by Matt Minor
About ten minutes into the second quarter, I have to take a piss. Plus, I’m getting a little hungry.
“Hey, I need to go to the restroom. I was thinking about snagging something at the concession. Want anything?”
“Uh, sure…how about one of those pizzas?”
“Pizza it is.”
As I approach the bathrooms I think, you know this place is filled with tailgaters because it’s not even halftime and already there are several ridiculous lines to the men’s restroom. It’s a cluster of agitated dudes with full bladders. When my turn comes up I hit the urinal in a mad dash.
I’m standing, taking care of business, when from the corner of my eye one guy flushes and vacates, then another steps up. Though my vision is all peripheral, this dude looks familiar. Not wanting to be weird, I refrain from staring right at him, but roll my eyes to the left as far as my sockets allow.
Holy shit! It’s Spider Monkey!
He finishes quickly and turns to his left to leave.
I don’t think he recognized me.
I zip up and forgo washing my hands. I want to follow this guy. He’s moving.
I exit the men’s room and begin jerking my head frantically in every direction, trying to locate his shaved head.
I see him!
I’m pacing quickly through the concession area, waving in and out of patrons. I’m almost within a comfortable shadowing range when an army of whistles blow in unison. It’s the end of the first half. The seats empty and the byways flood with bodies.
I’ve lost Spider Monkey.
I saunter back to where Brenna and I are seated. She looks at me both bewildered and a little irritated. “Uh, Mason, did you forget the pizzas?”
“Yeah, I think I did,” I answer, a little confused.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE MAN WITH THE FLICKERING TONGUE
Again I was distracted.
Was that all Brenna was, an escape? Certainly not, but in a way…she was.
A fear was eating me as Sunday drew to a close. I had no change of clothes—hell, I wore what I wore Friday through the weekend.
But I knew if she asked if I wanted to stay the night again—and of course I did—I’d say yes.
Still…I was distracted. And the same affliction that plagued our love-making previously, reared itself again. And again, I was able to overcome it. But I was beginning to get concerned.
That Monday morning was all hustle and bustle. We kissed and parted.
Tuesday morning is brutal. I try to eat, but can’t.
My phone pings. Unknown, but I know it’s Rusty, from one of his numerous revolving cell phone numbers. I thought he hated texting.
Get your head on straight and your shit together. Tonight we go in.
I text back: Right.
It’s around 7:30 p.m. I’ve been distracted all day and have not accomplished much at the D.O. I look up and see that the sun is setting earlier (thank God).
My cell, which has remained silent all day, startles me from my computer trance.
“I’m on my way,” Rusty belts out into my ear.
“I was expecting you to call sooner. So what’s the game plan?” I’m suddenly infused with nervous life.
“The game plan is we take your car. My guess is these people have already run your plates. They know who you are and where you live.”
“Do they know what I do—who I work for?”
“Probably not. If they did they would probably have ceased their relationship with you. By what you’ve told me before, this Spider Monkey fellow seems to believe your story. You’ve brought dope from him twice now. That’s your cover. Believe me…you don’t come across like a cop.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“If it’s a trap, then we’re dead. It’s that simple. You do understand that, Mason…right?”
A silence falls between us filled only by the subtle boiling of the Pontiac’s engine in the background.
“Yeah, I understand.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll pick this discussion up when we get to our sports bar.”
“Good. There’s something I need to tell you.”
I walk in and glance over at Rusty. Gaudy neon greens and reds throb around his head. I go over so we can council prior to our mission.
“So what’s it you need to tell me?” He asks as I sit down.
“My girlfriend and I went to the Texans opener this past Sunday, and…well, maybe it’s nothing…but…”
“What happened?”
“I was taking a piss and next to me, in the other urinal, was Spider Monkey!”
“Okay.”
Why is Rusty unmoved by this? “You don’t think that’s strange?”
