35
“Hector’s arena on fight night? Pure insanity. Gangsters everywhere, and not only Mexican. Every Eighteenth click for miles around is there. Cadres of Crips and Bloods and Gangster Disciples. I see stone-faced Eme captains and smiling MS-13 killers and Aryan Brothers and Nazi Lowriders and Asian gangs. And not just gangs-the arena is filled with unaffiliated freelance horribles of every size, shape and color. Talk about a good place for people-watching.
“There are athletes I recognize from the papers-football players, boxers, a recent NBA draftee. Some spectators have brought dates. Every imaginable drug is being used right out in the open, washed down with every imaginable drink, topped off by joints and bongs and pipe loads and tobacco. The smoke hangs in a cloud high up in the ceiling. I figure that if any ten of these people had been gathered in any other place on Earth, there would be multiple homicides and epic mayhem. But fight night is different. It’s a boiling cauldron of L.A. bad guys out for good clean fun. No business is done. All are equal. Affiliations mean nothing. Everyone there is having a great time.
– Look at these fucking people, says Laws.
– That’s the only thing they’re not doing.
– Yet. Let’s get the money and get out of here.
– Hector wants us to stay.
– I’m not staying. You can.
– We’re a team.
– We’re way outnumbered, partner.
“So we climb the stairs to the luxury box as usual. We go in. Rocky and three of his shotgunners stand guard at the windows while Camilla locks the sliding glass door and Hector begins pouring shots of something from a dark blue bottle with no label on it.
“They want to party and Terry and I just want to get the money and get the hell out of there. But the luggage is right where it’s supposed to be, and the unloading and weighing and vacuum sealing and repacking go smoothly. Four hundred and eight thousand dollars-an all-time high. Avalos predicts that Herredia will give us all a bonus, yes, yes, yes, a bonus grande! He’s drunk as I’ve ever seen him, and still lucid.
“I stand behind the sliding glass door and look down on the action. I wonder if God feels this way, gazing upon Earth. What a world: a brindle pit bull is tearing into a smaller, black dog, and the two factions of the crowd are bellowing against each other as if their lives are in the balance. High up in the bleachers someone collapses and they load his limp body down the crowd but nobody bothers to stand, they just pass him along hand to hand like a big bag of beans. When he gets to the bottom a couple of young vatos drag him into a walkway between the bleachers, then hustle back to their seats.
“Now the brindle has the black dog by the throat and the smaller dog is tight to the brindle’s leg but both animals are so exhausted they can only lie there, breathing hard. Did you know that dogs in combat sometimes sleep for several minutes right in the middle of a fight, an instinctive symbiosis before mustering their energies again to kill each other? Well, they do. Then the black dog lets go of the leg and the brindle is able to stand and bore its bloody head into the throat of the smaller dog. And then he starts that savage shaking that pit bulls do. I have to squint it’s so hard to watch, being a dog man myself. I whistle something. The crowd is screaming for death but the black dog’s owner finally throws in a white rag, then two men wearing elbow-high welder’s gloves jump the pit walls and force apart the dogs.
“Laws pulls two of the rolling suitcases to the sliding glass door, then comes back with two more. Below, the black-dog faction is booing and the brindle faction has gone bonkers, throwing their drinks and cheering. Some approximation of a doctor makes a show of examining the limp black dog with a flashlight. He wears welder’s gloves, too.
– There’s no way, says Laws.
– No way what?
– No way to see this and not die.
– Ignore it.
– That’s what I mean. You have to be dead to ignore it.
– Steady, Terry. Five minutes and we’re out of here.
“Rocky and his three men escort us down the steps. It’s much louder outside of the private box, and a wild musky smell cuts through the drug and tobacco smoke. The whole arena feels ready to ignite. Single file, Terry and I each push one suitcase and pull another, all of which bounce precariously down the steps until the rollers hit the floor. They draw plenty of looks but nobody is inclined to contest four stubby combat shotguns holding eight rounds each.
“Suddenly Laws veers off to the fight pit. He parks the suitcases upright and hops into the ring, and I think for sure this is the beginning of the end.”
“You’ve said that before,” says Bradley. “Laws has gotten you to the brink at least twice before, with Herredia.”
“I didn’t know what a brink was until now. I stop and watch Terry. I figure he’s going to strangle or maybe even shoot the dog handlers or the doctor. His big body blots out the sight of them. I can’t really see what he’s doing. I let go of one suitcase and rest my hand on the pistol under my sport coat. The shotgunners, who are supposed to be protecting the money, all lower their weapons at Terry.
“But the crowd sees what I can’t see, and it goes quiet for a long beat. Then all of a sudden there’s a drunken roar. And when Terry climbs back out of the pit, he’s got the defeated black dog in his arms and a martyr’s calm on his face. The dog is wrapped in a Mexican blanket. The ring doctor jumps the wall and stuffs a handful of something in Terry’s jacket pocket and Terry says something to him and the doctor says something back. But Terry doesn’t even break stride. Rocky takes one of Terry’s suitcases and one of his gunmen takes the other, and the six of us and one mostly dead dog proceed to the exit. We proceed to the exit!
“I steer my VW Touareg south on Interstate Five. In the rearview I see Terry back in the second row of seats, holding the animal on his lap. The car smells of blood and fear, and Laws is talking to the dog in a low voice, telling it that things will be okay, you’re going to be just fine, hang in there, amigo.
– The doctor said his name is Blanco, says Laws.
– He’s black, not white.
– That doctor helped us out. He really did. There’s scissors and butterfly stitches here, and a bunch of antibacterial ointment and swabs and gauze and a roll of white tape. Laurel will love this innocent warrior.
– He’s probably going to die, Terry. You have to figure he’s going to die.
– Don’t tell me what to figure, Coleman. There are figurers greater than you.
– I’m saying the dog can die.
– Blanco will not die.
– Keep the blood off the leather, Terry.
– It’s all in the blanket. Good dog. Good Blanco. You hang in there, my friend.
“The dog is still alive two hours later when we come into San Ysidro and join the line of traffic heading for the border. Laws and I both know that getting an American dog in and out of Mexico is much harder than smuggling large sums of drug money, so we take Blanco to a twenty-four-hour emergency veterinary clinic. Laws badges the employees and pretty much tells the truth about Blanco and what happened to him. He gives them his credit card and agrees to an estimated twelve hundred bucks for treatment and boarding charges, just for the night. The young vet says that Blanco’s chances are “fair.” Terry tells the doctor that the dog will live. I’ll tell you, something in the tone of Terry’s voice really got my attention. I’d never heard that tone from him. The young doctor, he turns kind of pale, and he nods and looks away.”