Bait Dog: An Atlanta Burns Novel

by Wendig, Chuck

  Whitey sits in the back, panting. After she hauls her head back inside, he licks her ear. She reaches back with a clumsy hand and scratches behind his ear.

  “You really taken to that dog,” Guy says.

  “He saved my life. Or something close to it. I figure I owe him some ear-scratchin’s now and again.”

  “It’s more than that. You two are bonded.”

  “He’s all right and I’m all right and we’re even more all right together. But he’s just a dog.”

  “You say that, but you don’t act like that.”

  To that, she can only shrug.

  “You sure about today?” he asks.

  “I’m good,” she says. “My guts no longer feel home to a pissed-off family of raccoons.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know. I’ll be fine. The plan is about as easy and as dumb as they come.”

  “You’ll be in there alone. No gun. Nobody with you.”

  Again she scratches Whitey. “I got him.”

  * * *

  He drops her off at the base of the driveway like she asks. Atlanta doesn’t need Guy getting any more wrapped up in this than he already is, way they wrecked his trailer and his car (oh, and his face). She hoofs it with Whitey in tow.

  The day, like all the days lately, is hot and dry and it isn’t long before she starts to feel like a piece of meat left too long on the grill. The trees and the grass all feel a little less green, like the sun has decided to stop feeding the plants and start feeding from them, instead. It’s doing the same to her—sapping her strength, robbing her of her confidence and stripping her bare like pulling all the insulation off a wire. Fear sparks hot and electric.

  The hangover isn’t helping, either. Her whole body pulses.

  Sick, slick, sweaty, and weak. Say that a hundred times fast.

  Her boots crunch on gravel. Not far off now she sees the fence and the gate.

  Sure enough, Winky stands there. Green and yellow John Deere hat easy to spot.

  This is it. Beginning of the end, she thinks. This is where she finds out if they’re going to let her back in or just shoot her at the gate and steal the dog. As she gets closer, Winky sits forward in his chair and eventually stands, radioing in with the walkie-talkie.

  He grins. Tips his hat. “Morning, Miss Burns.”

  “Hey.”

  His right hand hangs at his thigh, occasionally drifts toward his ass—she figures he’s got that pistol tucked. Not in his ass, as such, but in the back of his jeans.

  “You want to go in?” he asks, teasing her.

  “I do.” Whitey senses it. Steps forward. Head low. A low grumble coming from his throat.

  “That dog better not come at me.”

  “Then you better not come at me.”

  “I’ll shoot him.”

  “And I suspect that Ellis will shoot you as a reward.”

  He smiles. Nervous-like. Offers an awkward laugh: “Heh-heh-heh.” Then says, “Lemme just get that gate for you, if you’ll hold one second.”

  Winky backs toward it. He lets her and the dog pass. Whitey growls at him the whole way.

  * * *

  She feels like she might throw up again. From the hangover or the nerves, she’s not sure.

  As she walks up to the Farm, to the parking lot, a massive shape crosses the parking lot to meet her halfway. If he were a little higher in the sky, the Mountain Man would block out the sun and cast darkness all across the earth.

  Through his tangled beard she can make out a big yellow-toothed grin.

  “Atlanta Burns, as I live and breathe.”

  “Mister Wayman.”

  He puts out a hand. It’s the size of a Frisbee. She takes it, is suddenly irrationally afraid that he’ll rip her arm right out of the socket. But while his hand is rough with calluses, the grip itself is soft. The shake, gentle.

  “There’s my prize,” he says, the mountain shrinking and stooping to Whitey. He holds out the back of his hand. Whitey sniffs it. Doesn’t growl, but hesitates. “He’s suspicious. That’s good. How’d training go?”

  “Just fine,” she lies. Only things she’s trained this dog to do is to chase houseflies and catch Doritos in his mouth.

  “Walk with me,” Wayman says.

  She nods. Reticent as she follows along.

  Ahead and to the right, the crowd has again gathered. They’re milling about—the fights haven’t started yet. The shuffling feet of those gathered kick up puffs of dust as they murmur and whoop and posture.

  Wayman heads off toward the barn. Thankfully not the Morton building. Where they “Vick” the dogs who lose the fight and cause shame to their handlers. Atlanta wants to see that building burn to the ground with all the human monsters in it. Contain yourself, she thinks, trying to swallow up her angry heart in a tide of… well, if not compassion, then patience.

  Into the barn, he flags over a man—it’s the pot-bellied referee. Got a pair of eyeglasses sitting low on his bumpy nose. Reading glasses. Wayman calls to him: “Charlie, got one here.” Charlie holds up a finger as stares over his nose at a clipboard.

  “Where’re your boys?” Atlanta asks. “Your nephews.”

  “They’re not cut out for this,” he says with a sniff. “Bird’s too frail. More a sparrow than a sparrowhawk. And Bodie, well. Bodie’s maybe a little too cut out for this. I figured he needed some time to himself.”

