by Toby Barlow
Or the absolute satisfaction
performed with quiet muscular grace
of a dog roughly going at a good meal.
Or the joyful dance in a dog’s eyes
as she sits alert watching,
waiting for you
to do
that something
she wants you to do.
“Do it,” she says. “Do it now.”
In the corner of the bar
Anthony notices
a woman, dark hair,
with nicer shoes than this place deserves
sitting alone.
She seems slightly familiar to Anthony.
But she isn’t.
Not yet.
Back over in the white cinder blocks and the cages
word is Mason hasn’t signed in for three days.
Someone finally gets around to calling but there’s
no answer on the cell or at home.
He lives, no surprise, alone.
The crew talk about it over lunch
Calley says Anthony should go with him
check up on the missing man.
“I need the kung fu kid.”
“Judo,” Anthony corrects.
“Whatever, let’s go.”
They drive over. Already they have little to say to one another,
Calley’s radio is broken. But the man can’t sit with silence.
“You got a woman?”
Anthony thinks about not answering,
then mutters, “No.”
Judo is unnecessary when they get there as
Mason is quite gone, and it doesn’t look like
anyone is going to find him.
Anthony wonders
where so much blood could possibly
come from.
Now he just wants to be home
or at the bar
or back at work
not talking to this cop Peabody.
Anthony tells him
how he pulled up to the house with Calley
how there was no answer at the front
so they went around to the back
where they found the bay window smashed
and christ, gagging,
breathing deep, gagging, he
dialed 911 on the cell
while Calley puked in the bushes.
The forensic guy interrupts
coming up from behind,
he’s a creepy-looking guy—
—christ, everyone here looks creepy—
though this guy’s plastic gloves don’t help.
What’s he saying?
“Did Mr. Mason have a dog?”
Big red prints on the patio, on the floors,
see there, tramping blood on the small patch of green grass,
fading into the alley.
“No,” says Calley. “He hated dogs.”
The cops finally test and confirm,
“His blood.”
And with so much of it gone
it almost doesn’t matter where his body went.
Calley doesn’t say much
to the cops or anyone else.
He stares down blankly at the concrete.
When Anthony finally drops him
in front of the liquor store
it’s still a bright day, the reflection of everything
glaring in the blinding light of LA.
“See you later.”
Anthony watches Calley walk through the open door
and disappear into the pitch-black hole called
forget this fucking day.
Back at the office
a sudden shortage of staff
buys those three dogs in the cage some time.
V
Lark tells the team to wrap up the contract today.
The pack follows four rules in its negotiations,
eloquently explained by Baron.
“We don’t have to meet them halfway.
We can always walk away from the table.
We don’t have to say a word if we don’t want to.
And the last rule is simple:
if they think we might kill them,
if they sense that in their balls
and feel it tugging at the base of their brain,
then, guess what,
everything’s up for negotiation.”
They have three lawyers in the pack,
including Lark.
Every negotiation includes one of the lawyers
along with two others from the pack.
You’d be surprised how intimidating
three silent men,
men of strength,
can be.
So quiet,
the pack can hear every heartbeat.
In two hours
they get their opponents down to 1 percent.
The pack’s cut is high,
but there are never any complaints,
not from the studios, the unions, the trade associations
or anyone else who hires them.
The clients who sign on with Lark’s team know two things:
the price is quite high and the victory is quite sweet.
After the negotiations
they head to the office.
Besides the pack,
there are eight other senior employees,
capable lieutenants, white, starched
and hell-bent on bonuses
with no idea who they serve.
The senior director, Jill,
grew up in Barbados
went to Stanford, Harvard Law
kickboxes and rides horses
all with a composure that carries
the warmth of Tiffany crystal
and the instincts of a hit man.
Lark thinks they could make her
governor in ten years
if they wanted to,
but he can’t quite see
how that would help.
The mail room guy
they share with the publicist across the hall
has a metal band.
Lark knows the pack could make him big too
but then they’d have to listen to his music.
“Hey, where’s Lark today?”
