By the time he graduated, he and his computer had increased his father’s profits in beans and cotton by 35 percent, a fact that pleased his father immensely and turned Lester from family embarrassment to family wunderkind.
Lester went on to Texas A&M, where he majored in computer science. Seven years after graduation, he sold his computer software company to Agri-Tech in Lincoln, Nebraska, for fourteen million dollars.
Lester loved city life, especially Texas city life. In Austin, rich businessmen were expected to wear cowboy boots, drink heavily, laugh too loud, and generally behave as if they were on a cattle drive. He liked to say, “I was always a Texan, it just took me a while to get here.”
He drew deeply on his cigar and released a dense cloud of smoke. Shit. Why were these big-money types always so nervous? You’d think he was asking the guy to invest his last dime.
The thought of spending half a day in an airplane headed to Boston depressed him. But he had no choice. He had spoken with Dietrich Manning the previous night, and the conversation left no doubt that Manning was nowhere near convinced that pit fighting was a good investment.
Their ducks were in a row. He knew it, but he had to convince Manning of it. He’d talked to Maylon Mays and, surprisingly, the dumb woodchuck was doing okay. Preparations for the national dogfighting championship were proceeding on schedule—a fall date would be announced soon—in Jefferson, New York.
Lester smiled slyly. Stumbling on Mays at a dogfight a couple of years ago had been extraordinary good luck. Mays was just the pawn he needed to get a foothold in the east. And, with that foothold, he could get Dietrich Manning’s backing. Then pit fighting was on the way up.
Yep, he had to go to Boston.
Lester’s stomach was making wet, boiling noises in protest of airplane cuisine when the Boeing 737 touched down at Logan Airport. He chewed a few Tums while he climbed the Jetway into the terminal and picked up his rental, a Pontiac Bonneville. By four o’clock, he was easing along Route 129 between Swampscott and Marblehead past one majestic oceanfront estate after another, looking for 2746. His gut had settled into an uncomfortable bloat by the time he saw the gray stone entryway and wrought-iron gate that Manning had given as a landmark. He turned in, announced his name to the uniformed gateman, and proceeded along a quarter-mile drive through expansive lawn, ancient trees, and elegant plantings. It ended in a circle that passed throughout the porte cochere of Manning’s gothic mansion. Lester took one look at it, steeped in history and aristocracy, and instantly hated it. His country-boy insecurities came crashing back, sending more waves along his bowels. He cursed himself for not finding a restroom before he arrived.
The door opened as he reached for the brass knocker that was shaped like a coiled snake. A maid, who actually looked sexy attired in a simple black uniform, white apron, and cap, escorted him beneath a massive crystal chandelier to a cherry-paneled library. He waited alone, glancing at old volumes on the shelves and snooping around for a bathroom. No success. He worked his feet into the nap of the oriental rugs, ran his fingers over the contours of a carved desk.
He had just made it around the room when the door through which he had entered eased open. A thin-faced man in his sixties with a pointy nose and beady eyes crept in like a ferret on the hunt. He wore a burgundy smoking jacket. His white hair was oiled back smooth. He flashed Lester a brief, twitchy smile.
“Good afternoon, Lester.” The ferret scanned the room and then added in a whisper, “It’s nice to see you. You didn’t bring any dogs along for demonstration purposes, did you?” He let out a chattering laugh that made the dog man’s skin crawl.
Lester shook the cold paw that was offered and thanked God he lived in Texas.
“Hello, Dietrich. Everything pretty good with you these days?”
Dietrich Manning formed his lips into a tight pout and shrugged. “They could be better.” He picked a cut-glass decanter off a side table and held it up for Lester to see. “Brandy?”
“Sure, why not?” He would have preferred bourbon.
Manning poured two glasses and moved to one of two upholstered wing chairs in front of a fireplace stacked with white birch logs ready to be touched off. He waved Lester to the other one.
“It’s a tough market out there,” he said.
Lester nodded but did not know exactly what Manning meant.
“Gambling, drugs, girls…” Manning said. “It used to be easy pickings. But no more. Atlantic City and the Indians have taken the juice out of East Coast casino gambling. The market is tough now.” He glanced at Lester for agreement.
Lester nodded again and sipped his brandy. Come on, Manning, get to the point. The brandy started his bowels roiling again.
“There’s a lot of reasons, I guess. Hell, the government’s on the verge of legalizing drugs. More competition—everyone’s into drugs—blacks, Hispanics, even the cops. No code of ethics anymore.” Manning stared into the brandy sadly. “And the girls. How do you deal in prostitution when the whole country’s attitude is ‘just give it away’ anyway? No moral values anymore.”
Lester gave a polite laugh at Manning’s non sequitur. He wasn’t sure if his host was joking.
“Then there’s our damn legal system. Pick any level you want. Local? State? Federal? They’ve given law enforcement more latitude than ever before. I’d like to know where the hell the ACLU is these days. And the penalties are a hell of a lot stiffer than they used to be. You simply can’t afford to get caught.”
“Yeah, well crime ain’t what it used to be, I guess,” Lester confirmed, for lack of anything else to say.
Manning gave his guest an offended look. “I’m not joking.”
