Stuart Kaminsky - The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

It was dangerous. It was stupid, but Sasha was frantic. When the meeting with the Frenchmen was over, hands were shaken, drinks downed, and talk was almost nonexistent.

“At some point, if we are to work together,” said the rugged youngest man, “you will both have to learn a little French, come visit us in Marseilles.”

“I am very bad with languages,” said Sasha.

“And I am not interested in any language but the one of my people,” said Nimitsov.

More amiable silence. A few toasts to the future. The old men showed nothing.

When the rugged Frenchman looked at his watch and said,

“Time to go,” Sasha followed Boris and Nimitsov into the entry hall. The door closed behind them.

“I have to make a call,” said Sasha.

“No time,” said Peter Nimitsov.

“There’s plenty of time,” said Sasha.

“Who are you calling?” asked Nimitsov.

“A woman,” said Sasha, flashing a huge false and leering smile.

“No time,” Nimitsov repeated. “We must get back, prepare.”

“I could have had the call finished by now,” said Sasha. “I must make the call.”

Nimitsov played his teeth against his lower lip and nodded at Boris. “There’s a phone in the kitchen. Boris will show you. Be quick.”

There was no doubt that Nimitsov was suspicious. There was no doubt that making this call was madness. There was no doubt that Sasha didn’t care.

Boris led Sasha through an arch, down a stone-floored hallway lined with cabinets containing dinnerware, large serving bowls, service for dozens.

They entered the large kitchen. There was an oven, a refrigerator, a freezer locker, a stone table in the center of the room and knives, pots, and pans hanging on hooks along the wall.

“There,” said Boris.

Sasha went to the phone on the wall, picked it up, and dialed his home. After three rings, Maya answered.

“Maya,” he said, trying not to betray himself to Boris. “It is me, Dmitri.”

“Dmitri? Sasha, are you drunk in the middle of the day?”

“No,” he said with a laugh.

“Someone is listening to you?”

“Of course,” Sasha said, grinning hugely.

“They could. . maybe someone is listening on an extension?”

she said.

“It’s possible,” he said, winking at Boris.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Don’t you know?”

“Dmitri,” she said, using his cover name, “you are mad.”

“It’s worth the risk. Don’t leave.”

“Your uncle Porfiry came to talk to me about our problem,” she said.

“And?” he said, knowing that his mother had certainly interfered again.

“Are you going to be home soon?”

“Late tonight,” he said. “Will you be there?”

“You are in danger.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Be careful. We will be here.”

“I have to go now,” he said, looking at Boris. “Wear your silk nightgown, the clinging one.”

“If I had such a thing, this would not be the night I would wear it. Be careful.”

Sasha hung up and sighed deeply. “It’s good to keep them happy,” he said.

“Till you tire of them,” said Boris.

“True,” said Sasha. “Let’s go.”

One hour later Sasha was in a dogfight arena, definitely upscale compared to the one where he thought he would be, the one he had been in the night before. This room was air conditioned and im-maculately clean. There were fewer seats, but the men in them were better dressed and the betting in the first fight had been handled by men in matching dark suits. Drinks were served. If there were a shooter present to control any dog that might go wild, that shooter was not immediately visible. It was all very respectable, and the noise level, except when the fights were taking place, was relatively low and conversational, with much laughter.

The first was not civilized. A pair of malamutes from the same litter were matched against each other. One dog was completely white except for a healed pink scar on his rump where hair would not grow. His brother was black and white. The trainers had held the straining dogs back till a man in dark slacks and a white jacket over a black shirt with a white tie announced that all bets were in and the trainers could release their dogs.

There was no familial recognition in the animals, which attacked each other with fury. They were noisy even above the frenzy of the crowd. Sasha turned his eyes from the animals and looked at the front row where the three Frenchmen sat, not joining in the insanity, not interested in the battle before them. In seats flanking the three were four men, one almost as old as the two older Frenchmen. The other three were young, wearing masks of indifference.

Twice, Sasha had caught one of the young men looking at him.

When Sasha decided to meet his eyes, the man did not turn away.

Definitely a bad sign. It was also a bad sign that all of the Frenchmen were armed. Sasha had looked for and immediately seen the signs of weapons under their jackets.

When Sasha turned back to the fight, it was over. The all-white dog was bloody. His brother lay dying with a terrible gash across his nose and right eye. The white dog was restrained but tried to get at his brother, to finish him. The dying dog snapped at the trainer who tried to help him up. The dying dog whimpered from the effort. The trainer backed away.

Sasha still had to deal with whether to let Tchaikovsky try to win or to do something to insure the dog’s loss. Sasha had not the slightest idea of what he could do to hamper the dog, and besides, he had decided that he had no intention of contributing to the murder of the animal.

Sasha looked at the seven men in the front row. The one who had been looking at him looked again. Nimitsov was suddenly at Sasha’s side.

“We are next,” said Nimitsov. “You know, this used to be a children’s circus arena? I’ve considered staging fights between children.

There are plenty of them on the street. You could give them knives and promise them more money than they dreamed of if they won.”

Sasha looked at the smiling young man at his side. Nimitsov was not just evil, he was quite serious and quite mad.

While the blood was being cleaned from the dirt ring, Sasha decided that he had to act, even though the action was loathsome.

“I understand French,” Sasha said, pretending interest in the cleanup.

“Interesting,” said Nimitsov. “I may learn the language. Now that we have French partners.”

“They plan to kill both of us,” said Sasha.

Nimitsov turned to look at Sasha. They were only a few feet apart.

“You are telling the truth.”

“I am telling the truth.”

“When?” asked Nimitsov.

“After the fight sometime,” said Sasha. “Tonight.”

Nimitsov looked at the rugged Frenchman, who nodded. Nimitsov nodded back and said to Sasha, “Dmitri, we could all have been very rich men. These Frenchmen are fools. You and I will have to kill them first, after Bronson destroys your dog.”

“I do not intend to do anything to contribute to my dog’s destruction,” said Sasha.

“Then I will have to kill you too.”

“You were planning to anyway. However, I think we stand a better chance of survival if we form a temporary partnership.”

Nimitsov’s smile was sincere as he put his hand on Sasha’s shoulder. “I almost like you, Dmitri Kolk, but you are too clever, too dangerous. Bronson can win without your help. You and I are partners, but just for the night.”

“You should tell Boris,” said Sasha.

“He would be useless in a battle,” said Nimitsov. “He can’t shoot straight. Actually, he is a good front man but a terrible cow-ard. No, I’m afraid it will be just you and me. A partnership made in hell, to face the demon hordes.”