This Wicked World

by RICHARD LANGE

  Olivia gasps and feels the first sting of tears. She squeezes them back, though, because she’s done crying. She doesn’t think she’ll ever cry again.

  “They were going to kill me too, but I remembered that Bill was your boyfriend,” Virgil continues. “They called Bill, and he told them to bring me here. He warned me not to say anything to you about what happened; said he’d kill me if I did.”

  Olivia starts to stand, then crumples back onto the bed. The son of a bitch goes on and on about how much he loves her and how close they are and then kills one of the only people who’s ever been decent to her. Everything inside her is twisting and turning into new configurations. She’s made of stone now; she’s made of steel.

  “That’s it,” she says, straightening up.

  “What?” Virgil replies.

  “I’m not letting him get away with this.”

  Virgil’s eyes widen, and he talks very fast. “Okay, fine, yeah. But whatever you’re doing, wait till I’m gone. I’ve got a clean shot out of here tomorrow. Don’t fuck it up for me.”

  “We’re both leaving,” Olivia says. “Tonight.”

  “No, Olly, come on.”

  “Stop being such a little bitch.”

  Olivia grabs Virgil’s arm and pulls him with her as she hurries out of the bedroom and down the hall to a walk-in closet. She uses a stepladder inside the closet to climb to a panel in the ceiling. Sliding the panel aside, she reaches into a crawl space and brings out a sawed-off shotgun, which she passes down to Virgil, and a Glock. She replaces the panel and turns to a shelf for a box of nine-millimeter rounds and some shotgun shells.

  Then it’s back to the bedroom. She picks up Taggert’s cargo shorts off the floor and sticks her hand in the pocket, coming out with his keys.

  “We’ll take the F-150,” she says. “As soon as everyone leaves, we’ll get the fuck out of here.”

  “Let’s go now, while he’s busy,” Virgil says.

  “I’m gonna talk to him first,” Olivia says. “I want him to know why I’m splitting.”

  Virgil holds the shotgun gingerly, as if he’d like to pass it off to someone else. “Don’t be stupid because you’re mad at him,” he says. “The guy’s a psycho.”

  Olivia snatches the shotgun away from him. “Go on then,” she says. “I don’t need you.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Virgil whines.

  “So you’re with me?”

  “We’re not gonna kill him, are we?”

  “I don’t think so,” Olivia says.

  “Swear.”

  Olivia smirks and says, “I swear.”

  Virgil holds out his hand for the shotgun, and she passes it back to him.

  “Get your clothes and shit together so we’ll be ready,” she says. “But be cool. Don’t let anybody see you.”

  Virgil hesitates in the hallway outside the bedroom. He opens his mouth to say something, then decides against it and heads for the front door.

  Olivia sits on the bed, drops the magazine out of the Glock and begins filling it. She had a cop boyfriend once who taught her all about guns — another dirtbag, another liar. Ended up using her as bait when he ripped off dope dealers. Motherfuckers are all the same, cops or criminals.

  Her heart feels like it’s beating way too fast. She lifts a hand to her chest and presses down hard, as if she could calm it that way. Doesn’t help, though, so she goes back to what she was doing, picking up another round off the bedspread and shoving it into the magazine.

  18

  TAGGERT SEES MIGUEL ENTER THE BARN CARRYING THE first-aid kit and signals the referee to start the match.

  “Boss,” Miguel says when he reaches the pit. “ Spiller —”

  Taggert cuts him off. “Where the fuck you been?” The referee is waving him over, so, without giving the kid time to answer, Taggert leads Butcher Boy into the pit and turns him into his corner.

  Butcher Boy’s opponent, Cisco, is a buckskin dog with a blaze on his forehead and a butterfly nose. His owner is some loudmouth from Porterville, some used-car dealer. Both dogs weighed in at forty-five pounds.

  Taggert looks up, takes in the crowd, and feels nothing but disdain. A pack of jokers sloshing beer on each other, screaming nonsense, playing grab-ass. They don’t deserve to watch a warrior like Butcher Boy fight.

  “What’s he gonna do, that one-eyed cur?” one of them shouts. “I’ll take Cisco at any price.”

