No Such Thing as a Lost Cause (13 page)

Oy. While I had absolute faith in Nick’s ability to beat the living crap out of anyone,
the odds didn’t seem in his favor.

“Nick, why do you have to go? If there’s really a dog fight going on, can’t we just
call the police?”

“We’re not certain of anything, at this point, and it’s not wise to tip your hand
unless you’re sure. I promise you I’ll call the police if it becomes necessary. I’ll
be fine, Angel. I don’t want you sitting here worrying.”

“I have no intention of sitting here worrying,” I said, heading upstairs to get dressed,
“because I’m coming with you.”

The area adjacent to the Philadelphia Naval Yard was a once thriving commercial district
comprised of brick two-story warehouses and manufacturing plants that fell on hard
economic times when business moved south. Flanked by I-95 on one side and the Delaware
River on the other, these abandoned buildings made the perfect venue for various and
sundry criminal activities.

We took the La Sabre since Nick’s car, a 1964 XKE Jaguar, would have stood out in
any crowd, no matter how isolated the area. While he didn’t openly object to my coming
along, I sensed a minuscule drop of unease, which I chose to ignore, because if I
acknowledged it I would feel bad that I was doing something against his wishes, but
that’s what’s so great about Nick. He accepts me the way I am. Rationalization intact,
I sat back in the passenger’s seat and watched the city whiz by.

Kenzo, a short, skinny, guy with a long face and enormous eyes, was waiting for us
the next building over. He was sitting in his car, smoking. Now, he threw the cigarette
onto the ground, gave a quick nod to Santiago, and ignored me completely.

“He’s still in there, as far as I can tell,” he reported. “Do you need me to hang
around?”

“I’d appreciate it,” Nick said.

I eyed Kenzo. He didn’t look like he’d be much good in a fight. I probably outweighed
him by about ten pounds. “I’ll bet I could take him,” I thought. That notion was dispelled
a quick second later when he whipped out a pair of speed chucks, absently spinning
them with precise and deadly force.

“So, what’s the plan?” I asked.

Nick scanned the building. There was a fire escape ladder leading up to the roof.
“We need to see what’s going on in that warehouse,” he said. “Kenzo, you stay here
in case we get company. I’ll be right back.”

Kenzo was still twirling the speed chucks. Maybe it was my imagination but he seemed
to be actively glaring at me.

“I’ll come with you,” I said.

Again, a nano second’s hesitation, then, “Come on.”

Nick went first and climbed the ladder with ease. I trailed after him like an asthmatic
eighty-year old scaling Mount Everest. He reached the roof and turned to pull me up
the rest of the way. “Great view of the city,” I said, to cover my intense fear of
heights. “What now?”

“Now, we cross over to the other building and check things out through the skylight.”

The gap between the buildings was about five feet. No problem for a pole vaulter,
but for me, it might as well have been the Grand Canyon.

“Cross over? As in leaping tall buildings in a single bound?”

“Actually, I thought we’d use this.” Nick grabbed a six-foot plank, probably left
by some other reprobate during a similar escapade. He placed it over the narrow gap
between the buildings and set out across it.

“You can stay here if you want,” he said, glancing back at me.

I looked down and swallowed hard.
What am I trying to prove? I’ll fall and kill myself. It will be so embarrassing.

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” I said, and forced my feet onto the board.

Nick reached behind him and took hold of my hand. “You’re doing fine, Darlin’. Just
another few steps.”

As I landed on the next roof over, I thanked God and resumed breathing.

Nick motioned for me to follow him, and as we approached the skylight I could hear
the raucous sounds of a crowd gone wild. We stopped inches from the filthy glass window
and crouched down. Nick’s face was tense. “I’ve seen dog fights before, Angel. These
people are devoid of conscience. It might be best if you don’t look.”

Nick was trying to shield me from the most despicable realities of life, and I loved
him for it. But remaining blissfully ignorant was how we allowed these things to happen
in the first place. I leaned over and looked.

About a hundred people ringed a makeshift pit in the middle of the room. The pit measured
between fourteen and twenty feet square with plywood sides and a dirt floor. Judging
by the ragged condition of the two dogs inside the ring, they had been going at it
for a while.

