I
Johnny was right on the money when he described the building as a warehouse. The outside was wooden. Some of the boards were newer than others. The walls were at least fifty feet high graced at the top with rectangular-shaped plexiglass windows. The roof was flat. If it wasn’t painted pink, it could have just been any other building.
The inside was a different story. Seating ascended from floor to ceiling on all sides—brown wooden planks, like the bleachers of an old minor league ballpark. There were four spotlight stations on their respective sides, and numerous lights, like those in a gymnasium. Many plant and flower arrangements decorated the structure, pots in every row of every aisle, and flowers wrapped around the square poles that supported the roof. The arena had a dirt floor apparently spray-painted pink, oval in shape, surrounded by three-foot high boards like the wall of a hockey rink. The enormous amount of greenery coupled with the brightness of the floor gave artificial life to the building, like the pit of a Venus Fly Trap.
At the north end of the arena floor was a doorway, about twice the size of a garage door. Pink curtains hung in front of it, as well as around it, hiding the concrete ramp that led to the basement. Torches as high as the doorway itself stood to each side, the two flames burning halfway to the ceiling like Olympic torches.
Roman entered before us—one of the first in attendance—to put into action the first part of the plan. He called it “insurance,” but wasn’t anymore specific than that. “Don’t deviate from the plan,” he’d said to me and Johnny probably twenty times in the last day. It was also the last thing he said to us as we pulled up to Freddy’s warehouse. To Heather he said, “Whatever happens, stay in the vehicle.” With that he pulled down his mask and disappeared inside.
Me and the Killer made our way to the line that was forming about twenty minutes later. I was pulling a black trunk behind me. It was made out of heavy-grade plastic, rectangular in shape, and had a snap-down lid. Even though the trunk had wheels, it was no easy feat maneuvering it across the ice and the snow-covered gravel. We wore what I like to call fancy masks; Heather had known where to purchase them. Johnny’s was blue with thin lines of gold winding throughout. Mine was white with red slashes through it. They weren’t anything special in my opinion. A mask was supposed to look like something—a famous person or a creature of the night—but these were just different shaped plastic, held on our faces by a silky ribbon that wrapped around the back of our heads. Heather assured us this was what the upper class wore to parties such as this. If any of us would know, it would be her.
The doorman was none other than Boochie Anderson. He didn’t wear a mask—none of Freddy’s crew did. Johnny’s tire-iron swing was apparent by his bandaged nose. His eyes had black circles as well.
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“Just let me do the talking,” I whispered as we approached. “He might recognize your voice. Remember don’t deviate from the plan.”
Johnny’s silence affirmed he understood.
We pulled the money out of our suit coats—another provision of Heather’s—the same coats we both wore to Homecoming.
The fat man patted us down, sweeping every inch of our suits. He made us lift up our feet, one at time, to save himself from crouching down.
“What’s with the trunk?” Boochie asked.
“We’re going to buy some flowers,” I said.
“We’ve got boxes for that,” Boochie responded.
“No, I mean a lot of flowers. We didn’t want them to freeze on our way back.”
Boochie bent down, his knees cracking from his own weight, and his lungs struggling to fill in their compressed position. Eventually he opened the lid and examined it.
“The Flower doesn’t usually allow things like this inside.” Boochie rubbed the silver hoop that stuck from his chin. “Shouldn’t mind though if you’re buying.
Go ahead.”
II
The arena was filled to capacity. The people lining the bleachers were dressed in glittering dresses, suits, and black tuxes, and all wore masks. If I didn’t know what was going on here, you could’ve convinced me easily that we were at a fund-raiser for some big time politician. I knew a lot of people in Collingston. I wondered how many I would know if they removed their masks. Maybe I didn’t want to know.
