The Dog Fight.

The dogs were rigorously checked; standing with stoic indifference while three men prodded and probed their bodies, then washed them down with water from a hose pipe.

‘Them handlers are sneaky bastards,’ confided a thin man with a goatee beard. ‘They spray their dogs with chemicals; make the other dog sick when they get their teeth into ‘em. These boys know all the tricks, watch out for anything dodgy, it’s a fair ring, this. Good to know when you’re laying out a bet, eh?’

I nodded, distracted by this group of American Pit Bull terriers with hard, muscular bodies, cropped ears and flat, expressionless eyes enduring what was obviously a regular routine in their working lives. Finally the dogs were weighed and any medical items brought along by their handlers were checked over.

I wandered away, squeezing through the growing crowd. Half a dozen hard-eyed women stood together, cigarettes in hand, ignoring their companions, but otherwise it was an all-male gathering. I saw a few faces I knew, drug dealers, a used-car salesman, the gay couple who owned the city’s biggest nightclub, but mostly they were strangers.

I walked across to where Tommy was standing, deep in conversation with a man I’d seen before, but couldn’t remember where.
Tommy nodded, beckoned me over. ‘You know Dermot, I suppose?’

I extended a hand to the other man, finally remembering the last time we’d been this close. Dermot, never heard his surname, had been part of an Irish group come over the water to explore possible ventures in the drug trade. They were from Dublin, eager to show they were no pushovers as I recalled, and the meeting had not gone well. Dermot had been a minor player, certainly not the spokesman for the group, and I’d never heard him speak.

‘Good to see you again,’ he said, shaking my hand. A cultured voice, soft and refined, the accent held in check. ‘Just having a chat with your man here. New people in charge now, worth seeing what the possibilities are.’

‘Dermot’s the top boyo these days,’ Tommy told me, throwing an arm around the shoulders of the other man. I saw his expression darken, whether at the familiarity of the gesture or at the word ‘boyo’ wasn’t clear, and then brighten again. Business was business.

‘Easy pickings over there,’ Tommy continued, seemingly oblivious to the other man’s discomfort. ‘Them Mickey Mouse borders they have in Europe, the place is awash with stuff. Dermot’s looking to make a bob or two shifting it over here.’

I nodded. I’d worked that out already. The pair resumed their conversation and I detached slightly, seemingly out of the loop but listening to every word. The fight area was a portable structure, presumably erected on site and removed afterwards. Seven or eight metres on each of its four sides with walls about a metre high and double hinged doors on opposite sides.

The broad expanse of earth surround in the ring was ideal for spectators and had obviously been used many times before, the closely packed earth inside the ring deeply stained with blood from previous battles.

The spectators crowded round and Tommy and Dermot’s conversation came to an abrupt end with this sudden invasion of their privacy. The doors at either side of the ring opened and the first combatants made an appearance. The dogs, both brindle males, faced each other, glaring balefully across the ring while their handlers kept a firm grip on their collars, leaning over the barriers from their positions of safety on the outside.

The match referee called ‘fight’ and the handlers released their respective charges. Both dogs rushed to the centre of the ring, clashing together, chest to chest, neither giving an inch. The spectators roared encouragement, but the dogs fought in silence, teeth snapping as they battled for a position of advantage.

I glanced at Tommy, red in the face and bellowing his support for the dog he’d placed his bet on, and caught the eye of Dermot standing impassively at his side.
I’d no wish to see more of this barbaric spectacle anyway, but Dermot provided me with a way out. Inclining his head to one side, he slipped away and I pushed my way through the baying spectators to follow him.

‘Like ancient Rome,’ Dermot said as we walked towards the cars. ‘Not my sort of thing at all.’

‘Me neither,’ I said, glad to be well away from this barbarism.

Dermot stopped, leaning against a sleek Mercedes. ‘I remember you,’ he said.

I nodded, guardedly, said nothing.

Dermot smiled. ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘I like that. Tell me now, your man Tommy down there, is he to be trusted, would you say, or should I think of looking elsewhere? See, what I’m thinking, the men I report back to have very high expectations. The last man I came here with, last time we spoke with your friend Tommy, he’s not around any more. Last seen in the Irish Sea a mile or two out of Dún Laoghaire. A long swim home from there. Even harder when your legs are missing.’