Dog Eat Dog by Edward Bunker

Author:Edward Bunker [Bunker, Edward]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Crime, Mystery & Detective, General, Fiction
ISBN: 9781842437544
Google: QdaEAAAAQBAJ
Amazon: 0312168187
Publisher: Oldcastle Books
Published: 1996-01-01T22:00:00+00:00

In addition to the fancy Jaguar, Alex Aris also drove a six-year-old Seville. It was nice enough to arouse no attention in Beverly Hills, yet old enough to blend into South Central. He was constantly on the move throughout Southern California. Nobody worked harder at being a criminal.

When they got underway, Troy wondered why he felt flat. The huge score would never be reported. Moon Man had big money and niggers to kill for him—but their underworld was as segregated as most of black and white in America. Moon Man would never know who got him. He probably believed they were rogue cops. Half the Sheriff’s Department narco squad was under indictment for extorting drug dealers and stealing money and drugs during busts. Once upon a time a score like this would have thrilled him. What had changed? Why did he feel tired and depressed? Even if he knew, what could he do? It was too late to change. He had to keep playing or kill himself; he wasn’t that depressed.

“How you gettin’ along with Mad Dog?” Alex asked.

“He loves me.”

“Watch his paranoid ass. He’s got priors for turning on friends. Remember when he stabbed Mahoney?”

“I guess I do. I was about ten feet away. I spilled hot coffee all down my front getting outta there.”

“Him and Mahoney were good friends.”

“I know.”

“Okay. I hope I don’t have to kill him ’cause he kills you.”

“Oh, no, that won’t happen.”

Troy looked out at the streets. They were crossing the southwest quadrant of the endless city. He’d once had a girlfriend who lived in the area. It had undergone a metamorphosis in the last decade. Developed after World War II and sold under the F.H.A. and the G.I. Bill, it had deteriorated from bright two-and three-bedroom ranch styles that could have been a Norman Rockwell cover to a world closer to the colonias he’d seen in Tijuana. The manicured lawns were weed-infested patches of brown. Torn and rain-soaked sofas were discarded at the curb. Trash filled the gutters and blew into piles against fences. Walls were defaced by graffiti in black spray paint. A pack of stray dogs had overturned a trash can and were digging in the mess. This was not the Southern California of song and legend. It made him remember Chepe in Tijuana.

“What’s the deal with Chepe?”

“I don’t know any more than I told you.”

“Why does he want me? He’s got pistoleros running out his ears. Shit, he was tight with Big Joe and those dudes in the Eme.”

“I think he wants somebody with more sense.”

“Well, we’ll see what he wants.”

“You’ve never been to La Mesa.”

“Uh-uh.”

“You’ve got an experience coming.”

Alex turned into a mobile home park: Narrow streets, mobile homes sited close together, DRIVE SLOW, CHILDREN AT PLAY signs. He parked on the road’s shoulder. “I’ll be one second,” he said as he got out and went around a corner.

It was closer to a minute, but it was quick: Alex came back with a big suitcase. He put it on the rear floorboards.

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