No Such Thing as a Lost Cause Read Free Page B

struck him in the thigh. He screamed and crumpled to the ground in agony,
     shattered bone poking through his skin.
    “Cocksuckin’ bitch,” he screamed.
    “Fuck you, you fucking jerk!” I screamed back and punched him hard in the testicles.
    I kept on punching until suddenly I became aware of a pair of hands hauling me off
     the guy.
    “It’s okay,” the cop said gently. “We’ll take it from here.”
    “No, no. I’ve got it.”
    He threw a blanket around my shoulders and handed me off to his partner. “I think
     she’s in shock,” he advised her.
    “No. Hey, I’m fine.” The temperature was in the eighties, and yet I couldn’t stop
     shaking.
    Spectators were gathered on the sidewalk, some cursing the police, some videotaping
     the events. The EMT’s flipped the shooter onto a stretcher while one of the officers
     cuffed him.
    “Get this guy in the van before I kill him,” the cop growled to the ambulance driver.
    I looked around in a daze. Wolinski was being hoisted onto a stretcher. He was wearing
     an oxygen mask, which told me he was still alive. I walked over to him and squeezed
     his hand. My cheeks felt wet, and it took me a minute to realize I’d been crying.
    I wandered over to the car. The front end was crumpled beyond repair, and yet the
     radio kept on playing, spewing shit that passed for music. Next to me stood another
     cop; a burly, middle-aged guy named McCabe. He looked like a seasoned vet, hard and
     cool and no one you’d want to mess with.
    He reached a meaty hand in through the car window and turned off the radio. In the
     relative quiet I thought I heard someone whimper. McCabe heard it too.
    “Stand back,” he told me and grabbed the key out of the ignition. Cautiously, he approached
     the trunk and popped it open.
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said, and I swear there were tears in his eyes.

Chapter Two
    “You don’t want to see this,” the cop warned. He was right.
    I turned my head, but not before I caught a glimpse of two dogs—bloody and torn—one
     lying motionless, the other, eyes wide open, tummy heaving, whimpering in pain. It
     looked young and frightened.
    “It’s called ‘trunking’,” Officer McCabe explained to me, later, on the way to pick
     up my car at the station. “Takes dog fighting to a whole new level of torture.”
    “So—you mean this is like a real—thing?” It was hard enough to believe it was the
     brain child of one lone nut case, let alone a thriving business enterprise.
    McCabe pulled his cruiser up next to my car and cut the engine. “It’s a real thing
     all right. Gang Bangers love it because there’s no overhead. They just throw the dogs
     into the trunk of a car and ride around town with music blasting to drown out the
     sound of them tearing each other apart. Whoever’s left breathing at the end is considered
     the
winner
. Sick, fucking sons of bitches,” he added. “Pardon my French.”
    Officer McCabe dealt with more horrific acts of inhumanity in a single shift than
     most people experience in a lifetime. I did not envy the man his job.
    I opened the car door. “What’s going to happen to the dog?”
    “Depends. He’s in pretty bad shape. He may have to be destroyed. And even if he makes
     it, who would want him? The poor bastard is so traumatized. Listen, you gonna be okay?”
     he asked as I hopped out of the patrol car.
    “Absolutely. Thanks for the ride.”
    I watched him head into the police station, and then I walked over to the nearest
     bush and hurled.
    *****
    “Pass the beer nuts.”
    “You’ve had three bowls already, Sunshine.”
    “Yeah, I know. It’s the only thing I can keep down. There’s just something about witnessing
     the decline of western civilization that wreaks havoc with the digestive system.”
    My friend John and I were seated at the bar at DiVinci’s, a local pizza joint. We
     were waiting for my Uncle Frankie and his girlfriend, Carla, to arrive. For some reason,
     they