From the outside it looked like an abandoned factory. The building occupied an entire block. All the windows were blacked out. We entered through a small double door at the corner that was kept by two gorillas in sport shirts and black leather jackets. Once inside, you could hear the muffled shouts of a crowd and as we walked down a long hallway the shouts got louder. Cruz started to smile more often. He was snapping his fingers happily.
"Ever seen dogfights?" he asked.
I nodded.
Echo said, "Of course not!"
"You're going to like this." he said.
"I doubt it," she said.
Ahead of us double doors were thrown open by two more beefy attendants and the roar of the crowd smacked our faces like a gale force wind. I saw a large room mobbed with people and fogged with the smoke of a hundred cigars. Echo clutched my arm.
The room was two stories high, dug down into the basement level in order to give plenty of headroom for whatever machinery the factory had once contained. It was as big as a hangar at a small airport. Directly in front of us, sloping down to the floor on all sides, was a square grandstand filled with spectators. No seats there, just concrete tiers. There were maybe five hundred people in the crowd. Every man seemed to be waving a fistful of cash, looking to cover his bet. The atmosphere was electric, and I discovered that my thumb was riffling the edge of my bankroll and that, on some level, I was trying to find a way to calculate the odds on action I knew nothing about.
The sounds of men screaming for blood rocketed off the concrete walls and the echoes seemed to pick up steam rather than die away. The smell of deep-fried food hung in the air, lacing through the cigar smoke. There were a couple of large stands on this level vending an assortment of things to eat and drink.
On the floor below was a small wooden ring on which two dogs matched in size had locked down on each other, big wads of neck flesh clamped in each other's jaws. I heard Echo catch her breath and I reached for her hand as she reached for mine. Neither of us could look away.
The dogs' sweating handlers screamed encouragement. Both dogs had a grip and were pulling with all they had. This was where Fred had lost his ears. And a large chunk of flesh at his throat.
A fat man in a shiny silver-gray suit that may have fit him twenty-five pounds ago made his way toward Cruz. He was wiping sweat from his face with a bright red handkerchief and smiling so hard his ears were trembling with the effort. He called out in Spanish and Cruz answered him. I didn't understand but from the tone it was the usual soft soap. Every maitre d', from the Four Seasons to Caesar's Palace greases the big shots the same way. The only difference was that here the main course was dog's blood.
The fat man gestured for Cruz to follow and he turned and led the way, squirting through the crowd like a giant obese watermelon seed. The waves, however, parted for Cruz. Men stepped back as they saw him and struggled to twist their faces into pictures of respect. Those that failed looked terrified, looked enraged. But everyone acknowledged the power as we passed.
The fat man escorted us to the VIP section, a little elevated concrete platform with seats and a better view. Cruz sat in a seat that had been held for him. He spoke to the man next to him and he and another got up and gave their seats to Echo and me. They went and stood in the aisle with the Ghost.
Echo was pale, her eyes wide, as she watched the dogs fight. Cruz kept an eye on her to see how she took it. There weren't many women in the room, certainly not women with Echo's class and the high testosterone atmosphere emphasized her femaleness and made it shine all the brighter. I think Cruz wanted her to break open, to crack her poise, but Echo was having what she liked to call an "existential moment." She was working now, focused, making mental notes. Someday these violent shapes and figures would be appearing on stage. Her face was calm now and severe, her eyes glistening and bright in the smoky shadows. When she didn't faint or burst out screaming, Cruz nodded and a strange sweet expression came over his face. I didn't like that: he looked like a man falling in love. Even when someone came up to whisper in his ear, he never took his eyes from her.
Suddenly the crowd roared and Cruz stood up. One of the dogs had thrown the other. I looked in time to see a brindle savaging the black animal that had fallen to the floor. The brindle kept him down driving his muzzle in for a grip on the throat. I wondered if there was a point system or if the dogs had to fight to the death. I looked away to the crowd.
The dogs weren't really hard to watch. What they did was simple and pure. They were bred to fight and fight is what they did. The top dog was wagging his tail as he looked for his opening to kill.
The degrading part was watching the human spectators. They weren't down there bleeding in the sawdust. They were screaming and oiling their throats with Corona and Jose Cuervo, waving hundred dollar bills, betting to make it interesting. It's hard to love your fellow man sometimes. Self-respect sometimes demands you get down in the ring with the dogs.
I looked at Cruz. He was standing now. The surface of his face was completely smooth. He didn't make a sound. A fire was burning inside him and pouring out of his eyes as he ate the sight of the blood and the battle. He looked transformed without moving a hair. And all the work of all the tailors and barbers in New York couldn't hide what he was. I didn't know how to name it, but I felt it. Under a thin veneer of suits and ties and expensive watches and cars, he was something I couldn't make deals with or talk to or reason with.
He was something to get away from as fast as I could. If I didn't, he just might eat me and Echo alive for lack of anything interesting to do on a Saturday night.
They broke up the fight before the loser was clinically dead. When they carried him out I didn't give much for his chances. Cruz gestured to me and I leaned over to hear him.
"Not much fight in that one," he said, "But you like it, don't you?"
"Terrific fun."
"I knew you would. Next match will be better."
"I think we'll be going." This was a moment of some interest. Were they about to let us go or feed us to the dogs?
Cruz looked shocked. "You don't want to stay?"
"Better start getting things together."
"Yes. You tell Mickey to be reasonable and he gets to keep his skin."
"Right. We'll set it up as soon as possible."
"Don't waste time. Set it up for tomorrow," he said, turning to watch two fresh dogs being brought into the ring. The handlers were doing their best to make the dogs even madder. "Any later won't help me. You tell that to Mickey. Hey. You do this right and maybe a thing or two comes your way." He turned to me and for a moment the black thing that lived inside him peered out of his eyes at me and I was frightened. I wondered what it was, what name to give it. And then, I knew. The evil thing inside him was just a little boy who had eaten out of garbage cans. The little boy said, "You let me down... Things won't turn out so well." His eyes came to life again and he smiled. He handed me a card. "Call this number when you have it. We'll be waiting," he said.
Cruz turned to Echo and smiled, "Senora. How did you like the fight?"
"It's very cruel," she said, without expression.
Cruz smiled proudly, "Yes. It is. And do not worry, we won't disturb your home again. It was a pleasure to meet such a beautiful and graceful woman." He held out his hand and she took it. He bowed and for one revolting moment I thought he was going to kiss her hand.
Echo removed her hand before he could, turned and said, "Get me out of here."
We walked away as the dogs collided in the ring and their snarls were lost as the crowd screamed and all around us, men threw up fists filled with money.
*****
He hadn't offered the car and I wasn't about to ask. Outside, we walked and Echo didn't notice what a desolate dangerous no-man's-land we were stuck in.
"That was an interesting experience," she said, sourly. "You haven't told me everything, have you, Jackson?"
"No."
"Okay. We've got nothing else planned."
I told it all: The Office of Naval Intelligence. Mickey Dolan. Teddy Dexter. Miami. Everything. Almost. It took the whole hour and a half we spent finding our way home. It may be that only the dead know Brooklyn, but nobody on either side of the great divide knows the whole damn town.
*****
When we got home Echo still hadn't spoken. She just kissed my cheek and went straight to bed.
The Dalton Brothers went with her. I slept in the dog house again.