This Wicked World (27 page)

“And I’m gonna fill up on pump eight,” he says to the clerk after the man rings up his purchases with trembling hands.

“Going rock climbing?” the clerk asks. A red USMC baseball cap is perched atop his greasy gray hair.

“Not this time,” Boone replies.

“They got great rock climbing in the park,” the clerk says. “Folks come from Germany, Japan, San Francisco.”

“Fucking idiots,” the Indian woman says. “You got a dollar for me, man? Something?”

“Goddamn it, Martha!” the clerk shouts. “Do not beg from the customers!”

Nope, things haven’t changed much. Boone picks up the bag containing his supplies and says, “You two have a good evening.”

The chime sounds again when he walks outside. The first stars are blinking in the sky. He flinches as something flits past his face. A bat, on its way to feed on the insects swarming around the station’s lights. Martha comes out of the store while he’s pumping his gas. She walks to the side of the building, hikes up her dress, and squats to pee.

T
HE MEN BEGIN
arriving for the dogfights, their trucks and SUVs throwing up rooster tails of dust as they haul ass on the dirt road leading to Taggert’s spread. Taggert sits on the patio with T.K. and Spiller and greets his visitors with handshakes and backslaps. A bunch of rednecks mostly, a few Mexicans, one black dude.

Before they showed up, Taggert pulled Virgil aside, pressed a couple of hundreds into his hand, and said, “You’re working tonight. Miguel’s going to be busy with the dogs, so you’ll be making drinks and anything else I need you to do.”

Virgil felt like telling him he was nobody’s nigger but held his tongue. He doesn’t want any trouble on his last night here.

“Virgil,” Taggert calls now from the yard, where he’s admiring a dog in a portable kennel in the back of a pickup. “Bring old Stank a beer.” Stank, a fat, red-faced man in a cowboy hat, is the dog’s owner.

Virgil gets up from his chair on the patio and walks to the cooler. Spiller is flipping burgers on the grill. “When you’re done with that, I need more buns,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Virgil replies.

T.K., sprawled on the car seat, says, “And then you can come over here and scratch my balls.” He and Spiller laugh uproariously.

Virgil ignores them. He wonders what’s wrong with Olivia. He hasn’t seen her since this afternoon. When he asked Taggert about her, he said she was asleep, not feeling too good. They must be fighting again, because she was fine earlier.

Virgil claws a can of beer out of the ice and carries it to Stank.

“Thanks, son,” the cowboy drawls around a mouthful of Red Man.

“Look at this dog, Virgil,” Taggert says, motioning him to the truck bed. “What’s his name again?” he asks Stank.

“Super Trooper.”

Virgil bends to look into the cage. Inside, a tan pit bull with a black muzzle chews contentedly on a dried pig’s ear.

“He’s in the first bout tonight,” Taggert says. “You should lay some of that cash I gave you on him. He’s pretty much a sure thing.”

“Maybe I will,” Virgil says. It makes him uneasy, Taggert being so nice to him now after ignoring him completely since lighting him up with the laser sight.

Stank spits a big brown gob and scrapes dirt over it with his boot. Another man in a cowboy hat walks up and says, “Bill, where you keeping the whores tonight?”

“You’re shit out of luck,” Taggert says with a laugh. “Your sister never answered the phone.”

Someone turns up a car stereo, blasting Guns N’ Roses.

“Put some real fucking music on,” Stank yells.

Virgil walks to the patio and is about to sit down when Spiller says, “Hey, man, I told you I need buns.”

“Sorry,” Virgil replies. He lets the screen door slam behind him on his way into the kitchen.

E
VERYONE MOVES DOWN
to the barn a little before eight. It’s hot inside, steamy, even with a pair of big industrial fans going full tilt. Sounds are amplified in the cavernous space — the raucous banter of the men, the barking of the dogs — and Virgil has to strain to catch the orders shouted at him at the makeshift bar. He hands two beers to a couple of heavily tattooed bikers. The drinks are free and nobody’s tipping, so he’s not working too hard.

There are four bouts tonight. The first is between two forty-pound dogs, Stank’s Super Trooper and Buck, a grizzle mix breed. The spectators gather around the plywood pit, and an old man in sunglasses and a Cubs cap works the crowd, taking bets.

“Who’s next?” he shouts.

“Fifty on Buck,” someone shouts back.

“You got it, baby. At three to two.”

