Taking On Lucinda

by Frank Martorana

  Chapter 28

  A woman with a skeletal face, Spanish-moss hair, and a witless southern drawl bounced excitedly in her seat next to Aubrey. “Looky there. They’s gettin’ ready to start!”

  Aubrey felt her intestines knot as it dawned on her that even if Kent and Merrill showed up and stopped the fight once it started, she was about to witness one of the ultimate manifestations of man’s brutality to animals.

  The crowd hushed as Lester Ross stepped to the center of the ring, hands held high.

  Aubrey positioned her purse in her lap and touched the remote.

  Ross’s tone was jubilant, pitched to work his audience into a frenzy. “Welcome, everybody, to Jefferson, New York, and the National Dogfighting Convention!”

  The crowd roared.

  “Most of you know me. My name is Lester Ross, and as commissioner of this crazy mob, I’m your emcee for tonight.”

  More cheers.

  “At this time, I would like you all to direct your attention to the table on my right. Sitting there are our five esteemed judges. Take a bow, boys.”

  A murmur of appreciation buzzed through the crowd, and Ross let it hold. After a moment, and with a booming voice, he said, “And on that table you can see for yourself the championship trophy our winner will be taking home. Ain’t it a beauty?”

  The noise forced Ross to use hand-signals to beckon May-May, who was in ringside darkness, but stepped proudly to center ring. They let the din continue. When it finally began to ebb, Ross silenced it with lifted hands.

  “With me here is Maylon Mays, our host in New York and referee for tonight. At this time, I’d like to turn the show over to him. Let’s hear it for all his efforts!”

  May-May did his bantam-in-a-barnyard thing again. “We New Yorkers are real proud to be the hosts this year, and we think we put together a real exciting bunch of fights for you tonight.” He held up a single sheet of paper. “Everybody got a card?”

  Spectators waved their programs.

  “Then let’s get on with it! Tonight’s first match is Mike Fink, a thirty-eight-pound black owned and handled by Bucky Reynolds from Columbus, Ohio, against a thirty-six-pound brindle called Heaven Help Ya from Little Rock, Arkansas. He’s owned by Maurice Jenkins and trained by Skip Taylor. Both are two-year-olds and undefeated champions in their regions.” May-May spoke into the dim light just outside the ring. “Boys, bring out the scale.”

  Two men pushed into view a wooden device that resembled a miniature gallows.

  Aubrey swooned with the relief of a mother who just located her missing child when she recognized one of the men as Rodman. She reminded herself that he did not expect her to be there. He would not recognize her in her makeup and wig.

  May-May instructed the handlers in a voice that rang throughout the building. “Okay, men. Hang your dogs.”

  Each contestant was suspended by a strap at the end of the steelyard. All five judges took a perfunctory glance at it to verify the animal’s weight.

  “You guys can check for a rub.” May-May said to each handler.

  A mocking voice in the crowd shouted, “No sniffing under his tail, Skip.”

  Skip Taylor was a sixty-year-old woodchuck with weathered skin and crisp blue bib overalls, new for the occasion. His eyes flashed back and forth from May-May to Maurice Jenkins, his dog’s owner. He vibrated with nervous energy just at the prospect of being at the nationals. The crowd laughed and jeered. He waved off his right to check the black dog’s skin.

  The opposing handler was Bucky Reynolds. Midtwenties urbanite. Sleeveless sweatshirt, fingerless gloves. Tattoos of barbed wire surrounded his melon-size biceps. He had metallic-red hair and dead eyes. He sneered back at the crowd, bent down, and buried his face into Heaven Help Ya’s coat. He stroked the dog from ears to tail, his fingers deep in the fur, then touched his fingertips to his tongue. He worked the taste around in his mouth. Nodded approval to May-May. “Nothing on him but milk.”

  “All right, then. Let’s roll ’em out!” May-May said.

  The crowd went into hysterics. Aubrey went into tetany.

  The handlers grabbed their dogs by the scruff using both hands. Each gladiator’s muzzle was directed into his corner so that the dog could not see his opponent.

  “Face your dogs!” May-May said.

