Dog Eat Dog Read Online Free Page B

Bloody, but you can’t take the Bloody...”
    I immediately took my beer and placed it on the floor in front of the dog, who inhaled it.
    “Hey. Don’t do that again,” Terry said. “He has a problem.”
    “Where’s Augie?” one of the big fat Cormacs asked Terry, adding, “Hey, Mick,” as if he’d just seen me yesterday.
    “I ain’t seen him,” Terry said. “He’ll be here. Spooks show yet?”
    Cormac laughed. “Think maybe you could tell if they was here or not, bro?” He gestured around the room full of puffy round faces in various grades of white and pink.
    Terry laughed too. Then he gave me the rundown.
    “Nigs from Mattapan, Jamaicans, are bringin’ by their hot shit dog tonight, stupid shits. Gonna get his ass whipped tonight, for sure.”
    I leaned back, away from him. I pointed at Mickey the dog. “Your dog’s here to fight, Terry?”
    “Nah, he’s just here to watch, he ain’t ready yet. I want him to learn a few things. It’s Bobo. These fools heard about him and came lookin’ for a match. Word’s spreadin’ all around the goddamn city about how Bobo’s thirty and 0. Like gunfighters, they’re poppin’ up all over.”
    This made Terry suddenly giggle hysterically. “We’re gettin’ stinkin’ rich on it. And we get to put certain ignorant, cocky sonsofbitches in their places at the same time. Heh. Bobo’s enjoyin’ the shit out of it too.”
    I stared at Terry as he chugged heartily on his drink, slapping the bar for more while the first one was still on his lips. Staring blankly had no impact on Terry, so I was forced to talk to him.
    “This is what you do now? For fun?”
    “Yup. You’ll see. It’s a fuckin’ unbelievable rush when it happens. Like nothin’ else. My favorite part is watchin’ the faces of the assholes who own the loser dog. They just about die. I been lookin’ forward to these Jamaicans, boy. ...I swear, I might cream myself when it happens. You’ll see. You can’t resist it.”
    “I think I probably can resist it, thanks.”
    He clearly didn’t think that was possible, grinning sagely as he picked up his glass. He was sure we shared this animal lust on some deep level. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands, open his jugular with my own teeth. But that didn’t exactly seem like the way to prove him wrong.
    “He could lose, you know,” I said, trying to derail him.
    “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Bobo? Never happen. For sure not tonight. Jamaicans love Dobermans, while your regular American spooks prefer Rottweilers. Good, mean dogs, the Dobermans, lotsa heart, but not enough body. They ain’t big enough to take on the beasts, and they’re too ballsy to quit. So”—he shrugged—“when they don’t win, they get shredded. Kay-ser-fuckin’-ra, ser-ra.”
    The eight Jamaican men filed in behind their dog—a Doberman, all right—like a military outfit. Mirror sunglasses, rigid posture, expressionless. Mickey stood up and started barking, snarly and wild barking. The Doberman didn’t even look, maybe couldn’t turn because of his owner’s grip. Four men took spots at the bar, four more standing behind. They drank double rums and beers. Terry picked up the tab, nodding and smiling a ratty thin smile across the bar. The owner of the dog nodded and said something to the bartender, who pointed to the back door. They all filed out to the fenced-in lot in back of the building.
    Slowly, others began slipping out there. The Cormacs went, and Danny, and ten of the other regulars. Terry looked at his watch. “Where is he?” Danny asked nervously.
    One of the Jamaicans came in, walked up to Terry. “Time,” he said.
    “Five minutes,” Terry said.
    Ten minutes passed. The Doberman’s owner came in. “What?” he said, holding out two upturned palms as if he was waiting for rain.
    “Late,” Terry said.
    “Lose,” the man said.
    “Bullshit.”
    “Chickenshit. No show, money go. Too damn bad, mon.”
    “Just give us some time,”