The crowd was predominantly adult males, with a few scattered women and young children
thrown into the mix. Whenever a particularly vicious attack occurred they reacted
collectively with an exuberance bordering on satanic frenzy.

In a sudden burst of energy, the larger of the two animals sank its teeth into the
other dog’s throat and ripped it wide open. Blood gushed from a gaping hole. The injured
dog collapsed in the middle of the pit, and the fight was over. Only, just when I
thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, it did.

A guy standing on the sidelines stepped into the pit. He was large and muscular, with
a swastika tattooed on his bald head. He didn’t look happy.

“The dog that collapsed is probably his,” Nick surmised. “His dog shamed him by losing
the match, so he has to do something to win back audience favor. Turn around, Brandy,”
he warned.

Before Nick’s words could fully register in my brain, the owner hoisted his injured
dog upside down by its hind quarters and paraded it around the pit. The crowd came
alive in anticipation of a good “show.” Sickened by the scene unfolding before me,
I tried to turn away, sure that he was going to rip the dog’s legs off. Only, just
then, Nazi-Boy made a quick turn and swung the dog hard, heaving him straight over
the tops of the heads of the crowd.

Some of the younger men tried to reach up and bop it back into the pit before it hit
the ground, like a beach ball at a Phillies’ game, but they weren’t strong enough.

The audience roared as the dog crash landed on the pavement floor. Satisfied by the
massive cheering that ensued, the owner left the pit, spitting on the mangled remains
of his dog before walking out of the warehouse.

A blinding rage swept over me. I scrambled to my feet and ran over to the edge of
the roof, tracking Baldy as he strode toward a row of cars parked along the highway.
Nick came up behind me and pulled me away from the ledge.

“He’s getting away,” I screamed, and lunged for the makeshift bridge. My only thought
was to get this guy and do to him what he’d done to countless innocent dogs.

Nick held tight to my hand. “He’s not going to get far, Angel. I promise you that.”

We made our way in silence back across the wooden plank and down the fire escape.
Kenzo was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

“Keep an eye on our friend over there, would you?” Nick said. “But don’t make contact
with him unless it’s necessary.”

Kenzo nodded and took off, the speed chucks dangling at his side.

Nick turned to me and handed me his phone. “Go back to the car, Darlin’, and in a
couple of minutes call the police. Tip them off about the dog fight, but don’t identify
yourself. It should take them about twelve minutes to get here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just wait for me in the car. I’ve got some business to attend to.” He was calm beyond
reason, which meant someone was going to die.

Oh shit.
“Nick, no. The cops will be here soon. They’ll take care of him.”

“Not to my satisfaction, Angel,” he said, removing his gun from the holster.

“Well, not to mine, either.” I ran to keep pace with him. “But if you kill this ass
hole you’ll go to jail…and…and…I won’t have a date for my cousin Marlene’s daughter’s
wedding, and, well, you don’t know my family. I’ll never live that down.
Nick, please!”

We had reached the row of cars. The guy was four vehicles, down, standing with his
back to us, talking on his cell phone in a loud, angry voice, oblivious to the danger
he was in.

Nick moved quickly and was on him before he could take his next undeserved breath.
He leaned into the guy, pressing his knee hard against his kidney, one arm snaked
around his neck. With his other arm, he brought the gun up to the guy’s face, and
shoved the barrel into his mouth. I cringed at the sound of teeth breaking like a
dog crunching on a chicken bone.

Oh God, oh God, Oh God. Please don’t kill him, Nick. Please don’t kill him.

A dark stain appeared at the crotch of Nazi-Boy’s pants and worked its way down his
leg. It left a puddle in the dirt.

“You’re real tough, aren’t you?” Nick crooned. “You like torturing animals? Does it
make you feel like a man?” He shoved his knee deep into the guy’s back, eliciting
a guttural cry.

“How about I give you a lesson in empathy? Give you an idea of how those animals you
starve and bait and torture feel.”

