“I want to speak to my attorney.”
“Sure, why don’t you speak to your attorney, and while you’re busy planning a legal strategy I’ll go spreading the word around town that you gave up the dog fighters.”
He puts his head in his hands. “You don’t understand. These people will kill me if I tell you.”
“There’s an upside to the scenario that you’re not looking at. If you don’t tell me I’ll kill you.”
“That’s an upside?”
“Shut your piehole. I’m not done laying it out. Now, if you tell me, I let you live and then maybe, just maybe, you’ll have enough to get out of town before they come looking for you.”
“Shit, all right.”
“Good. Now, I’m curious, why do they snatch dogs off the street if they can come here and pick up a stray pit bull or firedog?”
“Ha-ha, firedog? You mean a Dalmatian?”
I grab the dog treat bowl on the counter and smash his right hand with it. There’s crunching and blood.
He holds his injured hand and hops around. “Ouch! Fuck, my hand. You didn’t have to go ballistic on me.”
“Ballistic is what I do best. Now answer my question.”
“They go through a lot of dogs. Ouch, my hand…sometimes we don’t have the types of dogs they want. Hell, they’ve even fought stray Chihuahuas if they’re desperate for dogs.”
“Those sick bastards. I had a Chihuahua named Tank.”
He snickers. It’s involuntary but so is my reaction. I slam his face into the Dog Fancy magazine and the counter.
“Ow, fuck, why did you do that?”
“I’m the one asking the questions here, Carrot Top. You think it’s funny to hurt a Chihuahua?”
“No, no, it’s not funny.”
“That’s right, it’s not funny. Now tell me, where do they hold these fights?”
He hesitates and I don’t blame him. Anyone who would fight Chihuahuas is a sick bastard and capable of any atrocity. “They fight the dogs in Still’s Billiards Hall over on Amity Road, every Tuesday night.”
“Tonight is Tuesday night. You have to get me into these fights.”
“I can’t, the invite list is very strict.”
“Then I’ll have to find my own way into those fights.”
“How?”
“I have my ways, fancy pants.”
The parking lot of the Penn National Racecourse is packed with cars and I have one hell of a time finding a spot. Oftentimes driving a boat like the Monte Carlo necessitates creative maneuvering like parking on a bush or pushing a compact car out of the way. After driving around for ten minutes I end up parking in a flower bed and hanging a T-shirt out of the driver’s side window so it looks like my car broke down.
Inside the building it’s five minutes until race time and the gambling junkies are flitting around like hornets after someone’s blasted their nest open with a shotgun.
I place my bets and search for a busy area and find a nice one right next to a concession stand. Let the show begin.
I scan the crowd. “This is nothing like the dog fights in Tijuana. Now, that’s some real sport.”
No one pays me the slightest bit of attention. So I move to another area down closer to the track and repeat my little speech.
“This is nothing like the dog fights in Tijuana. Now, that’s some real sport.”
Still nothing. I head over to the bar and repeat, “This is nothing like the dog fights in Tijuana. Now, that’s some real sport.”
I look around the place and I notice some dame noticing me. It sure as hell isn’t for my looks. My face looks like a bus full of kids was playing hopscotch on it. I press on. “I wish they had dog fights like that around here.”
She turns away, attacking a tall glass of giggle juice. I saddle up to her at the bar, purposely rubbing up against her hip. It’s important to make physical contact…okay, maybe not important, but it’s damn nice.
She smiles like a dame ought to smile, and I’m transported to that golden place in my head-the place like Vegas with gaudy lights and sin and smut, where a man can roll naked in a bathtub of whatever it is that flips his switch and all the while a high-class call girl sucks his toes… Maybe I’ve said too much.
I make my move. “They call me Stern, uh, Howard Stern.”
Damn, that was a bad fake name.
She sets her glass down. “Like the radio shock jock?”
“The name sounds the same, but if you saw it spelled out, well, you’d realize that it looks nothing like the other name sounds.”
“Huh?”
“Right.”
I try to take her mitt, introduce myself properlike, but she pulls back as if I’ve just tried to hand her a used handkerchief.
“You’re not my type.”
“This whole metrosexual thing has put a dent in the business of being a man. If you wring one of those bastards out like a washcloth you won’t get an ounce of testosterone. They wear those funny black-rimmed glasses, tight pants, and shiny shirts. I’d never wear a shiny shirt.”
“You wouldn’t look good in a shiny shirt.”
“Who are you trying to fool? I don’t look good in or out of any shirt. This face has been intimate with a fair share of closed fists and my body, well, I’ve been told by my doctor not to bother to leave it to science.”
“You’ve got a lot going for you.”
“Yes, I don’t. Fortunately there are a lot of dames that like a guy just for his money.”
“You’re rich?”
“Thanks, you’re not bad yourself.”
She frowns and there’s silence between us for a moment and not the sexy kind either. We’re watching the end of the race. Everyone around is consumed with either complete disgust or utter joy. That’s the life of a gambler, there’s no more than two ways about it. Win or lose.
My horse finishes dead last. If they paid out for picking losers I’d be a millionaire.
I pull out the wad of lettuce Billy Strap gave me and make sure the she sees it. “Horse racing is for the birds. In Tijuana they have dog fights-real sport-but then a dame like you probably wouldn’t go for dog fights.”
She looks over at me. “A dame like me?”
“Yeah, you’d probably faint at the sight of blood.”
“Maybe some dames would, but I’m not just some dame.”
“That’s what they all say. When I lived in Mexico I had a girlfriend who would go to the fights with me when I was fighting my dogs. Every time a little blood would be spilled she’d faint.”
“You fought dogs?”
“Not personally but I had dogs that would fight other dogs.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“I bet you did.”
She looks over each shoulder and then back to me. “What if I told you I had a ticket for the only dog fights in town?”
“I might say you’re a liar.”
“You’d be wrong. So what do you say? Are you up for some real action?”
“I’ll get the rubber sheets and baby oil.”
“Not that kind of action.”
“Oh, right. You mean dog fights.” I try not to think of Tank, but his bristly little mug keeps popping up in my head. “What’s your name?”
“You can call me Natasha.”
“Sure, Natasha, I’m up for some dog fights.”
She takes a pen and piece of paper out of her purse and starts writing directions. “Do you still raise dogs for fighting?”
“I raise them but I don’t have anywhere to fight them right now.”
“Well, maybe we can change that.”
“Yeah, maybe we can.”
The Monte Carlo makes such a racket I have to park it at a fast food joint a quarter mile down the road and hoof it to Still’s Billiard Hall. Goddamn heap. It’s been coughing up terminal black smoke lately, pinging and panging like it’s on its last wheel. I can’t take a chance of anyone seeing me pull up in the Monte. The illusion of me being a high roller would be all but destroyed. I can’t have that, my life depends on it.