Dogfight, A Love Story

by Matt Burgess

  At the entrance to the bodega, the two guys split up. The white guy continues down the block, while the big black guy goes around, as the others had done before him, to the back of the store. Neither holds much interest for Lopez, because neither drags Ramsaran’s dog on a leash.

  “I’m almost sure those guys had guns,” Hutchison says.

  “Just so I got this straight,” Wright says. “We’re trying not to make collars tonight?”

  “I want an empanada,” Hutchison says. “Does anyone else want an empanada?”

  “Hey, Lopez,” Wright says. He rattles the headrest in front of him. Anti-Crime cops are not designed to be this still for this long. “Are you sleeping up there? Have you fallen asleep?”

  “I’m awake,” Lopez says.

  “Oh thank God,” Wright says. “Can you run the plan past me again? Because I’m confused. We wait here all night, yeah? That’s the plan? We wait here and do nothing? Jesus fucking Christ, Lopez. Give up. Your little spic friend ain’t coming back out.”

  “He’ll come,” Lopez says. He presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth to keep his teeth from grinding. “Any minute now.”

  The men in Max Marshmallow’s basement look up. They hear a creaking, a groaning, the floorboards’ lament, and like the basement dwellers in Samson’s palace, each of these men fears the ceiling will come crashing down on top of their heads. Eyeballs nervously check exits. K-Lo, nearest the ladder, rests an uneasy hand on a rung. If anything happens, he’ll climb up to the metal cellar doors, push them open, and escape out onto the sidewalk. Jossie and Paulie Guns and Virgin Light all retreat from the center of the basement and press their backs against the walls. The more paranoid—Alfredo among them—foresee rubble and rescue workers. The more dimwitted—Soft-Core Jonas among them—assume the sagging weight belongs to the Batistas’ dog, a gargantuan, three-headed beast. Only Diana seems unaffected. As the ceiling groans, she paces inside her ring, her ears pressed neatly to the top of her head. She knows that whoever’s coming down these stairs ain’t got no quarrel with her.

  “Look at all these beautiful faces,” Baka says. He fills the stairway, poses as if someone were taking his picture. “What’s going on? The big dogfight hasn’t started yet? I’m not too late?”

  “Not at all,” Alfredo says as he picks his way through the people in front of him. This is his party and no matter who crashes the gate, he will act the gracious host. He wishes he had a Dutch to give him, fresh off the welcome wagon. He wishes Baka had a coat he could take and hang up on two hangers. “You’re here just on time. We waited for you, matter of fact.”

  “How you doing? You doing good? Hanging in there?” Hands in pockets, Baka looks over Alfredo’s head, scanning the room. “Where’s your brother at?”

  “You come all by yourself?” Alfredo says.

  “You mean did I bring Pierre? Pierre of the busted grill? He’s at home, thanks for asking. He’s recuperating. He got himself hit—did I tell you this yet?—he got himself hit in the mouth with a bowling ball.”

  “Well,” Alfredo says, “those things do happen.” With a possessive, guiding hand, he steers Baka ringside, toward the cardboard boxes. A VIP view for a VIP guest. Not that there’s much to see. A basement full of goons, smoking Dutches, drinking beers, eating candy bars, quoting from The Big Lebowski, and arguing, always arguing, about whatever binary they can think of: McDonald’s/Burger King, Nas/Jay-Z, Shaq/Kobe, Marty/Dceve, Ron Jeremy/Peter North, the handball courts on Eighty-fifth vs. the handball courts at Travers Park. Alfredo looks around. K-Lo still lingers by the ladder, Sean Lau by the stairs. Lee, who came all the way out here from Staten Island, stands alone with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Rick Sprinkle tells a story no one is listening to; Forest Hills David picks up an empty shoebox off the card table and stares into it with a professional interest; Jonas looks like he’s asleep on his feet. The only one who actually seems to be enjoying himself is Winston. The perfect cocktail party host, he works the room with a smile on his face, moving from clique to clique, making sure the awkward have fresh cans of beer to stare into. Since getting his own can knocked out of his hand, Winston has gotten another, which he seems to be spitting into instead of drinking from, as if every sip were being shown to Alfredo in reverse. That’s weird. Alfredo looks into the ring to see if the dog is walking backward, growing younger—but nope, not at all. She’s moving toward Baka. She trots over to his corner of the ring, where she deigns to sniff the fingers of his outstretched hand. Without a functioning adrenal system, Baka doesn’t emit any fraidy-cat pheromones; there’s no fear wafting off his considerable body, nothing that might antagonize the dog.