There was space for me, Johnny, and the trunk in the front row, more than enough actually. Throughout the oval of the arena there were very few people seated in the front row. Was it not a good view? I could see fine, the bleachers started at the top of the wall. I noticed the reddish-pink dirt on the arena floor again and something occurred to me. One of those thoughts you wished you could unthink—maybe the dirt wasn’t spray painted at all, maybe people didn’t sit in the front row in fear of what they might get on them. I turned around to see if the seats behind us were taken. They were.
The trumpets and drums of Barnam & Bailey’s were replaced with the loud clatter of a death metal song—a tune I could not quite place—and on the arena floor were several clowns, mimes, and sideshows. The mimes did their usual stuck in a glass box routine, while the clowns juggled bowling pins. A man at the far end blew fire from his mouth. Another ate swords. Toward our end a lady lay face down on a wooden bed. A steel cable hung from the ceiling over her. At the end of the cable was a metal rectangle full of large hooks. The man next her—the assistant I suppose—inserted the hooks into her back one by one. Eventually the cable rose, and her skin stretched thin, like taffy after you just tore a bite from it.
She dangled a good twenty feet in the air. At any moment, I thought her skin would rip and send her crashing to the floor. Instead she just smiled, like she was at a spa getting her back massaged. I could barely watch, not because of their 226
painted faces, or the fear that the fire guy would light himself, or the sword guy would stick the blade too far down, or the thought of skin ripping. It was much more primitive than that. It was the way they were dressed—or the lack of I should say. They all wore pink leather, but not in the places it needed to be. The men’s penises swung back and forth with movement in their routine, and the skin-lady’s breasts hung below her, balling up at the ends from the pull of gravity.
“Freddy’s a sick fuck ain’t he?” Johnny said, stealing the thought right out of my head. “It gets worse, believe me.”
I scanned trough the crowd trying to see someone, trying to see Roman, but there was only the endless sea of masks. Roman wore a black suit and plain black mask, fitting attire for someone as modest as him. It reminded me of the geek sitting in the lunchroom and how the color of life is often emitted from the inside, not the outside.
He’s taking care of the insurance, remember? A voice said in my head.
Yeah but what the fuck is the insurance? Another voice asked back.
My eyes stopped at the top row on the other side. The bleacher section there was non-existent, giving way to some sort of platform, like the skybox of a ball stadium. There were several people seated around a table laughing. I couldn’t see their faces, but I was sure they were laughing. The man in the middle wore a pink suit, sat with his legs elegantly crossed, and sipped from a straw that went under his mask to a champagne glass. His mask was pink as well, in the shape of a tulip. It was The Flower.
One of his men tapped him on the shoulder and placed a microphone in his hand. A second later the arena was dark and with it the chatter of those in attendance. The spotlight showed on him.
“Without further ado ladies and gentleman, welcome to Extravaganza!”
Freddy shouted.
The crowd in the arena rose to its feet, standing and clapping in ovation.
Welcome to hell. I thought .
Johnny grabbed me under the arm and lifted me to my feet. I snapped out of my trance and started to clap.
The spotlight was turned on the floor now, exposing a platform. It had four posts, and from them hung chains connecting in the center to several leather straps. It was some sort of medieval swing. A man stood beside it, wearing a mask and cape, his only other accessory a giant wand. And around him stood the clowns and mimes. He pointed into the crowd and began to circle the stands with the wand’s line of sight. The wand pointed up and down the aisles and rows jumping from person to person as if it had a mind of its own. Finally it stopped. It was pointing at me.
Before the spotlight turned on, my stomach dropped. Two clowns made their way to the arena wall and before I could run I realized they were coming for the person next to me. She smelled pretty and the curves of her dress said the same. The clowns grabbed her by the ankles and started to drag her down to the arena floor.
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I wanted to help her, grab her arm so they couldn’t pull her down. But I just sat there. I don’t know if it was because I was relieved it wasn’t me, or if I heard Roman’s voice in my head telling me not to deviate from the plan.
