by BL Burke
“Daddy... please,” a woman whined like a child. He followed the voice toward the back of the house. He turned down a hall. “You can’t take care of her, look at this place, it’s filthy.”
He glanced at the beige carpet below. Brown streaks were embedded into the carpet like a Zebra hide. The smell told him this was the dog’s toilet. James was used to the smell of dogs, but it didn’t get any easier.
“You see.” the woman said, “he just can’t handle her anymore.”
James looked at the bits of Rawhide bones and thin balls of white stuffing that dotted the hallway like tumbleweeds in an old western. The top of a little brown and green stuffed monkey was being crucified from one door jamb to another.
This man didn’t have much, didn’t do much, but he loved that dog enough to keep buying toys.
He felt a strong thumping beneath his feet. A jangling collar bounced carelessly and a large bulldog rumbled through the door. Its tail was wagging with floppy spotted ears bouncing in slow motion. She licked her extremely long tongue at his feet and rolled on her back looking for a rub.
James reached down and rubbed her soft fur. She panted. “Who is that,” the man yelled, his voice quivering, “you bring backup... you’re going to have to tear her from me.”
James glanced up from the dog and saw the girl from the photo all grown up in business clothes. Behind her, Renee popped her head out and waved him toward them. James and the dog walked side by side into the room.
“This is my partner James, James this is Martin,” she said.
“Hi,” James said to the completely bald man hunched over on the twin sized bed with princess sheets.
Martin turned toward James and looked him over with red eyes. “You going to shoot me,” he said.
“No... It’s just for...” How did he see the gun?
“Might as well just get it over with... you take Fresco, I’ll kill myself.” Martin closed his eyes and raised his chin, “Come on kid, what’re you waitin for... just do it, kill an old man in his house, take away his dog and go straight to hell,” James saw the man’s old muscles flex, dark tattoos on his wrinkly black arm showed three Chevrons.
“Daddy,” the woman said, her hand gently grabbing his, “you have to think about what’s best for her,” Fresco heaved her body onto the bed and laid her head in Martin’s lap. Fresco looked at James, her eyes said please let me stay.
“I am... being with her daddy, and her sister when she finds time visit.” Martin said strengthening his voice.
“This place dad, my old bedroom looks like Nam, you say that was hell for you... how do you think she feels.”
“Please sir,” Renee pleaded, “we can treat her great... until she gets a loving home...” James and Fresco stared at each other. She didn’t want to go. She raised a paw and wiped it across her face.
“She has a loving home dammit!” he said, one hand petting Fresco, the other next to a metal cane.
James knew how it felt when his dog was taken from him, not by choice. He remembered the anger and the shakes.
“Sir,” James said slowly, “why is it that she’s using this room as a bathroom?”
“She goes where she wants idiot. Can’t work this very well.” he slapped his leg and shook his head “If you think I can afford a fence, you must be out of your mind. Even the Mexican’s want a ton of money to do it!” James thought about the outside, fences around the neighbor’s houses, but nothing surrounding this property. He spent his money making her happy indoors.
“It’s a health hazard dad, her feces could bring in all sorts of diseases or viruses.” His daughter started rubbing the tattoo, James could barely read ‘RANGER’ beneath the chevrons.
“What do you need Martin?” James asked, he wanted to… needed to help the old man.
“You the hell out of my house,” he ripped his hand from her arm.
“Martin!” his daughter said.
“For Fresco… we have a fund to help people. We don’t just rescue animals at Brew City.”
Chapter 8
His prey hopped out of the small house on 3 Mile Road. Easy to pick them up when they had a habit. Every night at eight, he’d leave for a whiskey or ten.
Tomas Delosa, Tommy to his friends, though the Catcher was sure Tomas didn’t have any. Tomas always walked the two miles to ‘Vin’s Blues Bar,’ which was more country than blues. Tomas was wearing the same jean jacket, faded pair of Levi’s and the Cubs hat. The same ones he wore when he was put inside.