“Up in Pasadena.”
“Damn, again?”
Lark’s new game.
The Pasadena bridge club.
He never played, none of them did
but he now insists they all tournament,
a decision that makes them bristle.
This is what pissed off Con
and look what happened to him,
so they play, making their grand slams.
Two of the pack, Cutter and Blue,
are good, fun to watch as they awaken
to a dexterity Lark never expected.
The pack smiles, leaning around the card table,
drinking Evian and laughing
as these two prodigies pull in win after win.
But when the match is over, the mood shifts,
Lark can sense it. An uneasiness ripples through the group.
The pack doesn’t see the path and so
wonders, in whispers and muttered undertones,
if this new game is part of
Lark’s grand plan or if he’s just
making them bide their time, wasting their strength on trouncing
puffy blue hairs and preppie scholars
with nothing but spades and clubs.
So much potential violence sitting pretty
in stale club rooms with the dead air
and bleached-out carpets.
Perhaps, they say, he’s trying our patience,
distracting us, programming us for something.
Nobody knows what.
No one can see where this angle leads.
Eventually they relax,
the red meat and the deep sleep reminding them
that while the plan may be Lark’s
the money
in the bank
and the food on the table
is all theirs.
On warm nights
when the Santa Anas are blowing
they drive out to the eastern deserts
with ice coolers packed with San Pellegrino
and sirloin.
Shutting off the engines
they crouch beside the car’s warm bodies
tense up
ignite the change
muscles ripple and the fur and teeth
and then they run through the night
racing fast, playing, bouncing over one another,
wrestling, nipping at heels and coats, rolling in the dust
running it out till their coats are wet and
their tongues dry.
Any plan that gets you that
is something more
than all right.
She has been gone more of late
comes in when they’re all asleep.
She lies next to Lark
murmuring in his ear
as he strokes her side.
The pack trusts Lark when he says it’s not
like that
with her.
The truth being,
they probably couldn’t stand it
if he did cross
that line.
They have a discipline,
they’ve learned the way.
The runs they take through the night
quench the desire and drain the hunger
from their blood,
but some deeper needs still ache.
Discipline control power.
The goals are simple but
the path is hard.
Lately
she’s gone by dawn.
The pack feels something’s up
things feel different, shifted,
and the vibe is that
it’s got nothing
to do with cards.
VI
The cop Peabody is back
talking to the pound’s janitor
stiffening with recognition
as Anthony comes in.
Anthony instinctively straightens too.
He doesn’t want any more of this.
“Your buddy Mason was three days late
why didn’t you call him earlier?”
whatsthisshit, thinks Anthony
but he answers the rote questions
already hating the suspect and Columbo dialogue
and wondering why he feels suspicious.
He’s not a suspect.
He just didn’t like Mason
and now he feels guilty
because he’s not sad he’s gone.
So he feels like a suspect.
Or maybe his head is just spinning for nothing.
Every death should feel important, profound
but, honestly, this one is only a little bit weird.
Really, thinks Anthony, I’m innocent of everything
short of hate or indifference.
And who isn’t guilty of that?
He focuses on the cop and his questions.
“He wasn’t my buddy.”
“Why did you go over?”
“Because Calley wanted me to.”
“Are you Calley’s friend?”
“Not really.”
“Then why did you go?”
“Because I knew judo, Calley asked me to.”
“Why would you need to know judo to check up on a friend?”
“I thought he was just kidding.”
“Judo. Okay. So, how long have you been working here?”
“Five weeks.”
“Who did you replace?”
“I don’t know much about him. A guy named Turner.”
“Where’s Turner?”
“They say he just didn’t show up one day.”
“Did anyone go over to his house?”
“Beats me.”
“Why the attitude, Anthony?”
“What?”
“Why the attitude Anthony?”
“I don’t know what you’re taking about. Honest.”
“Okay, I’ll be in touch.”
Anthony drives his rounds
two calls come in about mad pits.
He corners one in the park
it’s not mad, but it’s not nice either.
The lasso goes on, the pit’s in the truck.