The woman kicked and screamed, but her effort was futile. The crowd erupted in satisfaction. In the middle of the arena now the clowns pulled up a black circular curtain around her. The magician tapped his wand twice and the curtain fell. Her dress was gone. The woman covered her breasts with one arm and her vagina with the other. The clowns grabbed her again, dragging her toward the swing. Her flailing was minimal, because it was hard to fight and cover herself at the same time, but at the platform she clung to the poles with each hand. Her legs kicked at the clowns, but in the end she was strapped to the swing. Separate fixtures hoisted her ankles up and apart. Her arms dangled to the side defenseless.
The crowd cheered.
The magician skipped up to the platform, his cape flapping behind him. He held up the wand over his head. At that moment the lights brightened a little, giving the arena the glow of a candlelight dinner. Dancers ran out, female and male, naked except for their masks. Silk streamers flowed from their hands, dancing behind them like flags in the wind. They ran and jumped to the hard music, turning the harsh noise into a choreographed ballet, circling the woman in the swing, and finally converging on her like the vultures they truly were.
The magician lowered the wand, and the dancers fell to the dirt floor, as if to bow to its power. He turned it over in his hands with slow movements, and then gazed at the woman in the swing with her legs spread like gates.
The crowd screamed with glee.
“I don’t think I can watch this,” I said.
Johnny put a firm hand on my knee, thinking I was going to bolt. “Relax, it’s not real.”
“Whattaya mean?”
“The woman I mean. She’s on the payroll. The Flower’s sister. Gets raped every four months.”
“Sister?” I didn’t know if I felt better or worse. It wasn’t a defenseless woman anymore I guess. Even if it wasn’t rape, how could a man let his sister participate, much less watch? “Sick fuck doesn’t do the man’s name justice. Not even close.”
“Tell me about it,” Johnny said back.
The disappearing wand was just the beginning. The lady’s unwilling spirit subsided as the show progressed, her kicks and acts of defiance turning to an active and welcomed role. Not only was the magician a major participant, but a dog was brought out to enjoy himself. The clowns and dancers were next, male and female.
I’d seen my fair share of deplorable acts of humanity over the Internet, things that made you sick in the stomach and wheezy in the head, but this was something different. Computer screens gave you a sense of safety, a feeling that no matter what was being shown, somehow you were exempt from it, a distant spectator caught at the wrong place at the wrong time, safe to return to reality with a click of the mouse. Here though, there was no escaping. It sat in front of our eyes unfolding like everyday life. Even with Freddy’s countless flower 228
decorations there was an underlying odor in the arena. It was foreign to my nose, subtle but strong, not quite the foul stench of animal waste or decomposing body parts. It lingered throughout and hung in the air like a fog over the arena. For the first time in my life I smelled it first hand, the stagnant aroma of human evil.
The first act of Freddy’s Extravaganza ended an hour after it started. The crowd stood in ovation, not exactly cheering—it was more ominous than that—
their voices and clapping made a soft moan of perverted satisfaction. The dancers and clowns bowed as if they just finished Macbeth. The lady in the swing seemed lifeless, her appendages limp and body exhausted, and covered in a glistening human foulness that I’d rather never remember.
Johnny pulled on the shoulder of my suit coat, urging me to stand.
Don’t deviate from the plan.
Even that voice, whether if was Roman’s or my own, could not get me to my feet. I sat, wishing my brain not to digest the events my eyes just saw.
The overhead lights slowly started their ascension to brightness and the floor was cleared of its sex platform. The spotlight came back on the VIP section, and Freddy stood in it. His posture was proud like the director of a Tony winning Broadway play.
“Ladies and gentleman, this is our intermission. You now have fifteen minutes to inspect the beasts that you would like to wager on and to choose any of our plants from our exotic selection. The gentlemen by the curtains at the far end will instruct you with directions. There is more champagne to drink. Drink and be merry. Extravaganza will continue.”
