The System - A Detroit Story - (11 page)

Lincoln walked down the sidewalk then turned left toward a neglected asbestos shingle bungalow. He walked up the broken concrete driveway into the dirt back yard, looking at some dog pens in the garage. Lincoln passed three dog pens made from two by fours and chain link fence. The corner fence was chewed away on the third pen, leaving a trace of blood and fur. He wished he knew what dog lived in that pen. He would bet on him.

 He walked up the wooden porch and knocked on the steel barred door. The door opened. Dude looked like one of Alanzo's homies, which was good. Lincoln paid his sixty five dollar entrance fee, stepped in and looked around.

Alanzo turned the corner from the hall and stopped when he saw Lincoln.

"Man, you got some balls showing up here," said Alanzo, flashing his diamond studded front teeth.

"Sup, dog. Man's got a right to make a wager," said Lincoln. 

Alanzo nodded. "That's true, homes."
Lincoln looked beyond Alazo into the front room. Two treadmills, thick ropes, cattle prod, rape stand, syringes on an end table. They walked through the threadbare kitchen and down the stairs where dudes stood around a blood stained fighting pen. The smell- sweat, dog shit, excitement and fear hit Lincoln and he stopped momentarily. 

Alanzo looked at him. "Like that smell?" Alanzo breathed in deeply. "Man, that's power."

Lincoln looked at the ring.

"This ain't no street show," said Alanzo. "Cajun Rules. Classy."

The fighting pit was square, the sides two feet high and the scratch line twelve feet apart, right according to Cajun Rules. The referee was searching the handlers, before they washed each other's dogs. Two stocky American pit bulls. Lincoln heard of both of them. Little Joe Louis, a Grand Champion, knew how to win but was aging and got torn up the last two shows. The challenger, Ripper, was young, had game and hadn't lost a show yet. The referee nodded and each of the handlers scrubbed down the other's dog and toweled them off. Alanzo and Lincoln watched carefully.

"Was at one gang show," said Alanzo. "Real ghetto shit. Didn't wash the dogs. No rules. One was slicked down with three-in-one oil, rubbed in so you couldn't see it, laced with rat poison. Fucked up the other dog big time. Had to be put down." He looked at Lincoln. "Handler and owner got capped."

"Happens every day," said Lincoln. He looked at Alanzo. "Wanted to let you know. Our little project. Our friend is making it happen. As we speak."

"Alright," said Alanzo. "I'm ready when y'all are."
"He'll be back next week," said Lincoln. "A little after that we should be good to go."

"That's what I like to hear," said Alanzo.
The referee told the handlers to get in their corners. The handlers held their dogs facing away from each other. The referee then said, "Face your dogs."

The handlers turned and stood over the dogs, showing only their heads and shoulders. Little Joe Louis's handler felt the dog tighten. Reminded him of a cobra, ready to strike. 

"Let go," said the referee.

Both dogs roared toward the scratch line, legs like springs. Little Joe leapt and went for Ripper's throat. Ripper dodged but Little Joe caught the base of Ripper's ear just above the left eye and bit through. Ripper yelped, flipped over and clamped on Little Joe's left inner hind leg. He sunk in his teeth and shook hard. Little Joe howled and blood spurted from his leg. 

"C'mon, motherfucker," yelled Alanzo.

Little Joe kicked, squirmed and snapped at Ripper. He caught Ripper in his underbelly and broke skin. Ripper cried and Little Joe broke free. Little Joe Louis did what he was famous for. In a blur his jaws clamped on Ripper's throat. Ripper gasped for air and went down, kicking and scratching. Ripper snapped his jaws twice then collapsed. 

The referee motioned to the handlers. Little Joe's handler barked a couple of commands but the dog wouldn't let go. Ripper lay on the pit floor, near the scratch line. 

"That's my motherfuckin' dog," said Alanzo, laughing. 

Lincoln put two grand on Ripper. He shook his head. "I should hand the bitch his balls who told me to bet on
that
lame ass mutt."

The referee told Little Joe's handler to get a break stick. The handler rushed to his corner and picked up a wooden axe handle. He worked in Little Joe's mouth and after three minutes pried Little Joe's jaws open, releasing Ripper. Ripper, barely conscious and bleeding, lay on the pit floor.

"No big whoop," said Alanzo, who stood to collect fifteen thousand dollars from the five he bet. The payout started and Alanzo took his cash.

