Taking On Lucinda

by Frank Martorana

  They stayed there on their sides, facing each other. Casting blurry gazes into each other’s eyes. They did not talk for a long time.

  Finally, Kent said, “What kind of a chance is there for two people as different as we are?”

  “I was asking myself the same question.”

  “What did you decide?”

  “I didn’t. Except that I’m willing to give it a try. All the old clichés come to mind— opposites attract, one day at a time, all that stuff.” Then a smile flickered across her face. “Besides, I’m from California, remember? Anything goes.”

  Kent was silent for several very long seconds. When he finally spoke, his tone was deep and somber. “Well, I’m from upstate New York, where we are not so flippant.” He took a lock of her hair and brought it to his nose, inhaled her scent, and watched her brow furrow with uncertainty. He held the moment. Finally, he said, “I’ll have to consult with Lucinda on this.”

  Aubrey warbled a laugh that was music.

  Eventually they became quiet again as thoughts of the day’s adventure returned.

  Aubrey pulled herself up, fluffed a pillow against the headboard, and leaned back, tucking the sheet into her armpits.

  “Kent?”

  “What?”

  “How do you know so much about this May-May guy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Right off the bat you knew he was the one who approached me at the Groggery just by my description. Then you knew where to find him. You know his wife, Tammy, and what her work schedule is.” She ticked off each clue with her fingers. “At first I wrote it off as the small-town, everybody-knows-everything-about-everybody lifestyle, but then you knew too much about May-May’s farm, like where the junk cars were, and you walked around the place like you’d been there a dozen times before. You didn’t act like someone sneaking around on someone else’s private property. Then Tammy called you ‘brother-in-law.’ What’s that all about?”

  Kent lay there without moving, deciding whether to level with her. Why not? They were a team now. Relationships were built on honesty. Besides, it was the truth. She’d find out sooner or later anyway. And aside from it being a family embarrassment, there was no reason not to tell her.

  He sat up next to her and took her hand. “He’s my half brother.”

  “What?”

  “He’s my half brother. My mother is his mother.”

  Aubrey leaned away from him to better study his face. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  He shrugged. “May-May’s farm is my stepfather and my mother’s old place. I lived there on and off during the summers while I was in college.”

  “Jesus. First you just happen to mention the village police chief is your brother. Now you tell me the village crook is your brother too.”

  “You asked.”

  “Well then, let me ask again. Do you have any other brothers? Politicians? Priests? Pro athletes? Anything like that?”

  Kent huffed a laugh through his nose. “No.”

  “How about any sisters?”

  “No sisters.”

  “You’re sure now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. That’s settled.”

  After a brief pause, Kent made a dubious expression. He held up one finger as if suddenly remembering something. “I have this uncle…”

  “Go jump!” She pushed him off the bed.

  Chapter 17

  May-May sat in the first row of makeshift bleachers in a barn on a remote farm somewhere in Texas. He turned to the burly clod wearing tattered Carhartt coveralls and a three-day beard who was sitting next to him. “What you got for time, Leon?”

  The man kept a blurry-eyed watch on two warrior dogs locked in combat fifteen feet away. “They’ve been at it almost half an hour so far.” He leaned toward May-May, grinned. His teeth matched his Carhartts. His breath was sour with whiskey and tobacco. “That red’s got your dog pretty good, ain’t he?”

  May-May squinted through the smoky darkness and into the pit in front of him. “Like hell. You just keep watchin’!” he said with more confidence than he felt. “That leg hold don’t mean nothin’ to Little Jake. He’s got three others, and besides, that dog’ll tire. He can’t breathe good the way Jake’s got hold of his belly.”

  The grating crack of enamel daggers crushing a leg bone spread a knowing smile across Leon’s face and taxed May-May’s bravado.

  A soft whine bubbled through blood and slobber around Little Jake’s clenched teeth, but he held on. Gamely he tossed his head back and forth on neck muscles quivering with fatigue, trying to widen the rent in the red dog’s belly, trying to spill his adversary’s guts for the honor of his master.

