They say that Vlad the Impaler walked through the field hospitals after battle, inspecting the wounded. Those with wounds to the front of them got promoted. Those with wounds in their backs, like they’d been fleeing-Vlad had those men killed. Vlad would have made Lucy a general. Her back and haunches are unmarred. She’d fought every second she’d been in the bout.
Tough little bitch. Proud little warrior.
*****
The match had been in an abandoned warehouse-no shortage of those here. The ring had been built in the morning out of a two-foot tall square of wood filled up halfway with dirt. Around the ring stood gangbangers, bikers, cholos and mobbed-up types. Dog matches in Detroit are like those ads by that one clothes company that always have the black guy and the white guy holding hands, except at the dog match the other hand is filled with blood money or a gun.
Tuna was owned by Frankie Arno, who lived in St. Clair Shores along with all the other Detroit dagos who didn’t get the memo that the Mafia doesn’t run things anymore. His dogman was Deets from the Cass Corridor. Deets doesn’t hold to the old ways. Deets uses a homemade electric chair to fry his curs, and hangs live cats from chains for his dogs to chew on and improve their grips. When the referee told us that Tuna came in heavy, I told Jesse to kill the match.
“Four pounds is too much,” I told him.
“Fuck that,” Jesse said. “You told me this bitch is game.”
He was a short man with a short man’s temper. He was the only man I’ve ever known to lose money in the drug trade. He bought Lucy and some other prime stock when he was flush. He also hired the best dogman in Michigan, if you don’t mind me calling myself that. Now that he was down, he was looking to recoup his investment. I do not know who he owes money to, only that they are frightening to this frightening man. This type of fear doesn’t make a man listen to reason. I tried anyway.
“She is,” I said. “She has potential to be a grand champion. That’s worth more money than one fight.”
“I’m not bitching out here. I’m not a punk.”
Across the ring, Deets studied us behind hooded eyes. Deets knew Jesse needed the purse money. Deets knew that I wouldn’t be able to talk Jesse out of the match if Deets brought his dog in heavy. Four pounds wasn’t a mistake. It was strategy. I had to hand it to him. He’d played it beautifully. I gave him a nod to let him know. He just kept staring back.
