Stuart Kaminsky - The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

And now Elena was surrounded by demons.

The three couples were driven to the hastily built kennel in the garage behind a pair of stores on the Arbat. The three men and Elena had gone single file down a narrow passageway between two buildings. The two young women, fearful of ruining their clothes, had remained behind in the car.

Sasha used his key, went in ahead of them, and turned on the lights.

Elena and Sasha were not sure of what they would see. The space had been prepared during the day by a quartet of carpenters who were accustomed to doing such jobs for people on both sides of the law, though one of them had commented as they had worked that it was more and more difficult to see the difference.

Traffic back and forth between the good guys and the bad had almost erased the line.

The carpenter who had expressed these beliefs was a set designer and builder for television shows and movies. He took each job without questioning, without asking for reasons.

Both the criminals and the law considered him a genius, and when Elena looked around the room, which could easily have held three huge twelve-wheel trucks, she found it difficult to keep from examining the brilliant set. After all, she was supposed to have been here at least several times before.

Along the wall across from the garage doors were a series of large metal cages. In each was a dog. In all there were six dogs. The dogs were silent, which impressed Boris and Illya.

“Well trained,” said Boris.

“I have a clever dog trainer from England,” Sasha improvised.

“And don’t bother to try to find out who he is. He is my prized possession, more important than the animals. The animals, except for Tchaikovsky, are expendable.”

A training ring, basically the ring of a small circus, with a red wooden wall circling it, stood in front of the wall at the end of the line of cages. Directly in the center of the garage was an oval exercise area complete with Astroturf. Two doors of the garage were blocked by shelves of items for the care of fighting dogs.

“No dog food?” said Boris, looking at the shelf.

“We feed them only fresh raw meat and water with vitamin supplements and injections,” said Sasha, who had no idea what he was talking about.

Elena had to admit that he was doing a remarkably good job. Alcohol may have blurred his memory but it loosened his imagination.

“They use the exercise pen,” Sasha said, nodding at the Astroturf-covered ring. “But one at a time. We wouldn’t want valuable dogs killing each other without an audience and the chance to place some bets.”

Illya nodded in understanding and said, “Let’s go. They’ll be waiting.”

There were two large wooden free-standing walk-in storage rooms next to the shelves. Elena knew Sasha was trying to figure out which one might hold transport cages for the animals. Perhaps they both did. Perhaps neither. He walked slowly and a bit un-steadily on his feet to the storage room on his right. He opened the padlocked door with his key and stepped in. Elena was right behind him, as were Illya and Boris.

There were no cages. The small space held an old but still-humming refrigerator and cleaning instruments to take care of the dog refuse. The tools looked used. Sasha went to the refrigerator, opened it, and marveled that his lie about raw meat was supported by the evidence inside the cold, lighted box. There were dozens of half-gallon-sized plastic containers through the sides of which raw, red meat could be clearly seen.

“Good,” said Sasha, closing the door and turning to the others.

“Lokanski prepared a new supply.”

“We are in a hurry,” Boris said impatiently.

“I take care of my dogs,” Sasha said indignantly.

“Get a cage,” said Illya. “Let’s go.”

Sasha moved to the next padlocked storage room and once again took out the keys he had been given. Elena controlled her near panic. If a transport cage were not inside, Sasha would be very hard pressed to come up with an explanation for why he did not know where things were in his own kennel. Relying on his drunken for-getfulness would not work with these men. Elena tried to think of what she could do, but she was still certain that her intervention would not be appreciated by the two men. They had pointedly ignored her all evening, and she had accepted their rudeness with gratitude. She did not have to speak any more than the two young mannequins who were waiting in the car parked on the Arbat.

Sasha opened the door of the second storage room, stepped in, and reached up for the string that turned on the light. Stacked on the far wall were six metal-mesh cages with handles on top. Hanging almost carelessly on the wall on hooks were a wide variety of ropes, muzzles, things she could not identify and was certain Sasha could not either. One other item hung on the wall, one Elena and Sasha both recognized, an electric prod.

Sasha, with some difficulty which required him to ask Boris and Illya to help, got down a top cage and said, “Gentlemen, we are late.”

Sasha, she could see, had glanced at the wall of dog-control items, possibly considering if he should take one, for he had no idea of how to get the pit bull into the cage. He rejected the idea and, carrying the cage awkwardly, had moved past a curious rottweiler, a pair of large mongrels, a German shepherd, and a sleeping St. Bernard, toward the pit bull. Elena was relieved that there was only one pit bull in the garage.

Moving to the front of the cage of the pit bull, who stood looking into the face of the man, Sasha lifted the door which covered the entire front of the transport cage. He pushed the open cage in front of Tchaikovsky’s cage, which he opened, lifting the sliding door slowly.

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.

He slipped it around the wounded animal’s neck and led Rado to his cage.

Untouched and without noose or command, Bronson returned to his cage, to the applause and cheers of the crowd.

“They should have let Bronson kill him,” a man behind Elena said.

They had witnessed the last fight of the evening. Illya drove them back to the Arbat and waited for Sasha and Boris to get the pit bull back into his cage in the garage. There was no conversation in the car while they were gone, but Elena could see Illya looking at her in the rearview mirror. One of the girls was fighting sleep.

The other put her arm around the tired girl. Elena thought their night might not yet be over.

Back at the hotel Elena congratulated Sasha on his performance.

He waved a weary hand of acknowledgment in her direction. When they got to the room, Sasha said one word, “Sleep.” He headed for the bed and, still dressed, flung himself down on his stomach. He was very gently snoring in seconds. Elena was still slightly ill and wondered if she would have to go the next night for the fight between Tchaikovsky and Bronson. Maybe she could provide some excuse to stay away.

She changed into her pajamas, took the pillows on the bed, and went to sleep on the sofa.

Then, in the morning, with Sasha still asleep, Elena had gone out for a walk to clear away her headache and nausea. The man following her today was neither of those from the day before. This one was very young and very inexperienced. She had stopped for a roll and coffee and was now crossing the nearly empty lobby. The images of the night before would not go away, and she knew she had suddenly developed a fear of dogs, all dogs.