  “Won’t take long now,” Leon said. “Broken leg’s too much pain.” He sucked hard, retrieving a dribble of tobacco goo that had escaped his lips. “Makes ’em go shocky real quick. I’ve seen it before.”

  May-May’s vantage point was from behind his corner of the pit. The dogs were up against its plywood wall. He could not see them well, but he did not need to. He could tell by the crowd’s reaction that things were not going well for Little Jake. He chugged the rest of his beer, crushed the can angrily, and tossed it with the half-dozen others between his feet.

  “I’m doubling bets on my Jake!” he shouted up to the crowd, as if such a brash show of confidence would inspire his dog.

  A short, barrel-chested man rose from his position at a long ringside table. Beads of sweat glistened along his receding hairline. He wore an expensive gray wool suit, but that was his only resemblance to a gentleman. His dark eyes were fired with bulliness.

  “That’s against the rules, May-May! You know it. Betting’s closed.”

  “Tell him, Mr. Ross,” someone goaded from the crowd, but Lester Ross eased back into his seat without another word.

  May-May waved him off as if he didn’t care. But he did care and did not make his offer again. He sat brooding, raking soiled fingernails back and forth in his beard.

  His boldness drew several laughs and sarcastic remarks from the raucous crowd. They’d been around long enough to know the end was in sight for this match.

  Another ten minutes of ominously silent combat continued in the cold dimness of the Texas barn before Little Jake, exhausted and in shock, released his hold on the red dog. He let his head drop to the sodden rug.

  The red dog’s handler shouted, “That’s it! That was a turn, ref. Come on!”

  Obligingly, the referee yelled for both handlers to corner their dogs and rammed his parting stick between them. “Get ’em back, boys. Get ’em back. Three minutes. Then we’ll see if the brindle can scratch.”

  May-May watched in silence as Bo grabbed Little Jake by his scruff and slid him to his corner across the pit’s rug floor, which was coated with blood, saliva, and urine. Both of Jake’s front legs were useless, hanging limp and twisted. The dog lay shaking and gasping, as much from fear of humiliation as from pain or fatigue. He had disappointed his master. Bo worked feverishly trying to revive the vanquished pit bull, wiping him with cool water and Listerine.

  “Time’s up!” the referee said. “Face your dogs, men.” He dragged the side of his boot along a strip of duct tape that transected the ring. “Here’s the scratch line. See it? Billy, you hold your red back. Bo, your dog’s gotta cross this here line since he’s the one that turned,” the referee explained, as if there was a soul in the crowd who did not already understand what it meant to scratch. “If he don’t, he’s out.”

  Bo pivoted his dog toward the red one, but the fiery aggressiveness in Little Jake’s eye was gone. In its place was a disoriented glaze. Bo straddled him, both hands on his scruff and rousted him. “Come on, Little Jake, he ain’t got you yet. Git out there. You can take him.” He shook him hard.

  “Let him go!” the ref said.


  Bo gave Jake a hard shake and almost shoved him to the line, but there was no need for anyone to call foul. Without taking another step, Jake dropped his hind legs to a crouch, turned his gashed and swollen face to Bo, and ignored his opponent’s frantic attempts to attack.

  The ref declared the red pit bull the winner. The crowd roared. No one heard Bo Davis whisper, “I’m so sorry, Little Jake.”

  May-May stood, pointed at Little Jake, and addressed the crowd. “That there brindle pit’s for sale. He’s still a champion even if he did lose tonight. Make me an offer. I don’t want his sorry ass around my place no more. Anything reasonable I’ll take.”

  No one spoke.

  “Bo, take what’s left of him out to the truck. You hear me?”

  Bo obeyed, too disheartened to argue. May-May yanked his worn wallet from his pocket by its chain and began divvying up to the players he owed. “The bastard let me down,” he said to no one in particular. No one seemed to care.

