They turned the cat loose in the auction yard floor, and kicked the dogs into the cage, one at a time. At first, the cat ignored the dogs, pacing constantly and hissing once in a while. The dogs were smart enough to avoid the cat. But when all six dogs were finally in the pit with the lioness, Sturm got impatient and had Chuck hose the lioness with pepper spray while Jack jabbed at the dogs with a pitchfork.
It didn’t take long. Sturm had been right. The lioness went through all six dogs like a swather through a wheat field, leaving the floor stained with blood. The little dog was smart enough to stay well behind the bigger dogs, but the lioness snaked through air like some kind terrible eel, snapping and lunging, tearing the guts out of clumsy flounders, until only the little dog was left. It circled the floor, looking for any kind of break in the fence. The lioness didn’t hesitate and crushed the dog’s skull like Petunia had done to Mr. Noe’s dog.
* * * * *
Sturm sat down on the lowest bench and asked, “Think we can it make it happen in four? I want these fuckers betting, understand? I don’t want it to be obvious.”
Frank scratched his head. “Depends on the dogs. What’s she fighting?”
“Mostly pits. Retired fighters. Old champions. Owners who want to see their dog go out in style. Maybe a few Dobermans, one or two Shepards. Guy might be bringing a goddamn Mastiff.”
Frank shrugged. “They’re gonna have to be tough. I mean, real tough. This one, she’s a fighter. She’ll kill the first few easy. After that…I don’t know. Hard to say.”
“Well, you just do your best. But hell, that’s just tomorrow night. We’re gonna make our real money the night after. Tomorrow night is just a taste, something to whet their appetite. I want all these dipshits to drive back down to Reno or wherever the hell they’re flying into, and I want these boys to call as many as these rich fuckers they know, and have ’em bring as much cash as they can carry. We’ll get three, maybe four solid days out of it. Maybe more. Depends if a few calls I made earlier today work out.”
“Cats fighting dogs?”
Sturm spit. “No. That’s just the opening round. I want to see what two, maybe three of these cats would do when they face that Kodiak.”
DAY THIRTY-ONE
The next morning, Frank found pieces of Asshole #1 stacked neatly inside the freezer. The clothing had been removed. Asshole #1’s head stared up at him from inside a plastic freezer bag. His mouth was open, eyes almost shut, as if caught in the middle of a sneeze.
He’d been shot in the right side of the head, leaving a crumpled hole the size of a bottlecap in the left temple. Pine told Frank all about it; he’d been hiding in the backseat of the Escalade with a nine millimeter Smith and Wesson semi-auto, and was planning on just putting the gun to Asshole #1’s head, telling him to just drive slow and easy out of town, but Asshole #1 took off before Pine could get up off the floor. So Pine waited. He didn’t want to shoot the dumbshit and be stuck in an out-of-control SUV. Asshole #1 slowed and stopped at the mouth of the driveway; he couldn’t remember which way to turn on the highway to get out of town, and was halfway through stabbing at the onboard GPS when something spooked him. Instead of just picking a direction and getting as far as he could, he went for the cell phone. Soon as he flipped it open, Pine simply sat up, jammed the barrel against the Asshole’s right ear, and fired.
Pine and Chuck hid the SUV in a barn and were thoughtful enough to butcher the body for Frank, leaving it in easy to handle pieces. Feeding Asshole #1 to the lionesses put him in good mood all day.
* * * * *
It was going to be a long couple of days so he took a nap around noon. Afterwards, his head felt clear, clean. He sat in the yard a while with a few beers on ice. When the shadow of the tree had completely crawled off onto the lawn and onto the building, leaving him squinting and sweating in the sun, he took a shower, put on a clean shirt, got his shotgun, climbed into the long black car, and drove to the auction yard.
* * * * *
He parked in the back, next to the clowns’ trailer, and kicked his way through empty beer cans to the back door. Hunters had been gathering all day, drinking, smoking, gambling, and shooting. Now, around three in the afternoon, everyone was huddled in whatever shade they could find, sitting at the picnic table under the trailer awning or slumped against the tires of their trucks. Out in the fields, a couple of men were tossing beer cans into the air and blasting away with antique shotguns.
A high, whining sound, like a tooth being filed down with a power sander, grew as four of the Glouck boys flew into the parking lot on their ATVs. Ice chests were strapped to the back end of the first three ATVs, full of cold sandwiches and colder beer. The fourth carried a little gas grill to reheat burritos and cook plump, oblong balls of aluminum foil. They set up shop in the corner of the highway and the auction yard driveway and sold out of the aluminum balls in fifteen minutes.
These little footballs, slightly larger than a brick and nearly as heavy, had been named “Campfire Surprise.” Frank had been reluctant to try any, but the hunters loved ’em. Basically, they were filled with leftover meat, raw potatoes, onions, garlic, plenty of butter and spices, some frozen peas and corn; you buried one in the embers of a dying fire for a half an hour to forty-five minutes, then slapped some sour cream and hot sauce on top and dug in.
New men had brought dogs all day, keeping to themselves in the southeastern corner of the parking lot. They were young, younger than Frank, and drove low, flashy cars. They kept their dogs in the cars, letting them out one at a time to sniff the others’ urine and shit and leave their own contribution to the party. The dogs, mostly pit bulls, were beat all to hell. Scars everywhere. Over half only had one eye. Entire jowls were missing, leaving the teeth and gums and sometimes the bottom of nasal passages permanently exposed. Southern Comfort and blunts were handed around.
Chuck had been letting them lock up their dogs in individual stalls. Frank went inside and counted twenty-nine dogs. Sturm was very particular about who he let into town, and imposed a fairly strict guest rule, so there weren’t many more men than dogs.
Frank gave all the dogs water. He let the owners feed their dogs if they wanted, then pushed everyone back outside and locked the door behind them. He got his clipboard and went to work.
* * * * *
Around six, the lot was half full. Combined with the dog owners, Frank guessed the audience would be around fifty, maybe sixty men.
Sturm pulled into the parking lot, got out, took a look at the trash and shook his head. “Hey!” he called over the cluster of three Glouck boys, up on the bank of the highway, sitting on their ice chests. They glanced at Sturm and ignored him, clearly on their own time.
Sturm’s pumpkin face of a scar bobbed as he yelled across twenty-five yards of gravel, “Okay. You’re young, so you get one more chance. I expect you to be down here in three seconds. One.”
One Glouck kid smirked at his brothers. One spit. The third, Gun, picked at a scab on his knee.
Sturm slammed the backrest of his truck’s seat forward into the steering wheel. The rifles were tucked neatly away behind the bench seat. He grabbed his 30.06, wrapped his left forearm around the leather sling and pulled it snug into his shoulder. Frank had enough time to crack open a beer before Sturm squeezed the trigger.
The lower half of Gun’s ice chest exploded and he fell backwards into the cloud of dust, plastic, ice, and water. The other two didn’t waste time getting up. They took a look at their nine-year old brother, each other, then the ground, and came trotting over. Gun swore viciously under his breath in at least two or three languages and followed his brothers.