or anything.”
“Hey, now, watch your mouth with accusations like that. We’re just having a polite conversation. Besides, that boy killed himself. Police reports say so. Suicide is a hard thing.”
“Suicide must be a disease that’s going around. Heard tell of other gay kids catching it. Maybe a few Mexicans, too. Thank the Lord no white folks are getting hurt.”
To this, Orly says nothing. Instead his eyes wander to the dog at her side.
“That’s a nice dog, there.”
“Who, Whitey? He’s all right. Stinks up a room pretty bad, though. His butt smells like a bunch of squirrels climbed in an old jockstrap and died. Maybe it’s the frozen pizzas I’ve been feeding him.”
Orly laughs. “Whitey. That’s a good name.”
Suddenly she gets it. “Oh, see, no. I’m not being racist, you old bastard. It’s not a white pride thing, it’s a, he’s-a-dog-and-he-happens-to-be-all-white thing. Dang you people got one mind about things, don’t you?” Her lip hooks into a sneer. “What are you doin’ here, anyway? You’re sure not here to talk to me about dogs.”
“Actually, I am. That dog in particular.”
“Go on.”
“I want him.”
“Just because he’s white?”
“Because he’s a rare breed. You don’t see too many Argentine Mastiffs around.” He steps in front of his own headlights, his massive shadow darkening the house. “May I come up and talk?”
“You may—“ He starts to take a step forward. “Long as you don’t mind picking birdshot out of your pretty teeth.”
He steps back. “I’ll stay down here, then.”
“Your call.” She shrugs. “Not much to talk about, anyway. This dog ain’t yours.”
“He’s not yours, either.”
“If you say so.” Time to figure out how much he knows. “So whose dog is he, then?”
Orly chuckles. “I think we both know who that dog belongs to. I’m surprised Wayman hasn’t come for him yet.”
Again the dog growls. Ears bristling. Atlanta says, “If you know who owns this dog, what’s your angle? You want to return him to his rightful owner?”
“Nope. I want him for myself.”
“Figured you were friendly with Wayman.”
Again that smile drops. “Friendly enough.”
“Friendly enough to take his dog?”
“Friendly enough,” he says again through gritted teeth, as if to really say, Not friendly at all.
“Your toadies were up there the other day.”
“Just carrying the flag for the cause.”
It’s then she gets it. It clicks like the satisfying hammer of the gun in her hand. “You don’t like Wayman’s operation because he invites the undesirables. Meaning, folks who don’t look like you or me or Whitey here.”
“I’m not here to go over that again with you.” She can tell by now Orly’s getting tired of this conversation. The smile hasn’t come back. His voice has a cheese grater edge to it. “I’m here to make an offer on that dog, plain and simple.”
“Not interested.”
“Don’t you even want to hear the offer?”
“Like I said, not interest—“
“I’ll talk to the bank. Fix the little problem I hear your mother’s having with the mortgage.” He shifts in the light of the Tahoe, shadow puppets on the wall dancing behind her. Every time he moves, the lights hit her eyes, make her squint. “Hell, maybe I’ll even get them to lower her rate a little bit—might be a little wiggle room there.”
“For the dog.”
“For the dog.”
Temptation dangles above her head, tantalizing as a bunch of ripe red grapes. All she has to do is shake the devil’s hand and send Whitey on his way. Probably to train. And to fight. And maybe to die. She’s not sure if Orly just wants to exert some grudge against the Mountain Man or if he really wants to see this dog in the ring. She’s not sure if that even matters. The fight is the fight no matter why it takes place.
She looks down at Whitey. He doesn’t take his eyes off Orly.
So easy. So easy to just give in. Let the dog go. Watch her problems—or at least one problem—melt away. She’s got no loyalty to dogs. Doesn’t even like them much.
But this dog…
This dog saved her life.
Aw, crap.
“It’s up to him,” she says. “Whitey, you wanna go with the man in the fancy white car? Go and be a big bad dog fighter? You can go if you want.”
But Whitey doesn’t budge. Of course he doesn’t.
She shrugs. “Guess he’s not interested.”
“You’re making a mistake. I’m handing you the keys to your cage.”
“You come back here again, I’ll be handin’ you your balls in a cereal bowl.”
Orly nods, resigned to it. He heads back to the Tahoe, throws open the door. Before he steps