“Hell, no, not yet. Bitch has fights in her yet.”
“Jesse, she’ll never come back all the way from this,” I say. “She’s already going to be a legend. Four pounds over and the dead game bitch won. Breed her.”
“She’s going back in the pit,” he says. I chew a chunk out of the side of my mouth.
“That rapper dude who was there, the one who owns Cherry? He wants to match her,” Jesse says. “Shit, man, Cherry’s a grand champion. She’s legit.”
“Lucy’s leg won’t ever heal right. She can’t win another fight.”
“Fuck it, then we lay money on her to lose. It’s still getting paid.”
I don’t say anything. My hands are shaking again. I don’t want Jesse to see.
“Palmer?” He looks at me.
“She can’t go back in the pit,” I tell him. I try to sound calm and steady.
“What’s this can’t shit?” Jesse turns his body sideways. It’s an unconscious reaction of a fighting man to a threat. You turn sideways to make your body a smaller target to your enemy. I think about the stories I’ve heard. The things Jesse’s done to men who cross him. Stories with knives in them. Pliers. Heated pieces of metal.
There is a scratch line in front of me.
I do not scratch. I do not fight.
“I’m your dogman,” I tell him. “You’re the owner. You make the call. If she lives, Jesse. Big If.”
His posture goes back to normal. He smiles.
“That’s the spirit. If she dies, she dies. But if not, patch her up and we match her against Cherry. The gate will be enormous. Anyway, I didn’t get into this to be a breeder, like some bored Grosse Pointe housewife with her goddamn Pekinese. I’m in it for the blood. Win or lose it’s a payday, isn’t it?”
I say “Yeah.”
Cur. Goddamn cur.
Jesse leaves. I look towards Lucy. Lucy’s ribs rise and fall so gently. If she lives, she will not recover fast enough. She will lose her next match. Lucy is dead game. She will not quit until she is dead. And Jesse won’t pull her out.
If she pisses, she lives. But then what? She fights. She dies. Dies bad.
I’m saving her life to kill her in a month.
Tough little bitch. Proud little warrior.
I’m sorry I am not as strong as you.
*****
At the bottom of the tackle box is the final treatment. Vets call it T-61. It’s a fatal mixture of narcotics and paralytics, legally available only to licensed veterinarians. If I inject the T-61 into the IV bag, Lucy never has to wake up again. I take the plastic stopper off of the T-61.
The IV continues its drip-drip-drip. Lucy stirs. Her legs run in dog dreaming, swaddling up the blanket around her. She snarls. She bites the air. Still fighting in her sleep.