  The ref—Charlie, apparently—comes over with a choke chain. Moving toward Whitey.

  Whitey no likey. He lowers his head, shows his teeth. Charlie pauses.

  Wayman just laughs. “Thatta boy. That’s the fighter spirit for which I paid most handsomely.”

  “What’s going on?” Atlanta asks.

  “Need to put the dog in a cage,” Charlie says real matter-of-fact like.

  “What? I didn’t agree to that.”

  Wayman claps a hand on her shoulder—this, less gentle than the shake. Feels like she might collapse under his hand like a jacket knocked off its hanger. “Miss Burns, this is how it’s done. The fighting dogs can’t be wandering around. They wait in the cages till the Show starts. Safest place for the animal is in one of those cages.”

  She seethes. “Until the fight, you mean.”

  “Now, you’re not having second thoughts about this, are you?”

  “And what if I am?” Her body, starting to tremble at his touch, quiver with the fear that she made a big mistake.

  “Then I’d say it’s too late for all that because here you are and here I am and we had a deal that I’d hate to see fall apart at the last minute. My disappointment would be keenly felt.”

  “No second thoughts,” she says.

  “Good. Charlie, give her the choker, let her take the dog over.”

  Charlie squints at her from behind those reading glasses, looks her up and down to size her up, then hands her the bundled chain. She waves it off, instead going over to an open cage and calling Whitey over with a quick whistle. The dog complies, keeping an eye on the others as he walks over.

  She scratches him behind the ear. “Into the cage,” she says. “I won’t let anybody hurt you. I promise.”

  Whitey licks her face.

  Then he steps into the cage.

  Seeing him in there about chops her heart in twain. A log split under a heavy axe.

  Wayman walks over. “Your fight’s in about an hour, provided the one before doesn’t go long. First up is Jasmine versus Tuco, and that’ll be an interesting one. Jasmine’s a Boxer, though some folks call her the ‘poodle’ because she’s got bows around her ears. Tuco’s a straight up bull terrier run by the Spics.” He snorts. “You, well. You’re going up against the Nazis—they’re running a new dog this time around. AmStaff mix. Name of some German WWII horseshit. Charlie, what in the Hell’s the Nazi dog’s name?”

  “Panzer,” Charlie says. “Though I heard one of the Nazi boys call the dog ‘Jew-Biter.’”

  Wayman shrugs. “There you go, th
en. Boss versus Jew-Biter.”

  “Boss?” It takes her a second to realize that’s what Wayman calls Whitey. “I call him Whitey.”

  “He’s not your dog to name, Miss Burns.”

  “In training, I called him Whitey, so he’s Whitey.”

  Wayman laughs again. The sound calls to mind an avalanche just starting up—ground shifting, trees breaking. “Whitey it is, then. Have a good fight. I’ll be watching you two in the ring, sure as shit.”

  Then he’s gone. No longer eclipsing the sun or taking up all the oxygen in the room.

  Atlanta takes one last look at Whitey, whose pointy ears flatten back. He makes a sad face.

  “I’ll be back,” she says, and exits the barn.

  * * *

  Whitey will never get to fight. This’ll be over before that happens if Atlanta has her way.

  She mills around outside. Licks her lips. Feels the electric buzz of adrenalin pushing back the greasy fingers of her hangover, loosening its grip. Time to make sure all the pieces are in place, then.

  Yesterday, she made a call. To Orly Erickson. Told him before he could get a word in edgewise that if he wanted the Dogo he could have the Dogo and she’d meet him here. Then she hung up on him.

  Atlanta hurries over to the parking lot. Peers row after row, feeling her gut sink further and further as she’s not seeing what she’s looking for—

  Ah.

  Hell yes.

  There it is: a big white Tahoe. The front headlight shot out, the chrome around it peppered with dings from the .410 scattershot. A surge of joy and triumph jolts through her.

  Gotcha, you sonofabitch.

  She goes to make a call. Dials the number of one Detective Holger. Same cop who helped her through the thing with Donny. Same cop who made sure she got time at a mental health facility instead of in juvie (or worse).

  Only problem. The phone’s not dialing. It’s not doing a damn thing.

  It makes an angry beep beep beep. On the screen: NO SIGNAL.

  That’s not good. She waves the phone around. Still no bars. “No, no, dangit,” she mutters. “Don’t do this to me you piece of crap, don’t you dare.”

  She moves to the far end of the lot. Nothing. Back the other way. Nothing again.

  Everything here is flat. No where she can go to get to higher ground, unless she’s interested in climbing up on top of the barn. Or worse, up onto Ellis Wayman’s shoulders—man’s probably got a whole cloud layer around his ears. But seeing as how that’s not much of an option, she keeps roving. Back to the front of the barn just as one fight is starting to get going—Charlie in the ring, two fighters: Jasmine the Boxers versus Tuco the Bull. Still no signal.

