Sharp Teeth
Page 22
Otherwise, I really don’t give a shit about any pack.”
Lark looks at his friend. “Well, I can’t let go. Not yet.”
“You sure about that?”
Lark watches the smoke curling around Tati’s head
and nods. “Yeah, not yet.”
“You know, Lark, I remember you
when you were one crazy puppy.
You had us all running in circles
always saving your ass.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, but you just disappeared into all this,
the pack, the power, the idea of being
the big-ass alpha dog,
I don’t blame you, it’s a lot to manage,
but come on,
I mean, where’d the rest of you go?”
“Like I said, Tati, time takes what it wants.”
“Yeah, fuck, I guess it does.”
There is a final pause
as the embers of Tati’s smoke
illuminate a small piece of the night.
“You’ll take care of the vehicle with Maria?”
“Sure,” says Tati. “Looking forward to meeting the lady.”
“Thanks,” says Lark, shaking his hand.
“Always,” answers Tati, smoke in his mouth. “Anything.”
IV
Across town, sitting in a bowling alley off of Pico
Peabody watches some of the most beautiful
bowlers imaginable. Farrah Blondes,
Betty Page Brunettes, all looking
like movie stills who have floated to earth
from some far, far lovelier place
as they throw gutter ball
after gutter ball.
The bartender explains that Fred Segal is having
their annual summer party.
“That’s the makeup department, I think,” says the barkeep
who, coincidentally looks like something the dog ate.
Peabody’s not listening,
he’s fingering the label of his beer
and watching his next appointment
sashay in through the doors.
“When I offered to buy you dinner, I thought you would choose
a more elegant experience.” Venable approaches Peabody
with an open hand.
“I like the fries. Let’s take a booth, just us two,” says Peabody
shaking the hand, with a glance toward Goyo, Cutter, and Blue.
“I can assure you, there’s nothing I should know
that should be hidden from my associates.”
Venable’s smile is cold and polite.
“Indulge me.”
Venable sizes Peabody up, reads his eyes.
“Excuse us for a moment, gentlemen.”
“You look a little worn, Detective.”
“Yeah, well,” Peabody takes a sip from his beer. “I’ve had my worries lately.”
“About what?” asks Venable.
“Boy, you name it.”
The little man scratches his head, “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Peabody leans forward. “Listen, I don’t want to waste your time,
I just thought you would want to know: I found them.”
A light goes on in Venable’s eyes, “Who?”
“Who you’re looking for,” Peabody shoots back.
The little man grins. “You have? My. Well. Nicely done.”
“Yes, and I’ve learned a few things along the way.”
Venable shifts slightly in his seat,
realizing that the tack of the conversation
has shifted as well.
“Mmmn, feel free to share, Detective.”
“Well, for starters,” Peabody nods toward Goyo,
“I always thought he was Samoan.
I don’t know where I got that idea.
But it turns out he’s not.”
Venable smiles. “No, no, he’s not. He’s from northern Mexico,
it’s those beautiful almond-shaped eyes
that tend to confuse people, well, that
and his somewhat sizable presence.”
Peabody nods, “Okay, now,
about the work you both do.”
“The work we do?” says Venable, “We do many things.”
“They said you’re a big manufacturer of meth. And a distributor.”
Venable grimaces slightly. “What an interesting and
if I may say so, ridiculous statement. Really. They said this?”
“We talked.”
“Well, I wish you had consulted with me before you did so.
You were only hired for surveillance, Detective.”
“Can’t turn the clock back on that.
Anyway they know you, they know all about you.”
“Do they? That’s interesting. I thought I was the hunter here.”
“Yeah, well,” says Peabody, thinking about his fumbled attempts
down at the San Pedro stakeout.
“They have a funny way of turning the game around.”
Peabody watches the little man,
wondering how to step forward in this conversation.
“The point is, as I said, I’ve spoken with them.”
“And?” Venable’s twitching with impatience.
Peabody settles back in his chair and
prepares to deliver the message he was handed
back up there at the dry ranch, “Well, the surprising thing is
these guys, the ones you want so badly, it turns out
they want to meet with you too.”
Peabody lets this sink in, watching as,
for the first time since he met him,
a look of surprise dawns across Venable’s tiny face.
The little man almost spits out his next question.
“Why would I ever want to do that?”
Peabody tries to decipher Venable’s expression,
but it’s no use, all Peabody is there to do is read his lines,
to put the game in motion,
to pose that one critical question the blond kid told him to ask.