  Both men spun their dogs to the center. The dogs instantly fixed on each other. Their conditioned response to annihilate any other animal in the ring forced all else from their minds. They strained forward with such strength the men could barely hold them.

  “Release your dogs!”

  Aubrey was paralyzed by the scene that unfolded a few feet in front of her. The dogs did not growl or bark. Like silent missiles of flesh and blood, each rushed at his adversary and simultaneously leaped high. Their chests collided. Gnashing wildly in the air, they scrambled for a bite hold, clawing with their front feet to offset their opponent.

  The black dog managed a grip on the brindle’s ear and, clamping his teeth like a steel-jawed trap, shook it violently. The brindle whined almost inaudibly while his ear tore away from his head, leaving a bloody pulp. He spun under the black dog, took a mouthful of soft underbelly, and held. Blood oozed from between his lips. The black twisted, got a hind leg, and sank enamel spikes to bone. The scraping sound sent moans throughout the crowd.

  Skip Taylor knelt inches from his dog, ignoring the blood splattering his new overalls. “Shake his guts out.”

  “Attaboy, Mike,” Bucky said, pounding a clenched fist onto the mat. “You’re hurtin’ him bad.”

  The stalemate ran for ten minutes before the crowd grew bored.

  “Parting stick!” someone shouted.

  “Start ’em over!” another person said.

  May-May recognized the crowd’s dissatisfaction and reached for the canoe paddle that served as a parting stick. He drove it between the dogs and levered hard.

  “Corner your dogs, men!” he said. “Three minutes.”

  Each man corralled his dog against the plywood wall and sponged cold water, frantically trying to revive his contestant. In exactly three minutes, they were released into battle again.

  Aubrey’s insides burned. Acid rose to the back of her throat as the fight waxed and waned. One dog dominated, then the other, for almost half an hour.

  Where was Kent? What was keeping them?

  She distracted herself by watching Rodman stare at the spectacle. Disdain blanketed his face. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, he looked up. His eyes caught hers before she could turn away. A flicker of recognition flashed across his face, then surprise, then a mix of fear and anger.

  She stared back at him, not knowing what else to do.

  His face twisted into a question and he mouthed, “What the…?” Then dropped it abruptly as May-May slogged around the ring now drenched with blood, urine, and saliva, too close for them to signal. Rodman cut his eyes back and forth from Aubrey to May-May, weighing his options.

  The black dog had his opponent’s throat in a crushing grip. The blood poured around his mouth and the brindle’s breathing turned to bubbles. In agony, the courageous warrior looked at his handler, struggled vainly a moment more, then rolled back his eyes and slowly collapsed into the slime.

  “That’s a turn!” Bucky shouted, pointing with a bare finger extended from his glove. “He turned.”

  Bettors backing Mike Fink cheered. Those with bets on Heaven Help Ya snarled oaths of disgust. May-May held back the black dog with his stick.

  “Okay,” May-May said to Skip Taylor, “you’ve got three minutes. If he don’t scratch, he’s out.”

  Bucky dragged Mike Fink back to his corner and watched with confidence as old Skip, wild-eyed and sputtering incoherently, struggled to revive his dog.

  Heaven Help Ya was still gasping for breath when May-May said, “Three minutes. Fac
e your dogs!” The dog’s eyes were glazed. He needed assistance from Skip just to stand.

  Bucky was all smiles.

  “Let him go!” May-May said.

  By sheer instinct, Heaven Help Ya made one last, powerful lunge toward Mike Fink and landed unconscious.

  “He’s out!” May-May said.

  Skip kicked his lifeless dog hard, skidding him through the muck. “You worthless son of a bitch!” He lifted him by a fold of skin and, grunting loudly, hurled him over the plywood, out of the ring.

  Heaven Help Ya landed with a nauseating thud at Aubrey’s feet. She retched hard and covered her mouth. She tried to stand, but her knees buckled. She sank back into her seat with a nasally moan. She cast her eyes around the arena, searching for Rodman. At that second, she saw something a thousand times more horrifying than the dead dog at her feet— May-May was glaring at her. His eyes flashed a furious, terrifying glint of recognition.

