Taking The Heat (10 page)

“Don’t matter what it is brother, we can get through this,” Otis said.

I swallowed a lump the size of a golf ball and stared, “I uhhm. I was riding out by the lake. He’d been shot. Twice. Well, actually three times. I tried to save him. I really fucking tried. I uhhm. I did everything I could. It was…”

I paused and took a sip of beer. My eyes felt like they were on fire, but I knew better than to touch them. For Christ’s sake, I was a grown man, and I knew I should be able to do this without losing control of myself. I gripped the cool bottle in my hands and continued.

I shook my head, “It was the other day, maybe a week or so ago, I don’t know.”

I hesitated and nodded my head repeatedly, knowing I was right. At the time, I dismissed it, but it had been eating on me ever since.

One fucking nibble at a time.

“What happened?” he asked.

Still staring down at my boots, I raised my beer and drained the last small sip from the bottle. My mouth felt as if I had swallowed a handful of sawdust. I looked up and nodded my head once. He asked, and I needed to be a man and tell him what happened. I gazed down at my boots, inhaled a choppy breath, and responded.

“It was a puppy. An innocent little fucking puppy,” I said under my breath.

“What? A puppy?” he shrugged.

I nodded my head and attempted to swallow, but the dryness in my throat prevented it. I shifted my gaze toward Otis, opened my mouth to speak, and instead began to softly cry.

TOAD

One week earlier.

Nothing on this earth could compare to the freedom I felt while riding. If there was one thing people associated with living in the United States of America, it was freedom. The only time I felt free of all of life’s constraints was when I was on the open road. Those who have never ridden would never know, and those who had would never find anything to replace it.

I rolled the throttle back and listened to the sound of the unrestrained exhaust bellow from the rear of the bike. As the warmth of the mid-summer sun beat down on my face, the unoccupied stretch of highway begged me to explore it. I unconsciously inhaled a breath, almost tasting the prairie hay the team of kids in the pasture on my right were picking up from the freshly cut meadow. As they neatly stacked the hay on a trailer, one of them looked my direction. I pulled in my clutch and revved my motor.

Future Sinner, no doubt.

As I came into a wide sweeping corner, I leaned the bike deep left, dragging to the toe of my boot on the pavement as the force of the aggressive turn pushed against me. A little more throttle, and out of the turn I shot, slightly faster than I had entered.

Fuck yes, this is living.

To my right I noticed a group of crows gathered on the side of the road. Two or three were in the street, in my lane. As I downshifted and slowed to a safe speed, I noticed two down in the ditch. More than likely, I suspected a farmer or unsuspecting motorist had hit a deer, and the crows were picking at the flesh. As hitting a crow on a bike at 80 miles an hour would be the end of my riding career, I pulled in the clutch and revved the throttle to scare the birds from the side of the road. Although the noise seemed to shift their attention, it did little to scare them from whatever it was that had captured their interest. As I slowly passed, I stared down in the ditch out of curiosity.

I twisted the throttle slightly and began to speed up.

Was that a bloody dog?

I applied the brake, turned around, and pulled alongside the gathered crows. After kicking down the kickstand and shifting the bike in neutral, I stepped off and walked over to the side of the ditch. As the crows reluctantly fluttered a few yards away, I peered down into the ditch.

A small Pit Bull puppy attempted to lift his head. Exhausted, covered in blood, and clearly dying, he held his head an inch off the ground for a few seconds before collapsing. I hustled down into the deep ditch and stared down in disbelief at what I saw. Covered in dried blood and still bleeding, the poor puppy appeared to be close to death. As I carefully turned his body to inspect him, I noticed one bullet wound entered his shoulder and exited his upper back. Another bullet wound in his hind quarters appeared to not have an exit wound.

Fucking heartless cocksuckers.

His body, face, and legs were covered in old cuts and scars, undoubtedly from fighting. More than likely he had either lost a fight, and the owner was disappointed with his performance, or he wasn’t as aggressive as the owner had hoped. Either way, someone had shot him twice and left him for dead.

“Hold on you little devil dog. I’ll get you some help,” I said.

I turned toward my bike. A quick recollection of what I had in my saddlebags turned up nothing to wrap him in. Frustrated and knowing time was of the essence; I quickly removed my cut and flipped it over my shoulder. After reaching down in the ditch and carefully picking up the pup, I ran across the highway to my bike.

Still holding the bleeding pup, I unlatched the left saddlebag and peered inside. A small tool kit was all that lay inside the bag. Cradling him in my arm, I grabbed my cut and wrapped the dog inside the leather vest.

“I’m wrapping you up in this cut, it’ll keep you from going into shock. And although I don’t know for sure, I’m thinking it’s got special powers. Hold on, I’m going to get you to the vet. You’ll be just fine. After he gets you stitched up, you can be this old Devil Dog’s little devil pup,” I said out loud as I lowered him into the enclosure.

I carefully placed the pup in the saddlebag and hopped on the bike. The closest competent veterinary office was in Wichita, almost fifteen miles away. I knew if the highway was as unpopulated at this short stretch, I could possibly be there in eight to ten minutes. I looked over my shoulder and into the bag. The pup blinked his eyes a few times and then they fell closed.