It was good practice, to watch and learn. You should know the where and when they would be before pouncing. Eddie wasn’t planned, not an improvisation but close. Dangerously out in the open near the gaggle of nut cases and criminals. He knew how loyal Pit Bulls were, that dog, despite the ridiculous amount of abuse still loved him. A mistake.
Fifty yards away he saw Tomas roll down the sleeves of his jacket and shove his hands in his pockets. The spring breeze carried the drops of rain pattering from a tree onto the Jeep.
The Catcher turned up the CD player with old Hank and pulled out from his side of the road stop. Tomas looked back under the brim of his cap, his dark eyes shined in the headlights. He stopped and waited for the Catcher to pass. He looked into the rear view mirror, the red tail lights glowed behind him giving Tomas an evil look.
A mile down the road, across from the bar he saw the small wooden cross by a tree. A pile of Miller beer cans surrounded it, an alter to a hard life. He turned into the drive, his wheels crunching on the gravel parking lot.
Three cars were parked up to the front of the blue building that could’ve been a double-wide. Unlike Milwaukee, Caledonia didn’t have a bar on every street corner. This and his drinking habits made Tomas the easiest round up yet, in theory.
One car stood out from the rest of the rusting trucks, a bright blue Celica with Minnesota plates. A bumper sticker read ‘Real Country Girl,’ somehow he doubted it.
An empty spot sat between a pair of large trucks, a Ford and a Chevy, each bearing stickers of a little boy taking a leak on the other’s logo. Perfect, the Catcher thought, trucks and Jeeps were a common as a cedar tree here. Reversing in, he flipped on the dome.
His note said it wasn’t his normal quarry, but his abuse put him to the front of the pack. A last-minute check, Tomas Bosch, arrested last September for animal abuse. Though called the cow rapist in jail, it was for beating the ‘grass munching milk machines’ when they failed to produce. That put him on the list. Diversity, it’s great for your portfolio.
An old farmer called in cops. The audio of the call had the old man yelling, but there was something else in his voice. The weak ADA offered a Class D Felony, time served in county jail. Two months, followed by six months of probation. One of the eleven sows he whipped had to be put down, unacceptable.
He pulled out the vial from his pocket, flipping it over, he found no leaks. It was his first time with the drug. He shoved it in the chest pocket of his plaid shirt. Pulling down his Brewers cap he made sure he was a ghost.
The layout of the tavern was as simple as could be. Wooden paneled walls surrounded the interior, large deer heads hung from the walls, a cougar corpse prowled behind the bar. He made a mental note to find out who shot it.
The wooden bar gleamed in the overhead light with uncomfortable odor of a stale bare. He took a seat on a wood stool.
On the floor were a trio of Celica girls, long legged twenty somethings dancing together in the center of the floor to the new Taylor Swift song. They were beautiful, but there was no way he’d be able to talk to them. A foursome of farm boys at the bar watched them with large eyes and small whispers. An old man sat in the back playing the video poker, his glasses pushed far down his lumpy nose.
“Hello ma’am,” the Catcher said to the bartender, whose grey eyes held disdain as if her new customer was scum. A country boy looked up quickly then back to the girls, he couldn’t care less about him, the Catcher smiled.
“Howdy,” she sai
d keeping up the tradition, “the kegs are out but we got bottled beer and whiskey.”
“Whiskey and diet coke please... need to watch my figure,” he said with a smile. She rolled her eyes she reaching to the well.
Tomas walked in a about four more “country” songs later. Could you call Taylor country anymore? Janice offered two more “howdy’s” to new patrons and the Catcher downed another diet and whiskey. He stopped spinning the half empty glass in his hands as his spine tightened up. Game time was close.
He took a drink, she made it strong but he’d had stronger. Usually alone with his thoughts and regrets.
Tomas dropped his jean jacket on the bar stool next to him revealing the cut off shirt with a faint farmer’s tan, he tipped his Cubs hat to the bartender.
“Janice, the usual.” She grunted and walked off. His spy said she and Tomas didn’t get along. “And a glass for my dip,” he shot out with a smile. Janice came back with the drink and a separate glass and slammed them on the bar top in front of Tomas.