“You all right?” Johnny asked as we made our way under the pink curtain, down the ramp to the basement.
“Just a little shell-shocked,” I said. “Remember we’ve got to be the last people to leave down here, so make it look like we’re combing over every dog good.”
“You seen the janitor yet?”
“No. He’ll be down there though.”
The ramp ended, and now there were two choices: right to the flower sales, and left to the dog kennel. I pulled the trunk behind me, wishing we were really going to buy flowers. We turned left though and made our way down the narrow hallway. With each passing step, the whines and barks got louder, the smell of urine stronger. We were traveling into the depths of hell.
One of the Flower’s men stood at the entrance, his eyes fixed on the four-wheeled trunk behind me.
“We’re buying flowers after we pick out our winner,” I said.
His uneasiness subsided and we entered without an interrogation.
The room was narrow and simple, dirt floors, no decorations. Another guard stood at the far end of the room, eyeing the crowd. Forty kennels lined the sides of the room, leaving a three-foot aisle for the spectators. The men and women pointed, inspected, and sometimes laughed, writing their picks down on note pads, like they were at the local pet shop choosing a puppy for the kid.
But this was no pet store.
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My thought of hell was not far off the mark. I expected to see ravenous dogs foaming at the mouth, rattling the doors of their cages in their anticipation for blood. Instead the majority lay in their cages, most of them whimpering in fear.
Some barked of course, but not the ferocious siren of attack. They cried out for help, soft uncertain dog voices that begged to be taken home, taken anywhere, even by the cruel crowd that would eventually watch their demise.
We passed the first two cages. The thoroughbred gladiators I’d imagined were not there. The first dog looked like it got a hair cut from a drunken shopkeeper, its fur blotchy and sporadic, torn out in places, cruel reminders of its previous battles. The dog across from it had permanent gouges on its face, claw marks from its last adversary.
We continued to walk, and with each cage we passed, I prayed there would be one dog that looked somewhat healthy, maybe even happy. It just got worse though. Half-ears and mangled hides were everywhere; one dog was missing an eye, others had torn paws and chewed necks, and many had flies pestering open wounds. The saddest part about it was, these were the winners—champions from past Extravaganzas—the losers were the ones that died in battle. These fights were to the death, and you could see that knowledge in their eyes.
Most had ribs that were visible, skin stretched tightly over the bones. No telling how long the Flower had starved them, but it was his way of ensuring the most violent fight—what his constituents paid to see. They would fight one on one, in tournament format, until only one remained. The winner not only got to live but also got to eat. The dogs knew. They all knew.
We came to Apollo’s cage. He lay on the floor with his pink paws covering his eyes, shivering from fear. As ugly as that goddamn white Pit Bull was, it was a welcomed sight, seeing a dog as of yet free from Freddy’s violent games. Johnny walked ahead of me and his leg passed his best friend’s cage. The dog stood up and began to bark, crying for his master.
“Just keep walking. I know it’s hard but keep walking,” a voice said beside us.
Roman had evidently taken care of what he called the insurance, and now walked beside Johnny in his black-as-night attire. His mask was expressionless, and I was glad I couldn’t see the sadness under it.
“All right people. They’re taking bets upstairs now. You’ve got about two minutes to pick a winner,” the doorman said.
The crowd filtered out quickly. The three of us separated, pretending to make our last-minute inspections. Roman walked with his hands behind his back.
Johnny kept looking back at Apollo. My hands were sweating.
“Let’s go fellas,” the man at the far end of the room said and started to walk toward us with his arms out.
He swept us toward the door and the other doorman.
“You gotta winner?” the doorman asked.
“I think so,” Roman said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.
Roman grabbed the man around the throat and stuffed white handkerchief over the man’s nose and mouth. Johnny and I grabbed the other guy, wrestling him to the floor. Fifteen seconds later Roman’s man was asleep. Johnny held a 230
hand over our man’s mouth, removing it only when Roman brought the poisoned rag down to his face. I ran back down the aisle pulling the trunk to Apollo’s cage and undid the latch.
