I lit a cigarette, watching my dog.
"Her hips are like steel," Elroy muttered. "You work her on tree jumping?"
"No, she pretty much exercises herself."
"Burke, I got a great idea."
"What?" Shuddering inside. Elroy had this great idea in the joint once…pressurize a bunch of chemicals inside the home-brew the Prof was cooking up, turn the jungle-juice into high octane. The vat exploded, blew a big slab of concrete out of the wall in the kitchen. The Man thought it was an escape attempt and locked the whole place down for two weeks. The Prof hasn't spoken to Elroy since.
"You know what a Bandog is?"
"Not exactly."
"The newspapers, you know how they have those headlines: baby chewed to death by pit bull, Rottweiler mauls toddler…like that?"
"Yeah."
"Well, these fucking idiots, they don't understand. It's all in the way you raise them. It's not the dog, it's the owners." The maniac paused for breath, ready to make his pitch. "Anyway, you want to own a pit bull in New York now, you got to have special insurance, register it and all. Same for Rottweilers in England. See, what they really want to do is ban the dogs, get it?"
"No."
"You can only ban a dog if it's a particular breed, right? Like a Doberman or a collie."
"So?"
"So some breeders got the idea of combining breeds, you see what I mean? Like, if you cross a Doberman with a collie, you ain't got a Doberman, and you ain't got a collie."
I lit a smoke, wondering if he'd ever get to the point. If there was a point.
"So they started with pit bulls, 'cause they was the real targets. There's a lot of so-called Bandogs out there, crossing pits with Rhodesians, with bulldogs, Rotties, all kinds of crazy stuff. But the real thing, the true Bandog, you got to cross a male pit bull with a female Neo. That's the only way to go."
"What do you get?"
"They look like giant pits, man. Run maybe ninety, a hundred and ten pounds. All bone and muscle. And dead game."
"Damn."
"Yeah! Now the way I figure it, we mate my Barko and your Pansy, and we got the foundation stock for the best Bandogs in the world. Maybe get the first dogs to pull a ton and a half. What d'you think?"
"I never bred her, Elroy. Tried a couple of times, but she wasn't having any."
"Can't we at least try?"
"I'm not tying her up. She wants to do it, and you'll take all the puppies when they're weaned…
"I'll think about it, okay?"
"Yeah! Sure, I mean…only if they like each other, okay?"
"All right."
"Great! Let's see, okay?"
"Elroy, you psychotic, Pansy's not in heat."
"Just to see if they get along…come on, Burke."
"She's dangerous, Elroy. Big and dangerous."
"Barko's a charmer, man. Like his daddy. All the ladies love him."
He untied the pit. Barko ambled over, respecting Pansy's space. They sniffed each other. Pansy growled, but her heart wasn't in it, just testing. Barko stood his ground. They circled each other, sniffing again. Finally, Pansy lay down. Barko licked her face, lay down beside her.
"What did I tell you, man!"
"She gets in heat, I'll bring her back."
"Shake on it, partner," the demento insisted. He hadn't asked for any such reassurances about his bogus bonds.
I opened the door. Pansy jumped into the back seat. I climbed in, started her up. Leaned out the window.
"Elroy, this other scheme of yours…? What are you going to pull?"
"All I been through, man, I'm gonna write a book."
50
The trick with moving phony paper, it has to look legitimate and smell crooked. Suckers think stuff's been stolen, they know it's for real. Stop at any traffic light in the right part of town— somebody'll come up to your car with a camcorder or a VCR, still in the brand-new carton, all shrink-wrapped in clear plastic. The professionals, they know how much deadweight to put inside to get an exact match. When the sucker gets it home, he learns the truth. Bearer bonds, it's a little trickier. Same idea, bigger suckers.
I docked the Plymouth behind Mama's, right under the neat row of Chinese characters warning the locals the territory belonged to Max the Silent. Nobody ever parked there for long.
Snapped Pansy's lead on and approached the back door. The thugs let me in, giving Pansy a lot of room, watching her in wonder and admiration. She was too well trained to make a try for any of the food, but she slobbered her usual three quarts in anticipation.
Mama came back from her post, smiling when she saw Pansy. She won a setup bet with her cooks once, wagering on who could tell what country the dog came from. After she'd asked me first.
"Puppy hungry, Burke?"
"Sure is, Mama. She may have met her future husband today…gave her an appetite."
I brought her down to the basement as Mama was firing instructions at the cooks. One of them came downstairs lugging a steel vat by the handles, steam fogging the air around him.
I no sooner had "Speak!" out of my mouth than Pansy plunged her snout deep into the vat, making noises they'd censor out of the horror movies.
Upstairs, I sipped my hot and sour soup while Mama fingered through the portfolio of bonds, a pair of white gloves on her hands.
"This real company, Burke?"
"Sure thing, Mama. Trades on the AMEX. The bonds are issued on its international division."
"This division…?"
"Yeah, it issues bonds, some of them in bearer form." Real bearer bonds are as good as cash. Untraceable. No registration. You hold them, you own them. Like diamonds, only they don't have to be appraised.
"Some people, maybe they pay…ten percent, yes?"
"Sure."
"This take time, right? Send overseas, far away. Many people wash their hands in the same bowl, the water get cloudy."
"I understand. The manufacturer, he needs a third."
"One hundred thousand."
"A little more, I think, one-third."
"One hundred thousand. Everyone must be paid."
"Okay."
"For you?"
"Whatever you say, Mama."
She smiled her approval of my manners, ladled more soup into my bowl.
A shadow fell across the table. Max. He shouldered in next to me, bowing to Mama at the same time. She opened her mouth to yell something at the waiters, but one of them was there with a bowl for Max before she got a word out. She said something to the waiter anyway. "Smartass" sounds the same in Cantonese.
It was like old times, for a while. Yonkers had added a new feature to the evening program— some of the races were carded for an extra distance past the traditional mile…from a sixteenth to a quarter. I explained my foolproof, surefire, can't-miss handicapping system— the longer the race, the better the chance for the fillies against the colts. Class tells in the long run, and the female side of any species is built for endurance. They listened the way they always do: Max fascinated, Mama bored to narcolepsy. Mama isn't a gambler— her idea of a sporting event is a fixed fight.