Lincoln thought of what he could have done with the extra two grand he just lost. "You're right," he said to Alanzo. "Ain't nothin' compared to what's comin' in."
They turned and walked toward the stairs. Little Joe Louis was outside of the pit, being cleaned up by his handler and owner. Ripper lay on the pit floor, his handler standing above him with a shovel. No doubt he had to put Ripper down.

Lincoln and Alanzo turned and walked toward the stairs, never noticing the short, jet black dude in the gray hoodie. Clarence Russell turned and watched them climb the stairs, after catching bits of conversation, wondered what was going down. He also remembered with perfect clarity, just like it was this morning, how it felt to flatten Lincoln's face.

Chapter 17

Elena Leaves Albania

Elena sat on the bed, chilled, goose bumps forming on her arms and legs. She felt empty and dizzy, spinning, like she was falling off a cliff. The needle. Feeling like this, it wasn't so terrifying. She shifted position. It still hurt to sit in one spot for very long.

Last night's final client was bizarre, a well dressed, well placed government official. His bodyguard stood outside the door. Jerzy arranged for Miri and Elena to perform for him. He sat naked in the armchair and directed them. Miri took the lead, telling Elena to smile and act like she was getting off. Any complaints and Jerzy would punish them. Severely. Miri went to work and Elena put herself somewhere else. The client finished himself, then left.

Miri sat at the vanity brushing her hair. Elena shivered. When was her last hit? Twelve, fourteen hours ago? A wave of nausea and diarrhea hit her. She rushed to the toilet, just making it into the bathroom. She crawled to the bowl, naked and vomiting, fouling the floor. She hung over the bowl, shaking.

"I can't do this. I can't stand it anymore. I want my daughter or I want to die." She stared weeping.

Miri walked in and stood over her, then leaned down and helped her to her feet. 

"Come," she said. "Let's clean you up." She cleaned the floor and flushed the toilet. She started drawing a bath in the small porcelain tub. Elena shook and sobbed. The tub filled with warm water and Miri helped her in. 

"Don't cry," said Miri. "Steel yourself. Put yourself somewhere pleasant in your mind.

Elena felt relief in the warm water. She stared at the dripping faucet. 

"Is that what you do?" she said. Since last night she had trouble looking Miri in the eyes.

Miri nodded.

 "Why have you stayed here?" said Elena.

The sensation of falling returned. Elena gripped the side of the tub. Miri watched Elena tense up in the tub. Jerzy was giving her too much junk and waiting too long between hits. Miri saw it with other girls, coming down hard. Elena seems to be handling it better than some, worse than others. Elena was strong, but so were others…for a while. The ones that were too dependent were used up until they died.

"How can I leave?" said Miri. "How can any of us leave? No one cares about us. We are cows, to be milked until dry and left to die when younger ones come." She looked down at Elena. "You are young now, but not so much. One year here will age you by five."

Elena sat up, the dizziness and nausea fading. Even in the warm water her muscles ached and cramped.

"Can't we escape?" she said.

"To where? The mountains?" said Miri. "The army is worse then the ones that come here. Trust me."

"Have you ever tried?"

Miri paused. "Yes," she said. "Four years ago."

"What happened?"

Miri's eyes went distant. "I made it as far as the next village. It was winter. January. I almost froze to death." Miri lit a cigarette, took a drag and exhaled. "I was picked up by a farmer. He took one look at me and brought me right back to Jerzy." Miri tapped the ash over the sink. "Jerzy pays the locals well. For watching out for him, and for favors. Bringing me back was a favor."

Miri turned and opened her robe, exposing her left side. Four small circular scars were under her ribs. "No doubt you've wondered about these. He beat me and burned me with a cigarette. You've seen the scars on my back. He said if I tried to escape again he would kill me. As an example, no matter how much money I brought in."

Miri held up her left hand. "Jerzy left me with a special client. A small man, dark. Like a weasel. He had a special request which Jerzy did not honor until I tried to escape."

Elena looked at the stump of Miri's missing little finger. Jerzy tied me down and left. The little man got undressed and was excited. He had a small surgical saw, like a butcher's knife with teeth." Miri put her hand in her lap. "He sawed off my finger, slowly. I passed out. Jerzy said the client kept it as a souvenir."

Elena slid back into the water and stared at the ceiling. 