He took a drink to curb the tension. He wouldn’t be able to relax till he got Tomas into the green room, it was more for the psychological effect than anything else.
The old man seemed to be the only one Janice liked, she walked over to him gave him another bottle of beer. She made a loud laugh looking at the girls dancing, they drew all the attention in the bar. Tomas turned around and started watching the girls, he left his drink on the bar.
“Nice view,” Tomas said, arms spread like plucked chicken wings. He nodded, keep up the part, dancing girls in a dead bar, any straight guy had to stare.
Tomas spit up his spew in the empty glass and rolled up his black t-shirt sleeves. He twisted from the bar and walked toward the girls trying to show off his pasty arms. It was time.
A dumb kid, little family, few friends, Tomas came from a small town in northern Illinois. Few would miss him.
The slowly took the vial of animal tranquilizer from his pocket. Unscrewing the little plunger, he pulled out the dripper and glanced around, no one was watching him. Thank you girls. A single drop.
He left twelve dollars under his empty glass. Five per drink and a tip, not a huge amount or a small amount, enough to not be memorable. He flipped on his Brewer’s cap backwards and walked out of the door.
The Catcher sat in his Jeep watching. He checked the tranq gun and Taser, both in working order… just in case. He took a swig of an energy drink and waited. Car’s flashed their lights passed him for almost twenty minutes. He tried to stay calm, every minute seemed like an hour.
Like the Catcher, Tomas would have no chance with the girls, though he was a disgusting human being. A week or so earlier he was drunk trying to love up on Janice, the words he said were less than flattering.
It started with a bang, getting louder he could make out Janice’s raised voice. Other screams and furious yells. The screen door sprang open and bounced shut. With the slightly obscured view from his seat, he could see Tomas, on his back in the middle of the gravel lot staring at the stars just waiting to get run over.
“It would be easier,” he said quietly.
He pulled the Jeep out of its space. The headlights flashed on Tomas who was trying to stand using the bumper of the Celica as a prop. Unsure on his feet, the drug was working.
He pulled the car up next to Tomas and rolled down the crank window, “want a ride?” he said.
“A drink.” He hiccupped, the Catcher opened the passenger seat and Tomas fell inside.
“Sure thing,” he said. Tomas laid his head against the door and closed his eyes.
Chapter 9
A breath of fresh air snuck in to Eddie’s cell from a crack in the wall. He rubbed the rough brick. A sharp pain filled his hand as a drop of blood rolled down his hand. He stuck his finger in his mouth and took in the air from somewhere outside his prison.
The ammonia smell when he pulled back smothered him. His arms were heavy, his body felt completely weak. How would he fight? If Skitter was even telling the truth. He closed his eyes and put his lips on the concrete.
“Skitter?” Eddie said, not sure his old friend would hear him, not sure he even wanted to be heard. The little guy that would follow him all over the place was starting to scare him
Somehow there was comfort in his own voice. His mind went to the lake, fresh water and air… but the damned bugs disgusting, jumping toward his mouth, buzzing in his ears. The buzzing became stronger, louder, it wasn’t in his head. Eddie took another breath as his heart pounded.
A click of static then it came. “Good afternoon you beasts,” the voice was insulting as it came through a speaker just above his head… it’s afternoon? “Time for our main event.”
Eddie kept his eyes shut and shook his head, it seemed too much like a nightmare. “Skitter, our reigning champion, and our new challenger Eddie “E” Jefferson.”
“Suck these,” Skitter yelled. Eddie opened his eyes and looked behind him. Through the bars, the lights started to grow brighter.
“Time to show your worth.” The voice said. He moved himself back to look at his hole… less than a half an inch but he could see something through. Metal maybe? It was a false hope of freedom. A torture.
A loud clank of metal sounded behind, just like in jail. The cell door was unlocked.
Eddie turned around again. The area reminded him of an empty storage room or basement. His old friend appeared in the door, though not looking like the Skitter he knew.
“Hey man” E said.
