They were still dressed in black. First came the shooters, both of whom looked like beach bums in
mourning, their necks bulging over tight collars. They studied the street, then one of them stepped
back and opened the theater doors and the number one button exited, a thin, sickly-looking man, the
color of wet cement. He shrugged and summoned his boss.
Stizano was portly, with white hair that flowed down over his ears, and looked more like the town
poet than a mobster. He walked with an ebony cane, his fingers glittering with rings.
The chauffeur walked around the back of the car to open the door.
Suddenly they were marionettes, dancing to the tune of a silent drummer. Tufts flew from their
clothes; popcorn boxes were tossed in the air.
The only sound was the thunk of bullets tearing into the five of them, then the shattering of glass as
bullets ripped into the show windows of the theater and an explosion of shards as the box office was
obliterated, then the popping of the bulbs in the marquee.
Poppoppoppop. . . poppoppoppop...
Poppoppoppoppoppop...
Broken bulbs showered down on the street.
Five people lay in the outer lobby, on the sidewalk, in the gutter.
It had happened so fast there were n screams.
Nor the sound of gunfire.
Nor the flash from a weapon.
Nothing.
Nothing but five puppets dancing on the string of death.
Then, just like that, it was all over. Silence descended over the park.
There was only the wind, rattling the dried-out palms.
A bird crying.
Somewhere, far on the other side of the park, a car driving lazily past on the way to the beach.
And the sizzling wires dangling in front of the theater.
46
DOGS
Harry Nesbitt was sitting up in the back of the arena, in a corner under a burned-out light. I stopped a
couple of rows below him and checked out the crowd. Nobody „as interested in us; they were
concentrating on the two dogs getting ready for the first fight. One was a dirty gray pug, its lacerated
face seamed with the red scars of other battles. The other, a white mutt, part bulldog, was fresh and
unscathed and an obvious virgin to the pit.
Two men, obviously the owners of the dogs, were on opposite sides of the pit but not in it, and they
seemed to be washing the dogs down with a white substance. One of the men reached over and nipped
the bulldog‟s neck.
I moved up and sat down next to Nesbitt.
“I wasn‟t sure you‟d show,” he said.
“I‟m a real curious fellow,” I said. “Besides, I like your pal Benny Skeeler.” -
“Yeah, what a guy.”
“What are they doing?” I asked, nodding toward the arena.
“Checking out each other‟s dogs. That white stuff there, that‟s warm milk. They‟re checking for
toxics in the dog.”
“Why‟s that one guy biting it on the neck?”
“Tastin‟ the skin. Some claim they can taste it if the dog‟s been juiced up.”
He pointed down at the small bulldog.
“Lookit there, see that little no-hair mutt down there, looks like a bulldog only uglier.”
“I really don‟t like dog fights, Nesbitt.”
“Call me Harry. Makes me feel secure, okay?”
“Sure, Harry.”
“Anyways, that ugly little bowser, that‟s called a hog dog. You know why? Because they use them
kind of mutts to hunt wild boars. The dog grabs the boar by the ear, see, and he just hangs on for dear
life, pulls that fuckin‟ hog‟s head right down to the ground and holds him there. Tough motherfuckers.
I got a hundred down on that one.”
“You do this often?”
“Every week. Better than horse racing. The reason I picked the place, nobody‟ll ever go with me. So I
know I ain‟t meetin‟ unexpected company, see what I mean?”
The owners retrieved their animals arid took them into the pit. For the first time the two animals were
aware of each other, although they were tail to tail across the arena. Hackles rose like stalks of wheat
down the back of the scarred old warrior. The bulldog hunkered down, sleeked out, his lips peeled
back to show gum and tooth.
Neither of the dogs made a sound, no growling, no barking. It was eerie.
The betting was done. The crowd grew quiet, leaning forward on the benches.
The referee, a lean man with a warty face and a jaw full of chewing tobacco, whistled between his
teeth and the place was silent.
“Gentlemen,” warty-face said, “face yet dogs.”
I turned away, looking over at Nesbitt, who was wide-eyed, waiting for two dogs to tear each other to
pieces.
“So let‟s get on with it,” I said.
I heard the referee cry, “Pit?”
The crowd went crazy. The dogs still did not bark. I was to learn later that they are trained to fight
without a sound. It conserves energy.
My companion was really into it. He was on his feet. “Get „im, ya little pissant!” he screamed.
“So let‟s get on with it,” I yelled to Nesbitt. “This isn‟t one of my favourite things here, with the
dogs.”
“You know what‟s goin‟ down, man. Do I look like I wanna end up a chopped liver sandwich?” he
said, without taking his eyes off the pit. He was almost yelling so I could hear him above the crowd.
“Okay, speak your piece,” I said.
“Look, Kilmer, I didn‟t have nothin‟ to do with Jigs gettin‟ pushed across.”
“What are you telling me for?”
His speech came in a rush. He was talking so fast he almost stuttered.
“I‟ll tell you why, see. Because I was eyeballin‟ you in the restaurant up until you left. You had
breakfast with a couple of guys, then you talked with a couple of other guys, then you went down and
got your own car, okay? 1 drive on out the highway ahead of you, see, wait at [he, place, at Benny‟s.
You pass it goin‟ in. I was there when you come by. It was exactly five to eleven.”
“So?”
“So I couldn‟t of killed him. Shit, I talked to him on the phone right after you finished breakfast.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you talk to him?”
“Look, I don‟t trust none of this, okay? I mean, O‟Brian says he wants to bullshit with you. Lay off,
he says, I promised him I‟d be alone. It‟s one on one, he says. So I keep an eye on you when you
come down in the morning, I call to tell him where everything‟s at, he says go to Benny4s arid wait
until you leave. I didn‟t have time to nix him, for Chrissakes.”
One of the dogs let out the damnedest sound I ever heard. It was a cry of agony that seemed to go on
forever. My eyes were drawn to the pit.
The old fighter had the little hog dog by the thigh and was shaking his head while the newcomer was
trying desperately to back away.
“He‟s got my boy fanged,” Nesbitt said.
“What‟s fanged?”
“Bit right through his thigh and impaled his own lip. He can‟t let go, that ugly one can‟t.”
The referee cautiously approached the fighting animals and took a stick and started prying the old
warrior‟s jaws loose. I‟d seen enough.