He calls it in but doesn’t get an answer,
no one is minding the desk. Moments later,
reports come in of a pack chasing a bitch
up near the observatory,
scaring the hell out of the mountain trail joggers
who have just been reminded
that they are merely
warm and scented flesh.
And slow flesh at that.
He radios in for help on that one,
if they can corral the bitch they might be able
to herd the others, but no men are available—
the office is already stretched thin
and Calley is a no-show today.
So that pack gets to run on through the heat undisturbed
while Anthony keeps driving.
It’s tedious, cruising around, covering 100 miles
without leaving LA. He stops at
the Yucca Taco Hut, gets his carne
asada tacos sans salsa for the three back in the cages
and heads in.
As the security gate opens he glances
and sees a girl parked behind a car
watching the entrance, yes,
she looks familiar now.
What the hell is this? Seriously, what the hell.
He hasn’t had a date in a dog’s age
so, it’s worth thinking about,
along with the fact that she seems to be a stalker.
Damn, rock stars have them
but do normal relationships ever start like that?
Who knows, maybe
in a way
every relationship begins with a stalker.
He feeds the dogs.
They seem happier tonight
maybe they heard about Mason
maybe sitting there behind their cages
days away from the needle
they think they’re fine.
His mind darts back to the girl.
Yeah, it’s been a while since he had a girl
walking around inside his head.
The cop Peabody crosses his mind too.
Where were those questions going?
There’s not a lot making sense these days,
but he knows one thing
cops and women
lead to little rest.
VII
You want to know about
Lark’s arithmetic?
fact
he knows there are two other packs
though as far as he can sense it
they don’t know about him.
He caught the scent of one while reading the paper,
stories about odd crimes leaving clues and marks
only someone who knew would notice.
That’s in Long Beach, near the docks.
He dug up a rumor
of someone running a gray market
down in the warehouse district,
a gang that sometimes had a lot of dogs around
and other times didn’t seem to have any.
The other scent more vague
down near San Pedro
just something he’s noticed in the police blotter.
Too many reports of loose dogs wandering around
that vanish before the cops get there.
Probably nothing.
Worth a look.
Lark has sent Penn down to follow the trail.
Penn came back, says it smells funny.
Lark sends him back again,
keep hunting.
He figures the Long Beach pack
i
s running off the import trade’s
darker markets.
While he has no idea about San Pedro,
Lark is about 100 percent certain
the Long Beach pack is real.
He sends Baron south, tells him to
slide into whatever’s there.
Root around, dig up their numbers,
their plans, their structure,
their means for growth.
Meanwhile, Penn returns from San Pedro with nothing.
Not that there necessarily would be much to know.
Ragtag dogs come along every ten years or so,
some stray from a distant pack
pulling together a gang to make a go of it,
thinking they can carve out a niche in this town
until they cross the Russians or the Crips or
anyone else with a sense of territory.
Wolf or dog or man, they all answer to bullets
and disappear with
no one the wiser.
Lark keeps thinking. Even if they’re both real,
nobody but him is playing the white collar,
nobody but him is touching real money,
nobody else has anything in the north part of town,
and nothing comes close to
Lark’s plan for what’s next.
It’s okay.
The slow plan seeps forward,
he’s sending Baron’s kid brother Bone down to town
to make that kennel job stick this time.
Things are getting a little fractured
no one likes playing three games at once
but it’s nothing to worry about.
The slow game will keep playing slow
so long as he just
pays attention.
fact
he knows that one out of five
people in Los Angeles have a dog,
a real dog, making the canine population
equal to all the people
living in Atlanta.
fact
he knows that it’s impossible to tell a wolf
from a man if
he keeps his chin up
and his teeth clean.
fact
there are powers in this town
even more invisible than his.
Someone had been asking about a pack of men
who could do some rough work, these questions
came with more questions, about dogs.
Lark’s smelled the leads,
tried to follow them but got nowhere.
The questions died down, the rumors floated away,
making Lark think that whoever was asking
must have found something like an answer.