Eden by Candice Fox

passenger side window and squinted into the darkness of the vehicle.
    “Who’s in?”
    “Ricky’s got a couple of good rollers. Going to play Sharky’s big brute from December.”
    “What happened to Old Mark?”
    “Two broken legs.” Bear didn’t look at Heinrich. “Rug accident, I heard.”
    “Treacherous, those rugs. The Persians, I hear.”
    “Won’t have them in my place.”
    Laughter. The men tossed their coats into Heinrich’s arms. Or they’d wave the big man away with promises for next month. Heinrich would clamber back into the front seat as the car rolled away, asphalt moving beneath his feet. By the time the sun set, the pickups were finished and they headed back to Abercrombie Street into the crowd that lined the pavement. Bear didn’t need to push his way through. People parted for him. Heinrich struggled forward before the sea of legs and hips and skirts and feet closed on him. Caesar was at the basement door, talking to Uncle Mick about the dogs.
    “That it?”
    “Yeah.”
    To Bear, “That prick. Fishburn.”
    “Had a quick look. Not home. Boy went round the back. Nothing. Stuff’s still there.”
    Caesar glanced down at Heinrich. The boy chipped paint from the doorframe with a fingernail.
    “Send your little sidekick round there tomorrow. Pass on my disappointment and get what’s outstanding.”
    Bear nodded and thumped the boy’s shoulder. Caesar glanced again at the boy, creased his brow, the faintest twitch of furry gray eyebrow.
     
    The big man led him downstairs. The noise was rushing up from below as Heinrich descended into the dark, it was going past his ears and spiraling upward—stomping feet and cheering and laughter and the smashing of glass. He could hear screaming. The birds. There were mixed fights before the dogs—cocks and sometimes a ferret, a pair of teenagers with a rivalry of some sort. There was no music while the fight was on. It drowned out the cracking of bones and the splatter of blood and the smack of flesh on the concrete. But now and then between bouts someone struck up a guitar, trying to soak up some of the money going around.
    Heinrich could barely see anything from the floor of the basement. He was swamped by backsides and elbows. As Bear shifted forward, he grabbed onto his coat, allowing himself to be pulled through. It was getting to be a shameful thing to do—the constant need to scramble between people or have a path cleared for him. A couple of nights earlier he’d been moping around the greenhouse, scrubbing pots with barely any enthusiasm. Bear had had enough.
    “The hell’s got your goat?”
    “How old am I?” the boy asked. Bear looked at him through his glasses, dazzling in the light of a candle over the tiny samplings in his hands.
    “I dunno. Twelve? Thirteen? ’Bout eight when you turned up probably.”
    “How old’s Sunday?”
    “Bout the same.”
    “She’s taller than me.”
    “Heaven forbid.”
    “I’m gonna end up taller than her, right?”
    Bear had laughed, turning back to his work.
    “There’s no telling.”
    “I can’t be short.”
    “There’s worse things to be.”
    “Bear.”
    “Look.” The big man turned, hung a huge arm over the back of the chair. “Being short’s not the end of the fucking world. A woman don’t mind if you’re short, long as you can fight, you got money, or you’re great in the sack. Work hard enough and you can get to all three, even. All right?”
    “Yeah. All right.”
    “Now shut up and get back to work.”
    By the time Heinrich made his way to the front of the crowd the pit was empty but for two men half-heartedly sweeping feathers and bits of flesh from one end of the concrete ring into a heap at the other where the mess would lie with the shit and blood and piss of losing dogs, parts of other birds, a lump of shirt ripped from one of the teens. The winner’s owner climbed out of the pit with his bird under his arm, its feet struggling, wet and black. A couple of dogs