  “A beautiful animal,” Baka says, and Diana dips her head with false modesty.

  “She sure is,” Alfredo says. He watches jealously as Baka scratches behind her ears.

  “And where’s the pit bull at?” Baka says. “Or did this fine bitch eat him already?”

  “Ha ha. No, no. Not yet, at least. The other dog’s with my brother.”

  “Ah,” Baka says. He frowns, looking more like a lion than ever. “And this is where I ask you again, like a fool, ‘Where’s your brother at?’ And then you say, ‘He’s with the other dog.’ And then I say, because I’m still such a fool, ‘Okay, where’s the dog at?’ And then you say …”

  Alfredo is deciding how hard to laugh at this when he hears someone coming down the stairs behind him. He spins around, goes up on his tiptoes. But it’s only Max, easing himself down by the handrail. Alfredo feels strangely disappointed. With Baka having just shown up, Alfredo hoped Mike Shifrin might follow, poisoned dagger in hand; it would confirm the ingenuity of his brother’s plan, and by extension, just like the E-beeper, Alfredo’s ingenuity in figuring it out. Fuck it. If Shifrin isn’t going to show up on his own, then Alfredo will make him appear.

  “Ha ha,” Alfredo says as Baka continues to outline the Möbius strip of their hypothetical conversation. “You know what? Lemme borrow your phone and I’ll call my brother up. See where he’s at.”

  “What’s wrong with your phone?”

  “Juiceless,” he says, patting his pocket. “I forgot to charge it last night.”

  Baka glowers at Alfredo, as if annoyed that he can’t think of a good enough reason to turn down so simple a request. “Hurry that shit up,” he says, handing Alfredo the phone. “I’m running low on minutes.”

  Alfredo hits the big green Talk button, and up pops a list of Baka’s most recent outgoing calls. The screen is labeled History, as if this were a prime source document, yellowed at the edges. There are some names scattered in there—Amery, Jim, Pierre, Zach—but Alfredo isn’t interested in any of them. Paranoid Baka would never enter a business associate’s name into his cell, just as Paranoid Alfredo never saved Baka’s name to his own contact list. He scrolls through the list, looking for untagged numbers. Working quickly, he keeps the phone close to his chest, as if it were a half-decent poker hand. When he sees a number he likes the looks of—it’s got a preponderance of fours, his father’s lucky number—he dials it, knowing the call will never go through. Like a Podunk town in the Bible Belt, Baka’s phone has no bars. The basement is a receptionless dead zone, but Alfredo presses the phone to his ear anyway. He’s a pro at this by now. When, just as expected, the call fails to connect, Alfredo clicks the cell shut and hands it back to Baka.

  “No dice?” Baka says.

  “No service.” Alfredo shrugs, as if to indicate he doesn’t hold this against him. “You want something to drink? A Yoo-hoo or something?”

  Instead of answering, Baka looks over Alfredo’s shoulder, where a rumpus begins to take shape. Max Marshmallow is clawing at Forest Hills David’s elbow, while David, his face contorted by a helpless smile, tries pulling his arm away. A marshmallow falls out of Max’s mouth. It sits sticky and gooey on the basement floor, a white dented pillow. Mouth open, breathing heavy, Max grabs at David’s wrist, and again David yanks his arm free. They play
this game—clutch, release, clutch, release—all the way over to Alfredo.

  “Yo, Dito,” David says. “Tell this geezer to watch his hands.”

  “I caught him,” Max says, his face red and pulsing. “I caught him. Going through boxes. Stealing.”

  “Check my pockets,” David says. He spreads his arms out wide, pinned to the cross. “Check my fucking pockets right now.”

  Thanks, but no thanks. Alfredo has already gotten into enough trouble going through other people’s pockets—or unclipping beepers from belts as the case may be. He looks instead for Sean Lau, the escort’s escort. He’s probably got a hooker in the backseat of his car right now, and Alfredo wants to broker a deal. If he buys Max a handjob—he’ll have to throw in a free Viagra, too—then maybe the old man will leave him alone for a few minutes. But Alfredo doesn’t see Sean anywhere. He’s gone back to work, it seems, snuck away without tendering regrets. Which is bad news for Alfredo’s party. Like a barfly stumbling out of the men’s room with toilet paper stuck to his shoe, Sean Lau has broken the seal. If anyone saw him go—That dude’s getting out of here, he’s giving up on the dogfight?—then his exit will only be the first of many.

