Bait Dog An Atlanta Burns Novel - By Chuck Wendig Page 0,88
in with the walkie-talkie.
He grins. Tips his hat. “Morning, Miss Burns.”
“Hey.”
His right hand hangs at his thigh, occasionally drifts toward his ass—she figures he’s got that pistol tucked. Not in his ass, as such, but in the back of his jeans.
“You want to go in?” he asks, teasing her.
“I do.” Whitey senses it. Steps forward. Head low. A low grumble coming from his throat.
“That dog better not come at me.”
“Then you better not come at me.”
“I’ll shoot him.”
“And I suspect that Ellis will shoot you as a reward.”
He smiles. Nervous-like. Offers an awkward laugh: “Heh-heh-heh.” Then says, “Lemme just get that gate for you, if you’ll hold one second.”
Winky backs toward it. He lets her and the dog pass. Whitey growls at him the whole way.
* * *
She feels like she might throw up again. From the hangover or the nerves, she’s not sure.
As she walks up to the Farm, to the parking lot, a massive shape crosses the parking lot to meet her halfway. If he were a little higher in the sky, the Mountain Man would block out the sun and cast darkness all across the earth.
Through his tangled beard she can make out a big yellow-toothed grin.
“Atlanta Burns, as I live and breathe.”
“Mister Wayman.”
He puts out a hand. It’s the size of a Frisbee. She takes it, is suddenly irrationally afraid that he’ll rip her arm right out of the socket. But while his hand is rough with calluses, the grip itself is soft. The shake, gentle.
“There’s my prize,” he says, the mountain shrinking and stooping to Whitey. He holds out the back of his hand. Whitey sniffs it. Doesn’t growl, but hesitates. “He’s suspicious. That’s good. How’d training go?”
“Just fine,” she lies. Only things she’s trained this dog to do is to chase houseflies and catch Doritos in his mouth.
“Walk with me,” Wayman says.
She nods. Reticent as she follows along.
Ahead and to the right, the crowd has again gathered. They’re milling about—the fights haven’t started yet. The shuffling feet of those gathered kick up puffs of dust as they murmur and whoop and posture.
Wayman heads off toward the barn. Thankfully not the Morton building. Where they “Vick” the dogs who lose the fight and cause shame to their handlers. Atlanta wants to see that building burn to the ground with all the human monsters in it. Contain yourself, she thinks, trying to swallow up her angry heart in a tide of… well, if not compassion, then patience.
Into the barn, he flags over a man—it’s the pot-bellied referee. Got a pair of eyeglasses sitting low on his bumpy nose. Reading glasses. Wayman calls to him: “Charlie, got one here.” Charlie holds up a finger as stares over his nose at a clipboard.
“Where’re your boys?” Atlanta asks. “Your nephews.”
“They’re not cut out for this,” he says with a sniff. “Bird’s too frail. More a sparrow than a sparrowhawk. And Bodie, well. Bodie’s maybe a little too cut out for this. I figured he needed some time to himself.”
The ref—Charlie, apparently—comes over with a choke chain. Moving toward Whitey.
Whitey no likey. He lowers his head, shows his teeth. Charlie pauses.
Wayman just laughs. “Thatta boy. That’s the fighter spirit for which I paid most handsomely.”
“What’s going on?” Atlanta asks.
“Need to put the dog in a cage,” Charlie says real matter-of-fact like.
“What? I didn’t agree to that.”
Wayman claps a hand on her shoulder—this, less gentle than the shake. Feels like she might collapse under his hand like a jacket knocked off its hanger. “Miss Burns, this is how it’s done. The fighting dogs can’t be wandering around. They wait in the cages till the Show starts. Safest place for the animal is in one of those cages.”
She seethes. “Until the fight, you mean.”
“Now, you’re not having second thoughts about this, are you?”
“And what if I am?” Her body, starting to tremble at his touch, quiver with the fear that she made a big mistake.
“Then I’d say it’s too late for all that because here you are and here I am and we had a deal that I’d hate to see fall apart at the last minute. My disappointment would be keenly felt.”
“No second thoughts,” she says.
“Good. Charlie, give her the choker, let her take the dog over.”
Charlie squints at her from behind those reading glasses, looks her up and down to size her up, then hands her the bundled chain. She waves it off, instead going over to an open cage and calling Whitey over with a quick whistle. The dog