“Sorry, Dietrich. I knew you weren’t.” Manning was so damn difficult to read.
“As a matter of fact, Lester, when you boil it all down, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Lester gave an unsure nod.
“This dogfighting venture you’ve proposed. That’s to fill the void created by those things I’ve just mentioned. Right? It’s going to be a gigantic new market for us. Right? Isn’t that what you said?”
At last, Lester was on firm footing. He forgot his intestinal urgings. “Yes, of course it is, Dietrich. That’s exactly what it will be.” He moved into his salesman mode. “Dogfighting is a perfect spin-off of casino gambling because of the types of people it attracts. There is a giant inner-city market potential because urbanites love exciting, rough-and-tumble sorts of gambling. Dogfighting makes football and boxing seem like competition solitaire. The cities have always been the bread-and-butter areas for gambling.”
“But can people really get behind dogfighting?” Manning asked with the cold concern of an investment strategist. “I mean, get hooked, really enthusiastic about it?”
“It’s gambling, isn’t it?”
“Yes”—Manning cast a dubious look—“but dogs?”
“Hey. They race dogs, don’t they? And horses?”
“True, but there’s a tradition there. Convince me that the general public will root for some dog they know nothing about. We’re not talking Lassie or Rin Tin Tin here.”
Manning’s denigration of his favorite sport stung Lester, but he wasn’t about to let it show. He threw the last of his brandy to the back of his throat, held it there letting the liquor’s acid burn before swallowing. Slowly, he placed his glass on the table. “They root for the blacks, don’t they?”
The strange question caught Manning off guard. His ferret nose wrinkled. “I don’t follow you.”
“College and pro basketball—huge betting sports, right?”
Manning nodded. “Yes.”
“That’s the whites, your clientele, the general public betting on a bunch of mostly black guys. Everybody has their favorite team. They root for them like their lives depend on it.” Lester stared directly at Manning with eyes that deman
ded an honest answer, “But do they like them? As people, I mean. Hell, no! They are just dumb, overpaid blacks who can be trained and enjoyed and then forgotten as soon as they’re too banged up to put on a show anymore.”
“I see your point. There’s as much public sentiment for dogs as there is for blacks.”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“Sounds pretty crude, but it’s probably true.”
“Damn right it’s true!”
Lester became more animated as he pitched Manning for what seemed like the hundredth time. He rose from his chair, crossed the library, and poured himself another brandy without interrupting his speech.
“But,” he turned to Manning and held up a finger for emphasis, “and this is the unique part, dogfighting also attracts a whole new segment of the population.”
“Rural people,” Manning said. The ferret was in a trance, mesmerized by Lester’s enthusiasm for this land of milk and honey.
“Right! The fighting pit appeals to ranchers, and loggers, and migrant workers, and wildcatting cowboys because they are tough, independent types that relate to the never-say-die dogs that fight to the death.”
Manning started to comment, but Lester stopped him with an outstretched palm. “Plus, pit bulls attract the white supremacists, paramilitary types. Skinheads, I guess you call them. It draws them out from under their rocks.”
Manning cringed. Lester moved on rapidly.
“Now, let’s face it, Dietrich, we could all do without the skinheads. They’re pure scum. Let’s call a spade a spade.” He flashed a sly smile. “But they’ve got money, lots of it. And your guys might even be able to use dogfighting to make some inroads with them. Kind of a bargaining chip when you’re battling over drug turf. I know the skinheads are a constant burr under your saddle that way.”
Lester could tell by the look on Manning’s face that he had him. So he stopped. A good salesman knew to quit once he made the sale.
Manning nibbled a fingernail. “This is an intriguing new concept. As you say, it has potential to capture a fantastic new market for gambling.”
“Absolutely.”
“I know that the machinery is already in place in Mexico on a large scale, and in Canada to a lesser degree. It makes sense that it should all come together in the United States.”
“Unite the hemisphere, so to speak.”
“Yes.”
“Then, maybe the world!”
Manning’s eyes glazed over. “I should live so long.”
For a moment both men relished the thought in silence. Then Manning began in a reserved, businesslike tone, “All right, Lester. I’m ready to give it a try.”
“Excellent.”
“The way we’ll play it is that my fellow investors and I will be watching the big fight. The national championship you call it? If it comes off well, if we feel it shows all the potential you say it does, we’ll get in. We’ll set up something with you so you’ll have all the capital you need and access to our network. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
The ferret escorted Lester to his car, and their meeting was over less than an hour after it had begun.
As Lester drove to a hotel in Boston, his mood swung between elation and brooding depression. He had revived Dietrich Manning’s interest, virtually locked in his support. That was reason to celebrate. But now he’d have to be extra sure everything went well at the national championship. More than ever, everything rested on that one meet.
He cursed under his breath, rubbed his paunch. He really didn’t want to, but he’d have to make a side trip to Jefferson, New York. Tomorrow, before heading back to Austin. Right now, the very first thing he had to do was find a restroom.
