“Well then. That’s why you’re here. You’re the expert.”
“We’ll go in there, spend all night going to work on that bad boy if you want,” Pine said, always ready to hurt something. “Make sure it’ll fight good and hard.”
“No. Not this time. I got a feeling Doctor Doolittle here’s got a point.” Sturm gave a hint of a smile at Frank. “That’s why you’re gonna make that thing fight tomorrow. I got confidence in you, son,” Sturm said as he climbed into his truck. “See you gentlemen tomorrow.”
Nobody said anything to Frank. They looked at the horizon, mumbled excuses, and left. Frank drove back slowly, nursing his bottle. He didn’t see the point in hiding the long black car anymore, and left it outside in the parking lot at the vet hospital.
He stood for a long time in front of the sink. He got down on his knees and pulled the baggie free. It came loose with the sensation of pulling a long, fresh scab off your knee. The noise was very loud in the vet hospital, echoing inside the small space under the sink. He put the bag in the butter drawer in the refrigerator, finished the bottle, and went to bed.
DAY THIRTY-TWO
Sturm thought the bear had to weigh at least a thousand pounds. Frank’s guess was closer to nine hundred. The Kodiak was still massive, like a VW bug covered in rolling muscles and sparse fur, but it looked to Frank like he might be getting a little thin. Maybe the lack of hibernation had caught up to his metabolism.
Frank, Sturm, Chuck, and Jack looked down at the bag of pills on the examining table. “I think four of ’em will put that bear right where we need it,” Frank said slowly. “Any more…I’d hate to give it a heart attack. Be a hell of way to end the fight.”
Frank had called Sturm first thing in the morning. Early. Just to let Sturm know that he was working. “I got these pills. Got ’em offa trucker. I took one and it knocked me sideways for at least twenty, twenty-two hours.
Sturm was silent for a moment. “How many are left?”
“Six of the speeders, and five of the unknown ones.” Frank had put ten pills aside earlier, hiding them back up under the sink, just in case.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll see you later. In the meantime, you make sure the rest of them lions are ready to go tonight.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and son, you did the right thing telling me this.” He hung up.
Sturm came alone to the vet hospital an hour later. Chuck and Jack were already there, getting the trailer ready to haul the remaining cats over to the auction yard.
Sturm picked the baggie off the table and shook it, peering at the pills. “You think four’ll do the job.”
Frank shrugged. “It’s a guess. That’s all.”
“What’ll they do to him?”
Frank shrugged again. “Can’t say. They’re definitely a stimulant. I’m hoping they’ll make him stronger. Meaner. For a while, anyway.”
“How are you gonna dose him?” Jack asked.
“Hide the pills in his food.”
“What’s Girdler feed that damn thing?” Sturm asked..
“Whatever sheep parts we got left over at the end of the day. Walnuts. Almonds. Peaches. Oranges. Whatever he can find in the orchards. Fish, too.”
“Fish?”
Frank nodded. “Three, four a day.”
“Oh yeah,” Chuck said, going through the fridge. “He goes up to the lake. He drinks all night, you know, with us. So he goes up there at dawn, goes fishing. Catfish mostly. Sometimes trout. Crappie. Whatever. He keeps the fish on ice while he sleeps.”
Sturm was pissed. “That freeloading sonofabitch. Taking fish outta’ my lake.” He spit. “You said, how many pills, four?”
Frank nodded.
“We’re gonna give him five pills,” he said.
“I’ll crush ’em up now.”
Sturm turned to Jack. “Go find this fuck. Find him and tell him I’d like a word. Sonofabitch thinks he’s going to take advantage of me, he’s got another thing coming.”
* * * * *
This time, the lot was full. The hunters must have called all of their friends; Frank counted over fifty pickups. Sturm opened the auction yard early, just to get the betting underway. Most everybody was inside when Girdler came walking down the highway in the twilight, face streaked with charcoal and holding a burning branch.
Sturm, Jack, and Frank were waiting outside the front doors. Sturm had instructed Frank to keep the back door locked. “Fuck the fire codes,” Sturm said. He wanted only one way in and out of the building.
Girdler got close. He waved the branch at the sky, sending a flock of sparks toward the first glimmers of stars, then tossed the branch onto the gravel. He strode up to front door and Sturm could see tracks of tears cutting through the smears of charcoal.
“It ends tonight,” Girdler said.
“Is that so? You haven’t been up in the hills chewing on peyote or some other hippy shit, have you?” Sturm asked.
“It ends tonight,” Girdler repeated.
“Heard you the first time,” Sturm said.
“So it’ll end. Tonight. Right here. Now.”
Sturm spit. He took his time, cleaning out the snuff. He pulled a new can from his jeans and thumped it with his thumb. “No. We got plans for that bear. He’s gonna fight for a few nights, at least. Gonna kill more than a few cats. Make us all some money.”
Girdler shook his head vigorously, long hair flying. “No. You can’t put him through that…that torture. He dies tonight.”
“I don’t know what kind of shit you got in your ears, but I’m gonna assume you didn’t hear me. That bear in there, that’s no longer your property. Your opinion don’t mean two shits around here.”
“Please, listen to me—”
“I ain’t listening to anything but the sound of the bell that starts the round. You want to, you come in and lay down that cash you just earned. You don’t, then you best hop in your goddamn RV and keep driving. Don’t you dare look in your rearview mirror ‘til you’re out of the state.”
Girdler blinked soot out of his eyes.
Sturm waited. “Your decision. I got business to tend to.” He marched into the auction yard. Jack gave Girdler a moment as well, then followed Sturm. Frank kept his eyes on the ground; he didn’t want to look at Girdler’s face.
Girdler fingered the two bricks of cash, one shoved his right pocket, the other in his left. He looked to the burning branch, but it had gone out, and nothing was left but a thin trickle of smoke. The roar of the crowd as Sturm came into view made the doors reverberate.
Girdler grabbed Frank’s wrist. “Will you help me? Please?”
Frank looked into Girdler’s eyes. “No,” he said, shrugging off the man’s hand and going inside.
* * * * *
The sound hit Frank first, like a physical blow. The arena was packed; everyone shouted and screamed and clapped. Men sprayed beer over themselves. They ate beef jerky. Popcorn. Smoked cigarettes. Cigars. Spit chewing tobacco on their boots. Almost to a man, they carried bottles of some kind of hard liquor, along with a bottle or can of beer. And everyone, everyone had their rifles.
Sturm got ’em quieted down enough to shout, “One thousand pounds of teeth and claws!” and the men roared again. They practically threw cash at Theo up in the office. Sturm shook his hat, “You men are privileged to see this, this offering to our God. The blood that spills is in his honor. He will drink the blood that soaks that earth.”
Nobody seemed to know exactly how to respond to that so a few bowed their head and a few clapped. Frank didn’t remember that particular passage from the bible from his father’s sermons, but his father would have liked it. Frank suspected the only place it existed was written across the tumor in Sturm’s head.