“Why? Drug dealers like football too. Besides, he’s the public relations man, as far as I can tell, for a regional crime ring…they handle gambling too, hence tonight.”
“Right.” I’m kinda disappointed. I thought it meant something.
“How did you get the tickets? Did you purchase them?”
“No. My boss gave them to me.”
“Representative Crane?”
“Of course.”
“Did he buy them?”
“No, he said a client gave them to him.”
“Who was the client?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Well, you should ask. Probably nothing, but we should know.”
We order a couple of sodas, and then Rusty excuses himself to the restroom. While he’s gone I start to feel the wasp nest rattle awake. I’m staring into nothingness with a feeling of foreboding when he returns.
“Are you alright?” he asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I’m seeing the future.”
“You sure you can handle this? It’s not too late to back out.”
“What is our objective?”
“Get inside. See what’s going on. Find what we’re looking for.”
“What are we looking for?”
“I won’t know that until I see it.”
“Until you see it?” Does this guy really know what he’s doing? I wonder.
“Look, the only reason you’re even going is because you’re my ‘in,’ it’s that simple. If there was any other way for me to get access, I would do it, and you’d be out.”
“You can’t say you’re into dog fighting? I mean how else do they get customers?”
“Maybe, but if these goons are part of something larger… something that killed Jules and maybe Harry Spencer…and several others…then they might know who I am. In effect, I would be delivering myself into their hands.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
“Kill that Sprite. It’s game time, Mason.”
The drive out to the Old Adobe is grave. Rusty removes a pistol from his satchel and checks several clips to see if they’re full.
“A .45. You’re not going to try and bring that in, are you?” I ask, swallowing hard.
“Fuck no! I’m leaving it under this seat, or better in one of your wheel wells. We might need it. That is if we can make it to your car in time.”
“In time?”
“In time.”
I exit the Expedition off the highway and we begin the long descent into the underworld. The gate that barricaded the road previously is now wide open. No one is manning it. I pull in. My headlights spot a row of several cars behind the Adobe’s back wall. Again, there is no one directing traffic. A subtle glow emanates from inside the walls. A glow that is not visible from the front.
“I guess this is where I park?” I ask Rusty. Like he’s supposed to know.
“Yes, park. But back in beside this Caddie. In case we have to bolt,” he orders.
Of course he knows. We’ve both been here before. This dawns on me as we exit the Expedition.
“We need to play dumb,” I say.
“Just act natural, Mason,” Rusty scoffs. “Someone wil
l appear shortly.”
“Eh hombres!” a Hispanic voice calls from the direction of the structure.
“What did I tell you?” Rusty says definitively.
“Over here!” the voice instructs. The outline of a man shining a flashlight becomes suddenly visible. He is standing at the back entrance of the Adobe. The very same medieval entrance I passed through on my virgin visit.
The ground is a little firmer, as there has recently been little rain. But the grass and weeds are thick and knotted. Our shoes kick up thirsty wads of mosquitoes.
“Name and password,” the figure demands as he shines his flashlight into both our eyes. With the other hand he pats us down. He takes our cell phones and places them on a tiny table.
“I’m Dixon, this is Bryant; password: Rover.”
“Okay,” he says with a sadistic chuckle. “You’re clear. Go in.”
The weeds and grass that impeded my previous entry have been neatly trimmed. The Old Adobe swallows us like a whale. We are met by a collection of small spotlights on short stands pitched into the dirt as soon as we step inside.
“Mason!” A familiar voice calls from within this halogen glow. A bald head eclipses the phosphorescent haze. He takes form.
“Spider Monkey!” I announce upon recognition. I’m shaken. Rusty can tell because he taps me in the ribs.
“How the hell are you, man, and who is this?” Spider Monkey asks, offering his hand in greeting to both of us.
“This is my Uncle Howard.”
“Right, I remember. Dude, anybody ever told you, you’re the spitting image of Bear Bryant?”
“All the time,” Rusty replies with a steely smile.