Virgil waves to attract the tout’s attention and bets one of Taggert’s hundreds on Super Trooper at two to one. Easy come, easy go. He stands on the workbench to get a better view as Stank carries the dog into the pit and sets him in his corner, facing the wall. Buck is brought in next, and men in the crowd shout for their favorites.

The referee, a Mexican with a long white goatee, stands next to the pit and yells, “Face your dogs.”

Stank and the other handler turn the dogs so that they can see each other, gripping the animals tightly with their knees.

The dogs struggle to break free, eager to get to it. A high-pitched scream rises from deep in Buck’s throat, and Super Trooper barks once.

Virgil leans in as the referee shouts, “Let go!”

The handlers release the dogs, and both animals charge hard to meet in the center of the pit in a tangle of teeth and fur. Buck clamps onto Trooper’s ear and shakes hard, but Trooper ducks and manages to get a hold on Buck’s front leg and flip him onto his back.

The dogs remain in this position for a minute or more — Trooper on Buck’s leg, Buck on Trooper’s ear — not making a sound, not moving except to tighten their grips. The crowd yells at them to fight, fight, for fuck’s sake fight.

Buck makes a sudden grab for Trooper’s nose and bites down on it. Trooper releases Buck’s leg, which allows Buck to spring to his feet. He moves from Trooper’s nose to his throat, gets a mouthful of loose skin, and Trooper takes hold of his ear. The dogs roll over and over joined this way, like some broken beast sprung from a nightmare.

Buck winds up pinned on his back against the wall of the pit. Thrashing wildly, he’s able to grab Trooper’s hind leg and take him to the carpet. Trooper, on
his
back now, clamps down on Buck’s hind leg, up in the thigh area.

Again the dogs are locked in a stalemate. Buck gnaws on Trooper’s leg, and Trooper gnaws on Buck’s. Both dogs are breathing hard. Their eyes roll, and thick strands of bloody saliva dangle from their quivering jaws.

“Come on, Trooper,” Stank yells, clapping his hands to encourage his dog. “Come on, boy.”

A minute passes, three, five. The crowd grows more boisterous. Supporters of both dogs trade insults, and two men come to blows at the edge of the pit and are quickly separated. Dust kicked up by the spectators rises into the air, which has the primal tang of blood and whiskey. It’s both thrilling and terrifying to watch the dogs act on savage instinct, a heady brush with an earlier time, a rawer state. Virgil feels like he’s buzzed on some new drug. He stomps the workbench and whistles as someone yells, “Fight, you fucking curs.”

Men drift to the bar for drinks during the lull, and Virgil hops down from his perch to serve them. Then a shout goes up, and all eyes swing to the pit. Virgil climbs onto the workbench again to see that the dogs have finally separated. Buck charges in and bites Trooper’s chest, but Trooper wriggles out of it and takes Buck’s hind leg again, shaking him hard, punishing him. Buck quails and tries to pull away.

In his attempt to flee, Buck turns his head and shoulders away from Trooper, and the ref shouts, “Turn! Handle your dogs.” Stank and the other handler rush to the combatants. The men scoop up their animals, carry them to their respective corners and face them to the wall. Stank pours bottled water into Trooper’s mouth, and the dog’s tongue flaps greedily.

After a twenty-five-second rest, the ref calls for the handlers to bring the dogs around so that they’re once again facing each other. The animals aren’t as fiery as they were at the start of the bout. Both look tired, and Buck is bleeding from a wound on his hind leg and another on his snout.

Because he turned, Buck must now prove that he’s still willing to fight, or the match will be stopped. A strip of duct tape on the carpet — the scratch line — divides the pit diagonally in two. In order for the bout to continue, Buck must cross this line within ten seconds on his way to engage Trooper.

“Let go!” the ref shouts, and Buck is released. The dog races across the pit without hesitation, favoring his injured leg only slightly. As soon as he passes over the line, Stank releases Trooper.

The dogs slam into each other and swap holds, Trooper grabbing Buck and Buck shaking him off, Buck grabbing Trooper and Trooper shaking him off. The exchange continues for some time, triggering a new round of betting, the favorite being whichever dog is on top at that particular moment.

Suddenly, Buck is down with Trooper clamped to his throat. Trooper shakes his head, tearing through flesh and muscle. A jet of bright red blood shoots into his eye as he hits an artery, but he doesn’t let go.

Buck’s handler hurries over and kicks Trooper in the ribs in an attempt to back him off.