Devil looks after his own, little man. You’re my little devil pup, and I’m a former Devil Dog. Hold on, ‘cause I ain’t going the speed limit.

Ten minutes or so of speeds in excess of 100 miles per hour, a few traffic signals I didn’t stop for, and an all-out run down one of Wichita’s major streets at 60 miles per hour, and I was in the parking lot at the vet’s office. I kicked down the kickstand, reached into the bag, and cradled the puppy in my arms.

“I’ve got a puppy, he’s got two gunshot wounds!” I shouted as I approached the receptionist’s desk.

“Oh, uhhm. Give him here,” the receptionist said as she held her arms outstretched.

I handed her the bloody pup. As she curled her arms to her chest, I realized I had just handed her my cut.

“I can’t let you take that cut, hold on,” I half-shouted as I pulled off my bloody shirt.

Standing shirtless, I reached toward her and lifted the pup from her arms. After removing him from my cut, I carefully wrapped him in my shirt. As I handed the whimpering puppy back to the startled girl, I forced a smile.

“I’ll be right here,” I said as I pointed toward the waiting area.

After filling out the necessary forms, waiting for thirty minutes with three angry caged cats, and answering two mid-twenties housewives’ questions about the life of a biker, I began to wander through the office and look at dog collars and tags. A one inch wide camouflaged collar with a quick release fastener caught my eye.

“This is about the right size for him, isn’t it?” I asked as I held it in the air for the receptionist to see.

She smiled and nodded her head.

“Does it snap apart like this to keep him from being choked?” I asked as I pulled the collar apart.

She nodded her head, “It’s a safety collar. If they get hung up on something, it’ll break loose, and keep them from choking.”

We’ll get you this one, I don’t want you choking on anything.

I nodded my head once and looked around the rack for anything else which looked better. I wanted something that would fit the pup’s aggressive stance and both of our personalities.

“Are you the gentlemen who brought in the Pit Bull Terrier mix?”

Holding the collar in my hand, I turned to face the voice. A man in his early forties was wearing a lab coat and holding a clipboard. His face was covered in hair and he smelled like chemicals.

“Sure was. How’s he doing?” I nodded.

“I did everything I could for him. He didn’t make it,” he sighed, “I’m sorry.”

I narrowed my gaze, “Little guy with two gunshot wounds?”

He nodded his head, “I’m sorry. One of the wounds was pretty invasive. His intestines and both kidneys were in pretty bad shape. He’d lost a lot of blood. I’m sorry.”

“Motherfuckers,” I grunted as I shook my head.

“Pardon me?” he said.

“Whoever shot that pup. I’d like to just…” I stared down at the floor and clenched my jaw.

“Did you find either of the slugs?” I asked as I looked up.

“Strange question. Actually he’d been shot at least three times, and yes. I recovered one of them,” he responded.

“I want it. And I’ll pay you for whatever you’ve done, don’t worry about that,” I said under my breath.

“I didn’t doubt that. Hold on, let me see if I still have it,” he said over his shoulder as he turned and walked away.

I slowly walked to the display area and hung the collar up on the rack. After a few minutes, the man in the lab coat walked from the double doors and into the hallway. With an outstretched hand he offered a small zip-lock bag containing a lead bullet. Although distorted, I could tell the caliber.

“Nine millimeter,” I nodded as I studied the bag.

“Pardon me?”

“It’s a nine millimeter slug. I know I never will, but I’d like to find the motherfucker who did this,” I growled as I stuffed it into the front pocket of my jeans.

“Just between you and me, I hope you do. The punishment under the provision of the law is insufficient, in my opinion. And, for what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he said.

“It was just some pup,” I sighed.

As I looked down at the front of my blood soaked cut, I knew better.

TOAD

“No, it was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. One more innocent life lost at the hand of evil. That, and the fact I couldn’t do anything to save the poor fucker. Hell, I did all I could, and it wasn’t enough. I’m just tired of it all,” I complained.

“Seems strange,” Otis paused and peered over both shoulders.

“You know, you cut that fucking child molester, and it didn’t seem to bother you one lick. Now, some puppy dies, and you’re shaken up pretty damned bad. Killing a human being is okay, but a dog dies and it rips you to shreds,” Otis said under his breath.

“
The dog was innocent
,” I growled.

Otis nodded his head and stared blankly.

“It was damned sure unnecessary for someone to shoot that pup. I said it then, and I’ll say it again now…” I paused and looked over my shoulder.

It was mid-week in Wichita at eleven in the morning, and the bar was empty. I turned to face Otis, kicked my legs over the edge of the seat, and gripped the side of the table with my hands.

“That child molester
needed
to die. There wasn’t anything evil about what we did to that son-of-a-bitch. Line up fifty motherfuckers like him, and I’ll kill each and every one of ‘em, and stand before God at the end of the day. Think about
this
; I know
you
don’t have kids, but some of the fellas do. Imagine if one of the Sinners Ol’ Ladies got a call from the cops, and they tell her that they have this child molestation case. They say they need her to come in and confirm or whatever. So she goes into the station house and they play a DVD for her. Has her son sucking fat boys cock and he shoots a load all over the kids face. Makes the kid jack him off…”

“Just stop, God damn it,” Otis growled as he held his hands between us.

