The Dog Fighter (31 page)

No no. Cantana rested his gloved hand on the veterans shoulder. The old mans face large and full of grease and tiny holes in the reflection of the businessmans sunglasses. We do not have time for food this morning old man.

We?

Me and my friend here.

Cantana put his hand in the small of my back as I had seen him do to her. He pushed me before the veteran with a smile.

Guillermo studied me. His eyes narrow and tired from many years of sleeping drunk. In his look I wondered if he recognized me. He made me doubt that I had ever known him. The old men were good actors if they were anything. They had been excellent in deceiving me as friends. But Cantana. To be able to deceive him was a great talent. It was good that I did not have to do this for much time. After Cantana's mentioning her and then touching me in that way I wanted to watch his eyes bulge. Feel the veins of his neck under my thumbs.

I know you dog fighter. Guillermo offered his hand. You are a very good fighter. Very dangerous. I have much respect for your work. The veteran stepped back to judge me more carefully. But I never bet on you. Always on the dogs. The dogs do not think why they kill. They kill for survival. Not for money. I respect this more. He smiled. Then he turned to Cantana. So?

I need something for Mendoza. Cantana answered.

Anything.

Dynamite.

But your soft hands? Guillermo chided the businessman.

The dog fighter here will carry it. Both Cantana and the veteran laughed at this. The young men smiled to themselves hunched over their work pretending not to listen but stealing glimpses of the mysterious businessman.

How much? Guillermo asked.

I do not know? Enough.

How much?

Enough to blow up a whale maybe.

Flaco! Guillermo snapped. The young man set down his wrench and wiped his greasy hands on a towel hanging from his belt. Go into the back. See what you can find.

The skinny young man hurried to the back. Metal shavings gathered in the grease on the workbenches and floor. The engines like sleeping metal animals on the benches.

How is your father? Guillermo asked Cantana while we waited.

Still dead. Cantana smiled. His teeth even and whole.

Guillermo dug into the pocket of his dirty robe and took from it a silver coin. Cantana waited for the rattling coin to still on the workbench where Guillermo set it there between them before picking it up and biting the coin.

One of these days. Guillermo smiled. Wagging his finger at the businessman. Your father will rise from the dead and you will be the one handing over the coins.

Cantana smiled.

You have been telling me this lie since when I was a boy old man. But I have always saved the coins.

And your mother? Guillermo asked. His voice serious now.

She is fine. Cantana bowed his head. I had not seen this respect in the veteran before. I wondered how he knew Cantanas father. If the poet did.

The skinny young man struggled from the back of the shop under the weight of a large wood crate almost slipping on the metal shavings and grease on the rubber soles of his huaraches. He set the dynamite on the counter in a dusty thud.

Cuidado! Guillermo slapped the young man against the back of his head.

Guillermo opened the lid of the crate himself. Pried it back with a hammer and flat bar. Seven slender sticks. Spiderwebs over them thick with dust and smelling sharp. Damp even.

You should not need all of them. Guillermo said. Lifting one and turning it in his hands. But take the entire case to be certain.

Bueno. Cantana said. Running his gloved finger down the dusty edge of one. Cigarillo in the same hand. Then he reached into his pocket and said. What do I owe you?

Place a kiss on the cheek of your mother for me.

Señor. Cantana removed a simple gold money clip from a large fold of paper pesos. I insist.

Listen to me. Back there these do nothing but collect dust. Place a kiss on your mothers cheek for me.

I will. Cantana returned the money to his pocket. You have always spoiled me old man.

If I had a son your father would do the same.

I would do the same.

When the old man and Cantana finished talking I went for the box but Cantana set his hand on my arm and lifted it himself. He carried it to the limousine and I opened the door. Guillermo and I said nothing to one another as the businessman and I left. When Cantana sat in the front with me he wiped dust from the buttons of his shirt while I started the limousine. Licking the end of his gloved finger before rubbing each one clean.

