The Love-Haight Case Files (36 page)

“But that wasn’t the plan. I can check things out invisibly, without any risk.”

“You can go ‘practically’ invisible, if no one is looking for you, but that doesn’t mean nobody is on the lookout at this place, even for misted-out Casper types. And you’re not invisible. It’s just that you’re dead. Doesn’t mean you can’t be dispersed or soul-trapped or exorcised or, for all I know, captured and tortured. Nah, it’s safer if we go in together. I’ve watched enough guys go in to be able to look like just another guy looking for some illicit action, whether that ends up being drugs, dogfights, or Thai hookers in octopus tanks.”

“Er, what?”

“Don’t ask. Trust me, you really don’t want to know.”

“I won’t.”

Dagger wrinkled his nose. He didn’t really want Thomas to think he was a softie, but he did want to protect the guy both physically and mentally from the seedy side of the district. “You just mist out and hang close. If I need you to peek through a locked door or go listen in on a conversation, I’ll just tilt my head in the direction of the target.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Thomas started to fade, then stopped midway. “Once last thing. You have a cell phone?”

Dagger patted his front pocket. “Don’t leave home without it.”

“No, I mean a spare.”

“Glove compartment.” Dagger pointed, then realized that Thomas couldn’t open the glove compartment. He reached over and popped the compartment open, grabbing the spare, untraceable cell, but leaving his spare, untraceable .38 behind. “Won’t do you any good, though, Thomas. You can’t carry it and you can’t dial it.”

“I know,” replied Thomas, “but if you dial through to Evelyn at the office right now and leave it open on the dash or someplace, the line will stay open and I can come back here and tell her to send help if we need it.”

“Hmmpphh,” said Dagger, doing as Thomas had instructed. “I always knew you legal types were smart. I just never thought you were street-smart.”

Dagger could tell Evelyn was nervous when they connected and brought her up to speed, but Thomas reassured her that all was well so far, Dagger was looking out for them, and they were just being smart and careful before checking out the warehouse.

“I pulled up the street view of the block on my computer,” said Evelyn over the phone, “so I’ve got the exact address when it’s needed.” She also identified the other exits from the half-block structure for Dagger and Thomas

Dagger placed the phone on the console between the bucket seats of his ride and opened his door.

“Showtime.”

As Thomas faded into oblivion, he replied: “Dog show time.”

O O O

Even though he was incorporeal and practically invisible, and he thought it unlikely that the type of lowlife thugs who considered fighting dogs to be entertaining recreation would have anything capable of trapping or hurting or killing a ghost, Thomas was relieved to have Dagger by his side as they approached the decrepit warehouse.

The flap where the chain link was able to be rolled back was fairly obvious as they got closer to the warehouse entrance. Dagger grabbed it firmly and shoved it to the side, but at six foot five, with wide, muscular shoulders, was still forced to duck down and turn sideways to squeeze through. Thomas, of course, simply passed through the solid portion of the fence nearby. They made their way across an asphalt apron littered with rangy weeds growing from the cracks and approached the door. Dagger made a fist of his meaty paw and pounded out “shave and a haircut” on the metal door, then looked from side to side as he waited for a response. Thomas guessed that Dagger was doing his best to mimic the behavior of the losers who had entered before.

Apparently it worked, because about ten seconds later, they heard the clang of the deadbolt being thrown. A wiry, tough-looking dude with greasy hair opened the door about halfway. Even without transporting through the wall next to the door, Thomas could see the guy wore a wife-beater shirt that covered some of his less-than-artistic prison tats. The white of the shirt was stained with what Thomas could only hope was grease. The guy also cradled a Mac 10—you don’t hang around the Criminal Courts too long without learning more than you want about automatic weapons favored by gangbangers—with nonchalant aggression.

“You don’t work here,” the door man snarled.

Dagger stood his ground. “Never said I did.”

“So why’re you wastin’ my time?”

“Chico sent me.”

Thomas had no idea who Chico was, but it was a common enough name, especially in some of the Latino gangs around the city. At least two had gang leaders named Chico. Dagger obviously knew more than a little about the criminal elements that controlled various neighborhoods. Of course, that’s why Thomas often hired him. That and the fact the guy was cool under pressure.

The doorman tilted his head to one side. “What for?”

“The fights.”

“What fights?”