He licked my face as he jumped out.
“Okay boy, it’s okay, you gotta be quiet now.”
Apollo’s ears stood up and then lay flat on his head, as if he understood. A second later he was in the trunk and the lid was down. Roman and Johnny peeked around the doorway.
“It’s clear let’s go,” Johnny said with his head still in the hallway.
I didn’t move. All at once it was like every dog in the room had its eyes fixed on me. Their soft begs and whines were not as bad as their faces—solemn frowns of disappointment. I could hear them in my head. Just undo our latches and we’ll do the rest.
“What the fuck are you doing? Let’s go,” Johnny said.
I could deal with human suffering, saw it everyday on the thousands of news channels. After a while I had become desensitized to it, a part of me thinking that people probably deserved most of what they got. But what had these animals done? They didn’t benefit from the rational thought that humans used. They were total victims in my estimation.
Roman looked at me and then at the dogs. For the first time, without a word, I knew we were thinking the same thing.
“We’ve got to let these dogs out, Roman,” I said.
“You’re nuts,” Johnny said. “If we let those dogs out Freddy’s men will know something’s up. They’ll be runnin’ all over the place. We can’t risk it.
We’ve got to go now! Don’t deviate from the plan, remember?”
I couldn’t see the synapses fire in Roman’s eyes, but behind that black mask there was an apocalyptic battle going on between logic and emotion.
“Johnny’s right. We’ve got to go,” Roman said.
We walked up the ramp; passing two of the men Johnny called handlers.
They wore thick gloves on their hands, and carried small whips. One of them wore a patch and the other was missing an ear. Apollo didn’t make a sound. I watched Freddy as we walked the length of the grandstands and passed the sick appetites of the crowd. It took us only thirty or so seconds to make our way from one end to the other, and as we approached the exit, there was still no one coming to stop us.
No one listening to the little transmitters in their ears or running to tell the boss of our theft. It would take the handlers a few minutes to notice one dog missing.
“Ya all can’t come back if you leave,” Boochie said at the door.
“We came for the flowers and the sex,” Roman said.
Thirty feet from the building, we began to run. Apollo maintained perfect silence, as I dragged his carrier over the often-bumpy clumps of hard snow. The black Escalade was parked exactly where we’d left it. Roman’s plan had gone off without a hitch. We were home free.
At the vehicle, two emotions collided within me. We’d escaped with our lives—an extraordinary feat considering whom we were dealing with—but I could still hear the awful sounds of those dogs begging for their freedom. I didn’t have 231
time to think about it too long because panic came over me at the sight of the Escalade.
Door unlocked.
Keys in the ignition.
No Heather.
Roman opened the back doors just to make sure she wasn’t lying on the floorboard. He opened the front door and hit the button for the vehicle’s hatch, and then looked back at Freddy’s arena.
“Where the hell would she go?” Johnny asked.
“That’s just it. She wouldn’t go anywhere,” I said back.
“Take Apollo out of the trunk and put him in the back,” Roman said.
“We gotta get out here, man,” Johnny said.
“We’re not leaving Heather,” Roman said. “You wanted to free the dogs Tony, here’s your chance.”
“What happened to all that bullshit about not deviating from the plan?” Johnny groaned.
“The plan has been changed due to circumstances beyond our control,”
Roman said, starting back to the arena.
Johnny put Apollo in the back, fighting a hurricane of kisses and licks. He caught up to us just before the doorway. Roman stopped us as we were about to enter.
“You guys have the easy part. Get back down there and let those dogs out.
It’ll create some confusion that will maybe work to our advantage. When you’ve freed them, get back to the Escalade and wait for Heather and me. Whatever you do, don’t take your masks off. We don’t need Freddy on our backs for the rest of eternity. Don’t hang around in the arena, I can take care of myself.”
