Echoes of a Distant Summer (69 page)

“Twenty-six hundred, but fourteen hundred is at two to one,” Jackson said, leaning over the barrier to hand his grandfather the money and the notebook.

“Good. Good. Here, keep fifty for travelin’ money,” he said, quickly rifling through the money and handing Jackson back a few bills.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Jackson said, stuffing the money into his pocket. “Do you want me to get the guns?”

His grandfather took a look around the hall and said, “Yeah, you better. There are a lot of people here who don’t know us. If we win tonight, we may have to show that we know how to keep our money. Did you clean them guns like I told you?”

“Yes, sir, but I think that the .357 Magnum has had it. There’s too much play in the cylinder.”

His grandfather laughed without humor. “Damn! That’s what I get for letting you experiment with your own loads! Bring me my forty-fives. Can you handle that forty-four Mag?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Thinkin’ so ain’t enough. Can you handle it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” His grandfather turned away without another word. He walked across the pit and disappeared in the crowd on the far side.

Jackson checked to make sure that his money was firmly in his pocket and ambled through the mass of bodies. Occasionally, he could hear over the general noise of conversation vendors calling out in Spanish,
“Carne asada y frijoles!”
or
“Maíz con jalapeño!”
As he moved through the crowd, he nodded to people that he knew or stopped to exchange brief greetings with friends of his grandfather. Near the entrance to the hall, Jackson saw Reuben and Julio Ramirez waving at him. He waved in return and headed in their direction.

As Jackson negotiated past a group of men who were bickering aggravatedly among themselves, a squat, barrel-chested man blocked his path. “You still takin’ bets?” the man asked in English with a thick Mexican accent.

“No, we’re closed,” Jackson said carefully. The man in front of him was Esteban Tejate, the father of Juan Tejate, a person he was sworn to fight. The Tejate family was almost pure-blooded Indian; it showed in their straight black hair, their broad, brown faces with high cheekbones, and in their glittering black eyes as well. They were known to be
unscrupulous dog handlers. Jackson had heard that they would even use rabid dogs. They were the lowest of the low.

Jackson was in the act of stepping around Esteban when he heard Juan say loudly in Spanish, “Don’t waste your time on the little Negro, Father. He doesn’t have the balls to bet with us.”

“Fuck you, Juan!” Jackson retorted as he swiveled to face a taller, thinner version of the father.

“Any time you want to try, sissy!” Juan sneered in English, his accent as thick as his father’s. Juan’s black eyes glinted in the hall’s lights. He was seventeen, two years older than Jackson, and had a reputation for being tough. Although Jackson was over four inches taller and outweighed him by a few pounds, Juan looked more physically mature. He had the musculature of a man, while Jackson still looked like a gangly boy. But looks were deceiving. Jackson could deadlift his own weight and pull himself, hand over hand, up twenty feet of rope. He was not afraid of Juan; in fact, the prospect of fighting him excited him.

A horn blared, signaling that the dogfight would start soon. Jackson turned on his heel and resumed making his way through the throng of fight fans. He had to get the guns. He heard Juan jeer something in Spanish and then heard Esteban’s crude laugh, but the words were lost in the milling sounds as people began making their way to their seats. The crowd was mostly men, however there was a significant number of women interspersed among them. At the door, he stopped and spoke briefly to the Ramirez brothers and then he went out into the darkness to his grandfather’s truck.

When he returned the dogs were already in the pit. Their handlers were walking them up and down, building the dogs’ excitement. The American dog was a big, chestnut-colored Staffordshire bullterrier. His broad head and shoulders bespoke the centuries of breeding that had developed his tremendous physical strength and fighting heart. His coat gleamed in the stark lights of the pit. His ears were cropped and they stood up like little triangles on his head. The dog pranced lightly beside his handler, eager to be at the other dog. The American dog’s name was Prince and Jackson thought he looked like one. He was the most handsome pit bull that Jackson had ever seen. He knew that if he had such a dog, he would never put him in the pit to fight, but of course, he would never put any dog in the pit. Jackson only attended dogfights because of his grandfather.