Chapter 20
May-May marched in front of a row of homemade cages along one wall of his crumbling barn. Like a military commander, he inspected his crop of warriors. Bo Davis followed meekly at his heels and bit his lip when his boss reached into a wire pen and hoisted a pup out by its scruff. May-May eyed the tiny creature with cold detachment—the materials of war. The potbellied mass of wrinkled fur pawed the air for a foothold, but true to terrier nature, accepted the pain in silence.
“See this pup? He’s what we’ve been breeding for,” Commander May-May said proudly. “Pups like this will get us some respect from folks like Lester Ross.” The pup grunted loudly when May-May dropped it back onto the cage’s wire-mesh floor. “That is if you can train a few of them decent. Jesus H. Christ, I sure as hell couldn’t bear another showing like we made at the preliminaries down in Texas.”
“I don’t know,” Bo said. “We looked pretty good in all the weight classes except Little Jake’s.”
“And that’s bullshit. If you don’t win the heavyweight division, no one wants to talk to you.” May-May slammed the cage shut. “I told you that before. It’s like boxing. Can anybody tell you who the welterweight champion of the world is? Hell, no. All anyone cares about is heavyweight. It’s the exact same thing for fighting dogs. You can make a little money betting on lightweights, but if you want to get a reputation as a good pup breeding operation, you got to win with the big dogs.”
“But we’re still in it. We made the cut.”
“Damn lucky for us. It sure wasn’t your great training that got us there. Damn dogs weren’t fit. No endurance.”
“I just do what you say.”
May-May dug into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette, and lit it. He took a long draw and studied the smoke curling from the tiny white finger as he held a maximum dose in his lungs.
“Well, we’re going to be doing things different now. I’m taking a more active role, as they say.” He smirked at his own wittiness. “I gotta keep a better eye on what you’re doing.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
“Damn right. And by the time we get a call about setting a date for the nationals, we’ll have the most fit dogs those western boys ever seen.”
He drew another breath of marijuana. Bo watched with apprehension as May-May’s confidence mushroomed into swaggering braggadocio.
May-May took one last toke and twisted the butt into the ground with his boot. “Come on, Bo. We’ve got a lot of work to do and not much time to do it.”
He led his assistant into a musty cinderblock offshoot of the main barn. A dented water heater and rust-streaked stainless steel tank were the only remnants of what once was a milk house. Empty dog-food bags were strewn about. Assorted containers of vitamins and supplements boasting outrageous claims and crusted mixing utensils revealed that the room’s current use was as a kitchen for the dogs.
“I been too lax with you, Bo. I want to go over just what you been doing with my dogs. And I’d guess right here’s a good place to start.”
Bo stood in bovine silence.
“Well?” May-May said.
“Well, what?”
“Tell me about what you been feeding, for starters.”
Bo stroked his chin thoughtfully, straining his brain for something that would satisfy his boss. Nothing came to mind, so he admitted the truth. “I been feeding regular old dog food, just like you told me.”
“No extra vitamins and stuff thrown in for extra energy?”
“No. I quit them after you said they was too expensive.”
May-May ignored the insinuation. “Pups getting the same?”
“Pups get puppy food. I get two or three bags of the biggest size they have at the feed mill each time I’m in town.”
May-May gave his simple helper an exasperated look. “Now, you see? Right off, there’s a problem. You ain’t feeding our dogs to win. In Texas, some guys were telling me about what they feed. Supposed to be a secret formula, but they got bragging so much they let it out. They say it’s specially made up for fighting dogs. Mostly it’s raw meat, but there’s a
lot of vitamins and minerals mixed in for extra energy.”
May-May let that information sink in before continuing. “And how often you feeding the dogs we’re getting ready to fight?”
“Morning and night. Just like the rest.” Bo’s expression showed he fully expected to be corrected, and he was right.
“That ain’t no good!” May-May said. “Out in Texas they told me dogs get more nutrition from what they eat if you only feed ’em once every two days.”
“Two days!” Bo said in disbelief. “That’s a long time to go without eating. You sure you got that right?”
“I got it right, and you do it. Hear me?” May-May jammed a thick finger into Bo’s flat chest. “You got some gall claiming to know more than them guys who’ve been fighting champion dogs for years and years. You got to stop being so soft, Bo. You can’t expect to have tough dogs if you ain’t tough yourself and tough on the dogs. From now on, dogs in the keep get the new special feed mix. I got the recipe back at the house. And they get it every two days. Period.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Right, I am,” May-May said. “Now, what about training? Tell me what you been doing to get our dogs fit.”
“What you told me to do. I ain’t changed a thing.”
“Tell me anyway. So I’m sure we’re right.”
“Okay.” Bo took a deep breath, exhaled frustration. “Every day, each dog gets a couple hours on the cat mill. Sometimes a little more or less depending on how tired they get.”
“You give ’em the cat at the end. Right?”
“Yes. Just like you said.”
“Okay, good. But I want to change it to every two days now. They get the cat mill on the days they don’t get the special food.”
“What difference does that make?”
May-May gloated at his own cleverness. “Because they’ll be hungrier. They’ll enjoy eating the cat even more.”
Bo accepted the grisly reasoning. “Now, you want any exercise on the days they don’t get the cat mill?”
Taking On Lucinda Page 17