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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Faith tapped her earpiece and said, "Michael, do you copy?"

"Loud and clear," Michael said softly, "you read me?"

"Gotcha," Faith said, "What do you see?"

"Not much yet," Michael said, "the crowd is what you'd expect. A bunch of street toughs walking around and posturing, trying to prove they're the toughest cock in the henhouse. I wonder if any of them look in the mirror?"

"I can't imagine the life of a criminal is one that inspires self-reflection," Faith said. "How's Turk?"

"He's okay. He seems nervous, but I can't tell if that's him being in character, or if he's really nervous."

"Does he seem nervous, fearful, or nervous like he's ready to rip something apart at any moment?"

"Definitely the second one."

"Then he's in character. What about you? Are you in character?"

"Well, I look like I sell weed to college kids and blast death metal from my old Ford Econoline van at stoplights. Does that count?"

Faith smiled. "That works."

She tapped her earpiece twice to mute it, then turned to Garvey in the seat next to her. "Do we have a lock on him?"

"GPS has him," Garvey said, "Since he's indoors, it won't be accurate within more than ten or fifteen feet, but we have him."

"What about microwave?" The microwave transmitter was more sensitive than the GPS, especially in close quarters.

"No luck there," Garvey said. "The receiver's fried."

Faith swore and double-tapped her earpiece again. "Michael, the microwave's fried. We're relying on GPS."

"That's fine with me," he said. "Are you expecting trouble?"

"I'm expecting tension," she said. "Hopefully it doesn't go any farther than that."

"Well, I'll do my best not to look anxious," he said. "I have to tell you, I stick out like a sore thumb, though."

"That's okay," Faith said. "You're from California. You don't need to look like them, you just need to look like you belong."

"Where are you guys parked?"

"We're two warehouses down and one across," Faith said, "about a half mile away. We're hidden from view, so no one wonders what a gray van is doing loitering across the street."

"Good," he said, "Gotta go. Someone's coming with a dog. I need to act like Turk's straining at the leash. What's the command again?"

"Be mean," Faith repeated.

"Got it. Turk, be mean. Jesus!"

Faith couldn't resist a smile as she heard Michael struggle with the leash while Turk barked and snarled. She heard an anxious voice on the other end say, "Hey, keep your dog in line, man. It ain't his turn tonight."

She double tapped her earpiece to mute it but kept listening to Michael. "How about you take your dog away before Turk decides to have an evening snack?"

"Motherfu—"

"Jamal!" a third voice interrupted. "What are you doing up here? Bruiser's the third fight. Get his ass—and yours—down to the damned pit! Sorry about that, Mike. This Turk?"

"Easy, Turk," Michael said, the command for Turk to stop being mean. "Yeah, this is him."

The new voice scoffed. "He looks like a bitch."

"Yeah?" Michael replied. "Bring Bruiser back here, and I'll show you how much of a bitch he is."

Faith knew it was just an act, but she tensed anyway. Michael was just a guest tonight, watching the fights to see if he believed it was a good place for him to make money with his dogs, but he was surrounded by legitimate gangsters with legitimate dogfighters, and while backup wasn't far, it might as well have been on the other side of Canada. They wouldn't get to Michael or Turk fast enough to help them if something went down.

"Your boy's laying it on a little thick," Garvey said.

"What should he do?" Faith asked.

The answer to their question came when the stranger chuckled. "Relax, Mike, relax. You want Bruiser, you're gonna have to earn him. Bruiser's a champion. You gotta work your way up."

"Didn't look like much of a champion to me. Jamal looked ready to shit a brick when he saw Turk."

Faith double tapped her earpiece and said, "Easy, Michael. Don't provoke anyone."

"Chill the ego, man," the other voice said. "I get that you got shit to prove, but right now, you just a spectator, comprende? Just sit back, have a beer, have a girl, and enjoy the show. Oh. Your dog's gotta stay in the cages, though. Can't have fighting dogs in the crowd during the fights. We tried that once, and it wasn't pretty. We got a spot reserved for him."

Faith bristled and nearly told Michael not to let that happen, but Garvey grabbed her shoulder and shook her head. Faith frowned, but she relented. She knew this was probably going to happen. She didn't relish the idea of Turk being alone, but they wouldn't put two fighting dogs in the same cage.

"Michael, tell Turk to be mean when you put him in the cage. Make it seem casual."

"Got it," Michael said. "See you later, Gaucho."

Faith muted her microphone and Garvey said, "Francisco Jimenez, nickname, Gaucho. He's the pit boss."

"Could he have murdered Harris?"

"Possibly, but I don't know why he would have murdered Mariano too. Mariano was so far down on the ladder he wasn't even on it. It would be like killing a man, then killing his pet fish."

Except Mariano wasn't a fish, he was a man. Faith understood her point, though. "How long do these fights usually run?"

"An hour or two," Garvey said, "they aren't worried about cops too much, but they know better than to make enough noise to attract attention. They'll do their business, collect their money and get out."

Faith nodded and turned to the monitor, where an orange dot indicated Michael's position and a green dot indicated Turk. The green dot remained stationary since Turk was in a cage now, and the orange dot moved steadily away.