  “You’re out of time,” Max says. He taps the face of his wristwatch. “Ten minutes later and I’ve got punk kids going through my merchandise.”

  “Man, fuck you,” David says.

  Max sighs, low and long-suffering. With only one marshmallow embedded in his cheek, his face seems lopsided, like a stroke victim’s. He is an old man, and Alfredo, fifty years his junior, is jealous. Jealous of the wrinkles and liver spots, the red-rimmed eyes, the purple veins on the tops of his hands, the set of falsies he soaks in warm water at night. Oh, Alfredo thinks, to live so long that teeth turn to powder in your mouth!

  Lee, who came all the way out here from Staten Island, claps Alfredo on the back and snaps him out of his reverie. “I think I’m gonna take off,” Lee says.

  “What? Already? Shit hasn’t even started yet.”

  Lee shrugs, too polite to say he did not drag his ass all the way out to Queens to smoke Dutches and listen to Rick Sprinkle’s stories. He came out here for the novelty of a dogfight, and that shit is looking increasingly improbable. If he leaves now and if he catches an E train right away, then he might make the 2:30 ferry back to Shaolin, might get home and be in bed before the sun comes up—Lee already swearing an oath, as many have sworn before, that never again will he make the trek out to Queens.

  “Good,” Max says. “Get out. Take your friends. You hear that, everybody? Dogfight’s canceled!”

  “Max,” Alfredo says. “Please.”

  “Please my ass,” Max whispers. “Don’t make a jerk out of me. This is my store we’re talking about. I live here. Understand what I mean? I’ll call the police if I have to.”

  Alfredo wants to grab Max by the shoulders and scream in his face. Forget about yourself for a second. Consider Winston’s safety. Consider Isabel, Christian Louis, the dry-bristled toothbrush waiting for me at home. Alfredo wants to duct-tape Max’s mouth so he’ll stop talking and Diana’s mouth so she can’t hurt anyone and the Hughes brothers’ eyes so Alfredo doesn’t have to look into them, and with any leftover tape he wants to bind Lee’s feet to keep him here, down in this basement, where Alfredo will whisper promises in his pink little ear. Sean left and now you’re gonna leave and then everyone else is gonna leave, but you can’t go, okay? I’m going to need you to listen to me very carefully: I’ll do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes to keep you people down here. I’ll tell jokes. I’ll swallow fire. I’ll spin plates, walk on my hands, juggle bowls full of goldfish.

  “Just hold up,” he tells Lee. “Stick around for a minute. I’ll make this right.”

  As the weathermen predicted, the rain arrives. Fat drops ping-ping the metal cellar doors. Alfredo takes off his shirt and tosses it to the floor, as if this were a bathroom shower, not a meteorological one. With his jeans slung low, two inches of his lucky boxer shorts are visible. Made out of silk, with little teddy bears on them, the boxers were a gift from Isabel, paid for with her video store wages. Alfredo worries that these cuddly bears—especially the one in a bow tie, licking an ice cream cone—will draw some ho snaps! from the eighteen thugs, criminals, and tough guys crowding Max Marshmallow’s basement, but on that score Alfredo is safe. No one looks at his boxers. They look instead at his bare-chested physique.

  “Goddamn, Alfredo,” Baka says. “You one outrageously skinny motherfucker.” At three-hundred-plus pounds, Baka might be a less than credible source, but his judgment represents the consensus. Most of the guys down here have never seen Alfredo with his shirt off, and for those who have, like Winston, it’s been a long, long time—circa tenth grade P.E. class. No one expected his ribs to jut out as much as they do. Nobody imagined his shoulders would be so narrow. “Do me a favor and turn sideways,” Baka says. “I wanna see if you disappear.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Alfredo says.

  The guys down here want to know if he’s half Puerto Rican, half Ethiopian, if his nipples touch, if he needs to run around in the shower to get wet, if there’s just one stripe on his pajamas, one belt loop on his pants. People do not usually play this game with Alfredo. He is too good at it, quick to snap back and unafraid of close-to-the-bone meanness. But tonight he ain’t interested.