His grandfather had seats in the first row above the pit. Jackson sat down next to him and passed him his pistols wrapped up in an old sweater. His grandfather took the sweater and casually slid one gun into a holster that he had sewn into his jacket; the other pistol he pushed into his waistband.

The second dog was named Diablito. He was a thickset mongrel terrier. His coat was black and his muzzle and neck were covered with scars from previous pit battles. He looked like a mix between an English bullterrier and the American Staffordshire. He was built stockier and closer to the ground than Prince.

Unlike Diablito, Prince had no scars visible on the chestnut sheen of his coat. When Jackson mentioned this to his grandfather, his grandfather said, “His owner got class; he only fights him twice a year.”

The dogs were brought to the scratch lines. Diablito’s handler shook the carcass of a dead cat in front of the dog to excite its blood lust. A referee stepped forward and announced that the fight would be conducted under standard rules. Then everyone cleared the pit except for the handlers.

A horn blared and the dogs were loosed on each other. Diablito shot across the pit. It looked as if the fight would be over in seconds, for Diablito was within inches of Prince’s throat. With sheer power and heart, Prince fought off the wall and forced Diablito back to the center of the pit. The crowd roared its approval at Prince’s effort.

Despite himself, Jackson found himself transfixed by the snarling, guttural action in the pit. It soon became apparent why Prince had such a horde of supporters: The dog had both speed and strength. After the initial clash, Prince began to elude Diablito’s short, quick lunges and began making parrying attacks himself. In the first five minutes, it was obvious to all observers that Prince was quicker than his adversary, but he did not possess Diablito’s massive strength.

Fifteen minutes into the fight, the first turn occurred. Prince, in an attempt to avoid Diablito’s lunging attack, leaped against the pit wall and was immediately pinned by Diablito. Diablito gained a head hold and Prince’s head was turned. The dog handlers entered the pit at once and separated the dogs. Prince was bleeding from the muzzle and Diablito’s head and shoulders were a mass of oozing cuts.

The fight crowd, which had never been quiet, roared to life. People shouted across the pit to their friends. All around the hall, people were marveling at the power and courage of the dogs. It was a good fight:
speed and youth against age and strength. Everyone knew that this was a fight which would be talked about for years. It would set the standard for the future.

The dogs were brought back to the scratch line and the horn blared again. The fight commenced. Diablito shot across the pit again, but Prince had learned his lesson; he was not there. As if he had taken advice from his handler, the American dog’s strategy had changed. He began to make serious counterattacks after every lunge by his adversary. Prince was not striking for the head, but at his opponent’s legs and feet. After several near misses, the crowd, sensing a change in the fight, sat forward in their seats. It was not long in coming.

Diablito, with his tremendous fighting heart and great strength, had never learned to adjust his fighting tactics. He would keep charging at his opponents until they were dead or he was killed. Prince was a dog of a different kind. He owed his unblemished coat to the fact he had both speed and the ability to learn. It was a question of time. Coordinating his movement with Diablito’s lunge, Prince struck. His powerful jaws closed around Diablito’s right foreleg and there was a loud snap that was heard all around the pit. Diablito’s inertia caused him to flip over on his back as Prince kept a hold on his leg. Prince struck for the throat, but Diablito, being a crafty veteran of many battles, twisted away in time and Prince missed. Diablito’s head was twisted back and another turn was called.

The handlers rushed into the pit. The dogs were separated again. The crowd waited in hushed silence for Diablito’s handler to make the decision as to whether his dog could continue or not. Jackson was on the edge of his seat as well. He watched Diablito standing on three legs down in the pit. He was a mass of confusion. He wanted his grandfather to win, but he also felt that the chestnut dog was superior and if the fight continued, Prince would eventually kill Diablito.

After checking the condition of Diablito’s leg, his handler stood up and looked at Jackson’s grandfather. The two of them exchanged hand signals and then the handler went to talk with the referee.

Jackson’s grandfather stood up and took out a large wad of money from his pocket and said loudly for all to hear, “Five thousand dollars on Diablito!”

