Stuart M. Kaminsky
Always Say Goodbye
PROLOGUE
The pit bull, standing on his rear legs, strained against the thick leash around his neck. The lean young man in a cowboy hat, well-worn jeans and a black T-shirt, muscles tight, held back the dog whose legs were now clawing rapidly against the dirt floor.
Inside the knee-high wooden wall that circled a dirt-floor ring, stood a 300-pound wild hog, tusks removed with a bolt cutter, scars along its back. The reluctant hog was prodded from behind with a metal rod by a man in a red T-shirt and cowboy hat. He was the twin of the one holding back the pit bull.
Behind the wooden wall were four rows of paint-chipped metal folding chairs on which sat about one hundred men, women and children.
Adults paid six dollars to see what was about to happen. Children were admitted free.
Men, women and children waited impatiently, eyes moving from dog to hog.
Lew Fonesca stood behind the back row of folding chairs where he could see Earl Borg seated in the front row on the other side of the ring. Borg had made the three-hour drive from Sarasota up I-75 and across I-19, and then onto an unpaved road at the end of which was the barn, the ring and the people swaying and bobbing in their seats. Lew had made the same trip from Sarasota to the town of Kane, stopping at a small gas station and general store that advertised in peeling letters on the dusty window, THE BEST BOILED PEANUTS IN THE SOUTH. He had asked the overweight woman sitting on a stool behind the counter where he could find the hog-dog fight. The woman wore a loose-fitting orange sweatshirt over a faded blue dress. She pulled back a sleeve of the sweatshirt and pointed to the plywood wall behind Lew.
Three posters were thumbtacked on the stained plaster wall. One of the posters was for the HAWG DOG FIGHT. The poster promised the appearance of Santana, “the fiercest pit bull in the South,” and “the man killer hog.” There were directions to the mayhem in red letters. Lew thanked the fat woman, who nodded and rolled her sleeve back up.
He had no trouble finding the barn.
The summer day was Florida hot and humid. The smell of animal and human sweat was almost overpowering inside the barn, which was even hotter and more humid than outside. The crowd didn’t seem to notice. They were focused on something else.
The crowd was loud, some people clapping and smiling at each other. Their clothes, hair and sun-pink look made it clear that for many of them this was the best they could afford for a Saturday afternoon’s live entertainment.
The only outward difference between Borg and the others around him was that they looked lean and hungry and he looked healthy and sleek in slacks, a black T-shirt and a dark sports jacket. People, particularly the twins when they weren’t wrestling the animals, paid homage to Borg by somberly nodding when he spoke. Earl Borg was the only multimillionaire in the sweatbox heat of the barn and the others all knew it. The closest person to Borg in income was Sully Wright, the citrus farmer, who could count on a net annual profit of about thirty thousand dollars if there were no blight, freezes, hurricanes or further government restrictions.
The tugging pit bull looked at the hog and made a throat-clearing sound that brought applause and hoots. The hog responded with a snort. The crowd seemed to think, wanted to think, that the hog was like a bull snorting, eager to paw the ground and attack. To Lew the snort pulsed with fear.
There was no doubt about what was about to happen in the ring. The only question was how quickly it would take place. Borg was taking last-minute bets, all cash, and pocketing it. He didn’t have to write the names of the people handing him dollars, fives, tens and even a few twenties. He was known here. He knew them.
Earl Borg’s wife’s lawyer had sent Lew here to serve divorce papers. That was what Lew did. He was a process server, working just enough to keep himself in food and pay the rent with a little leftover for videotape rentals, resale shop clothes, YMCA membership, soap, toothpaste and disposable razors.
The job was easy. Mrs. Borg had known exactly where her husband would be and when he would be there. The only problem now for Lew was placing the papers in Borg’s hand and getting out of the barn alive and, hopefully, untouched.
Lew wore his usual jeans and a clean drip-dry short-sleeved blue shirt with no buttons missing, a Cubs baseball cap on his nearly bald head. He fit in, almost invisible, a lean man with a sad Italian face, a lapsed Episcopalian in Baptist country. Lew had once been an investigator in the office of the Cook County States Attorney’s office. Lew had once had a wife he loved and an apartment on Lake Shore Drive. Now he was serving papers for Sarasota lawyers and living alone at the rear of a Dairy Queen parking lot in a small two-room office in a building that merited condemnation. It was the way he wanted it.
The twin holding back the pit bull cried out, “Go” and freed the dog, who shot across the ring and sunk its jaws into the hog’s snout. The hog squealed in agony, swayed slightly but didn’t move. The dog moved to the animal’s side. The crowd went silent to hear the clamping of the dog’s teeth as it made its deep, quick gash. The crowd went wild, many of them standing, shouting out “Santana” and “Get him”!
Borg watched emotionless, checking his watch, lips pursed.
The hog teetered and fell on its side but Santana didn’t let go. Both twins ran into the ring. The one in the black T-shirt shouted, “It’s over.”
The man in the red T-shirt moved in with a wooden pole the length of a baseball bat, put a foot on the fallen hog’s back, and wedged the pole between the jaws of the dog.
“Are they finished?” asked a girl about nine in the row in front of where Lew stood.
“Don’t know, baby,” said the mother, who could have been any age from fourteen to thirty.
The crowd was silent again. Lew made his way slowly around the wall of the barn. Borg was handing out cash to a grinning wrinkle-necked old man in slacks, a yellow shirt and a green bow tie.
It took about a minute to pry the dog loose. Red T-shirt lost his cowboy hat in the process. Santana was muzzled the instant his jaws opened. The dog was led out of the ring by the man in the red T-shirt, who paused to pick up his hat, to cheering from the crowd.
The man in the black T-shirt went to the fallen hog and said gently, “Get up, boy. You did just fine.”
“Get up,” urged a woman’s voice from the crowd. Others took up the chant. “Get up.”
The twin in the black T-shirt pulled a bottle of apple cider vinegar from his pocket, opened it and poured it on the panting hog’s wounds.
Lew was now in the rear of the barn, looking down at Borg’s back.
The crowd cheered as the hog wobbled to its feet. The man in the red T-shirt was back now, a muzzle in his hand. He put it over the mouth and head of the dazed hog.
“Children ten and under,” the man in black shouted.
Children rushed out of the stands, about twenty of them. Some had come armed with sticks. Others used their hands and feet. They pummeled the bloodied hog, who unsteadily tried to get away but had no place to go.
“Okay” shouted the man in the black shirt after about a minute. “We want to save him for another day. Let’s all give the hog a big hand.”
The audience, including Borg, applauded the animal.
“This little lady here,” said the man in the black T-shirt, singling out a pretty, smiling blonde who appeared to be about nine.
The audience applauded again.
“You all know Lilla, right? She’s our guest of honor and she gets to name our hog,” the young man said, placing his hand gently on the girl’s shoulder.
The girl looked up at a smiling woman seated in the stands in front of Lew.
Borg looked at his watch. His gambling high had been over the moment he handed the cash to the old man. The look on his face changed from one of self-satisfaction to respectful attention as the girl spoke.