  They win a hundred bucks, lose a hundred, go home and sleep it off. Not one of them understands what they’re witnessing. This is a contest where gameness — the mysterious quality that drives some dogs to get to their feet even after being hurt, that sends them charging again into the fray — often triumphs over brute strength. Taggert identifies with this. He’s never been the smartest or the richest or the toughest, but he’s also never backed down from a fight, and he always gives as good as he gets.

  The ref calls for him and the car salesman to face their dogs. Taggert swings Butcher Boy around and feels him tense at the sight of his opponent across the pit. He squeezes the dog tighter with his knees and whispers at him to calm down, but Butcher Boy lunges anyway, and Taggert has to grab the scruff of his neck to stop him, pulling him back so that just the dog’s head protrudes from between his legs.

  When the order to release the dogs comes, Butcher Boy streaks across the carpet and pounces on Cisco before the other dog can build much momentum. He grabs Cisco’s throat in his jaws but gets only flesh, and Cisco is able to shake him off.

  The dogs trade holds for a bit — noses, ears, legs — tiring each other out. Butcher Boy eventually clamps onto the back of Cisco’s neck while Cisco takes hold of Butcher Boy’s front leg. They remain locked together like this for almost ten minutes, both dogs occasionally jockeying for better leverage but neither able to gain an advantage.

  Taggert shouts encouragement. “Sic, sic, sic,” he hisses. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the palm of his hand and backs into the dog’s corner.

  “Give me some water,” he says to Miguel, who is stationed on the other side of the plywood wall. Miguel passes him a plastic bottle, and he takes a swig.

  “Boss,” Miguel says.

  “Not now,” Taggert snaps, eyes on the fight.

  Cisco suddenly releases Butcher Boy’s leg and rolls over in an attempt to dislodge the dog from his neck. He’s successful but turns his head in the process. The ref calls it, and Taggert darts in to grab Butcher Boy and carry him to his corner.

  The dog is panting, tongue hanging out, sides heaving, but it’s still all Taggert can do to keep him from running across the pit to engage Cisco again. He dribbles water into the dog’s mouth and aims a portable fan at his muzzle.

  He and the car salesman face the dogs again, and the salesman releases Cisco, who crosses the scratch line without hesitation. Taggert looses Butcher Boy, and the dogs battle for position, biting each other but not hanging on. Cisco eventually grabs Butcher Boy high on a hind leg, and this time it’s Butcher Boy who’s called for a turn.

  Per the rules, Taggert stands by until Butcher Boy manages to twist himself out of Cisco’s leg hold, then scoops him up and returns him to his corner. There’s blood on the leg, and when Taggert squeezes it, the dog yelps and snaps at him. It’s not broken, but the bite is deep.

  “Don’t worry,” Taggert whispers. “You’ll have another chance at him.”

  Now it’s Butcher Boy who must cross the scratch line within ten seconds. He springs from between Taggert’s legs as fresh as the first time and rockets toward Cisco, who balks slightly upon his release but then moves forward to meet Butcher Boy’s charge. Butcher Boy barrels into him head-on and sweeps him off his feet. The momentum carries both dogs into the wall of the pit with a loud bang.

  Butcher Boy chomps down on Cisco’s right front leg at the joint, and a sickening crack elicits a groan from the crowd. Cisco turns with a yelp and struggles to escape, but Butcher Boy holds on and shakes his head, doing eve
n more damage.

  Taggert crouches on the carpet, ready to rush in and pull Butcher Boy off Cisco when the salesman throws in the towel, but the concession doesn’t come. Butcher Boy eventually releases the leg, and Taggert and the salesman retrieve their dogs and return them once again to their corners.

  Now, Taggert thinks, the salesman will surely call for the fight to be stopped, his dog being in no shape to continue. When it’s time to face the animals, however, the salesman brings Cisco around. A few spectators protest, but the rules state that the fight will continue until one of the handlers concedes or until one of the dogs is unwilling or unable to cross the scratch line.

  The ref, his face impassive, directs the salesman to release Cisco, who limps over the line on three legs, still game. Taggert releases Butcher Boy and feels like closing his eyes as the dog charges.