  He waded through the unruly crowd, tripping on empty beer cans and ignoring facetious remarks from other pit-fighting aficionados. He breathed a deep breath of the moist night air as he approached his truck and recognized Bo’s silhouette in the moonlight. His skinny corner man was hunched over the tailgate. When May-May got close enough to look in the bed, he could see Bo was washing wounds on Little Jake’s semiconscious body.

  “What you doin’?” May-May asked.

  Bo quickly wiped away the tears that had rolled down his cheeks and continued to work a damp cloth gently over Little Jake. “Just cleaning him up.”

  “No need to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cause if no one wants to buy him, you’re gonna shoot him. That’s why.”

  “Ah, May-May, ain’t no need to do that.”

  May-May swung his heavy forearm at Bo, backhanding him and sending him reeling away from Little Jake. “I told you I won’t have no losin’ dogs around! It looks bad. People’ll think we breed dogs that can’t fight.”

  “But like you said, he’s still a champ. Even after tonight.”

  “Only now he’s a loser, too,” May-May said without the least compassion for the dog that had given him his heart and soul. “That’s why ain’t no one from in there comin’ out here to buy ’im.”.

  “Well, then, maybe I’d buy him,” Bo said.

  “The hell you will!” May-May gave the ground a scuffing kick, sending leaves and pebbles flying at his helper. “You live in the trailer up behind my place, which means he’d still be in my sight. You ain’t bringing him there, and that’s that.” The more he thought about it, the more angry he became. “Hell with it. Take the worthless piece of shit out in them woods right now and plug him. And don’t bring him back. Got it?”

  Without waiting for an answer, May-May stepped around the truck into the darkness, turned his back to Bo, and began working down his zipper.

  “Come on, May-May. He’s a gamey dog. I can bring him back for you.”

  “I don’t want him! Shoot him, dammit!” May-May said over his shoulder as he urinated on the truck’s tire.

  Bo swallowed his frustration and resigned himself to the task. He slid his lank arms under the dog and lifted him against his chest. Little Jake offered no resistance. His front legs swung like grotesque pendulums as he was carried into the woods.

  May-May turned, legs bowed, pulling up his zipper. “And bring me back his collar!” He straightened, collected himself, and then noticed the outline of a man approaching in the dark.

  “Tough luck in there tonight,” came Lester Ross’s voice.

  “Yeah. Shouldn’t have happened, Mr. Ross,” May-May said, feeling the front of his jeans to be sure all was secure.

  “Sorry I had to bring you back into line about the betting on your dog. Nothing personal, you know. But rules are rules.”

  May-May wiped his hand on his shirt and shook the one Lester Ross extended. “I can take it,” he said with forced levity.

  “I’m sure you can. You didn’t get where you are being somebody’s patsy.”

  May-May squared his shoulders in response to the flattery. Lester’s tone became businesslike. “I was hoping you’d have a little better showing tonight. Would have gone a long way to build interest in the national championship. Everything we do from here on out is aimed at building the nationals. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “We’ll do better from here on out, Mr. Ross. You can bet on that.”

  “The very fact that we’re holding the tournament in your area puts you in the hot seat.”

  “I know that too.” May-May was glad there was darkness to conceal his nervousness.

  “There’s a lot at stake here. A huge amount.” Lester’s voice dropped. He spoke as if he were revealing something very confidential to May-May. “I think I mentioned to you at the last fight that I have a business associate in Boston who is very interested in what we’re doing. Very interested.”

  May-May nodded his head rapidly, eager to be included in the dealings of such powerful men. “Yep, you did.”

  “I was on the phone with him just today. He indicated that if the national championship goes well—you know, lots of people, lots of action, lots of money—he’d probably jump in with some major backing.” Ross paused to let May-May grasp the idea. “If that happens, I promise you, the sport of pit fighting will explode in this country. And”—he punched May-May lightly in the shoulder—“you and I are in on the ground floor.”

  May-May swallowed hard and reminded himself he was a high roller too. “Don’t worry. It’ll go off without a hitch.”

