Dog Eat Dog by Edward Bunker Read Free Book Online

the car was underway, Mad Dog said, “Thanks for saving my ass, man.”
    “Where to?” Diesel asked.
    “I gotta pick up my car at the impound. You got any dough on you?”
    “No, man. I gave the bondsman all my money,” Diesel lied. “I gotta get money off you. I can’t get gas to go home without it.”
    “Yeah, okay. You know how to get to the house?”
    “Uh-uh. Not from here, anyway.”
    “Turn right at the second light.”
    During the drive, Mad Dog said he’d been arrested at the gas station when he went to pick up his car and tried to pay with Sheila’s Chevron card. “She reported the fucker lost.”
    “She can straighten that out, can’t she?”
    “Yeah … sure … whenever she gets back.”
    Diesel was uninterested in what Mad Dog said. He disliked Mad Dog and, although he would have sneered if someone accused him of fear, the truth was that Mad Dog made him uneasy. The guy was too paranoid and unpredictable. In San Quentin, he and another maniac had stabbed a guy about a dozen times because he thought the guy was staring at him. The prison surgeons were able to save the guy’s life, but his plumbing would never be the same. Diesel knew many killers who didn’t give a rat’s ass if it clouded up and rained dogshit, but they were predictable. Maniacs like Mad Dog were liable to go off for any reason—or no reason. Except for Troy, who said he could handle Mad Dog, Diesel would never have had anything to do with him. Troy’s final argument, which carried great weight, was, “At least you never have to worry about him ratting you off.”
    “Turn here,” Mad Dog said.
    Diesel turned. Now he recognized the street. The old frame houses were on a slope, high above the street with the garages dug into the hillside beneath them. He parked below the house.
    “You wanna wait down here or come upstairs?”
    Diesel envisioned Mad Dog going out the back door and over a fence while a big fool sat waiting in the car. “That’s okay. I’ll go up with you.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    Mad Dog got out and Diesel followed him up the stairs. Mad Dog led the way around the side of the house to the back porch, where he took a key from under the steps and let them in. They walked past a refrigerator and freezer on the old porch and entered the kitchen. Mad Dog turned on the lights. The kitchen was immaculate and reminded Diesel that Mad Dog was a “clean freak,” a name used by convicts for compulsive cleanliness. It was a common trait among those laden with guilt.
    They went through the kitchen and entry hall to the living room. “Wait here,” Mad Dog said.
    Diesel started to say he was going along, but that was both disrespectful and a sign of weakness. It would look as though he was scared of being ripped off. “Go ahead,” he said, and sat down on the decrepit sofa. He heard the front stairs squeak as Mad Dog went up to the second floor.
    While waiting, Diesel felt the need to urinate. He remembered the half bath next to the kitchen. As he entered the bathroom, he heard Mad Dog coming down the narrow rear stairs to the kitchen. Motherfucker’s getting slick, he thought, listening intently. If he heard the back door open, he would charge out and beat the shit out of the little turkey. He inched forward to the kitchen door. He could see Mad Dog on the back porch, lifting the lid of the freezer. Getting the money, Diesel thought, pulling back out of sight.
    He went back to the living room. A minute later, Mad Dog appeared, holding out a wad of money. “Two grand,” he said. “Wanna count it?”
    “I trust you.”
    “You’re gonna drive me to the impound so I can get my car?”
    “Sure. Let’s roll.”
    They went out the front and down the steep stairs to the car. Mad Dog gave directions to the impound garage. When they got there he had to fill out a form and wait in line.
    “I’m rollin’, Dog,” said Diesel. “You don’t need me anymore.”
    “No. I’ve got it covered from here. Thanks,