  Butcher Boy hits Cisco hard, knocks him onto his side, and takes hold of an ear. Cisco doesn’t make a sound as Butcher Boy drags him around the pit, just flails with his paws in an attempt to dislodge the other dog. The ear finally tears away from Cisco’s skull, and he limps away. The ref calls the turn. Butcher Boy drops the bloody ear and moves toward Cisco, but Taggert grabs him before he can bite again.

  “What the fuck is this?” he yells at the salesman.

  “You handle your dog; I’ll handle mine,” the salesman replies.

  More men demand that the fight be ended, but just as many call for it to continue. Cisco is released again, and again crosses the line on three legs, blinking away the blood in his eyes. Taggert knows now that the salesman is going to let the dog die in the pit. This sickens him, but the rules are what make the sport, so he opens his legs and looses Butcher Boy once more.

  Butcher Boy tears into Cisco, and the buckskin barely puts up a fight. Taggert’s dog attacks at will, tearing flesh and drawing blood. Cisco rallies once to shake Butcher Boy off a thigh hold, but when Butcher Boy grabs his muzzle, he cries out and flees to his corner. The ref calls another turn.

  Taggert glowers at the salesman as they face each other across the pit, dogs between their legs. Cisco is released first and stands dazed for a long second, looking about as if realizing for the first time where he is and what’s about to happen to him.

  The dog takes one faltering step toward the scratch line, two, then falls onto his side on the blood-stained carpet, his body spasming uncontrollably. The crowd shouts for him to get up, but it isn’t to be. After ten seconds the ref declares Butcher Boy the winner of the match.

  Taggert hands Butcher Boy off to Miguel and strides quickly across the pit, hands tightly fisted. He bumps the salesman with his chest and growls, “I ought to beat your fucking head in.”

  The salesman stands his ground. “If you ain’t got the stomach for the game, don’t play,” he says.

  “Oh, I got the stomach, you son of a bitch,” Taggert says.

  Two men come up behind Taggert and pull him away with shouts of “Whoa, now” and “Take it easy, boys.” Taggert shrugs himself free of the peacekeepers and leaves the pit. He walks over to the kennels, where Miguel is using a garden hose and a plastic tub to wash Butcher Boy.

  “How’s the leg?” Taggert asks.

  “A small cut.”

  Taggert reaches down to scratch the panting dog’s head. “Make sure you put plenty of antibiotic on it,” he says. “Hit him with a shot of penicillin too.”

  Spiller walks up and says, “I need to talk to you, boss.”

  “Here I am.”

  Spiller leans in close. “Some dude named James Boone broke into Miguel’s trailer while he was fetching the first-aid kit. He grilled him about Oscar, then said he wanted to see you. I clocked him on his way out and tied him up.”

  “Oscar?” Taggert says. He turns to Miguel. “Why didn’t…”

  “I try, boss, remember,” Miguel says.

  “What’d he want to know?”

  “He ask what happen to Oscar, and I tol him he quit a long time ago, thas all,” Miguel says.

  “Why the fuck did you tell him anything?” Taggert says. “He surprise me, boss.”

  Taggert turns back to Spiller and asks, “A cop?”

  “I don’t think so,” Spiller replies.

  Taggert pats the dog once more. What the fuck is this about? Right when he’s got this big deal coming down, there’s an ambush around every corner. Suddenly, he’s bone tired. He has the feeling that something big is barreling down on him and hopes to God he’ll be able to get out of its way.

  He watches the salesman carry the dead dog out of the barn, one hand clutching the scruff of its neck, the other between its hind legs. “We got one more bout,” Taggert says. “We’ll handle this after all these fuckers clear out.”

  BOONE SITS ON the edge of the bunk in the trailer. His wrists are bound behind his back with duct tape, his legs at the ankles. Another strip of tape covers his mouth. This is where he came to after being knocked unconscious by the redheaded turd. His skull hurts, and one eye is swollen shut. He has no idea how long he was out. The noise from the dogfight has quieted down, but it’s still night.

  The turd pokes his head through the door and tells the Asian-looking black dude who’s been silently watching Boone for the last hour or so to step outside.