He has not yet let go of Spider Monkey’s hand. They’re looking each other in the eyes like it’s a contest for who has the biggest dick.
“So where are the dogs?” I inquire, desperate to interrupt this tense introduction.
“The dogs!” Spider Monkey declares as he forcibly breaks off from Rusty’s intimidating grip. “Of course, come on back.” He guides us into the fog of light. “I guess I don’t need to explain to you how this works, Mason, as I know you’re an enthusiast. We’ve got six dogs and three fights tonight. We’ve got a total of thirteen bets, four of which are here to watch the show. And what a fuckin’ show it should be!” he says excitedly as he stuffs a cigarette into his mouth. “They brought in a beast from The Valley, motherfucker’s name is Firewater.”
“What does that mean…exactly?” No sooner have the words left my lips when I start to think: I sound like an amateur, or worse…a beginner.
“Slobber and blood, man, slobber and blood! Like I said, a fuckin’ beast! We got some beers on ice inside,” he says, pointing towards the front. “Gettin’ started here shortly. You fellas just chill and enjoy the show!”
Spider Monkey vanishes into the spotlights, leaving Rusty and me to contemplate our surroundings. The fight ring is simple: a slight dugout maybe twenty feet in diameter, enclosed by a shoddy wooden fence. It’s in the center of the Adobe’s courtyard.
We spot only two patrons, a black guy in grimy overalls and a white guy with a dirty cowboy hat on. The two stand quietly along the ring’s perimeter, talking. Neither appears financially capable of underwriting participation. Maybe the minimum buy-in is relative.
Rusty and I head up towards the front where the beer is.
“You sure it’s a good idea to drink alcohol?” I ask him as we enter into the same hallway complex where I discovered the surveillance room.
“I said act natural,” he snaps under his breath. “Goddamn, Mason, you don’t have to drink the whole thing, just sip it.”
Only one door is open and it’s well lit. A giant rectangular cooler sits prostate towards the back. The walls of this room are littered with graphic pictures from skin mags—and I mean fuckin’ graphic! As I peer around, making my observation, a stranger appears. He is wearing a pair of slacks and a black collared shirt, he is better dressed than the previous bunch.
“Dick ain’t getting’ hard is it?” he asks with a crooked-toothed grin. He lifts the cooler door and reaches down, pulling out a frost-covered Coors.
“Uh, no…I’m just checkin’ the place out,” I answer. I’m really weirded out.
“Gotta love it! Gotta love it!” he laughs. This guy’s teeth are horrible.
Instead of blowing his cash on dog fights, maybe he should use it towards a dentist. Rusty remains silent—deep in thought— studying every detail (and I don’t mean the dirty pictures).
“That looks refreshing,” he finally says. “Nephew, grab me one of those.”
“Yes, Uncle Howard,” I obey. He loves to give orders.
The three of us stand over the cooler, sipping our brews in silence. Strange.
“Well,” the snaggletoothed tripper interjects, “Gettin’ about that time.”
Rusty signals me with a nod of his head, and we follow the creep out into the courtyard.
If I wasn’t freaked out already, the ritual to get these dogs ready to fight is over the top. The two losers I described earlier, the black farmer and the white cowboy, have just dragged their respective cages to the ring (cages similar to the ones I saw during my initial invasion). They have no visibility whatsoever, only a skinny slot with which to view the contents.
The cages are on opposite sides of the ring. The fence has been removed on both sides so to create dual entries. Both the farmer and the cowboy are squatted down before their respective cages. They slide open their cages’ slots. Both men start making strange noises. The black farmer is making high-pitched yaps. These yaps remind me of the sounds coyotes make in the wild, at dusk, when the pack is rallying for the hunt. The white cowboy is more subtle, and I can barely hear what he is doing. Rusty nudges me to move in closer. What I hear is the white cowboy flicking his tongue, snapping it against the roof of his mouth. It resembles a rattle snake.