Dagger’s eyes bored into the face of the shorter man. “The canine conclave—”

The doorman’s eyes widened. “Huh?”

Dagger scrunched up his face and shook it slowly from side to side. “Look,
chavalo.
Let me put it in simple words, like you were still in first grade.” He spat out the next words in a lilting sing-song. “Look. See. See Spot. See Spot run. See Spot kill. Go, Spot. Kill, kill, kill.”

The barrel of the Mac 10 dropped even lower as the guy stepped back and used his opposite hand to open the door wider.
“Ojete.
You’re more than an hour early.”

“What?” replied Dagger as he lumbered into the dark confines of the warehouse, “You never go to the track ahead of the races and visit the stables? You must not win much when you gamble.” Dagger looked the guy up and down. “Judging by your wardrobe, I’m guessing I’m right.”

As they walked into a cavernous room, Thomas saw Dagger’s nose twitch as if assaulted by a horrible stench. But, of course, Thomas couldn’t smell anything. He had to rely on sight.

Thomas estimated the room they entered took up about a third of the building’s space. In the center was a rectangular fenced-in area, which had razor wire loops hung along the entire inward-facing surface of the chain link. Sharpened rebar “spears” were fixed in the four corners, pointing in, apparently to prevent the dogs from seeking refuge to cover their rear and flanks during the fights. The concrete surface of the floor was clear in the center, but Thomas could see broken glass on the floor along the fence line, also to force the dogs to center stage. The floor in the center had heavy, dark stains, which were being visited by more buzzing flies than Thomas usually saw this time of year. Both of the long sides of the rectangular arena were flanked by bleachers; the portable, roll-out kind used in a combination school gymnasium/auditorium. He could see splashes of stain on the front rows of the bleachers.

It might be a floating fight club, but this location had obviously been used before. The far end of the room featured a large blackboard, no doubt for posting odds, and a small free-standing kiosk, like ticket-booths at a strip mall carnival, with a barred window. Eight or nine toughs, also like you’d find at a strip mall carnival, were busily locking the bleachers into place and setting up the blackboard and betting area. All had automatic weapons slung over their shoulder, military style.

Thomas saw Dagger’s lip curl as he glanced over the set-up. “So where are the pooches?”

Their guide pointed his Mac 10 behind the bleachers to the left of where they came in, toward what Thomas knew from the layout had to be the rest of the same building. “Back there. Tell Packy that Lou said you could look at the dogs.” He stopped and casually raised the Mac 10 higher for a moment. “You can look, but you can’t touch. And don’t rile up the dogs. One starts up and they all start growlin’ and howlin’ … Makes for an unholy racket and gets ’em hyped up too much before the fight.”

Dagger nodded and reached into a back pocket to pull out a small, beat-up notepad and a stubby pencil. “No sweat. Names on the cages?”

Their guide furrowed his brow. “What? You takin’ inventory or something?”

“Or something,” Dagger growled. “Can’t handicap the odds if I don’t know the bitches’ names.”

“Owners and trainers are back there with Packy. You see somebody you want to bet on—or date—you ask them. They're supposed to be branded with numbers … you know, like cattle … but that didn’t work out. Numbnut owners ended up setting too many of ’em on fire.”

Even in his full incorporeal state, Thomas fought back the urge to hurl. A part of him wondered about the feeling, even as he struggled to gag it. Ghosts didn’t eat. Could they hurl? He shuddered, his analytical legal mind dissecting his attempt to parse his ability or inability to regurgitate after death. When your mind starts thinking about vomiting in an effort to distract itself from something even more grisly and disgusting, that thing must be really sick.

Thomas refocused himself on the task at hand in time to float quickly to Dagger’s side as the big man strode through a door sporting an ancient “Authorized Personnel Only” sign.

The second room was as large as the first and filled with crates and cages with angry, snarling dogs. Another ten guys with Mac 10s hovered over more than twenty owners and trainers and whatever other term you might want to use to euphemistically refer to abusers and beaters of dogs. The owners were a motley bunch, but most fit a common theme: big, tough, tatted, and bald (whether shaved or natural). The majority had facial hair and a fondness for grimy T-shirts and dark jeans, with a handgun tucked into the belt-line, front or back. A variety of vans and pick-ups littered open space behind the roughly laid out rows of dog crates. It was clear that this group accessed the building through several bay doors on the opposite side of the building from where Thomas and Dagger had entered. A cinder block wall separated this middle room from the other two-thirds of the building on either side.

