up."
His eyes glowed threateningly in the darkness. "Be careful how you talk to me, mon cher," he said silkily. "When they get all riled up," he nodded toward the crowd, "I might be the only thing standing between you and gang rape."
By an act of will, she kept her face composed, not wanting him to see her anxiety. She returned her attention to the pit. A shudder went through her when she recognized the dog snarling across the dirt floor of the pit at his opponent as the one who had attacked her.
Uglier and meaner looking than the two pit bulls, however, was Jigger Flynn. Schyler watched him in fearful fascination as he closed his hands around his dog's jaws and, straddling the animal's back, lifted it up until only its back feet touched the ground.
Flynn's thinning, gray hair had been slicked back with oil that made his pink scalp glisten beneath the spotlights. His eyes were deep-set, small, and dark. Surrounded by puffy flesh, they looked like raisins set in bread dough. His nose was fleshy, his lips thin and hard. Schyler doubted they could form a smile. His chin melted into the loose, wobbly flesh beneath it. He wasn't tall. Generally, he was a small man, but his neck was thick, and he had a beer gut that hung over his belt. His baggy trousers looked as though they were losing a battle to stay up on hips that were unsupported by a butt. He had thin, bandy legs and comically small feet.
No one knew his worth, but it was estimated that he was one of the richest men in the parish, all of his money earned through illegal enterprises. Whatever his wealth, he certainly didn't flaunt it. His clothes could have been salvaged from a welfare bin. They were old and soiled. He reeked of malevolence.
"What's he doing with that dog?"
Cash, who had been intently studying Schyler, glanced toward the pit. Jigger was holding his dog to face the other. He shook the animal slightly while continuing to squeeze its broad face between his hands. The other trainer was doing likewise. The dogs' back legs were thrashing, kicking up puffs of dirt whenever their sharp claws touched.
"That's called scratching. The trainers are deliberately provoking them, rousing their inbred instincts to fight, infuriating them so they'll charge each other. The fight is over when one dog kills the other or when one refuses to scratch and charge."
"You mean—"
"They try to rip one another's throat out."
The only thing that kept Schyler sitting on the bleacher was her stubborn determination not to lose face in front of Cash. A man whom she assumed was a referee signaled for quiet and enumerated the rules. Obviously this was a routine practice and of no interest to anyone except her. Everyone was shifting restlessly, ready for the action to begin.
She actually jumped when the two animals were released and charged across the pit toward each other. By nature of the sport she had expected violence, but nothing to equal the ferocity with which they attacked each other. The dogs were amazingly strong and tenacious. Time and again they went for each other, but their stamina never seemed to flag.
When first blood was drawn, Schyler turned her head away and pressed her face into Cash's shoulder. She was revolted, but also horrified, realizing how lucky she was to have come away with only superficial wounds from the dog's attack.
Shaken, she raised her head and watched until Jigger's dog clamped down on the other's shoulder. The opposing dog closed his jaws on Jigger's dog's back. They held on.
"That's the way they rest," Cash told her. "They'll be given a minute, but it won't last long. See?"
Both trainers entered the pit. Each had a wedge-shaped stick about six inches long, which he put in his dog's mouth and prized open the jaws. "That's called a break stick. Rest time's over."
The dogs were separated and the scratching process started again. "Do the dogs ever turn on their trainers?" Schyler asked. She was mesmerized by the evil light in Flynn's eyes as he
His eyes glowed threateningly in the darkness. "Be careful how you talk to me, mon cher," he said silkily. "When they get all riled up," he nodded toward the crowd, "I might be the only thing standing between you and gang rape."
By an act of will, she kept her face composed, not wanting him to see her anxiety. She returned her attention to the pit. A shudder went through her when she recognized the dog snarling across the dirt floor of the pit at his opponent as the one who had attacked her.
Uglier and meaner looking than the two pit bulls, however, was Jigger Flynn. Schyler watched him in fearful fascination as he closed his hands around his dog's jaws and, straddling the animal's back, lifted it up until only its back feet touched the ground.
Flynn's thinning, gray hair had been slicked back with oil that made his pink scalp glisten beneath the spotlights. His eyes were deep-set, small, and dark. Surrounded by puffy flesh, they looked like raisins set in bread dough. His nose was fleshy, his lips thin and hard. Schyler doubted they could form a smile. His chin melted into the loose, wobbly flesh beneath it. He wasn't tall. Generally, he was a small man, but his neck was thick, and he had a beer gut that hung over his belt. His baggy trousers looked as though they were losing a battle to stay up on hips that were unsupported by a butt. He had thin, bandy legs and comically small feet.
No one knew his worth, but it was estimated that he was one of the richest men in the parish, all of his money earned through illegal enterprises. Whatever his wealth, he certainly didn't flaunt it. His clothes could have been salvaged from a welfare bin. They were old and soiled. He reeked of malevolence.
"What's he doing with that dog?"
Cash, who had been intently studying Schyler, glanced toward the pit. Jigger was holding his dog to face the other. He shook the animal slightly while continuing to squeeze its broad face between his hands. The other trainer was doing likewise. The dogs' back legs were thrashing, kicking up puffs of dirt whenever their sharp claws touched.
"That's called scratching. The trainers are deliberately provoking them, rousing their inbred instincts to fight, infuriating them so they'll charge each other. The fight is over when one dog kills the other or when one refuses to scratch and charge."
"You mean—"
"They try to rip one another's throat out."
The only thing that kept Schyler sitting on the bleacher was her stubborn determination not to lose face in front of Cash. A man whom she assumed was a referee signaled for quiet and enumerated the rules. Obviously this was a routine practice and of no interest to anyone except her. Everyone was shifting restlessly, ready for the action to begin.
She actually jumped when the two animals were released and charged across the pit toward each other. By nature of the sport she had expected violence, but nothing to equal the ferocity with which they attacked each other. The dogs were amazingly strong and tenacious. Time and again they went for each other, but their stamina never seemed to flag.
When first blood was drawn, Schyler turned her head away and pressed her face into Cash's shoulder. She was revolted, but also horrified, realizing how lucky she was to have come away with only superficial wounds from the dog's attack.
Shaken, she raised her head and watched until Jigger's dog clamped down on the other's shoulder. The opposing dog closed his jaws on Jigger's dog's back. They held on.
"That's the way they rest," Cash told her. "They'll be given a minute, but it won't last long. See?"
Both trainers entered the pit. Each had a wedge-shaped stick about six inches long, which he put in his dog's mouth and prized open the jaws. "That's called a break stick. Rest time's over."
The dogs were separated and the scratching process started again. "Do the dogs ever turn on their trainers?" Schyler asked. She was mesmerized by the evil light in Flynn's eyes as he
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