  “I’m counting on you. A lot of people are counting on you. I’ll be in touch.” Lester walked back into the darkness.

  On the long drive back to New York, May-May said to Bo, “I can see I’m gonna have to be keepin’ an eye on you with the training. You didn’t come close to gettin’ them dogs fit enough.” He pounded the steering wheel with a fist. “How do you expect Lester Ross to figure we are worth our salt if we don’t do no better than what we did?”

  “Mr. Ross knows we have good dogs,” Bo said.

  “No he don’t! And even if he did, how is he supposed to convince all them big guys that we deserve the national championship?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Well, you best be thinking about it, ’cause it’s coming if I have anything to say about it.” He remembered what Lester had said. His voice took on a dreamy tone. “The future of dogfighting in the whole US of A rests on the next national championship. Either it stays small-time, or the hotshots get in and get serious, and dogfightin’ hits the big time. We’re gonna be a part of it.”

  Bo stroked a hand through his hair. “Man. Can we handle all that?”

  “You better believe it! And we stand to be in on the ground floor, Lester says. We’re the guys’ll make the biggest amount of money.”

  Chapter 18

  May-May watched Jerry, the gray-haired barkeeper, paint endless swirls on the bar’s surface with a sour rag. He listened to backwoods patrons honk out gravelly, coughing laughs at dirty jokes and tell lies about ignorant bosses and would-be sexual conquests.

  Years ago, Kolbie’s Tavern had been a respectable outback watering hole. Fishermen in summer, hunters in the fall, loggers and snowmobilers in winter. Nowadays, it was an embarrassment to the countryside. Way out in the middle of nowhere, it was surrounded by miles of woods, lakes, swamps, and abandoned farms. That was the only thing unique about the place. It was also the reason it appealed to May-May and his dog men.

  He rotated on his bar stool, rose unsteadily to his feet, and wobbled to a pool table with a gouge in its felt. He fished his jacket out of the many piled on the table. It reeked of smoke and stale beer.

  “Come on, Bo,” he said. “We’re outta here.”

  Jerry stopped polishing long enough to give
the pair his usual advice. “You boys go straight home, now. You hear me?”

  “Like hell,” May-May said. “Nothing much to go home to. Not tonight. I think I’m going to pay a visit to a long-legged friend of mine. See if she likes my work.”

  The old bartender shook his head. “That sounds like trouble to me. You be careful.”

  May-May drove his pickup well under the speed limit, both hands gripping the wheel. Occasionally he closed one eye to consolidate both road lines into one. He hated the way cops hung out near the bars late at night, always trying to ambush him. Always looking for a chickenshit DWI bust.

  Bo braced gnarled hands on his knees that almost bumped the dashboard. “Who’s your ‘long-legged friend,’ May-May?” he asked as oncoming headlights showed his nervous grin.

  “Miss Fairbanks,” May-May said, pride of ownership in his voice.

  Bo’s grin dissolved into a frown. “The lady that’s after

  Copithorn?”

  “The one and only.”

  “I doubt you’ll get to first base with her.”

  May-May swung a beefy arm and caught Bo in the shoulder, tearing the thin man’s gaze from the road. “You might be surprised. I’m gonna ask her what she thinks of our little bonfire over there. That ought to get me on the inside track.”

  Bo’s Adam’s apple rose then fluttered back down. “You get anything off her, it’ll be a miracle.”

  “You watch and see.” May-May turned his pickup truck in behind the Red Horse Inn. “I hope she’s in her room,” he said and pulled into a shadowed corner, hidden by a mounded green dumpster.

  “Why you parking way back here?”

  May-May let out an exasperated huff. “I can’t just waltz in the front door this time of night, stupid. I’d get recognized.”

  “So how you gettin’ in?”

  May-May leaned close to the steering wheel, cast his eyes upward at the inn, and pointed to a second-story window. “Tammy said Miss Fairbanks is in 206. That window is 206. It pays to have a wife who works in the building you want to sneak into.” He let out a wet laugh.