Dog Eat Dog by Chris Lynch Read Free Book Online Page B

on a blackboard rather than one animal killing another. “He goddamn deserves what’s happenin’ to him. I hope it gets—”
    Terry stopped, as did everyone else, when they saw it. All experienced sports fans here, they all recognized it when the Doberman made a mistake. Bobo was cut and oozing from four different spots, but it was all pretty superficial—except for the dangling ear. The Doberman had him beat on passion, but not on sheer bulk and muscle. He didn’t understand that. So he thought it was time to go for the kill.
    The Doberman released his grip on Bobo’s head, pulled back, and dove for the belly. He reached it, but not in time to clamp his jaws shut. Seeing the smaller animal stretched out under him, Bobo acted out of dumb, vicious animal instinct. He dropped, his huge head sinking hard, with all his weight behind it, and flattened his opponent beneath him. In a heartbeat his great mouth opened, then slammed closed, across the Doberman’s back. The sound of all those vertebrae smashing was like a car rolling onto a gravel driveway.
    Just like that, Bobo became General Schwarzkopf returning from Desert Storm. With the cheering, I couldn’t hear what Terry was yelling in my face from only three feet away. The Jamaicans filed out slowly but purposefully, the front man holding up an envelope fat with money, then tossing it on the ground. They left their corpse. A special exception to the remove-your-victim rule, since Bobo was still lying across the poor sonofabitch.
    For his part, Bobo looked around numbly at the celebration, turning his brainless head in all directions, looking at everyone and appreciating nothing. Bunky ran and ran little rings around himself, mental, yipping.
    The mob moved inside. I lingered, staring as blankly at Bobo as he did at me. There was a whistle from inside. Slowly, painfully, the big monster rose and padded into the bar. A minute later I followed him.
    Augie was cleaning up the mess on his fighter’s legs and head, blotting with a peroxide-soaked dish towel from the kitchen. Within a minute I heard ten different people say how “we” had kicked the Jamaicans’ asses. Bobo pulled away from Augie and collapsed on the floor in front of his water bowl. Augie let him, and turned back to the bar to celebrate even though Bobo was still bleeding.
    Terry stared for a minute as Bobo seemed to cough, or spasm, then rest his head on the floor, then spasm again, then close his eyes.
    He came over and put his arm around me. I threw it off. He squeezed the back of my neck.
    “C’mere, I’ll walk ya out,” he said.
    “I guess I’m leaving,” I answered.
    Outside, Terry gave me a little shove, a boost out the door.
    “Pretty strange, huh? Bobo’s performance?”
    “Ya,” I said, getting ready to run.
    “So, you said you might know a dog. Remember? That can beat Bo?”
    “I might,” I said.
    “Good. Good, that’s good. We’ll pencil you in then. Now that this is outta the way, we’re lookin’ for some new meat. You’re in ,” he said menacingly.
    “Well, okay, but y’know, the thing is, I’m not exactly sure I can get—”
    “Y’ever noticed, Mick, how when Bobo drinks too much, when he’s wasted, that he hiccups? He hiccups a lot, it’s the damnedest thing.” Terry looked up in the air and stroked his chin quizzically as he said it.
    “I never noticed that,” I said in a shaky voice.
    “Ya, it’s a true fact. Ever wonder what Augie might do, if he caught someone screwing around with his dog? Ever wonder about that? I wonder about it sometimes. Augie’s pretty fried right now, so he don’t see much of nothin’, but if he ever somehow did find out about something like that, if something like that ever did actually did happen...?”
    I didn’t answer. I didn’t figure I was supposed to.
    He got lighter and more casual about it, the closer he got to the nub.
    “And I won’t stick my hand in any damn dogfight for you. Did I tell you that already? I