Bait Dog An Atlanta Burns Novel - By Chuck Wendig Page 0,89
complies, keeping an eye on the others as he walks over.
She scratches him behind the ear. “Into the cage,” she says. “I won’t let anybody hurt you. I promise.”
Whitey licks her face.
Then he steps into the cage.
Seeing him in there about chops her heart in twain. A log split under a heavy axe.
Wayman walks over. “Your fight’s in about an hour, provided the one before doesn’t go long. First up is Jasmine versus Tuco, and that’ll be an interesting one. Jasmine’s a Boxer, though some folks call her the ‘poodle’ because she’s got bows around her ears. Tuco’s a straight up bull terrier run by the Spics.” He snorts. “You, well. You’re going up against the Nazis—they’re running a new dog this time around. AmStaff mix. Name of some German WWII horseshit. Charlie, what in the Hell’s the Nazi dog’s name?”
“Panzer,” Charlie says. “Though I heard one of the Nazi boys call the dog ‘Jew-Biter.’”
Wayman shrugs. “There you go, then. Boss versus Jew-Biter.”
“Boss?” It takes her a second to realize that’s what Wayman calls Whitey. “I call him Whitey.”
“He’s not your dog to name, Miss Burns.”
“In training, I called him Whitey, so he’s Whitey.”
Wayman laughs again. The sound calls to mind an avalanche just starting up—ground shifting, trees breaking. “Whitey it is, then. Have a good fight. I’ll be watching you two in the ring, sure as shit.”
Then he’s gone. No longer eclipsing the sun or taking up all the oxygen in the room.
Atlanta takes one last look at Whitey, whose pointy ears flatten back. He makes a sad face.
“I’ll be back,” she says, and exits the barn.
* * *
Whitey will never get to fight. This’ll be over before that happens if Atlanta has her way.
She mills around outside. Licks her lips. Feels the electric buzz of adrenalin pushing back the greasy fingers of her hangover, loosening its grip. Time to make sure all the pieces are in place, then.
Yesterday, she made a call. To Orly Erickson. Told him before he could get a word in edgewise that if he wanted the Dogo he could have the Dogo and she’d meet him here. Then she hung up on him.
Atlanta hurries over to the parking lot. Peers row after row, feeling her gut sink further and further as she’s not seeing what she’s looking for—
Ah.
Hell yes.
There it is: a big white Tahoe. The front headlight shot out, the chrome around it peppered with dings from the .410 scattershot. A surge of joy and triumph jolts through her.
Gotcha, you sonofabitch.
She goes to make a call. Dials the number of one Detective Holger. Same cop who helped her through the thing with Donny. Same cop who made sure she got time at a mental health facility instead of in juvie (or worse).
Only problem. The phone’s not dialing. It’s not doing a damn thing.
It makes an angry beep beep beep. On the screen: NO SIGNAL.
That’s not good. She waves the phone around. Still no bars. “No, no, dangit,” she mutters. “Don’t do this to me you piece of crap, don’t you dare.”
She moves to the far end of the lot. Nothing. Back the other way. Nothing again.
Everything here is flat. No where she can go to get to higher ground, unless she’s interested in climbing up on top of the barn. Or worse, up onto Ellis Wayman’s shoulders—man’s probably got a whole cloud layer around his ears. But seeing as how that’s not much of an option, she keeps roving. Back to the front of the barn just as one fight is starting to get going—Charlie in the ring, two fighters: Jasmine the Boxers versus Tuco the Bull. Still no signal.
She heads to the back of the barn, then, where Bird took her on her last trip here.
There. One little half-bar. A limp partial chubby, but should be enough.
She redials the detective before the signal fades.
Just as she hears a click behind her ear. Then the pressure of something round and cold.
In her ear she hears the phone ring.
A voice behind her, scarily familiar. “You stupid twat.”
Skinny Skank. Melanie. One of the Nazis she tangled with—John Elvis’ girlfriend, to boot. Got a real grudge to bear.
“Hang up that fuckin’ phone,” Skank says, “or I’ll pull the trigger. Unless you’re not a fan of that ear. And you don’t mind being deaf for the rest of your probably-short life.”
On the phone, Atlanta hears the Detective’s voice answer: “Holger here.”
Skank reaches over with her free hand and snatches the phone, killing the call with a thumb.