Miri looked down. "After I recovered, I would service at least twenty men a day. One right after another, for almost a month. Do anything they wanted to do, and do it with a smile." She looked at Elena, her dark hair floating around her head. "Do not put yourself in that position. Please."

Elena looked at her. "I will kill myself."

"That's what you say," said Miri. "But what about your daughter? Leave her an orphan?"

"She is like an orphan now," said Elena. She started to cry.

"No man?" said Miri.

"Killed. By a gang of so-called rebels. He did nothing to them." Elena started shaking.

"Hold on," said Miri. She left the bathroom and walked to the vanity. She opened a drawer and pulled out a brown bottle of painkillers, took two out and walked back into the bathroom. She handed them to Elena. "Here," she said. "Take them."

Elena took the pills, put them in her mouth, raised her head back and swallowed them. They felt dry and abrasive in her throat.

"Listen to me," said Miri. "Live for your daughter. Take the pills. Cooperate with Jerzy. Be nice and he might stop shooting you up. Take the pills only when you absolutely need to. Fight it."

Elena slid back into the tub. Relief poured over her like warm rain.

*  *

Miri helped Elena out of the tub and used a clean white towel to dry her. Elena put on a robe and sat on the bed, buzzed from the painkillers. Not the same floating high as heroin, but it was pleasant and even.

Jerzy burst into the room.

"Pack your things," he said. "Both of you."

"Why?" said Miri.

"You're leaving. With Vlad."

Elena looked up. "Where are we going?"

"Don't complain," said Jerzy. "Vlad is taking you to America."

"America?" cried Elena. 

"Shut up and pack your things."

Miri started gathering clothes and makeup. Elena sat on the bed with her head in her hands. 

"Consider yourself lucky," said Jerzy. "But make no mistake. Cross Vlad and he will kill you as easy as killing a cockroach. You are no more than an investment to him." He pulled Elena's head up by her chin. "And you better pay off."

Chapter 18

Zippy Shows Paulie the Ropes

Eddie sat in his wheelchair at the table, cup of coffee in his hand, pleased that his fence said no problem on converting three hundred k to diamonds. He could have them by Wednesday, straight from New York if Eddie gave him the cash, plus a service fee. He took a sip of coffee and watched Zippy and Paulie. 

"What do you know about cars?" asked Zippy.

"I like fast ones," said Paulie, chewing gum.

"First thing you gotta know is how to take 'em apart and put 'em together," said Zippy.

"That so," said Paulie. 

"Damn right. That's why the best guys come from repair shops and assembly lines. Dudes either built, seen or fixed most everything," said Zippy.

"I wouldn't know, man," said Paulie.

 Zippy looked at him, cigarette behind his slick black hair, expensive t-shirt, designer jeans, expensive shoes. Not exactly the type of clothes to be busting down cars.

Eddie, paging through a copy of Hustler, kept an eye on them.

"First thing you gotta know about boosting cars, especially expensive ones, is disabling the telematics unit," he said.

"The what?" asked Paulie.

The telematics unit. Automatically calls for help if the car crashes. Tracks position from GPS," said Zippy. "Satellites. Man. Up in space. Knows where you're at. Some of the units automatically call the cops," he said. "Car gets boosted, goes out of a zone, signal sent to the owner and the cops. They can track you all the way, man, even kill the engine."

"I didn't know that," said Paulie.

"Now you do," said Zippy. There's other systems too. Pull a couple of fuses, cut a couple of wires, no problem. The thing's dead and no one has a clue. I'll show you how to disable them. First," said Zippy, "you need to get dirty, start small."

Zippy put his hands in his back pocket. "I'll show you how to boost rims," he said. "Easy and good money." They walked over to a beater Ford Taurus that Zippy was working on. He motioned toward a hydraulic jack. "Grab that jack and bring it over."

"Me?" said Paulie.

"No, Eddie," said Zippy. "Yeah, you."

Paulie frowned and walked slowly over to the jack, grabbed it by the handle and brought it over. 

"Man, you got to hustle," said Zippy. "Like a NASCAR dude."

Paulie dropped the jack handle and it bounced, clanking on the floor.

"I thought I was gonna see some action. Go on a real boost. This is a shit job," he said.

"You don't send a new soldier into a war without training, do you?" said Zippy. "He'd get killed right away. And this is a war. It only looks easy."