Okay. He sighed as if there was much on his mind. Let us go to Mendozas.

Most of the fishing boats had gone for the day when we came down the malecón. The boys in their canoes at the mouth of the bay. Beyond the coral sharks.

In the past. The poet had told me. Before the men and boys dove for pearls a shark charmer would mumble over them first. Stand on the docks in the early morning and make much money with their magic. Convincing the divers they were invincible to the teeth. Fools.

The old women had dragged the ends of their nets into the shade. The rest heaped drying in the sun.

We drove on.

Such a beautiful day. Cantana inhaled deeply. Holding the fresh sea air in his chest before exhaling loudly.

I wondered if Cantana knew that I would take from his face his sunglasses so I did not have to see the reflection of my face looking into his when I wrapped my hands around his throat. I could think of nothing but of this killing.

Stand in front of a man. My grandfather told me as a boy. Look him directly in the eyes and nod. Do not listen to what he says to you but instead imagine not the consequences but how you will kill this man with your own hands. And know then that he has no thoughts of how he wastes his last words. It is some incredible feeling this power over another.

At the outskirts of Canción we passed a vacant lot. There was much concrete and trash. Two skinny children poked at something in the ruins of a stone wall with a rusted harpoon. A boy and his sister maybe. They watched the limousine. Their clothes stained and feet bare. Cantana shook his head.

Someday this will all be beautiful. He said. The malecón with more palms and flowers and white stones. And more lampposts to walk under at night. Imagine the light on the water.

I held my hand out in the passing air to concentrate. But I also listened to the businessman.

Canción. He said. The way it is now. It cannot last. You change with the world or the world will change you in ways you do not want to change. Trust me dog fighter. We are at the end of a dream here. Soon we will wake up suddenly and all will be different. The world will have changed it in ways we do not want. And then we will have much difficulty remembering how it could have been. But there are ways to save it.

The hotel? I said.

Exactamente. This will be for the better of Canción.

I looked over the water of the sea. The reflection of the sun on the glass of the windshield dusty but still bright in my eyes. I did not disagree with Cantana then and he was quiet. I drove from the city on a dirt road from the north of Canción. Some miles out we turned west toward a pass in the mountains. Many points in the narrow road had been washed out from the sudden rains. Floods that came down the steep hills. We passed an area where most of a mountainside had fallen in the rains. Another that had been burned by fire.

Lightning. Cantana pointed to the blackened slope. The fire burns with the wind until the wind burns it back on itself. The smoke from these fires gives the most beautiful sunsets. The tourists lucky enough to experience this will love Canción even more.

By noon bones of some large animal glowed from within the shade of bleached wood ribs of a wagon left to ruin in the dry sun. Cantana spoke little the farther we traveled. I said nothing. The sky above the color of the Bay of Canción. The steep mountains spotted with cacti and gray boulders. Small thorny shrubs. We passed a lizard sunning himself on a large boulder the road curved around. He did not move when we approached but stuck out his tongue to test the air. Cantana laughed. I drove on with his directions. The air hot and dry but salty some from the sea also. I felt it on my arms. In my skin. The wind peeled back the tobacco wrap of Cantanas cigarillo as the end reddened.

I helped Mendoza build this house we are going to visit. Cantana said some minutes later. We met each other working for the bootlegger in Texas. We were your age maybe. I soaked my hands in the salt water each night they were so raw from lifting stones. I swore I would never do that work again. Like you and the work on the hotel. You would rather fight dogs verdad? Cantana grinned.

I nodded.

I used the money I had to buy land in Canción. Tierra. The word alone empties your chest of breath. Stirs men to war. My father used to say this often. Take some advice dog fighter. Cantana set his bare hand on my shoulder. You fight one. Two more fights. Then buy yourself some land in Canción. Find some nice girl. He laughed. Raise me some more dog fighters.

I drove slowly over the sharp rocks embedded in the uneven road to avoid a flat tire. Ahead we came to a mound of stones. A grave. We had been more than an hour in the limousine from Canción by then. I slowed the car to look over the stones. I thought of the wagon we had passed before.