“I let you finish earlier, you let me finish. You brought it up,” I grunted.

He nodded his head and waved toward the waitress.

“So, she watches and her kid jacks him off or whatever. They raid the house, arrest the guy, and the deal goes to trial; all the way to the jury. The jury finds him innocent, even though he’s on the film with the kid. Some clerical error or whatever. They say they’ve got to let the guy off. The fat prick goes home and that’s that,” I paused and finished my beer.

“Now let’s say she sees this fat child molesting cock sucker behind the laundrymat one night and she’s got a knife or a pistol, or whatever. You trying to tell me she wouldn’t do the same thing? Or better yet, what if the cops called her in and they showed her the film, and then said,
there the motherfucker is
, and they point him out in the interrogation room and hand her a knife. What’s she gonna do?” I asked.

“She’d gut that fat bastard. Cut him from stem to stern,” Otis breathed.

“You damned right she would. So comparing him to my puppy is a bad comparison,” I said flatly.

“Point taken,” Otis nodded.

“I’ll tell you like I told Slice. I only do what I can justify. Might be bad in
your
mind, but in
mine
it’s always justified. It may be contrary to law, society’s belief, or the Bible, but in my mind it’s the only answer. I’ll never do what I believe to be evil or contrary to what I think God wants. If God didn’t want me to kill that fat child molesting prick, he wouldn’t have put him in front of me. It’s no secret to God that I have the capacity to be one mean motherfucker. He knows it. I know it. I don’t keep secrets with God, I make peace every night before bed.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the pup,” Otis said.

“Appreciate it. I got the slug that killed him from the vet, and I’m going to find this prick,” I said through my teeth.

“In case you don’t know, Avery is working for a Federal attorney in Wichita as a legal secretary. He’s some big deal. I don’t remember his name, but he does Federal appeals, gun cases, and specializes in shit that includes firearms violations. Get this, one hundred percent of the cases he’s taken to trial, he’s won. One hundred fucking percent. So, if he agrees to take a case to trial, odds are you’ve got a pretty good case,” Otis paused and leaned onto the edge of the table.

Half pissed off he offered this tidbit in the middle of the conversation, I responded in an irritated tone, “I’m not headed to federal court, but if I end up catching a case, I’ll let you know. In case you forgot, we were talking about that fucking prick who shot my puppy.”

“Well, I was
going
to make a point, but I got off fucking course. Just settle the fuck down Toad, and let me finish. So anyway, this guy’s got connections in law enforcement, FBI, ATF, and so on and so forth. Well, Slice and Avery and I were talking about shell casings and bullets the other day, and this is really strange you mentioned this, but check this out,” he leaned away from the table and took a drink of his beer.

“Everyone thinks they can trace a shell casing back to you, or trace a bullet. They can and they can’t. Even if the gun’s registered to you, they can’t trace a casing or a bullet to your gun, unless they have the gun in their possession. There’s no computer system in place to do it. They were trying to get a Federal database they could just plug the ballistic report into and
bam
, but the NRA threw a fit. So, they’re fucked.
If
they get your gun, they can match it to a casing or bullet, but only if they have it. But here’s the deal, or my point,” he hesitated and leaned against the table again as he rubbed his hands together.

“When we were talking about it, Avery said the attorney turned down defending someone who was being tried on Federal charges of fighting dogs, primarily Pit Bulls. He said he didn’t give a fuck if the guy was innocent or guilty, just being charged was enough for him to not want to take the case.
And
, it sounds like the guy was a local,” Otis raised his hands in the air as if he’d completed an impossible task.

“Since when do the Fed’s give a fuck about dogs?” I shrugged.

Otis shook his head, pushed himself away from the table, and tipped up his beer. As he placed the empty bottle onto the table, he leaned forward, “If you cross state lines, or if they can prove the dog has crossed state lines, it’s a Federal case. But you’re missing my point.”

“This attorney might have the name of a local guy who fights dogs. He could be your guy, or he might know him,” he said.

“Well, see what Slice’s Ol’ Lady can find out,” I said.

“Two more?” the waitress asked.

“No thanks, but you can bring me the tab,” Otis responded.

“Be right back,” she said as she turned to walk away.

“Here,” I said as I tossed a twenty dollar bill onto the table.

Otis pressed his fingers onto the bill and slid it across the table, “Keep it. You just bought a truck, trailer, and lawn equipment for Junior. I’ll get this one, you can get the next.”

“Here you are,” the waitress smiled as she handed Otis the tab.

Otis looked down at the tab, looked up at me, and grinned, “I fucking told ya.”

“What?” I asked.

He turned the receipt around and shook it in the air, “Those two nasty assed beers. They were nine bucks a piece. When we go to Austin, you don’t get to order the beers, you’re too easily manipulated.”

Maybe Otis was right and I was becoming easily manipulated and soft. For some reason, the puppy was definitely a turning point for me. The poor dog’s death came at a time in my life when I either really needed it, or I really didn’t.

I had yet to decide which one it was.