Moondogs - Alexander Yates [122]
They meet that afternoon at an uptown cockfighting arena. Efrem approaches slowly, standing square in the entrance just as he’s been told. Down in the pit a fight’s about to start and the air shakes with shouted bets. Fists of folded bills wave like sea grass above four sets of wooden bleachers. Two men circle the arena, each holding a rooster high for the crowd’s appraisal. People push past Efrem to get inside, cursing him for slowing traffic, but he stays put. Then, as betting winds down, someone grabs his wrist.
“Are you Khalid Bakkar?”
“I am,” Efrem says.
The man—no shorter than him, but much smaller—smiles to reveal pointed gray teeth. “Good,” he says. “Put your arms out.”
Before Efrem can move he feels a pair of large, powerful hands come down on his shoulders from behind. He resists the instinct to throw them off, unsure if he even could. A big man with uneven hair spins him around and feels down his front. He jams his fingers into Efrem’s pockets, runs them along the inside of his pant-waist and up and down his thighs. “Apologies,” Ignacio says, tapping the tip of his swollen, crooked nose. “But our last buyer was not honest.”
Efrem nods, praying the search doesn’t stray to his head. Elvis, in the guise of a tarantula, hides out there under strands of his tussled hair. Reynato ordered him along—backup in case Efrem’s a screwup and needs it.
Littleboy finishes frisking and announces that Efrem’s clean. Eight legs drum his scalp in relief.
“That’s a good start,” Ignacio says, grabbing Efrem’s elbow and leaning in close. “But don’t be stupid. People know me here. If you start anything, the odds will be a lot worse than two against one.”
Keeping hold of his elbow, Ignacio leads him toward the dirt arena, along a narrow aisle, to an open spot atop the bleachers. Efrem sits between them, unsure who is supposed to talk first. Down in the pit final bets are in and the crowd settles. The roosters glare at each other while the sentenciador inspects the razor sharp longspurs fastened to their feet. Cradling their cocks, the owners enter a rough chalk circle drawn around the arena’s center. They bring the birds close, almost within pecking distance. This riles them. The owners step back, whisper encouragements and douse their beaks and combs with disinfectant to rile them even more. “You see the one on the right?” Ignacio asks, pointing. “The tan fringe? That one wins. He dies also, but he takes the match.”
The sentenciador blows a whistle and owners drop their birds and back away fast. The gamecocks eye each other. They turn sideways, crabwalking, circling the patch of dirt that one of them will die in. The arena is filled with crowing from caged roosters, but the two in the pit are silent. The tan fringe freezes, neck-feathers erect in a mane of greasy, trembling barbs. He jumps and meets his opponent in midair—a jumble of thumping wings and skinny kicks. They fall and jump again. They fall and jump again. The bird on the left sits down in a pile of his own feathers. His head lolls and rests gently on the dirt. The rooster with the tan fringe limps over and pecks at his head, nipping away pieces of comb.
The sentenciador approaches and lifts each bird by their ruffed back-scruff. He holds them knee high and drops them. The rooster on the left tries to stand and can’t. The sentenciador drops them again, and now the bird on the left does not move at all. The match is over, and the crowd erupts with cheers and groans as people collect and pay up. Owners retrieve the birds while the sentenciador sweeps away feathers and blood-whips with a dried palm frond. It looks as though Ignacio was right. Tan fringe’s owner sits on the lowest bleacher, struggling to sew up his winning bird while it twitches in a way that implies last breaths.
Ignacio drums his knees. “It’s easy to find a winner