I cannot even imagine life then. Cantana said. Traveling distances between places you did not know how far apart they were. Leaving behind what you could not carry. Cantana shook his head. I have no patience for that life.

I drove on. Remembering how my forearms had tingled the night I killed the husband in Northern California. Vargas in Canción. Some miles after the grave we came down through the pass. Ahead I noticed a stand of low date palms over the top of a small knoll. The Pacific Ocean spread out massively beyond this. A colder shade of blue than the Sea of Cortés. Whitecapped waves. At the top of the knoll Mendozas stone house lay below this. The remaining length of the road filled with obsidian shards.

Stop here. Cantana tossed his cigarillo. The embers scattering brightly among the charcoal colored rocks. We will walk the rest of the way.

Before allowing me to lift the crate of dynamite from the limousine Cantana took from his jacket a length of dark blue ribbon. With his smooth fingers he tied a neat bow around the crate.

Bueno! He clapped and threw his hands back. He will like that just fine.

As we walked down the knoll I was excited to see the palms and the house and the dog pens to the side because they only brought me closer to what would have to be done. I was nervous also. Cantana walked in front of me careful of his steps. His hair combed. Trying to find the reflection of his eyes on the insides of his sunglasses I thought about taking a rock to the back of his head right then. His steps placed delicately in his dress shoes. Uncertain over the rocks. The road opened below into a flat yard. From this a path then led even farther down past the stone house to high sand dunes and beyond that the ocean as far as my eyes allowed. The wind strong without the bay we had in Canción for it to calm over. Heavy with salt. Several dark vultures circled high over the beach. I could hear the waves but I could not see them over the dunes. I could not see what held the vultures interest. I would have thrown the heavy crate of dynamite into the small of Cantanas back and then crushed his head with a stone when he crumpled back on himself but I did not know yet if Mendoza was alone. And where he kept his guns.

Mendoza! Cantana yelled. Mendoza!

A group of dogs we could not see stirred and barked in their pens. There must have been dozens of them in the low sheds. At the end of this row of pens stood a ring fenced in. One like those we fought in on the rooftop. An American made pickup was parked at the center of the yard. The back of the truck was made into several small pens with fencing and wire for the dogs to travel in. Chickens pecked open cigarette ends that were swept by the wind against the house.

On the opposite side of the house from the pens sat a small wood shed. Mendoza stepped from the door of this shed and into the shade of a tree just beyond the yard. A bloody rag over his shoulder. He waved us toward him before returning to the shed. I was grateful to see that he was alone. I decided to wait until they were together. To make sure Mendoza would not have a gun. A knife I could handle fine. I began to feel warm.

My friend. Cantana said when we stepped into the cool of the shed. Your road needs some work. When the tractors are done at the hotel I will bring them over here.

It will only wear it down more. Mendoza said. We need the rocks for traction when the rains come. I file the stones down so they are not so sharp.

When Mendoza turned to face us he stepped to the side of what he was working at. He wiped his hands on the towel and then offered his hand to Cantana. Behind this I saw the dog with its head held in a vice. A bar at the back of its mouth held fast with rope to keep the jaws open and the teeth exposed. A large belt wrapped around the waist of the dog to hold him in place. The dog growled some when we entered. Saliva dripped from its purple lips onto the dirt of the floor in flat dark pools. Its gums bleeding. Its tail wagging. Ropes holding the neck and legs had been looped and tied tightly to hooks in the walls and over cordón beams in the ceiling. Mendoza stepped over these to set the towel down. Several of the front teeth had been sharpened to a fine but not delicate point. On a workbench along this I noticed a handful of different sized files. Flecks of white tooth caught in the damp grooves. Mendoza and Cantana shook hands warmly. Then Mendoza turned to me. I still held the heavy crate against my chest. Staring at the dog I forgot why I had come.