Lorenzo placed the box in the back of the van.
After dropping the calico off at the clinic, Lorenzo entered the lobby of the Humane Society office, greeting a couple of his coworkers, Jamie, attractive and gay, and Luanne, plain and straight. A tough white girl, Cindy, sat behind the dispatch desk, radioing a call to a field operative, an ever-present cup of Starbucks before her. Lorenzo rubbed the head of the latest house pet, a previously abused border collie mix named Tulip, who had gotten up out of her bed to greet him.
Down in the basement kennel, Lorenzo checked on the dogs he had brought in recently. All of them had been impounded, taken away from unacceptable living conditions. Most would make good house pets, with retraining and care. For various reasons, some could not live with children, and some could not live with cats or other dogs. A few were beyond rehabilitation. They could never coexist with humans or other animals and would have to be destroyed.
He feared this was the case with Lincoln, a pit he had brought in weeks ago. Lincoln had lived year-round in the paved backyard of a storefront church on 14th Street, between Quincy and Randolph. Lorenzo wondered how someone who preached the word of God could abuse an animal. But the live-in priest at the iglesia had done just that to this dog. Lincoln had been beaten and chained by his owner, and taunted and stoned by neighborhood kids his entire life. He was mercurial, aggressive, and unpredictable. He was a victim, and he could never be socialized.
Lorenzo whistled softly, made a fist, and put it up to the cage. Lincoln came forward, his jaws working furiously, and snapped at Lorenzo's knuckles. Then he retreated to the back of the cage. He looked at Lorenzo shyly, almost apologetically. He seemed to remember Lorenzo as the one who'd taken him away from his hellish existence, but he could not keep himself from trying to bite his hand.
'I ain't mad at you, boy,' said Lorenzo.
Lorenzo took the two flights of stairs to the top floor. He went directly to the office of Irena Tovar, his boss, and dropped into the chair before her desk. Irena was in her late thirties, wore glasses, and had extremely long hair, which she always wore in a single ropy braid. The end of the braid touched the small of her back. She was of Venezuelan descent. Her eyes were almost black and long of lash. Lorenzo loved her like he loved Rachel Lopez. Both had done their part in helping to save his life.
'She did what I asked her to do,' said Lorenzo, speaking of the Korean woman on Mount Olivet.
'Twenty-five dogs is a lot of dogs,' said Irena.
'I heard that. Hard for me to care for one. Least she cleaned the place up. Right now, we got no grounds for abuse charges.'
'Keep checking on her.'
'I plan to.'
Mark Christianson knocked on the frame of the open door.
'Sorry to break in,' he said. Mark was tall and clean shaven, with longish curly black hair and hillbilly sideburns. His rolled-back sleeves revealed wood-hard, tattooed forearms.
'What is it?' said Irena.
'Got a call from a citizen east of the river,' said Mark. 'Man says there's something going on in the woods behind his house. Lotta players, tricked-out cars, like that. Guys walking pit bulls into the woods. Guys carrying coolers and pieces of wood.'
'Did he call MPD?'
'He called us first.'
'Go ahead and alert the police,' said Irena, 'and get down there. Stay in radio contact.'
'You in, Lorenzo?' said Mark, wiggling his eyebrows the way he did when things began to jump.
Lorenzo was already out of his seat.
CHAPTER 7
Melvin Lee drove a 3-Series BMW slowly down an alley bordered by the backs of houses on one side and a large community garden of vegetables and flowers on the other. Past the garden were the deep woods of Fort Dupont Park. Lee and Rico Miller were off E Street and 32nd, between the Anacostia Freeway and Minnesota Avenue, east of the Anacostia River. Up ahead, where the alley came to a dead end, at least a dozen freshly detailed late-model imports were parked on the grass. Also in the group were several vans, SUVs, and high-ton pickups.
'The Way You Move,' that Outkast in heavy summer rotation, was coming from the in-dash. Lee was into it, and the way Rico was moving his head to those bursts of horns, looked like he was into it too. But you couldn't tell if the boy had any joy in him. Only time he smiled was when he was thinking about putting the hurt on someone. Rico was one of those, seemed like he had gone from being a little kid straight to a man, skipped the fun parts in between.
'This alley don't connect to nothing' said Miller, who noticed such things. 'Onlyest way out is the way you came in.'
'Police ain't gonna lock you up for watchin' no fights.'
'Old people live in these houses, you know they ain't got nothin' better to do than look out their windows all day long. They gonna see all these cars, they gonna call the law.'
Instinctively, Lee reached for the joint in Miller's hand, then thought better of it and drew his hand back.
'You can't?' said Miller.
'I'm about due to drop a urine. I drop a positive, I'm gonna be violated like a motherfucker.'
'Your PO is on you?'
'On me hard,' said Lee.
Lee swung the BMW into a space beside a Lexus SUV. Stepping out of the car, they could hear the thump of bass coming from down in the woods. Lee saw a boy, couldn't have been more than eight or nine, standing around the vehicles, a neighborhood kid, most likely, paid by someone to keep an eye out for the law. Lee handed him five dollars and told him to look after his ride. The boy positioned himself beside the car.
Lee and Miller entered the woods. Almost immediately, the land graded off and dropped to a steep pitch. Down below, they could see a clearing, and then the ground rose up again. In the clearing there was much activity and many men.
'There they go,' said Lee. 'Down in that valley.'
'That's a valley?' said Miller, who had never been in the woods, outside of driving through Rock Creek Park, in his life.
'A ravine, then,' said Lee, who was nearly as inexperienced and uncomfortable in this setting as Miller, but wouldn't admit it. 'Somethin' like that.'
They came into the clearing. Gamblers and spectators stood around drinking, smoking weed, and discussing past and upcoming matches. A bookie sitting in a folding portable camping chair took bets and cash, and wrote the wagers in a notebook. Another man sold beer, malt liquor, and wine concoctions from out of a cooler. A boom box played bomb-squad-style hip-hop. There were few women in the crowd.
On the fringes, dogfighters handled their animals, pit bulls with game-cropped ears, all leashed or in cages. Many were being scrubbed down with soap solutions, as was required, since dogs were sometimes sent into the ring with nausea-inducing chemicals on their coats. A card table had been set up to the side; laid out on it were first aid supplies: IV kits, sutures, alcohol preps, and sponges. Syringes, to be used for injectable antibiotics brought along by the handlers, were available as a courtesy as well. Also complimentary were vitamins and supplements: B12, and liver and iron extracts. Beside the table were a couple of scales.
The ring itself was constructed of wood and had been transported in sections and assembled in the clearing. It was twenty feet square, thirty-six inches high, and had hinged gates in two of its opposing corners. Its floor was covered in green outdoor carpet stained with blood.
Lee and Miller moved through the crowd. Lee nodded at those he knew and made minimal eye contact with those he did not recognize. Residents of all four quadrants of the city were welcome here regardless of gang or business affiliation. This event was for profit and relaxation. The settling of beefs or the initiation of any kind of conflict was discouraged. But things happened when gazes lingered too long.