Stuart Kaminsky - The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

Now, the difficult part: getting the pit bull to go into the transport cage. The dog did not move. Sasha was supposed to be the expert. He had to get the animal in the transport cage and do it quickly without destroying his cover as Dmitri Kolk.

“You need help, Dmitri?”

Elena could tell from the look on his face that for a moment he did not remember that he was Dmitri. Then he recovered and said,

“No, I have my own methods for doing things. If I need anything, it is another small drink.”

Sasha’s improvised method was to squat behind the transport cage and talk to the dog the way Elena had seen him talk to his baby son. Elena thought quickly about finding a weapon if they were unmasked. She decided that the best, though riskiest, thing to do would be to kick the transport cage out of the way and let Tchaikovsky free to attack, hoping he would go for Illya and Boris.

But miraculously the pit bull quick-stepped into the smaller cage and Sasha dropped the door, trying not to show his relief.

Illya had to help carry the animal to the car. There were metal grips on each of the top corners of the cage, which made the task easier. Tchaikovsky stood all the way to the car, maintaining his balance and dignity.

The limousine was large, but with six people and a dog there was not a great deal of room. They placed the cage next to the driver, who looked straight ahead and made no comment or response. The two beautiful young women ignored the animal and Elena, and talked softly to each other as they rode. Boris and Illya pressed Sasha for information about his operation. Since he had no information and was obviously thinking about the coming battle, Sasha did not want to make up any more tales.

The rest of the night had been a nightmare to Elena.

The small arena in a converted warehouse in Pushkino north of the Outer Ring Circle was ringed by wooden benches. The first row had blue-cushioned seats with armrests, certainly the place where the big bettors sat. All the seats were set up high so the spectators could look down at the dirt-covered ring.

When Sasha, Elena, and the others arrived, a badly mauled and dying black-and-white mongrel was being carried off by two men.

The dog was on a canvas litter, his mouth muzzled to keep him from one last angry attack at the men who carried him out.

Sasha nodded and with Illya’s help moved the cage to the side of the fighting ring next to a blue stick standing over the back of the circle.

“You start here, at the blue side,” said Boris.

The crowd was loud, angry, crying out, “Let’s go. We haven’t got all night.”

In fact, Elena thought, they probably did have all night and more.

The air was thick with smoke. Elena tried not to cough. There had been cushioned seats reserved for the six arrivals. The seats were comfortable. The smoke was unbearable.

“What if one of the dogs jumps over the wall and gets into the crowd?” Elena asked the young woman at her side. “The wall is low.”

“Shooter,” the young woman said, pointing at a man who stood in the entranceway, arms folded. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and a denim jacket that did nothing to hide the gun he wore under it.

Tchaikovsky’s opponent was huge, a mastiff with a long, ugly white scar along its right side. The mastiff seethed with anticipation but was held back by his trainer. Tchaikovsky, on the other hand, simply stood inside his cage, looking at his opponent.

“Bets down, side bets require ten percent for the house. We don’t care if you give odds. With rare exceptions, house bets are even money. We are here to watch an ancient and honorable sport,” said the sweating announcer who wore an incongruous green tuxedo and used a handheld microphone. “Blue is Tchaikovsky, the pit bull whose record, if any, cannot be verified. Red is English, who many of you have seen here before. Eight victories, all kills.”

It took five minutes of loud wrangling, taking bets, and having a quintet of well-built men going up and down the aisles taking the house percentage and making eye contact with the three shills in the audience whose job was to spot bettors who tried to bypass the house.

“Now,” said the announcer, backing up to the entrance near the shooter to be out of the way of animals and out of the sightline of the nearly rabid audience. “Release our gladiators.”

The crowd went silent. The mastiff charged and for a moment it looked as if the pit bull would not even make it out of the cage.

The crowd laughed at the impassive dog still standing in the cage.

The laughter stopped when Tchaikovsky suddenly dashed through the cage door and leapt at the mastiff, which raced toward him. The mastiff snapped his jaws and missed the smaller animal.

Tchaikovsky did not miss. He dug his teeth into English’s neck just below the ear.

The big dog tried to shake the pit bull off but couldn’t. English twirled in pain. The pit bull bit even deeper. The mastiff tried rolling on the ground. Tchaikovsky held fast. Blood was coming now, spurts of blood all over the ring and the face of the smaller dog.

The crowd went wild. The mastiff made sounds of pain which drove the crowd to even further madness. The big dog, with the pit bull appended, sank down on his belly. Tchaikovsky ripped the flesh in his mouth and stood back to look at his dying opponent.

The pit bull dropped the piece of flesh and fur on the dirt floor and trotted back to his cage, ignoring the shouts and applause of the crowd.

By that time, Elena was ill, ill from the smoke, ill from repul-sion, and most of all, ill from the blood-and-battle-hungry crowd.

The now-dead mastiff was taken away in the canvas blanket by the two emotionless men.

The announcer moved forward and tried to quiet the crowd.

“The winner, Tchaikovsky, will be here tomorrow to face the winner of our next and main battle. The champion of our circuit, Bronson, will be in the blue. Bronson, who has twenty-two consec-utive kills and almost no scars, is clearly the favorite, but his opponent, Rado, the pit bull, has seven victories, bloody and swift. He had to be restrained with nets after his last kill. He is more than a worthy opponent for the champion. However, in view of Bronson’s record, the house will suspend its own rule and provide odds of five to one in favor of Bronson.”

The crowd grumbled. Their chance for easy money-in-the-pocket had just been taken away. Few were surprised. None complained. This had happened before and complaining would not be wise.

The fight between Bronson, the black-and-white mongrel, and the brown pit bull took a bit longer than Tchaikovsky’s battle. The pit bull had attacked quickly, but the battle-wise Bronson dashed to his left and got behind the other dog, who turned to face him and showed his teeth. Bronson leapt, leapt high. The crowd cheered. Rado the pit bull looked up in confusion at the shaggy opponent who seemed to be flying toward him. Bronson came down on the back of the pit bull and bit it in the rear.

Rado howled in pain and when Bronson let go, the pit bull ran across the ring and turned. He looked back at his bloody rump but had no time to deal with it. He attacked again. Bronson was ready.

He neither moved to the side nor leapt into the air. As Rado jumped for the other dog’s throat, Bronson snapped forward and brought his jaws down on the pit bull’s muzzle. This time he did not let go. Rado struggled but couldn’t get loose. After a minute or two, the pit bull sank back and stopped struggling.

“The fight is over,” said the announcer, moving forward. “Perhaps Rado will survive his wounds and live to fight another day.”

Rado was unsteady on his legs. His muzzle and rump were bloody blotches, but the pit bull still looked ready to attempt a re-sumption of the battle he had already lost. Rado’s trainer entered the ring with a leather noose at the end of a leather-covered stick.