Roman entered the doorway without giving us a chance to respond. The fight had already begun, cheers roared from the stands but you could still hear the violent snarls from the floor of the arena.
Boochie stuck his arm out, trying to halt Roman. “I told you assholes once you leave that’s it.”
Roman hit him with a quick jab to the throat, then pinched the fat man’s Adam’s apple between his thumb and index finger. The tower of wobbling flesh fell to his knees like a blow up doll that had just been deflated. He held his throat with both hands and gasped harder than usual for air. Roman ripped the earpiece out of Boochie’s ear and smashed his radio on the ground.
“Go now,” Roman said to us. “You’ll have to hurry because I’ll be quick.”
The hump of Boochie’s stomach was nearly waist-high to Roman as he knelt beside the choking henchman, whose eyes were wide with panic.
“Don’t worry Boochie, you’re not going to die. I just bruised your esophagus pretty good. Tell me where she’s at and you’ll have nothing more to fear.”
Spit splattered from the fat man’s lips as he tried to speak. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about Jack.”
Roman looked Boochie’s face over, studying it for a lie, and also showing an interest in the metal hoops that pierced it. The liquidy growls could still be 232
heard in the arena even though the crowd was the loudest it had been all night.
Roman put all eight of his fingers in Boochie’s face rings and gripped them as tight as he could.
“Please don’t,” Boochie begged.
“I won’t as long as you tell me the truth. First, who was patrolling the parking lot tonight?”
“Bobby, Bobby Dukes.”
“Was he the only one?”
“Probably.”
Roman pulled just enough on the rings to raise Boochie’s skin.
“I swear. I’m not positive. Bobby usually takes care of the lot. I don’t know if someone went with him.”
“He didn’t come out this entrance?”
“No, he goes out the back.”
“If he found someone hanging around in one of the vehicles, where would he take them?”
“Freddy’s office down by the armory.”
Roman glanced around making sure nobody was coming and stopped his eyes at the small podium Boochie had been sitting at. On it was a pack of large heavy-duty zip ties. He grabbed them, first securing Boochie’s wrists, and then using two on his enormous ankles.
“If you want to keep your jewelry intact, I wouldn’t tip anybody off.”
Boochie closed his eyes.
III
“I’m going to ask you one more time what you were doing out there, and I want the truth,” Bobby Dukes said.
Heather’s wrists were pinned against the desk by Bobby as he leaned over her. She could smell the grease in his hair and the smoke in his breath. She looked him in the eyes. “I told you. My brother came to buy flowers, I was just waiting for him.”
Bobby smiled and lowered his face down to hers. At first she thought he was going to kiss her; before it registered, his wet tongue made its way from her temple down the side of her cheek and stopped at her ear.
“You’re fuckin’ hot,” he whispered.
“You’re not,” she said back, and kneed him as hard as she could in the scrotum.
Bobby’s grip lifted immediately and Heather ran for the door. Bobby grabbed for the flowing blond hair that trailed behind her, and snapped her back to him, his arm now wrapped tightly around her neck from behind.
“I was going to just pound you good and get it over with it, but now I’m going take my time so you feel every inch of it.”
“Don’t you mean I’ll feel the inch?”
Bobby flung her around so she was facing him again and smiled. “Gotta little sass on ya. I like that.”
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“I’d rethink hurting me. It’ll be the worst mistake you ever make.”
“Baby, I forgot to tell ya, I’m a slow learner,” Bobby said as he raised his fist.
Then a knock at the door.
The voice on the other side was muffled. “Dukes we need you out here, there’s a problem.”
“In a minute, I’m busy.”
“Somebody’s trying to steal the gate money.”
Bobby walked to the door, unlocked, and opened it. “Who the fuck thinks they can...”
Roman’s hand stopped the rest of the sentence, clamped like a claw on Bobby’s face, his palm pressing the nose up, and his middl