“Mr. Venable, do you remember a man
by the name of Juan Garcia?”
Peabody watches the name drift across the counter
into the little man’s waiting ears.
V
Up in the hills, the blond brothers
walk out with Ruiz into the yard.
“What’s up today?” Ruiz asks,
looking at them with eyes that are somehow both
bitter and bemused.
“Today is something, Ruiz. Really something.”
Palo removes a case from the trunk of the car
and rests it on the hood,
pausing before he unlatches and opens it,
“Take a look.”
Ruiz steps up and looks down, his eyes changing quickly to fear.
“Oh shit,” he says, “you can’t be serious.”
Lying in the case is a large synthetic limb.
Ruiz is trembling. “Come on, you guys, I’ve paid.”
“Look at it again, Ruiz, check it out.
It’s a prosthetic leg. Top of the line.
Hundreds of thousands of people use them.”
“Fuck you. Come on. I’m saying I’ve paid.”
“Really?” says Palo, pulling a chain saw out of the trunk
while his brother sits in the front seat of the car,
carefully juicing a syringe.
“How many dogs did you kill in your games, Ruiz?”
“I told you, I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Two hundred would you say, Ruiz? Did you kill two hundred dogs?”
“I can’t remember, man, I don’t know.”
“We were there Ruiz, we remember.”
“I was fucking different then. It was a long time—”
“And you fed the dead dogs—you chopped up
and you fed
all the dead dogs—
to their brothers and sisters,
isn’t that right? Didn’t you?
Didn’t you, Ruiz?”
“I don’t know, man, those guys who worked for me,
they were pretty fucked up. They did stuff—”
Palo reaches into the belt behind his back
pulls out a gun and presses it hard
against Ruiz’s temple. “Shut up, old man. Shut up and don’t move.”
Ruiz trembles with anger and fear as
the other brother plunges the syringe into his arm.
“We were there, Ruiz,” Palo says again.
They stand with him till his eyes
flicker and he falls heavily
into their waiting arms.
Gently they lower him to the ground
where the brother carefully
ties a tourniquet
around Ruiz’ right leg.
Annie goes inside
as Palo fires up the chain saw.
Anthony, lying with the pack, looks up to see
the spraying blood staining the driveway.
Not for the first time, it occurs to him
that white folks seem to
have a corner
on the cruel and unusual.
Later, he finds himself sitting apart
from the rest of the dogs
happy to skip dinner
while they enjoy the fresh, warm meat.
VI
Lark watches through binoculars
from the roof of a neighboring warehouse
as the limousine pulls up in front of Baron’s bunker.
Out of the long dark car comes a small creature and a big fellow
and wow who would have expected that, because there they are,
ol’ Cutter and Blue, brushing themselves off as they emerge.
Last heard from long ago as they prepped for the Regional Finals
in a Pasadena bridge tournament.
Then, yes, the binoculars spot Baron striding across the lot,
looking just as surprised to see Cutter and Blue as Lark is.
Lark watches the hugs and grins and shucking and boxing
and more hugs. The little guy and the fat man seem lost off to the side
until the little one pulls at the smiling Baron’s sleeve,
and whispers into his ear.
Lark wishes he could hear what’s going on,
but this is as close as he can risk getting.
Too many dogs down there know his scent,
even this distance might not be great enough.
So he stays on the roof, guessing.
Whatever the little fellow says, Baron nods and
leads them all inside.
Lark puts down the binoculars,
never feeling as in it and yet
never feeling as outside of it
as he feels
right now.
VII
Baron chews slowly,
watching Cutter and Blue sitting a bench away
wolfing down their food while
slapping the shoulders of old friends and
savoring their beautiful reunion.
Baron doesn’t trust this,
but he can’t figure out the trap.
Something hasn’t smelled right for days
and their presence just makes things feel
worse.
Venable only ever asked for one thing,
just knock out the cook labs.
Venable’s scale of operation is huge while
the garage labs they take down
are always less than nickel-and-dime.
But that makes sense to Baron, after all,
competition is competition.
This time, however, Venable wants something different.
Some crew asked for a meeting
and he wants Baron to provide backup.
The meeting is going to involve an exchange.
Once Venable has what he came for,
Baron is supposed to take out the other side.
Straightforward stuff.
Couldn’t be simpler.
But a lingering suspicion
sticks to his ribs.