  She heads to the back of the barn, then, where Bird took her on her last trip here.

  There. One little half-bar. A limp partial chubby, but should be enough.

  She redials the detective before the signal fades.

  Just as she hears a click behind her ear. Then the pressure of something round and cold.

  In her ear she hears the phone ring.

  A voice behind her, scarily familiar. “You stupid twat.”

  Skinny Skank. Melanie. One of the Nazis she tangled with—John Elvis’ girlfriend, to boot. Got a real grudge to bear.

  “Hang up that fuckin’ phone,” Skank says, “or I’ll pull the trigger. Unless you’re not a fan of that ear. And you don’t mind being deaf for the rest of your probably-short life.”

  On the phone, Atlanta hears the Detective’s voice answer: “Holger here.”

  Skank reaches over with her free hand and snatches the phone, killing the call with a thumb.

  “Turn around,” Skank says.

  Atlanta hesitates, but does so—slowly.

  And there stands Skank, holding a Luger pistol. Leather pants vented with knife slashes. Torn black half-shirt with a white Swastika emblazoned upon it, what little cleavage she has thrust up and out, tits pale as couple of cave crickets. Her hair a briar tangle of platinum branches.

  “You overplayed your hand this time,” Skank says. Lips the color of spilled wine peel back to show her feral smile. “I’ve been waiting to do this.”

  Atlanta sticks out her chin, defiant. “…do what?”

  Skank clubs her on the side of the head with the gun. Atlanta goes down. Dizzy. Feels the Nazi girl’s fingers wind around her hair and yank her forward.

  “Let’s go, fag-hag,” Skank cackles. “We’ve got business.”

  * * *

  Skank drags her by the hair around the back of the Morton building—the murder building—and throws her up against the metal wall with a bang. To her left she sees a bale of barbed wire and a metal washtub. To her other side, a heap of moldering plywood, rusty nails sticking up like beckoning fingers.

  Atlanta feels a trickle of blood run along her jawline. Fingers fumble along her temple, finding the skin torn where the gun barrel—or, likelier, the sights of the gun barrel—bit her. Skank just cackles again.

  “For someone who thinks she’s so smart, you’re dumber than dog shit,” Skank says, licking her lips. “You really thought you could pull one over on us? Set some kind of… what? Trap?”

  “I’m just here for the fight,” Atlanta croaks.

  “Mm-hmm. Sure, sure. Just a coincidence that we’re here. Guess you didn’t call Mister Erickson last night, try to lure him here? Oh, hey, here comes an old friend—“

  Around the back of the building walks John Elvis Baumgartner. Scalp freshly shorn. Arms inked with the scenes and symbols of a Hitler rally. He’s not just smoking a cigarette—he’s practically chewing it. Agitation and anxiety bleeds off him—he’s on something other than nicotine, Atlanta thinks. Coke, meth, pills, something.

  He storms up, stopping short of stepping on her. She kicks at his knee, but he dances out of the way.

  “Worse than a dog,” he says. “A dumb bitch dog.”

  Skank leers. “Somebody needs to put you down like they put down your faggot friend.”

  “That your official statement?” Atlanta hisses. “Somebody put him down? You? Him? Who?”

  John gives Melanie a look, backhands her shoulder. Skank punches him in the gut and for a half-a-second Atlanta thinks she has a shot at getting away because he gives his girlfriend a look like he wants to go toe-to-toe with her—he even half-lunges with a fist cocked, then stops.

  He gives Atlanta a twitchy look. “Your friend killed himself.”

  “Go to hell,” she says. “That what I’m gonna do? Kill myself?”

  “You just might,” Skank says.

  “Your boss sign off on this? Where is the big man, anyway? Where’s Orly? Or Mitchell? I saw his Tahoe. I know that sonofabitch is here.”

  John Elvis rubs his eyes, laughs, punches his fists together, wham wham wham. Atlanta feels like she’s watching a monkey rage at the zoo—railing against the bars, attacking the tire-swing. Then he seems to pull it back together.

  “You really think he’d show up? At an illegal dogfight? After your clumsy-ass attempt to trap him? He knows you ain’t gonna give him that dog. Dumb slut. Dumb fucking slut.” He pitches his cigarette into the woods. “I’m gonna go get Petry. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Let’s just handle it ourselves,” Skank says. “Drag her in the woods. Shoot her in the head, leave her for dead.”

  “I said I’m gonna go get Petry!” John Elvis says—more petulant than pissed. Like he’s tired of being emasculated. “Don’t make a move without us.” Once more, for good measure: “Don’t.”

  He storms off, leaving the two girls alone once more.

  Skank paces. Never taking her eyes off Atlanta. Like a predatory cat watching a little kid from behind the zoo glass. Cicadas buzz in the trees. On the other side of the Morton building the crowd roars. A dog yelps and the crowd gets louder—booing, cheering, jeering, hooting. The fight’s on. Is it Jasmine or Tuco? Champ or cur?