As Dagger wandered the aisles of dogs, talking to the trainers and taking notes, Thomas drifted on his own, focusing on the animals. Some were snarling and angry, but many were shivering and whimpering. Some were muzzled and many had wicked-looking, studded collars. Most were scarred and some had open, oozing wounds. A few had one eye clouded over in blindness, and many had ears or tails which had clearly been bitten or torn off. Some had angry red burns and charred fur from branding efforts. The scene filled Thomas with more sadness than he had ever known. It was like being forced to watch those long Humane Society commercials on late night television, the ones where they showed quivering abused animal after animal in an effort to guilt you into sending them some money, but this was a hundred times worse and you couldn’t fast-forward through it with your DVR remote or go to the kitchen and fix and sandwich so you could come back when it was over. This scene would never end, not until the abomination of dog fighting was wiped from the face of the earth.

He wanted to bolt. He wanted to flee back to the car and tell Evelyn to call the cops right now, but he needed to be a professional, to finish the job. Dagger was still here and might need his help. He owed it to Dagger and to the police to find out as much as possible, to investigate and to not just leave.

The dogs were primarily tough, hardy breeds. More than half of them seemed to be American Pit Bull Terriers, with a large number of Staffordshire Terriers and Staffordshire Bull Terriers—all commonly known as Pit Bulls. But there were also a number of Rottweilers, a couple Doberman Pinschers, a Rhodesian Ridgeback, and a German Shepherd in the mix, along with a fair number of animals too scarred or too muttly to identify. A few cages held smaller dogs, like Pomeranians and Chihuahuas, plus some rabbits and other furred mammals too small to fight. Food? Bait animals? He shuddered to think about it.

Thomas wished he could comfort them. As a ghost, he knew they couldn’t hurt him, and he longed to give them a pet or a hug or a scratch behind the ears, but as a ghost he couldn’t touch them, and almost all of them started to bark if he hovered too near.

Finally, he turned his attention to Dagger, who was talking to one of the guards—maybe Packy?—near a door in the wall separating this room from the last third of the building they had not visited. This door also had a sign: “No Admittance.”

Thomas floated over and hovered above and behind Dagger’s left shoulder. Looking down, he could see Dagger’s notebook. Along with dog names and various arcane symbols Thomas assumed were betting code, he noticed sets of numbers. A look around confirmed Thomas’ guess: Dagger had jotted down the license plate numbers for every vehicle in the place, making them look like odds and betting amounts.

Dagger swung his head back over the shoulder where Thomas was hovering, startling him. “Guy over there says his dogs are just the undercard … a warm-up act for the animals in the next room.”

The guard seemed unimpressed. “So?”

“So how are me and my boss going to bet smart if I don’t check out the whole card?”

“Why the hell do I care? Who says we want anybody betting smart? Nobody goes to the back room. Not nobody. Not no-how. That includes you.”

“Afraid I’ll see the man behind the curtain?”

The guard screwed up his face. He clearly didn’t get the reference. “What curtain? What guy? Get outta my face before I throw you out.”

Dagger raised his hands, as if in surrender and started to back away. “Hey, man. Chill. Just trying to do my job.” At the same time, he inclined his head toward the door.

Thomas took his cue. He floated toward the wall with the “No Admittance” door, angling left to go through the wall, rather than directly through the guard and the door. Truth be told, even though he never felt anything, he didn’t really like passing through people. And since he was almost invisible when in his misted out state, but not completely invisible to the eye, he preferred going through walls clouded by shadows, furniture, or shrubbery whenever possible.

The dimness of the last room was bright compared to the darkness pervading this one. A few more guards patrolled the perimeter of the last third of the warehouse, Mac 10s cradled casually in two hands as they walked slowly back and forth behind each of the closed bay doors to the streets and alley surrounding this part of the building on three sides. Thomas had expected more crates and cages in this room, but the cages here were huge, barred affairs, some affixed to wagons. The type of things you saw in traveling carnivals and circuses. Thick rods of tempered steel running up and down one side of sturdy metal boxes, boxes that blocked even the meager light of the room from penetrating to the interior.