.

“That’s right, boy, get’em on his back!” the cowboy yells.

I can’t watch this. But I don’t want to look like a pussy. The cheers of enthusiasm from the small crowd make me both sick and infuriated.

“Alright!” Spider Monkey intervenes. “Victory to Blackie! Call ‘em back now!” he directs the white cowboy. With a few hand claps, the black pit turns from his savage meal, returning docile to his cage. “Get this pitiful fuck outta here!” Spider Monkey orders the black farmer.

“Come on, boy,” the farmer laments as he pulls the dog from the ring.

“Take it out in the woods and finish it!” Spider Monkey demands. “Pedro, at the gate, has a pistol!”

“I’d like to watch that,” Rusty says to Spider Monkey.

What the fuck is he doing?

“Well alright, Big Bad Bear,” Spider Monkey approves. “By the way, man, I love the Crimson Tide…fuckin’ luv ‘em!”

Rusty leaves with the black farmer.

I’m left standing alone—in shock. I down my beer in a few swills.
I need a cigarette.
Like an idiot I neglected to get any before our arrival.

“Hey, man,” I turn to address the snaggletoothed tripper. “Can I borrow one of your smokes?”

“Sure, kid…no problem,” he pulls a soft pack from his pant pocket. “Out of the batter’s box, and up to bat,” he says as he offers me a light.

What is it that we are trying to accomplish here?

Two taut pops are heard from the woods behind us. Half my cigarette is a cherry. I’m starting to feel…starting to feel…starting to feel…sick.
I’ve got to get my shit together. I can’t let any of these freaks know I find this repulsive. But the puddle of blood in the middle of the ring…and where the fuck is Rusty?

“You alright there, Mason?” Spider Monkey, suddenly right behind me, asks from out of nowhere. He places his hand on my shoulder, like a consoling friend.

“Uh, yeah…I’m cool. Just need to go to the bathroom. Where do you go around here, anyway?”

“You know where y’all grabbed the brews? It’s the next door down the corridor.”

Luckily, I don’t puke, but stand in the stall bracing myself against the partition for what seems like an hour but is only ten minutes.

I go back to the arena. Another fight has ensued and Rusty has returned. He’s acting strangely aloof. Several other patrons and enthusiasts have arrived during my absence.

This fight lasts a little longer than the previous one, but is over in just a few minutes. The snaggletooth tripper takes care of business this time.

“Now for the big event!” Spider Monkey declares. “Fang versus Firewater!”

The white cowboy has returned, apparently in charge of Firewater. Another black guy is in charge of Fang.

These sick freaks sit around and come up with names for these pathetic animals like they’re color swatches at the paint store.

The cowboy and the new black guy position their cages. Spider Monkey enters the ring. All present are now loitering eagerly around the fence. Spider Monkey addresses everyone, “So for everyone’s amusement this evening, we got a special treat. We’ve all heard of Firewater, undefeated in The Valley. But, did you know that Fang is the champion over in Louisiana? And here’s the bonus…neither have eaten in five days…they’re starving!”

Rusty stands across from me on the other side of the ring. He flashes me a look cold as ice. I’m starting to feel queasy again.

Then I spot
him.
He’s busy doing something up front near the corridor. I can’t tell if he’s on the phone or what…but it’s definitely him. Spider Monkey is going over the terms of the bet, but I’m not listening. So many things are racing around in my head that I can’t focus on what’s about to happen right in front of me.

The gates open!

Within a second, the two dogs are loose.
This is too much.

From the corner of my eye I see ‘him’ approaching the ring!

Firewater and Fang fight ferociously.

It’s coming on again…the feeling like I’m trapped in a vial and can’t breathe…I can see the thumbprint…

Firewater gets Fang.

He’s
getting closer… Everyone’s cheering!

I can’t do this anymore.

“NO!!!” I yell ’til my vocal cords seem to sever.

The cheering stops. Even the dogs seem disrupted.

“HIM! What the fuck is he doing here?” Jake Scarborough, the cop who killed my wife, screams at Spider Monkey, who is standing there, utterly confused. “Get him, you goddamned moron!” he demands.

Spider Monkey remains frozen and bewildered.

“You’re supposed to screen these people, you fuckin’ idiot!”

The crowd has scattered.
I guess I’m ready to die.

I feel the man who killed my wife grab me by the shoulders. My neck snaps back. I fly to the ground. A boot protrudes deep into my gut.

I’m coughing. Saliva is hanging from my mouth.

A shot is fired. The crowd really scatters.

The arm of the man who killed my wife is extended, a pistol in his grip. I can smell fumes from the barrel as they ribbon about. He guides his aim slightly left…towards Rusty!

“Rusty!” I try to warn out of desperation. But my swollen diaphragm refuses to capitulate, my notice audible only to me.

Wait…now I know why Rusty left to attend the execution of the dog…it was the excuse he needed to retrieve his gun. He knew he would not be searched twice!

Rusty draws, hitting the cop in the leg. He collapses, falling through the fence and rolling into the ring.

Both Firewater and Fang break from their mutual death grips. They dash for this obnoxious mammal who has intruded into their terrible world. The screams are indescribable.

And the pleas? “Help me! Help me! Please!” The cop begs with horrible screams as the pits clasp on to vital areas.

Rusty jerks me up from the ground. Hell goes from horizontal to vertical in one dizzying jolt.

“We gotta get the fuck out of here! Now! Can you run?” he screams into my pained, clenched face. His face is pouring with sweat and experience.

“I can,” I answer as loud as I can muster.

Some thirty feet away Spider Monkey writhes on the ground, cradling a large blood stain at his stomach.

“Mason, you’re a nurse…please help me… please.”

“Let’s go, kid!” Rusty yells, grabbing me by the shirt sleeve. And with each stride, the hideous cries of Wagoneer County Sheriff ’s Deputy, Jacob Scarborough, fade…disappearing altogether when Rusty fires the ignition.

“Boy did I fuck up!” Rusty declares as he clenches the Expedition’s steering wheel with both hands. His knuckles are white.

“Why? Did this not go as planned?” I ask, rhetorically. I’m writhing in pain. “I’m sorry, Rusty. I didn’t mean to snap. I just can’t take it anymore.”

“It ain’t your fault, Mason, it’s all mine.” He flicks the brights on and off as cars approach and then pass. He looks intently at the road as we race down the highway out of hell.

“Shit, I forgot my phone!”

“I got ’em both.”

“It hurts when I breathe. I hope that son-of-a-bitch didn’t break a rib or something.”

“That was him, wasn’t it?”

“Who do you mean?” I’m playing dumb.

“You know damn well who I mean. It was him, the sheriff ’s deputy that killed your wife. Right?”

“How did you know about that? I don’t remember ever telling you about that.”

“I was a cop for damn near thirty years. And since then I’ve been a private investigator. Do you really think that I wouldn’t have checked you out before I allowed you to be involved in this thing?”

“Yeah, it was him.”

“Well, he’s fuckin’ Alpo by now. Hell, those two pit bulls probably have a favorite bone they done gone and buried.”

“Ordinarily I would say you are one sick, callous bastard…but given who he was and the circumstances…”