Venable and his big friend drove away hours ago,
leaving Cutter and Blue behind to play with the old gang.
Baron waits until the two are done eating and
then sits down for some casual questions.
A couple of guys lean against the wall,
watching. A few dogs lie around the floor, watching too,
just in case they’re needed.
All it takes is a signal.
“Have you heard from Lark?” Baron tries to keep it relaxed,
but he knows Cutter sees the men
and the dogs
and knows why they’re there.
“Haven’t heard from Lark in ages.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Come on Baron, we know what’s what.
Lark’s dead to us. Just fucking relax, okay?”
Baron changes the subject, asking about
Venable and anything they might know there.
Especially concerning this meeting.
They know a little.
According to them, Venable had been searching
for this crew for a while.
A girl on the crew killed the fat man’s brother,
could have been a contract hit,
could have been just cold-blooded murder,
but she got away with it.
And it turns out she took something with her,
something they want.
That’s what the meeting is about.
To get that certain something back.
“Stay here,” Baron says, getting up.
He moves down the hallway, out of earshot,
and dials Venable’s number.
“Yes?” comes the smooth man’s voice.
“You said this exchange involved bank records,” says Baron.
“Yes.”
“What kind of records.”
“As I said, that’s not your concern.”
“It’s our concern if we’re going with you.”
Venable is quiet for a moment, no doubt weighing
what he can disclose on a mobile,
how far he can trust Baron.
“Well.” Venable sighs. “Here is all we know.
My friend Goyo’s brother Tomas had been stealing from him,
using a friend, one Juan Garcia, to launder the money.
When Tomas was killed, Juan was killed too.
The killer found the information on his body,
bank statements, account numbers
she took it all with her.”
Baron relaxes a bit, the story fits
what Cutter told him.
So Cutter gets to live. Blue too.
Lucky dogs.
“One more thing Venable.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m doubling the fee for this job.”
“And why is that?” asks Venable.
“Because it’s that important to you.
We’ll bring the dogs,
and they’ll take these guys down,
but it’s going to cost you double.”
Venable can’t conceal his irritation,
his voice cracks as he answers,
“Fine then. Double it is.”
Baron goes back into the open space,
and offers Cutter and Blue a wide smile.
“Welcome home, boys.”
VIII
“Hey, gorgeous,” says Pete Howard
to the little black schnauzer
he passes by
on his evening jog,
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says again, this time
to the golden retriever being walked by the old lady.
Pete smiles to himself, three miles should be fine,
loop around
Pico and then back down Neilson.
The fading light’s nice, he feels all right.
Pete’s been thinking about buying one of those baby joggers
Not so much for the kid as for himself, pushing something
would tone his upper body.
But for the kid too, yeah, it would be nice to spend time with the kid.
After all, his therapist says Pete needs more gentle time.
Pete can feel the jangling in his bones, that’s old age creeping up.
He’s been drinking powders to increase his bone mass.
He feels good.
He hasn’t had a drink in ten months.
He stopped for a lot of reasons, he didn’t like the lack of control,
he didn’t like the way the blood vessels popped on his cheeks.
And the DUIs weren’t pretty either.
There’s a plastic surgeon he golfs with
says he can get rid of the blood vessels
in ten minutes. Nice.
Peter turns up Brooks St., figuring he’ll cut over to Seventh.
What’s up with that dog over there?
Whose dog is it—that big one?
That’s what Pete hates about this town, no discipline.
Some homeless joe dies and his dog will wander for days
before animal control picks them up.
What a dirty, scummy town.
Half the people in Venice don’t even pick up after their dogs.
Makes a runner’s life hell.
And this damn dog seems like it’s following Pete,
a mirror image jogging along at the same pace, across the street
each paw landing
with the same rhythm as his feet.
Pete turns up Seventh and the dog crosses over
turning up Seventh, but staying on the opposite side.
This is weird, and not good, thinks Pete.
He starts looking around
for a cop car or something, someone he can flag down.
He crosses Vernon,
the dog crosses Vernon with him,
still on the opposite side.
The sun has set,
filling the skies with a soft golden light
that catches in the dog’s glinting eyes,
eyes that seem to be watching him.
Not good.
This isn’t worth it, Pete thinks, and doubles back,
running toward Vernon and checking over his shoulder.
Sure enough, the dog has turned around too.
Adrenaline courses through Pete’s body.
Now he’s in a full run.