  “Everyone get comfortable,” Alfredo says. He walks over to the makeshift ring, where Diana lies flat and still on the floor, the basement’s cool cement under her belly. Sweat rolls down the bars of Alfredo’s rib cage. He steps over a cardboard box, puts a tentative foot inside the ring. “I’m going to fight this dog.”

  “You’re going to fight our dog?” Alex says.

  Alfredo shrugs. “If that’s okay with you.”

  Bam-Bam’s eyebrows reach toward his hairline. On behalf of his brothers, both the living and the dead, he says, “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

  Diana stands up on wobbly legs. She yawns, and with her mouth swung open and her tongue uncurled, Alfredo can see deep inside her mouth, the dark corners, the fleshy punching bag at the back of her throat. He wishes he had his skull-crushing Timberlands instead of these tractionless bowling shoes. If he slips—it’ll probably be on some blood, probably his own—he’ll need to tuck his body into the fetal position, cover his neck with his fists, and wait for someone, anyone, to reach in and save him. Instead of looking at Alfredo, Diana watches the stairs, the way a jump shooter won’t look at the hoop until the very last moment. Her ears pitch straight up into the air. Her body goes rigid, the tail hooked over her back like a scorpion’s. Alfredo wants to call a time-out. He wants to step out of the ring, open up betting, buy himself a few extra minutes. He takes a peek behind him, plotting a possible escape route, and the dog charges. As she gallops toward him, he folds his body inward. He closes his eyes, covers his crotch with his hands, but Diana has already sailed past him. She claws at a cardboard box. She barks, again and again, and each time her head snaps forward and spit flies out of her mouth. The box tears open. Soup cans spill out all over Alfredo’s shoes, a chicken noodle jailbreak. Diana retreats, then charges again, throws her irate body against another column of boxes. Her fangs are bared. She wants out of this ring; sensing this, everyone backs away, except for Alfredo, who stands paralyzed right next to her, close enough to feel the heat of her breath. His hands still cover his crotch. Through the fabric of his jeans, he pinches the head of his penis, to remind himself that it’s still there. Diana’s barking grows louder. She screams, I’m down here you cunt, waiting for you, waiting all fucking night.

  Her challenge goes answered. No trick of acoustics. No thin echo down here. When Diana barks, she gets barks in return.

  Tariq walks down the stairs, a leash snapped taut in his hand. Fighting his way out of that leash is a dog, a pit bull, his eyes hot and enraged.

  Lee slides his MetroCard back into his wallet.

  Normally in an interrogation, or at least in the interro
gations Alfredo’s seen in the movies Isabel makes him watch, a long metal table separates the interrogator from the interrogee. Both parties sit in chairs, so that the interrogator, when frustrated, has something to throw against the wall. These chairs are usually cold and gray, in spirit if not in actuality. The room comes equipped with either a one-way mirror, streaked with grime, or a video camera, easily unplugged. These are the basics. Bonus features include blindfolds, polygraph needles, bright lights, tanks full of water, pinky-slicing shears, dental equipment, threats to one’s family, interrogees dangling out of open windows, and games of Russian roulette in which the bullet has been discreetly palmed. Unfortunately for Alfredo, this basement has no chairs, no windows, no lie detector, no mirror, either one-way or two, and, for obvious reasons, he can’t threaten Tariq’s family. Alfredo can only ask questions, and hope to receive truthful answers.

  “Where the fuck you been?”

  The dog whips his head back and forth, those creepy human eyes of his straining to get out. Tariq holds him by the collar, even sits on his back as if riding a mythological beast, but the dog pulls him forward anyway. They inch closer to Alfredo, closer to the German shepherd on the other side of the room.

  “Man oh man,” Tariq says, admiring his dog. “Look at how strong he is.”

  “Where,” Alfredo says, “have you been?”

  “I’m sorry,” Tariq says. “I can’t hear you. Can you come a little closer?”

  Alfredo stays where he’s at. He shouts to be heard over the barking.

  “Oh,” Tariq says. “I got you now. Where have I been? I been at home. With the fam. Right where you left me.”

  “You been at home,” Alfredo says. “This whole time.”

  “This whole time.”

  “And what have you been doing?”

  “Praying!” he says, as if to say, What else would I be doing? His pupils are dilated, as wide and dark as dirty old pennies. “I’ve been behind on my prayers today. All this running around.”