The Last Time I Died by Joe Nelms

Author:Joe Nelms
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781440571817
Publisher: Tyrus Books
Published: 2014-10-19T21:00:00+00:00

45

Jesus fucking Christ.

These people are animals. The pit in the middle of the basement is about five feet deep and fifteen feet wide with a hundred frothing lower class gamblers crammed around it. You can smell the tension and the testosterone and the intensity.

The screaming. Men rabid in the throes of gambling. There must be ten thousand dollars in fives and tens exchanging hands as I walk by the ring. A pit bull is squaring off against a…

—What is that?

—Dogo Argentino. He will win.

Flaco knows fighting dogs. Not surprising.

I think of Lisa’s lawyer. He won. I should have bet on him. I wonder how well he would do against the Dogo Argentino. Probably not bad.

—You come here a lot?

Flaco grunts and keeps walking back through the crowd of fat men sweating malt liquor and yelling, cheering, pleading at the dirt circle where the pit now has the Dogo by the neck.

From what I could get through Flaco’s drugged up, third world English, La Medica owns the warehouse and hosts the fights. She’s also the bank you bet against. More importantly, she’s the doctor you see if you really want your dog to be a killer. And she’s the one to see when you want it brought back from the dead. If you pay her enough and get your dead dog there fast enough, there’s a good chance she can make that happen.

She sells and administers las drogas, which I understand to mean steroids, growth hormone, and the like. She also has some crazy expensive shit that she calls Angel Juice. The dogs who get injected with it fight like motherfuckers but are never the same afterwards. They say it’s worth it.

Flaco talks to a couple of tough guys who shake him down for money that he gets from me. They send us deeper into the building.

In a back room that must be a garage, several large dog cages sit in front of tricked-out low riders and chromed-up SUVs. Each cage holds a dog bigger and more muscular than the next. The owners don’t look twice at us, but the dogs watch our every move. Their eyes lit with hunger. They pace around in what little space they are allowed. I make eye contact with a black boxer mix. Those deep black pupils. Don’t worry, buddy. We’re both probably going to end up in the same place. Dead in an alley with nothing to show for it.

The further back we get, the fewer people there are and the quieter they get when Flaco asks them about La Medica.

One last dirtbag takes twenty bucks to let us go past to the back door. Flaco assures me she’ll be easy to find. She’s the only woman here. He won’t go out the back door.

—I take you here. Now you go alone.

I go alone.

In the back parking lot. Fenced in. The gate is locked tight. The door behind me shuts and I hear the industrial lock being thrown. A group of men stand around the trunk of an old Cutlass sedan.

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