dreamed of if they won.”
Sasha looked at the smiling young man at his side. Nimitsov was not just evil, he was quite serious and quite mad.
While the blood was being cleaned from the dirt ring, Sasha decided that he had to act, even though the action was loathsome.
“I understand French,” Sasha said, pretending interest in the cleanup.
“Interesting,” said Nimitsov. “I may learn the language. Now that we have French partners.”
“They plan to kill both of us,” said Sasha.
Nimitsov turned to look at Sasha. They were only a few feet apart.
“You are telling the truth.”
“I am telling the truth.”
“When?” asked Nimitsov.
“After the fight sometime,” said Sasha. “Tonight.”
Nimitsov looked at the rugged Frenchman, who nodded. Nimitsov nodded back and said to Sasha, “Dmitri, we could all have been very rich men. These Frenchmen are fools. You and I will have to kill them first, after Bronson destroys your dog.”
“I do not intend to do anything to contribute to my dog’s destruction,” said Sasha.
“Then I will have to kill you too.”
“You were planning to anyway. However, I think we stand a better chance of survival if we form a temporary partnership.”
Nimitsov’s smile was sincere as he put his hand on Sasha’s shoulder. “I almost like you, Dmitri Kolk, but you are too clever, too dangerous. Bronson can win without your help. You and I are partners, but just for the night.”
“You should tell Boris,” said Sasha.
“He would be useless in a battle,” said Nimitsov. “He can’t shoot straight. Actually, he is a good front man but a terrible cow-ard. No, I’m afraid it will be just you and me. A partnership made in hell, to face the demon hordes.”
Sasha went to get Tchaikovsky. The pit bull was lying in the cage ears up.
“Tchaikovsky,” said Sasha, “you are on your own, and, it appears, so am I.”
The cage was heavy. A strong young man who watched over the dogs in a back room helped Sasha bring the cage out and place it on one end of the ring. Bronson was uncaged, standing alert, teeth showing in clenched anger. The trainer, a crook-backed man with no hair, spoke soothingly to the dog. The betting was furious. The room, now full of smoke, was alive with debate about the animals, particularly the almost legendary Bronson.
Nimitsov stood, Boris at his side, hands folded in front of him.
He was directly across from Sasha, who was suddenly afraid, very much afraid.
The announcer stepped forward and said loudly, “All bets are in.
The battle begins.”
Sasha opened the cage door and Tchaikovsky stepped out, facing the dog across the ring. Sasha was holding the cord around the pit bull’s neck, but the dog was not straining at it. The man who had helped Sasha pulled the open cage back and out of the ring.
The moment had come.
Sasha let the rope loose at a signal from the announcer.
“Survive, Tchaikovsky,” he whispered. “It is what I plan to do.”
Bronson leapt across the ring and landed on the pit bull’s back.
The crowd went mad with killing frenzy, all except the seven men in the front row.
Bronson had bitten into the smaller dog’s back but he suddenly released his hold. Tchaikovsky had calmly ignored the pain and sunk his teeth deeply into the left foreleg of the dog on his back.
Bronson turned, unable to free himself from the teeth that dug into his leg. He snapped at Tchaikovsky’s left ear and took a small piece of it. The pit bull showed no pain but bit even more deeply into the leg.
“Fight,” shouted someone. “Let go of his leg and fight.”
Tchaikovsky paid no attention.
Bronson was now trying to get away. On his three good legs he pulled the smaller dog around the arena, turning every few seconds to try to sink his teeth into the pit bull.
“Stop it,” shouted someone. “It’s boring.”
Others told the shouter to shut up. The crowd was in a fighting mood. This was not the fight they expected, not the fight they had been led to expect.
Bronson’s foreleg was bleeding badly. He kept thrashing, trying to escape. It was clear to all that the only way he would get away from the pit bull’s grip was to lose his leg.
Bronson lunged awkwardly, teeth apart, at the pit bull’s head.
Tchaikovsky, without loosening his grip, calmly turned his head down toward the dirt floor and out of reach of the madly snapping larger dog.
The fight was clearly over. Tchaikovsky seemed almost sedate and clearly determined to never loosen his jaws.
“Tchaikovsky, stop,” shouted Sasha.
Instantly the pit bull loosened his grip and walked away from his bloody opponent, who tried to move after him on his remaining three legs. The almost severed foreleg made it impossible for him to pursue. He took two steps and rolled over on his side, now trying to lick his bloody wound.
Meanwhile, Tchaikovsky walked indifferently toward his cage, ignoring his own significant but clearly not crippling or life-threatening wounds. There were shouts, demands for the return of bets, while others shouted that there had been nothing wrong with the fight. Drinks spilled. Cigar and cigarette butts were thrown.
Bronson would never fight again. He might survive to walk three-legged through life, but that was the best the animal would ever achieve.
Tchaikovsky entered his cage, turned to face the action in the arena and to watch Bronson hobbling toward his trainer, who stood next to Nimitsov.
“You did well, Tchaikovsky,” said Sasha.
The dog blinked.
Nimitsov looked at Sasha, smiled and shrugged.
What happened next came so fast that Sasha was not really aware that Nimitsov had saved his life. The pudgy young madman had stepped into the ring where the dogs had fought and bled. He faced the seven men in the first row.
Over the crowd roar, Peter shouted, “Betrayers. French scum.”
The Frenchmen in the front row and the crowd heard the elated shriek of madness from the man in the ring. The Frenchmen began to go for their guns. Sasha was frozen for an instant and then dived for Tchaikovsky’s cage and the compartment where the gun was hidden. There was a momentary standoff in the arena because Nimitsov now stood feet apart, a gun in each hand, a very happy look on his face.
The crowd began to scramble for the exits, pushing, trampling each other, growing louder in their panic.
Sasha had just opened the drawer when the first shot was fired.
For an instant he did not know who had started the insane battle, and then he felt the body fall on his back. He heard an explosion of gunfire from the ring and the first row. Sasha pushed the body off of him. It was the young Frenchman who had stared at him.
He was still staring, but now with a third, round eye in his forehead, a simple, bleeding dark hole from which blood and something yellow was seeping. The dead man held a gun loosely in his right hand.
Peter Nimitsov had saved Sasha’s life.
Sasha took the dead man’s gun in one hand, his own in the other, and rolled over shooting toward the first row, over the wooden rim of the ring.
The madness of the battle equaled the madness of the dogfights. Seven men were in that front row, each with a gun in hand.
Two of them were now dead. The remaining five were shooting at Nimitsov, who stood unprotected.
A fat man dashed out of the stands and waddled past Nimitsov, who was firing rapidly. A bullet took the fat