***

Michael hated this. He wasn't good at undercover. He had studiously avoided any career track that would require him to go undercover. He grew up in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the San Francisco Bay and had attended school in Berkeley before joining the FBI. He knew about as much about life on the street as he did about oil futures.

And he really didn't like that Turk was separated from him. Turk was a great dog, but Michael doubted that Turk would understand to stay mean for the entire time it took Michael to watch the fights.

Michael risked trying to move the meeting up. "Hey, Gaucho, I don't want to be a pain, but when do I meet the organizers?"

Gaucho laughed. "Patience, ese. Come on, man, I thought people were chill in California. Watch the fights, enjoy yourself. Hey, Trixie!"

A buxom young woman wearing far too little clothing for a cool night like tonight plastered a seductive smile underneath supremely bored eyes. "Yes, Daddy?"

"Bring my friend Mike a drink. Make it nice and sweet for him, okay?"

Trixie looked Michael up and down with practiced sultriness. "Ooh, he's cute."

"Tell him that after you bring him his drink, baby," Gaucho said with a grin.

I'm sorry, Ellie, Michael thought as he forced himself to watch Trixie walk away.

"She's cute, huh?" Gaucho said.

"She's something," Michael replied.

Gaucho laughed. "Wait until you see what she can do with those hips. I hope you ate a good breakfast, muchacho . You're gonna need your strength."

He laughed again and Michael managed a smile as Gaucho led them to their "seats," a couple of overturned crates a few yards back from the ring.

Michael's first dogfighting experience was even more traumatic than he expected. The show didn't start with a fight as he expected. Instead, a small Pomeranian was released into the ring and left to quail in fear for over a minute while the announcer introduced the fighters, a Rottweiler named Brutus and a Dobermann named Killer.

Michael would have nightmares for a long time after hearing the noises coming from the ring.

"They have bait dogs in California?" Gaucho asked, "Or do they just starve the dogs?"

"We just starve ‘em," Michael said, "Makes them ready to fight anything."

"Yeah, but it kills their stamina," Gaucho said. "That's why we started using bait dogs. Gets their blood up, but it's not enough food to make them sleepy. They start fighting each other, and they have the energy to go forever. Not that they do. They end up dead—well, one of them does—within a minute or two."

Sure enough, Killer lived up to his name, and after less than two minutes, he walked away from the mangled body of Brutus. Trixie returned with his drink and, of course, sat on his lap and wiggled her hips. He managed to do a passable job of seeming interested, all the while reminding himself that this was necessary to catch a murderer.

Michael endured one more fight but didn't get to see the legendary Bruiser defend his title. Gaucho tapped his shoulder and said, "All right, Impatient Mike. The bosses want to see you now."

Michael scratched his ear, tapping his earpiece as he did. "Wonderful. Where are we meeting them?"

"They have a room upstairs," Gaucho said. "You'll have to leave Trixie behind, though."

Michael turned to her and forced a lecherous grin. "I'll see you soon, baby."

Trixie nibbled his earlobe and said, "Don't keep me waiting long."

God help Michael, but he would personally see everyone here thrown in prison.

Gaucho led him to the cages. "We're getting your dog," he said, "They're going to want to see what Turk can do."

Michael paled. He feared suddenly that Turk would be asked to eat a bait dog, something that couldn't and wouldn't happen. Faith must have feared the same thing because she said, "If you need us, tap. Try to give us five minutes to show up, but we should be there in two."

He was mildly encouraged to see Turk still snarling and snapping at the other dogs. A few of the other dogs even cowered against the corners of their cages.

"Pinche cabrones, " Gaucho said, "Hey, Jose. Get these little bitches out of my cages."

Jose obliged, calling on his radio for handlers to help him with the dogs who cowered. Gaucho smiled at Turk and said, "He's a killer, huh? Damn. Usually shepherds are too small for this kind of fighting, but I think Turk here might surprise us. You know that German Shepherds are related to wolves?"

As are all dogs, Michael thought drily. Aloud, he said, "That so? Explains why he howls all damn night."

Gaucho threw his head back and howled himself. Then he laughed and clapped Michael on the shoulder. "Just you wait, Mike. Five minutes with Trixie, and she'll have you howling just like Turk."

He howled again, and Michael joined him to keep up appearances. God, I hate you, you bastard.

He followed Gaucho up to the office where three men and—surprisingly—a woman waited. They wore the stony expressions of hard businessmen who knew that their work could get them and many others killed or thrown in prison.

"All right, Mike," Gaucho said when Michael and Turk entered. "This here's my boy, Mike. He's from L.A. He's got this dog here, Turk. Says Turk's a champ. Says he's gonna make Bruiser look like a little bitch."

Turk growled menacingly, and Michael looked over the room, wondering which of the men Turk had picked out as a suspect. It worked for the charade, and the woman nodded at Gaucho, who clapped Michael on the shoulder and said, "Have fun, man. I'll keep the dogs away from Trixie, if you know what I mean.

He laughed and howled again on his way out the door. Michael turned back to the four. This would be the riskiest part.

"All right," he said, "You said you want to see what Turk can do. So who's he eating?"

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