Drama City

Mark, reaching for his binoculars and camera in a pack behind his seat, did not answer. Both of them got out of the truck.

'You,' said Lorenzo, pointing at the kid, who was still standing beside the silver BMW.

The kid stepped away from the car. Lorenzo went to him.

'Take off,' said Lorenzo. 'Police on their way, and you don't want to be here for that. You did what you got paid to do. Now leave, hear?'

The kid gave him a tough shoulder roll before he walked off, a slight dip in his stride.

Lorenzo watched Mark enter the woods, stepping with care. When he looked back to check on the kid, he saw him booking down the dirt alley. Lorenzo knew that the kid would cut into the woods as soon as he was out of Lorenzo's sight. He'd go down there and warn the players that the dog man was here, which meant the police were on the way. That's what he would have done at this boy's age. Lorenzo didn't blame him. They all had to play their roles. Besides, the object was to break up the fights and, for now at least, spare those animals some misery. The kid, no matter his intent, was going to get it done.

Lorenzo walked the alley, quickly recording the license plate numbers of the attendees, and the makes and models of the cars. The way that kid was running, he and Mark didn't have much time.

CHAPTER 8

Must be some old heads runnin' this thing, thought Melvin Lee, 'cause they're spinning that old-time stuff out the box. Amerikka's Most Wanted, Ice Cube strong and proud, with that production, sounded like Public Enemy and them, behind it. The record had come out back around '90, when Melvin Lee was first getting into the game. That was some good times back then, like everything was waiting for him up ahead. He'd had some dreams.

If he was up on some blunt right now, this day here would be about perfect. Since he'd come out, though, he couldn't even get his head up, for fear they'd put him back in. Truth was, he wasn't supposed to be fraternizing with these kinds of people either. But what'd they expect, that a man was supposed to stop having fun?

Least the boy, Rico, looked like he was enjoying his self for a change. He wasn't a laugh a minute, but Melvin Lee liked having him around. The way Rico looked up to him, he had to admit, it made Melvin feel important, like all this bullshit he'd done in his life had been worth something.

Lee had fathered two children of his own, what they called beef babies, with a couple of different women, when he'd gone to the mattresses, Corleone-style, all because of some violent conflicts he'd got himself in. He had no contact with those kids at all. He had no idea where they stayed at and didn't want to know.

But hanging with Rico, it was like he was a father to the boy, in a way. Rico was devoted to him, as any son would be. Too devoted, sometimes. Once in a while, when someone would look at Lee the wrong way, Rico was all too ready to step in, take it to the next level. When that happened, Lee had to hold him back. Wasn't no reason to hurt someone, you didn't have to. That was something you learned with age. Nice to know that the boy was ready, though. No-fear motherfucker like Rico, it was good to have him on your side.

'You goin' with that brown girl?' said Miller. He meant the brown pit with the white face, being led by her handler to her corner of the ring.

'She gonna change my luck,' said Lee. He had picked her over her opponent because her name was Sheila. For a while, he was fucking this redbone who had the same name. Lee had already lost the two fights he'd bet.

The man controlling the box stopped the music. Both dogs got settled in their corners. The referee ordered the cornermen out of the pit.

A kid came into the clearing, went directly to the ring, and yelled, 'Hold up!' The referee put his hand up, signaling the cornermen to pause while he found out what this was about. The kid, who Lee recognized as the boy guarding the cars, was short of breath. He said something to the referee that was hard to make out but that put a reaction on the man's face.

'All right, everybody,' said the ref, loudly so that all could hear. 'We got to clear out. Dog men are here, and the police are on their way. Move!'

Lee turned around and looked up at the rise. He saw a white boy in a blue uniform, standing beside a tree. The sun flashed for a moment off something in the white boy's hand. Wasn't no chrome, 'cause the dog men weren't allowed to carry weapons. Had to be a camera or binoculars, something like that.

Around them, supplies were boxed, tables were folded, and the ring began to be disassembled. Dogs were led away. Men were cursing, killing their beverages, and taking last hits off their smokes. Others were crowded around the bookie, collecting their bets. Lee went there, waited his turn, and got his money. When he was done counting it, he head-motioned Rico. The two of them went up into the woods, climbing the grade the way they had come.

Mark Christianson stood beside an oak on the rise, taking photos through his digital camera, its lens zoomed to the maximum. He was focusing on the dog handlers, the referee, and the bookmaker rather than the spectators, though he caught many of them in the frame.

Mark had found his vantage point and remained hidden behind the wide trunk of the oak for as long as possible. He had first looked through his binoculars, more powerful than the lens of his camera, to familiarize himself with the people and the scene.

Immediately he had recognized Fat Tony Jamison, a former dogfighter turned oddsmaker and consultant, moving his 350-pound frame slowly through the area, working the crowd. Fat Tony had been around way too long. Then Mark saw Antoine Loomis, who had a pit on a leash and was apparently still in the trade. For a three-month stretch back in '97, 'Twan' Loomis had run fights out of a condemned apartment building at 49th and A, in Southeast. He had always been one step ahead of the law. When a determined Mark finally did gain entrance to the apartment house, after Loomis had abandoned the site, he had found the cinder-block-and-concrete basement where the fights had been staged. Damp, mildewed copies of Your Friend and Mine, The Pit Bull Chronicle, Face Your Dogs, and other publications were spread about the floor. Also on the floor were broken malt liquor bottles, cigarette butts, feces, matches, bottle caps, and syringes. Blood was streaked on the walls.

Mark took a photograph of Loomis and his pit, checking the digital image for clarity. He wanted to be sure he had him on record. Loomis was one of the bad, stupid ones who had been responsible for the abuse and murder of many dogs. He had also been charged as an accessory to a homicide, but the charges had not stuck. The federal prosecutor with whom Mark worked was building a case against Loomis. The photograph taken here was not a revelation, but it would help, someday, in rounding out the file that would eventually get Loomis off the street.

When the boy came into the clearing, Mark stepped out fully from behind the tree and took as many photographs as possible in the time he had left. The camp was breaking quickly, and the participants began to come toward him up the wooded rise. He stayed where he was for a few more minutes, even as they passed by him, even