  Aubrey willed her legs to carry her. Edged her way along the bleachers. When she looked back, May-May was gone. She allowed herself to breathe again, ducked around behind the seats, and headed for the door. She was reaching for the latch when a grasp on her arm, as firm as any pit bull’s jaw, stopped her. She whirled and found herself looking at Rodman’s angry face. Keeping a tight grip, he reached over and lifted her wig just enough to confirm his suspicions.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, his face just inches from hers.

  Aubrey struggled to free herself.

  Rodman shook her hard enough that her teeth snapped together. “Lady, you are in deep shit!”

  A voice came from behind them. “Who you got there, Bo?”

  It was May-May, and his sarcastic sneer made it perfectly clear he knew the answer to his own question.

  Rodman spun Aubrey around to give May-May a better look. “Why, I done caught me one of them infiltrators you was warning me about.”

  May-May stepped close, eyeing Aubrey. “You know who she is?”

  “This is the FOAM woman! Can’t you tell?”

  “By Jesus, I think you’re right, Mr. Bo-Bo.”

  May-May’s hand darted toward Aubrey’s head. He grabbed a handful of blond hair and yanked hard enough that real hair would have come out. The wig flew, and Aubrey’s black hair fell loose.

  She twisted hard to break away, but Rodman’s grip held. She swung a blow toward May-May’s bearded face, but he stopped it midflight, like catching a baseball.

  “Pretty feisty, ain’t you, Tina,” he said. “Yep, Bo. You’re right. Good thing you was payin’ attention. You saved me from looking real stupid, boy.”

  He grabbed Aubrey by the collar of her leather jacket and wrenched her out of Rodman’s grip. He shook her harder than Rodman had.

  “So, what are we gonna do with you?”

  “I’ll get rid of her for you, May-May,” Rodman said.

  May-May laughed. “I bet you’d like that. No. I brought her. I’ll take care of her myself.”

  Rodman fought to keep himself in his role. He sent up a quick prayer that Aubrey would have the presence of mind to keep his identity secret.

  “What you gonna do with her?”

  With one hand, May-May lifted Aubrey the way he’d lift his pit bull pups. With his other, he grabbed her shirt at the throat and yanked it, sending buttons flying. He leered at her chest and laughed as she clutched the jacket’s lapels together with her fists.

  “First, I’m going to take her out back and have some fun. Then I’m going to kill her.”

  Before May-May could react, Aubrey’s right hand came off her jacket and shot to the big man’s face, nails extended. Quick as a cat, she ripped four long gouges across his eyes and nose.

  May-May cursed loudly, covered his burning skin with his free hand. But he did not let go of her. “A lot of fun!”

  “You’ll have to kill me before you do!”

  May-May gave a short laugh, reared back, and slapped Aubrey hard across the face. Her knees buckled. “We’ll see.”

  Rodman sucked in a deep breath, harnessed every repressed ounce of hatred he held for May-May into his balled fist, and braced to swing at the center of his former boss’s face.

  Chapter 29

  Merrill’s unit was third in the queue of headlights that slinked down the tree-hung road through the Indian reservation like a snake into a rat hole. Kent was in the passenger seat, Lucinda bolt upright in back. All eyes were fixed on the taillights that jostled in front. All pupils were dilated to the max.

  With a move concealed from his brother, Kent slipped his hand into his coat pocket. His fingers touched the silky fibers of Aubrey’s scarf. He had found it tied to the steering wheel of his truck earlier that afternoon, sometime between their meeting at his clinic and when he joined Merrill at the police station to await Rodman’s call. She obviously wanted him to find it. He caressed it the way he’d done a dozen times already. He envisioned its colors without removing it from his pocket—maroon and green paisley, the one she wore the night they had dined at Stef’s. The one he had longed for that night. It still held her scent. He wanted to hold it to his face, breathe her in again. He cut his eyes to his brother. Merrill wouldn’t understand. Instead, he rolled it gently in his fingers.