There was a shocked silence, then pandemonium. People in the crowd had trouble believing their ears. Jackson could not believe it himself. He couldn’t understand his grandfather’s thinking. Was the bet
some kind of ploy? he wondered. Jackson hoped that his grandfather did not still think that Diablito could win. People began to reach across him or lean on him in an effort to bet their money with his grandfather. He shook someone off his shoulder angrily and stood up. Men were jostling around his grandfather as he was taking bets.

Jackson asked, “Do you need me, Grandfather?”

“No, I got it covered, boy.”

“I’m going outside for some air, if that’s okay with you,” Jackson said, stretching slowly.

“Just stay close when it’s time to collect the money. I may need you,” his grandfather said without taking his eyes off the money he was counting.

Jackson walked away through the crowd. Outside under the dim light of the stars, he bought some skewered meat that an old woman was cooking on a brazier. The meat was hot and juicy and very spicy. His grandfather called it “losing dog” meat, but Jackson liked it. Lots of others had followed him out into the coolness of the night air. The old woman at the brazier was doing a booming business. People stood around in its flickering light, pulling hot pieces of meat off the skewers with their teeth. Everyone was talking about the amazing bet that El Negro had just placed. One man said loudly that El Negro was throwing money away, but someone close to him pointed out Jackson and the man fell silent.

The horn blared. People began to rush back into the hall to get to their seats. Jackson ambled to the door, but he did not want to go inside. This was the part of dogfights that he disliked the most: Both animals were bloodied and tired, yet still fighting on courage and instinct, ready to die in order to vanquish their rival. He felt particularly badly during this dogfight, because he didn’t think Diablito stood much of a chance before his leg had been broken. Now, with that impairment, Jackson thought that it was extremely cold-blooded to let the fight continue. It was like sending Diablito to his death with no veneer of fair play. Whatever his grandfather’s motive, money seemed to be a poor reason for Diablito to die.

Inside the crowd roared and then roared again. It sounded as if death was close. Jackson went back in the hall and returned to his seat. The scene that he saw shocked him. Diablito had a death hold on Prince; how that had happened was unimaginable to Jackson, yet here it was in
front of him. Prince was fading fast. Diablito had a firm grip on his throat. Inside his head, Jackson pleaded for the fight to be stopped. He started to get up and go back outside, but his grandfather grabbed his arm and gestured for him to stay seated. Jackson closed his eyes and begged the invisible gods to intercede on Prince’s behalf. As if fate had only been waiting for this entreaty, a towel was thrown into the pit by Prince’s handler. The crowd roared its approval, signaling that others thought that the fight should be stopped as well.

After the dogs had been taken out of the pit, Jackson stood at the edge of the pit once again, watching as it was being swept with coarse brooms. His grandfather was counting his cash. He had done quite well, more than quadrupling his original money due to several late side bets. People were beginning to file out of the hall. Everyone was talking about the spectacular turnabout in the fight.

Jackson still did not understand how his grandfather had known that Diablito would win. When Jackson asked him, all he would say was “To gamble, you got to know how to judge the heart in both man and beast.”

Across the pit, Jackson saw Juan Tejate walking out with one of his brothers and his father. Juan saw him as well and made an obscene gesture, which Jackson’s grandfather witnessed.

“You havin’ trouble with the Tejates?” his grandfather asked curtly.

“Looks like Juan and I have a few things to work out,” Jackson answered.

“Can you kick his ass?” his grandfather asked, still counting his money.

“Yes.” Jackson nodded. “I think I can, anyway.”

“What did I tell you about the difference between thinkin’ and doin’?”

“I can whip him,” Jackson said with more certainty.

“You ready to try it now?” His grandfather measured him with a steady look.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Jackson said, slightly confused. “But where?”

“Down there.” His grandfather indicated the pit with a nod of his head and continued to count his money.

“Down there?” Jackson questioned, not particularly pleased at the prospect of fighting in the same arena as the dogs.

“Better down there in the open than in some alley where him and his brothers jump you and maybe kill you.”

There was a certain logic to it, Jackson had to admit. “Okay,” he said hesitantly.