  “ ’Bout time,” the black dude grumbles. “It’s hotter than a motherfucker up in here.”

  As soon as the door closes behind them, Boone twists his sweat-slicked wrists, working to stretch the tape and foul the adhesive. He’s been at it every chance he’s had since regaining consciousness and is close to being able to free himself. Then what, he doesn’t know.

  The door opens, and the turd enters the trailer, followed by the black dude, who points a gun while the turd flips open a knife and approaches Boone.

  “Twitch, and I’ll take your nose off,” the turd says. He kneels in front of Boone and slices through the tape around his ankles.

  “Get up,” he says, backing away and pulling his own gun.

  The black dude leaves the trailer, then Boone, then the turd, his pistol pressed hard into Boone’s back. The cooler air outside clears Boone’s head, sharpens him up. The goons put him in front, and they walk down a narrow path that runs between the trailer and the barn. If he tried to flee now, they’d drop him before he could take two steps, so he goes nice and easy.

  The vehicles that were parked around the property earlier are gone, and the night is profoundly quiet, just the crunch of their footsteps on the hardpan. The turd shoves Boone toward the barn’s tall sliding door.

  Boone steels himself, ignoring the pain in his head, his throbbing eye. He feels like he used to when stepping into the ring for a bout, the same cold flutter in his stomach, the same single-mindedness. It’s too late to put on the brakes now. All he can do is keep his guard up and use every opening to his advantage.

  He steps into the barn, passes from the darkness into bright light. A tractor and other farm machinery, tools, a few folding chairs. Empty beer cans litter the floor. Looks like it was a hell of a party.

  In the center of the space is a plywood enclosure. The pit. The man standing next to it in the Harley T and jeans is tall and muscular, with a silver goatee and thick silver hair. An ugly scar stretches across his throat like a permanent smile. He crosses his arms over his chest and motions with his chin to one of the chairs. The redheaded turd steers Boone toward it and orders him to sit.

  The guy with the goatee grabs another chair and walks toward him. In one smooth motion he swings the chair up over his head with both hands and brings it down on Boone, catching him where his neck meets his collarbone. Boone grits his teeth behind the tape over his mouth as a red-hot bolt of pain zips down his right arm.

  Unfolding the chair, the guy with the goatee sits backward on it, facing Boone. He reaches out and rips the tape from Boone’s mouth.

  “Mr. Boone,” he rasps, something wrong with his voice. “You were trespassing.”

  “I’m here to see Taggert,” Boo
ne says.

  “Did you think he lived in that trailer you broke into?”

  Boone sits up straight, wriggles the fingers of his right hand. Everything seems to be working okay. “Taggert’s got a reputation,” he says, still pretending he hasn’t figured out that this is the man. “I thought I’d check things out before showing up on his doorstep.”

  “Well, at least I know you’re not a cop,” Taggert says. “No cop’s that stupid.”

  A dog begins to bark. The Mexican kid Boone jumped in the trailer hurries over to a row of cages set into the rear wall of the barn and whispers something in Spanish that quiets the animal.

  “I’m Taggert,” Taggert says. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Oscar Rosales,” Boone says.

  “Who?”

  “Guatemalan kid. About eighteen. He turned up dead in L.A. last month, and his grandfather hired me to find out what happened.”

  “And what the fuck would I know about that?” Taggert says.

  “People said he worked for you for a while. I was hoping you could fill in some blanks.”

  “People are wrong,” Taggert says. “I never heard of him.”

  “Okay, then,” Boone says. “So I’ll get out of your hair, let you all go to bed.”

  The redheaded turd steps forward and says, “He’s fucking with you, boss.” He hands Taggert the photo of Oscar, Maribel, and the baby. “Miguel says he got this out of a Bible in the trailer. Had it in his pocket when I took him down.”

  Taggert strokes his goatee and stares at the photo, expressionless. He holds it out to Boone and says, “What were you going to do with this?”

  “Give it to the kid’s grandfather,” Boone says. “Maybe get a little more money out of him.”

  “Or give it to the cops,” the turd says.

  “Come on, man,” Boone says. “I’m a fucking felon, still on paper. You think I want anything to do with the cops?”