  He pushed his hand deeper into his pocket until he touched the tiny medallion that was attached to the scarf. It was the sort of tag any dog might have dangling from its collar, only gold. He envisioned its inscription:

  My name is

  KENT

  I belong to

  AUBREY FAIRBANKS

  555–3409

  “You keep your wits about you out there, Kent,” Merrill said.

  “Is that my brother worrying about me?”

  “Damn right. This could get dangerous. Remember, our unit hits from the front. Straight up the road. Their spotters will be inside watching the fight by now, so they shouldn’t be a problem. We go in after we get radio confirmation that the other units have the place surrounded, bust down the front door, and arrest the whole shittery.”

  Kent felt the stiff body armor under his jacket. “Is this bulletproof stuff really necessary?”

  “Goddamn right it’s necessary!”

  “Seems like a little overkill.”

  “Kill being the operative word there, brother.”

  Kent reached over the seat and stroked Lucinda. “You’re going to have to guard the car, girl.”

  “I guess it’s appropriate we have a dog accompanying us on a dogfight raid.”

  “Kinda like having a UN observer.”

  “Just make sure she stays in the car.”

  “She will.”

  Merrill brought the black-and-white to a halt behind the others. An officer emerged from the lead car and signaled for silence. Kent gave Lucinda a pat that signaled pleading would not win her the right to accompany her master this time. She sat quietly as the men emptied from their cars, closing doors softly.

  The officer in charge pointed at a thick stand of pines and whispered tersely, “They’re just on the other side of those trees. Stay down.” He tapped his radio. “When the place is surrounded, I’ll give the word, and we go in fast.”

  There was a burst of metallic clatter as agents racked shells into their weapons. Kent clutched the black bag of emergency medical supplies he and Sally had thrown together. The strike force ducked off the road into the protection of the pines.

  Kent crouched in the dark, trying to convince himself that the danger was minimal. Dogfighters were mainly a bunch of scofflaws with no real intention of doing anyone harm. The body armor was just an extra precaution, the weapons for show. But dog men were gun nuts, and they’d be drunk by now. May-May had already killed Aaron and Tammy and torched Copithorn. His mouth felt like the pads of a dog’s feet. He swallowed loud enough that Merrill heard.
/>   “Take it easy there, brother. You let us bust through the door first. You’ll be okay.”

  Kent was at the same time insulted and relieved at his brother’s implication. He was deciding what reply would be appropriate when the radio chirped.

  “There’s our signal,” Merrill said.

  Instantly the others charged toward the pole barn at a dead run. Kent pushed through the underbrush with all his might to regain his position but was still behind. He could see other agents closing in from both sides and the back. A man washing his pit bull was swarmed by agents before he could utter a sound. Moonlit agents pointing shotguns skyward leaped from vehicle to vehicle in the parking lot looking for stragglers. A drunk who stood lilting back and forth, urinating against a massive maple, cursed irritably as he was smothered in bodies. Other agents crashed the door and flooded toward the arena.

  “Police! You are all under arrest!” the lead officer barked through a bullhorn. “If you are seated, remain seated. If you are standing, lie face down on the floor. Put your hands on your head and do not move!”

  Kent heard a dull, thudding rumble as dozens of guns and knives rained onto the floor, shed by owners trying to avoid weapons violations. People screamed. Others clambered over each other rushing for an exit.

  He scanned the arena for Rodman. Saw nothing of the agent. Then he noticed panicked spectators tripping over a body as they stampeded. Rodman’s lean frame was lying face down in the sawdust. His arms and legs were twisted the way limbs fall when there is no life. Kent pushed through the melee. He knelt over Rodman, braced his arms to shield against the churning crowd.

  “Rodman!” he said, feeling the man’s throat with his fingertips.

  There was a low groan. Rodman drew his arms and legs in, raised himself to a sitting position, and shook his head to clear it. His eyes were glazed, a deep red bruise was forming on his cheek, and blood trickled from one nostril.

  “Where are you hurt? Can you stand up?”

  Rodman sat still, trying to fathom the chaos around him. He rubbed his cheek. In a fuzzy, drifting voice, he said, “I took a swing at May-May. Then a couple of guys jumped me.”