Craig Davidson - Cataract City

“How many cigarettes and what’s my cut?”

Drinkwater squinted. “Five million cigarettes. More maybe, next time. No cut. Flat rate. Ten K.”

In Cataract City, as in any border town, smuggling was common. Most of it penny-ante, done for a cheap thrill. When I was a kid, Bovine’s dad had installed an extra-large windshield-washer-fluid reservoir in his Impala. He’d drive over to Pine Street Liquor and fill it with Comrade Popov’s potato vodka — five gallons of the swill. Anything to declare? the border guard would ask. Just that you’ve got yourselves a real swell country over here , Bovine’s dad would answer with a shit-eating grin.

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

Drinkwater picked his fingers along the teeth in his hatband. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. I want half now.”

“I’ll give you two now.”

“Fine.”

“Igor will be going with you.”

“When?”

“When you do it.”

“Igor’s okay with that?”

“Igor’s okay with anything I tell him to be okay with.”

“When do we do it?”

“I’ll let you know when it becomes critical.”

“Let’s head back. You give me the two now and call when you need me.”

“What, you don’t enjoy my company?”

“Not really, Lem.”

Drinkwater’s lips skinned back from his teeth and he doubled over, laughter sobbing out of him in a high, breathless wheeze. Straightening up, he flicked away tears from under his eyes with one finger.

“Hell, ain’t that a shame. I like you well enough.”

We returned to the Tuscarora without speaking. Once we’d slipped past the razorwire fence, Drinkwater said, “I’ll pay you after the fight, which I need to get back for.”

“I’m not watching two dogs maul each other.”

“If that’s all you see you aren’t watching close enough. Anyway, cash doesn’t leave my pocket until the roll’s over.”

Inside the warehouse, in the same spot where I usually fought, sat a plywood pen. It was waist-high, roughly seven foot by seven. The crowd was mostly Native men in dungarees and jean jackets; a pall of cigarette smoke floated over the fighting box. The men who’d thrown that bottle at me might’ve been there, but I couldn’t remember their faces. The old man who smoked like a Frenchman was there, watching with eyes like peach pits sunk in the net of wrinkles on his face.

A trio of white men huddled on the far side of the pen, all three of them fat — southern deputy fat. They wore overalls, train engineer’s caps and Caterpillar boots. They had handkerchiefs in their back pockets and they stood on pigeon toes in a rough circle around a dog crate.

“No dog beats a pittie,” Drinkwater said to me. “The only fact left up for debate is which pit bull bloodline is best. Folchik’s a red nose — best, I say. Those boys came up from Carolina with a blue nose bitch whelped by Grand Champ Negrino, the original slaughterhouse on four legs. So I guess we’ll see.”

I thought about how, right now, people were looking into problems of great importance. Curing cancers, puzzling out how to make a combustion engine run on orange peels and egg shells, stuff like that. Those kinds of people didn’t live in Cataract City, though. Here were the things my people investigated: which type of dog was the best at killing all other types of dogs. The better I got to know Lemuel Drinkwater, the more I came to see he’d built a laboratory for himself. He was a scientist, you could say, and his field of study was suffering. And now I’d made myself a part of that, too. I was another one of his lab rats.

One of the fat dog-breeders came over with his cap in his hands, nervously rubbing the hatband’s sheen with his hammerthumbs.

“I ‘preciate the opportunity,” he said, showing teeth that were shockingly white and straight.

Drinkwater said: “So who’s this one you brought?”

“She’s a game bitch,” the man said. “Green, yuh, but plenny game. This yours?”

“She is,” said Drinkwater. “Folchik.”

“You rolled her ever?”

Drinkwater pointed to her flank and said, “Figure she got those scars shaving?”

The man set the toe of his boot between Folchik’s front legs. “Lotta space between them legs. Blue noses is narrower across the brisket.”

Drinkwater said, “They must tip over easy.”

“I ain’t never rolled no tippy dog, mister.”

The fat breeder’s pit bull, Seeker, was sleek and streamlined. She had terrifying aerodynamics: she didn’t move so much as flow like grey water. Her skull was a wedge trimming towards her snout, and she had a small overbite — the points of her canines protruded below her top lip.

The dogs were lifted into the pen. Their noses touched. Seeker licked Folchik’s chin.

“Razor them,” Drinkwater said.

Both men made a cut in their dog’s flanks — Drinkwater with the bone-handled knife, the fat breeder with a box-cutter clipped to his overalls. They wet their fingers with the blood and rubbed it onto their own dog’s nose first, then the other dog’s. Folchik snuffled blood up her nose and sneezed, spraying red on the shellacked concrete.

The dogs nosed up at the scratch-line. The blood had jacked the fight into them. They lunged, forelegs battling, teeth daggering in the smoky air. And still they made no sound: only the soft hiss of breath escaped their lungs.

“God damn,” the breeder said with real admiration. “That’s a gamer.”

The dogs were drawn back to their corners, held tight by their scruffs. Seeker yowled and snapped at the air. Folchik sat still as stone.

“Release,” said Drinkwater.

The dogs flew at each other like stones from a catapult. Folchik closed the distance and leapt; Seeker dropped levels, flattening as Folchik sailed overtop. For a split second their teeth flashed: Seeker’s head twisting sideways and darting upwards to snap at Folchik’s belly, Folchik’s head straining down to rip at her opponent’s flanks as she passed overhead.

Folchik’s paws hit the cement and skidded, leaving milky scars in the rosin. As she wrenched her body awkwardly around, claws seeking purchase on the slick floor, her haunches slammed into the plywood with a thump that shook the pen and her rear paws kicked off the barricade to slingshot back at Seeker, who was spinning to meet her.

Folchik bulled forward, angling for the killshot, skull snaking side to side — but she found nothing except air as Seeker backpedalled smartly, feinting, dodging, her throat half an inch from Folchik’s gnashing teeth. Folchik backed Seeker up to the pen’s edge, trying to bully her into a corner but failing. Seeker slipped to one side, batting Folchik’s head with her paw, then tilted her head slightly and arrowed in at the spot just behind Folchik’s jaw.

It took an instant. Less. When Seeker’s head came away there was a shiny pink disc on Folchik’s throat. It rapidly filled with red that dripped down the dog’s leg.

The fight found its truth in that moment. Seeker’s manoeuvre was that of a picador baiting a bull, making it believe in its own invulnerability before sinking his little dagger, the pica , into the bull’s neck.

The dogs met in the centre of the pen. Both rose on their hind legs, forelegs locked over each other’s shoulders like waltzers in a death-dance. Folchik’s mouth was a blur of enamel; ropes of saliva hung from her jaws, stretching and snapping with the crazed movement of her head. Seeker held her own head aslant, parrying Folchik’s crazed thrusts, crow-hopping lightly on her hind legs. Her head stabbed forward when she found an opening, clinical cobra-strikes that opened the skin around Folchik’s jaw and shredded what was left of one docked ear.