The son of a bitch deserved all that and more and, God help me, I wanted him dead.
But not like this. Not by Nick’s hand.

On shaky legs I positioned myself in front of them. The guy stood stock still and
wild-eyed, looking absurdly comical with a bloody mouthful of .38. Nick had zoned
out, having gone deep into his past. This did not bode well for Nazi-Boy’s future.

“Nick,” I said, summoning the practical side of me. “If you kill him, he won’t hurt.
Hurt him bad, but let him live to remember.”

And so he did.

*****

Nick and I didn’t talk much on the way home. I sat with my head resting against the
car window, eyes closed, as two questions played like a loop in my mind
. If I hadn’t been there, would Nick have killed that guy? And, if there were no possibility
of him getting caught, would I have wanted him to?
I didn’t have an answer to either one, and that frightened me most of all.

“I’m going to be tied up for the next few days,” he informed me as he pulled up in
front of my house. “I’ve got an errand to do for Sal.”

Father Sal is an old friend of Nick’s, and a priest in the Badlands, one of the city’s
most impoverished and dangerous areas. At times Sal has to resort to extreme measures
(read: illegal) to help his parishioners, and that’s where Nick comes in.

“Should I be worried?” I asked.

“Can I stop you?”

“Good point.”

He unbuckled the seat belt and handed me the keys. I started to open the door but
he reached over and pulled it shut, watching me with his beautiful, liquid brown eyes.
His expression was, as always, hard to read, but I was getting good at picking up
on infinitesimal signs. The man was in pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and hugged me to him.

I knew better than to ask why. And, anyway, I already knew the answer.

*****

“…and then the cops showed up and busted the place, only Donte must’ve slipped out
earlier because he wasn’t listed in the police report.” I took a healthy bite of ‘cheesesteak
wit’ and licked the liquid grease that ran down my arm. I was sharing a bench with
Uncle Frankie at Pat’s Steaks. At midnight the line was still wrapped around the block;
a testament to the best cheese steak on Earth. We had to scramble to get a seat.

“Hey, did you know it’s a felony to even attend a dog fight in Pennsylvania?” I asked.

“Yeah. But good luck enforcing it. This shit is all pervasive. Still, you did good,
Midget Brat.”

Of all my relatives, the person I’ve always been most comfortable confiding in is
Uncle Frankie. He’s protective without being smothering, and he doesn’t try to improve
me. Still, I figured it wasn’t worth mentioning the more graphic details of my adventure
with Nick, like, for instance, the guy we’d left for dead. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll
be fine after the hip replacement surgery. Plus, lots of people function perfectly
well with just one kidney.

Uncle Frankie dug into his cup of fries and popped the last one into his mouth. Then
he eyed mine, still half full. I didn’t have much of an appetite, so I slid them over
to him.

“You sure?”

I nodded. “Uncle Frankie, can I ask you something?”

“Absolutely.” He squinched up his eyebrows. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. It’s just that…well, do you think people can change?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean do you think we’re capable of profound turnarounds from our basic nature,
or are we destined to play out the hand life gave us?”

“Wow,” he said, through a mouthful of French fries. “You sure get philosophical late
at night.”

“Never mind,” I shrugged. “I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about anyway. I’m
just tired.”

Frankie considered this for a minute. “I think it’s like that old joke, ‘How many
psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb? One, but it’s really got to want
to change.’ I think if the desire is there, it’s do-able.” He waited a beat, and when
I didn’t say anything he added, “Are we talking about Santiago?”

“No. I was just, y’know, wondering.”

Uncle Frankie cut me a sympathetic, knowing look and finished off the rest of my fries.

*****

Being unemployed is not without its perks. It gave me a chance to catch up on my laundry
and to check out some really great daytime TV. That took about twenty minutes of my
day. Then I called the police station a couple of times to see if the new autopsy
results had come in.

“Not since you called fifteen minutes ago,” DiCarlo told me.

“Oh, well, keep me posted.”

“You’re at the top of my list.”

I called John next. He didn’t pick up so I called a couple of six more times.

He answered after eight rings. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“You called me six times.” He seemed a kind of annoyed.