Bait Dog An Atlanta Burns Novel - By Chuck Wendig Page 0,95
called from the front gate. Said the cops are there.” As if on cue, she hears the distant sirens warbling. Gravel popping under tires. “And now they’re here.”
Another step forward.
Whitey starts to growl.
“You need to stop,” she says. “I’ll shoot. I swear I will.”
“I figure you will.”
Another step forward.
She pulls the trigger.
Click.
“You didn’t pull the toggle,” he says. She tries to rack it like a pistol, fumbling for the slide but suddenly finds there is no slide—her hands slide over the old German pistol and she doesn’t know what to do. He tells her. “You lift up on the bolt toggle, toward the back of the—“ He sighs. Waves her off. “Don’t bother. They’re here. It’s over. I don’t hurt little girls even if they want to kill me. Even if they steal my prize dog.”
Whitey whines.
“I…” she searches for words. All she comes up with is, “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “I’m going inside the house. Get a glass of whiskey before they come. You want one?”
“I don’t.”
He starts to walk away but then he stops and turns back around. “I liked you. Still do. I thought maybe we had an understanding. But you screwed me pretty good here.”
“This is a bad place.”
“Maybe. I’m a bad man. Is what it is. I’ll see you on the other side, Atlanta Burns.”
And he plods back toward his house, head hung low, big feet tromping over branches and briar. A bear heading back to his den to wait for the hunters.
* * *
Eventually she steps out when it seems safe. She leaves the gun hidden under a pile of leaves—last thing she needs to do is approach a shitload of police with an old German pistol in her hand. And hell if there aren’t a lot of police—three cruisers, two paddywagon vans, two animal control vans, couple unmarkeds.
The first thing Atlanta sees is a true reward: as cops are loading folks into one of the vans she sees Melanie’s blood-crusted face in the crowd.
Holger sees her. The detective’s dressed like it’s early March even though it’s hot and dry as the Devil’s own breath out here—Holger’s got jeans and a long-sleeve shirt on and a Phillies cap pulled over her too-short haircut.
From there everything’s a blur—she feels relieved but numb. Holger sits her on the bumper of one of the unmarked cars, an old-school Crown Vic that look like it’s seen a thousand better days and none worse, and it’s there she plants herself for a good hour-and-a-half as the cops like termites start to chew apart and break down the wood of this criminal operation. Dogs in cages head to the animal control van. Cops seize drugs and guns. Two state paddywagons leave and a third—this one from two towns over—pulls up. She sees familiar faces—Karl the Nazi, the pock-marked fucker, Charlie the ref, John Elvis—all loaded into cruisers or vans. When they see her they all look at her the same way, each offering up a cold stiletto stare that says, You did this to me.
Some cops try to take Whitey away but before Atlanta says anything, Holger calls over, tells them it’s okay. That’s Atlanta’s dog, she tells him. “Safe,” she says.
Safe. That’s a good word.
Atlanta smiles.
“I guess you are my dog,” she says to Whitey.
He pants in apparent acquiescence of this fact.
* * *
It’s not long before they bring out the big fish. Ellis Wayman. Trudging forward, hands behind his back, big head and bigger beard bobbing with each step. He sees Atlanta and gives her a boozy, woozy smile.
“You missed out,” he calls over to her. “I broke out the good whiskey!”
A booming laugh.
They load him into a cruiser—which looks so difficult as to be comical, like they’re trying to shove a grizzly bear into a phone booth—but eventually they get him inside and he gives Atlanta one last look through the glass. She can’t tell if the look is sad or mean or just drunk. She wonders how much whiskey it must take to light up a man like that. One bottle? Two? A clawfoot bathtub filled with the stuff?
As the cruiser pulls away, she realizes she still hasn’t seen Petry. That squirmy, slimy sonofabitch. He must’ve known what was happening and found a way out. She should’ve known he’d slip the noose.
Holger meets back up with Atlanta, tells her, “You did all right.”
“I guess.”
“This was a big operation. Not pro league, but one rung down. Might let us trade up and catch some even bigger fish.”