The Dog Fighter by Marc Bojanowski Read Free Book Online Page A

said then to the toothless man and the words were diamonds that cut the back of my throat having not spoken for a long time.
    The toothless man gnashed his gums counting while I bent down to inspect the scorpion. My cheeks inches from its tail.
    At the end of a full minute I moved my hand to carefully drop the scorpion into the open mouth of the mason jar the toothless man held. The scorpion slid along the glass walls to the bottom of the jar. I screwed the lid on tight. The toothless man began to breathe again. His shoulders dropping in toward his chest. I held the jar out for him to take but when he reached for it I tossed the jar over my shoulder into the sea. Three workingmen had to hold the toothless man back. He cursed at me. Spitting his words.
    Let him be! A woman hissed. Her men looked to her and then to each other and then touched her arm to be calm.
    I ignored the woman but smiled as the three men kept the toothless man held down. His eyes with tears. The muscles of his neck rose. Veins perfect for cutting. I knew they would not let him come to me.
    Returning to the front of the ferry I slouched in the shade of the cabin and closed my eyelids to nap. I imagined the mason jar bobbing until the sun reflecting on its curved edge slipped beneath the surface leaving the light dull on the waves. Water poured in through the holes drowning the scorpion slowly. Its tiny floating body shoved against the lid. Clawing uselessly. The mist of waves broke over the nose of the ferry like glass shards cooling my cheeks. I held some trace of a smile still at the corners of my mouth for others to judge me by. For some time at the back of the ferry I heard the low sobbing of the toothless man.
    Content now I dozed. In and out of the drone of the engine. The smacking waves. The constant sunlight and conversation muffled. The children had stopped trying to play marbles on the gritty surface of the ferry deck above the rolling waves and this led them to a game of tag. One boy strayed from the game. He came on tiptoes to my side. A piece of papaya in his small hand. I let the boy reach out to touch my forearm and then I caught him by the wrist. I felt his skin goose pimple when I narrowed my eyes and growled. The boys own eyes shook and in their reflection several men stood off to my side and rolled their shoulders. One man slid his hand into the pocket of his pants for the cool handle of a knife. In my own hand I opened my switchblade knife and at the sound of it the men straightened. I brought the end of the knife to the papaya and then I looked from his eyes to the tip of the blade. When the boy understood I let go of his wrist and smiled and ran my other hand through his hair. I was hungry and the papaya was delicious.
    By evening the wind was strong. In the west mountains rose from the horizon small and insignificant at first but then high and steep above the colorful buildings of the city of Canción nestled before them. Soon two story rows of yellow and pink and blue and white buildings came into view. The last of the sun glinted off iron shutters that were to be closed over the windows to protect the glass from rainstorms that come sudden over the sea in late summer and early fall. Rainstorms with winds so strong they uproot palm trees. Topple windmills and peel back roofs. But now the cool of the wind brought some relief from the heat. From the shore came the smell of coarse grasses and sweet flowering cacti across the salty water to the ferry heavy with the stink of unwashed men. The women held their faces to the low sun with eyelids closed. The wind noisy in the folds of their serapes. Men held their sombreros palm flat against their heads. In the distance coconut palms swayed along the malecón. The stone walk stretching the length of a wide crescent beach.
    As the ferry came into the bay the water ribboned with many small waves folding over themselves white in the wind. A rowboat with a loud outboard motor piloted by a man