Both men close their respective skinny slots.
Both men rise, and move themselves to the back of their cages. Both men lean over their cages, and…with a lift of a gate…
The two dogs dart out and collide in the middle of the ring. The black farmer’s dog is white and is immediately getting his ass kicked.
“Get in there!” the farmer yells at the struggling pit bull.
“That’s right, boy!” the cowboy counters.
The two dogs’ jaws are locked onto one another. As a single heap they gyrate like some constantly flipping yen and yang.
“That’s right, boy, get’em on his back!” the cowboy yells.
I can’t watch this. But I don’t want to look like a pussy. The cheers of enthusiasm from the small crowd make me both sick and infuriated.
“Alright!” Spider Monkey intervenes. “Victory to Blackie! Call ‘em back now!” he directs the white cowboy. With a few hand claps, the black pit turns from his savage meal, returning docile to his cage. “Get this pitiful fuck outta here!” Spider Monkey orders the black farmer.
“Come on, boy,” the farmer laments as he pulls the dog from the ring.
“Take it out in the woods and finish it!” Spider Monkey demands. “Pedro, at the gate, has a pistol!”
“I’d like to watch that,” Rusty says to Spider Monkey.
What the fuck is he doing?
“Well alright, Big Bad Bear,” Spider Monkey approves. “By the way, man, I love the Crimson Tide…fuckin’ luv ‘em!”
Rusty leaves with the black farmer.
I’m left standing alone—in shock. I down my beer in a few swills. I need a cigarette. Like an idiot I neglected to get any before our arrival.
“Hey, man,” I turn to address the snaggletoothed tripper. “Can I borrow one of your smokes?”
“Sure, kid…no problem,” he pulls a soft pack from his pant pocket. “Out of the batter’s box, and up to bat,” he says as he offers me a light.
What is it that we are trying to accomplish here?
Two taut pops are heard from t
he woods behind us. Half my cigarette is a cherry. I’m starting to feel…starting to feel…starting to feel…sick. I’ve got to get my shit together. I can’t let any of these freaks know I find this repulsive. But the puddle of blood in the middle of the ring…and where the fuck is Rusty?
“You alright there, Mason?” Spider Monkey, suddenly right behind me, asks from out of nowhere. He places his hand on my shoulder, like a consoling friend.
“Uh, yeah…I’m cool. Just need to go to the bathroom. Where do you go around here, anyway?”
“You know where y’all grabbed the brews? It’s the next door down the corridor.”
Luckily, I don’t puke, but stand in the stall bracing myself against the partition for what seems like an hour but is only ten minutes.
I go back to the arena. Another fight has ensued and Rusty has returned. He’s acting strangely aloof. Several other patrons and enthusiasts have arrived during my absence.
This fight lasts a little longer than the previous one, but is over in just a few minutes. The snaggletooth tripper takes care of business this time.
“Now for the big event!” Spider Monkey declares. “Fang versus Firewater!”
The white cowboy has returned, apparently in charge of Firewater. Another black guy is in charge of Fang.
These sick freaks sit around and come up with names for these pathetic animals like they’re color swatches at the paint store.
The cowboy and the new black guy position their cages. Spider Monkey enters the ring. All present are now loitering eagerly around the fence. Spider Monkey addresses everyone, “So for everyone’s amusement this evening, we got a special treat. We’ve all heard of Firewater, undefeated in The Valley. But, did you know that Fang is the champion over in Louisiana? And here’s the bonus…neither have eaten in five days…they’re starving!”
Rusty stands across from me on the other side of the ring. He flashes me a look cold as ice. I’m starting to feel queasy again.
Then I spot him. He’s busy doing something up front near the corridor. I can’t tell if he’s on the phone or what…but it’s definitely him. Spider Monkey is going over the terms of the bet, but I’m not listening. So many things are racing around in my head that I can’t focus on what’s about to happen right in front of me.