“Foul!” Stank bawls.

“Foul!” the referee echoes.

Stank charges Buck’s handler head down, like an angry bull, and knocks him on his ass. A spectator leaps over the plywood wall into the pit to swing at Stank. The two men square off and exchange awkward, flailing punches to the delight of the crowd. Virgil adds his shouts to the chorus and flings his half-empty beer into the pit.

Buck’s handler scrambles to his feet and approaches the dogs again. Taking hold of Trooper’s hind legs, he pulls him off Buck and tosses him aside. Buck tries to stand, a gash in his neck spurting rhythmically. His handler gathers him up and rushes him out of the pit. Stank, meanwhile, has beaten his opponent to the ground and now grabs the exhausted Trooper and hoists him into the air as the ref declares the dog the winner of the bout.

The spectators stream out of the barn for fresh air and cigarettes. Virgil opens another beer and gulps down half of it to wash the dust from his throat. His ears are ringing from all the shouting, but he’s stoked at having doubled the hundred he bet on the match. He drifts over to the kennels where Taggert’s dogs are kept and stops in front of Butcher Boy’s cage.

“What up, motherfucker?” he says.

The dog paces back and forth, unsettled by the noise and unfamiliar scents. Virgil kneels in front of the pen and pours beer onto his fingers. He presses his hand to the gate, and the dog glares at him with his one good eye before slinking over to lick his thumb.

“You like that, huh?” Virgil says. “Not gonna bite me now, are you?”

He dribbles more beer onto his fingers, and again the dog laps it up.

“Good boy,” Virgil coos.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Virgil spins to find Taggert standing over him, his blank black eyes flashing with rage, like distant bombs exploding in the night.

“Nothing,” Virgil replies quickly.

Bam
. He’s on his back on the ground, and for a few weird seconds he thinks he’s been shot. Then the pain coalesces on the left side of his face, where Taggert’s fist caught him, and his eyes gush tears.

“I should fucking kill you,” Taggert rages. “What are you thinking, giving that dog beer when he’ll be fighting in an hour?”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil blubbers, more humiliated than hurt. Taggert draws back a leg to kick him, and Virgil curls into a ball, arms whipping up to protect his head.

The kick never comes. Instead, Taggert growls, “Get out of my barn, you worthless piece of shit.”

Virgil crawls on all fours until he’s beyond Taggert’s range, then rises to his feet and sprints for the door.

The cooler air outside is like a reviving slap. He weaves through the loudmouthed drunks haw-hawing in front of the barn on his way to the house. His anger toward Taggert fills him with false courage. He’ll burn the place down. He’ll blow it to shit. He’ll get a gun and shoot Taggert dead. Put bullets in both kneecaps to make him suffer, then another right between those evil-ass eyes of his.

B
OONE PULLS OVER
at the intersection of Amboy Road and Cholla, a dirt track leading to several properties set back in the hills to the east. The last trace of daylight is fading fast, and more stars pop into the sky every second. When he rolls down the window of the Olds, the smell of sage fills the car. He checks the address he got from Unc against the reflective numbers on the sides of the mailboxes lined up at the intersection and finds one that matches.

The original plan was to park somewhere nearby for the night, then visit Taggert’s place bright and early tomorrow. Now that he’s here, though, he’s thinking why not take a walk up the road a ways, do a little recon? It can’t hurt to get the lay of the land before putting himself into a potentially volatile situation. Makes good sense to have as much information as possible. And what else is he going to do to kill time tonight?

He decides he’s got more reasons for doing something stupid than any man needs to have, so he continues along Amboy for a hundred yards or so before pulling onto the shoulder. After eating one of the sandwiches and drinking a Red Bull in the gathering dark, he stuffs his backpack with the water, a Snickers bar, a penlight, and a pair of binoculars.

He steps out of the car and slips his arms through the backpack’s straps. Lifting the top strand of a sagging barbed-wire fence, he steps over the middle strand onto private property. The sandwich sits like a stone in his stomach as he trots along at double time, following the fence.

A half moon hanging just above the horizon provides enough light to navigate by, an eerie glow that permeates the sand and throws the chaparral into spiky relief. He stumbles once, crossing a rocky dry wash, and once he stops and spins around, certain he’s being stalked by some kind of predator. Nothing shows itself, though, and he decides that the sound he heard must have been his own blood whooshing past his ears.