“Come on E, time to die.” Skitter said, his hair was matted with crusty blood, he looked like he lost fifty pounds and was wirier then he’d ever been. There was a deep black cut under his right eye that could use nurse Molly’s expertise. Skitter started to jump back and forth like a boxer getting ready for a brawl.
“The rules are simple E,” the voice said, “fight until one of you is no longer breathing.”
“Gotta do it E,” Skitter said, “it’s your shit that got us here.” Eddie took a step, then another, he grabbed the bars of the door and pushed it open. He looked toward the mirror, not two large, but big enough to use as a two way. His captor was behind there.
“Skitter, E, it’s go time.”
“Fu...” Eddie yelled as Skitter leaped at him. He tried to put out his hand in the stop gesture. Skitter’s shoulder dropped quickly and before he knew what happened, it crashed into his stomach and Eddie was on his back.
Skitter’s fists started to drop, Eddie lifted his arms to block. Skitter was fast, his boney knuckles were like iron, beating every inch of Eddie’s arms. In a quick move, Eddie twisted his body and easily threw his ‘friend’ off. He was surprised by how little Skitter weighed, Eddie was in for a heck of a diet… if he lived.
His instincts reacted quicker this time when Skitter popped to his feet. Eddie blocked a quick succession of hooks and crosses then threw out a kick. Skitter tried to move but it caught him in the side of the gut. Skitter grunted and spun but it barely threw him off balance. Eddie took a few steps back, he felt the wall at his heel. He put a hand back and felt the mirror. Skitter started to throw his fists at Eddie, two forearm blocks and he ducked. A third fist skidded off the top of his head and hit the glass.
A crunch, crack and scream. Skitter side stepped and through his other fist. Eddie moved to the side and grabbed the wrist. This wasn’t going to end well for their friendship.
He took the arm and twisted it behind Skitter’s back, using his elbow he slammed it into his head. Skitter face planted into the glass.
Eddie held the arm behind his back with one hand and started punching his kidneys. Skitter was grunting, he couldn’t move. Eddie had him. He saw a small tear roll down Skitter’s face before his eyes rolled into his head. Eddie lowered his friend to the ground, resting his back against the wall.
“End him,” the voice boomed. Skitter’s eyes fluttered open, his head swayed as he looked up at Eddie. More tears and Skitter’s jaw quaked.
&nb
sp; “Finish it E,” Skitter said. Eddie stepped back, he wouldn’t do this.
“I don’t need food,” he said to the mirror, “I ain’t killing my friend, I ain’t a murder.” He flipped off the mirror and started toward his cell. His feet dragging across the ground.
Then he heard the running, four pounding steps rushing toward him. He turned around just in time to have a right cross smash beneath his left eye. Eddie spun and blindly swung his right arm out. He felt Skitter’s face smash against his forearm. When he looked he couldn’t see Skitter. He spun in a circle then saw him.
Skitter was lying on his side inches from his cell’s metal door. Blood dripped down the corner of the door. He took a step closer and saw blood pouring from Skitter’s head, it was cracked.
He walked over to him and used his foot to push him onto his back. Skitter’s eyes were wide open, he wasn’t breathing.
“Skitter?” he said, “Darnell,” Eddie swallowed. He dropped down to his knees and looked at the body. “Why you do that homes?”
Metal scrapped and squealed. He looked to the sound and saw a door, steel with rivets, like solitary open. Eddie watched the man walk in, a knit cap and a thin face. It was the guy who shot him.
“Damn cracker, that was my best friend.” E screamed. The man’s eyes glowed in the light, he crossed his arms.
“Was that fun for you?” A smile crossed his face.
“Why am I here?”
“You’re here,” the man said, his voice less deep in person, “because you and your friend murdered an eleven-year-old golden retriever.”
“What dog.”
“And then there’s the dog fighting,” his voice was steady, like a jackhammer constantly beating.
“Dog’s don’t mean shit, they ain’t human.” His captor reached behind his back and brought out a large handgun. The type Carlito liked.
“You know what this will do? It’ll make such a hole in your head you’d be unrecognizable to any and every one who’d ever met you.”