Read Online Blood and Ice by Robert Masello - Free Book Online

each side, and perhaps four feet deep.
     
The pit boss, bare-chested and sporting a tattoo of the Union Jack across his back, was standing in its center, announcing the next bout. The sand in the floor of the pit was wet with blood and spittle and littered with scraps of mangled fur.
     
�We got Duke, a black and tan,� he shouted, �and we got Whitey! If you will make way, gentlemen, you will be afforded the opportunity of seeing these fine beasts before placing your wagers!�
     
The crowd parted, opening crooked avenues for two men with pit bulls on short chains, their muzzles tied with rope. The dogs strained ferociously at their leashes as they moved toward the lip of the pit, and it was all their masters could do to keep them from leaping inside, or going after each other.
     
�Duke, he hails from Rosemary Lane,� the boss announced, �and Whitey, why Whitey's the pride of Ludgate Hill. Two fine champions, gentlemen, and a right even match. So place your bets!� he cried out. �Place your bets, if you please!�
     
He stepped up out of the pit and rolled a barrel to its rim.
     
�Have you seen either of them fight?� Frenchie asked, leaning close to Sinclair's ear to be heard over the crowd.
     
�Yes, I've won on Whitey,� Sinclair replied, while raising his hand to a passing bookmaker. �Five on Whitey!�
     
�Make it ten!� Frenchie threw in.
     
The bookmaker tipped his cap�as they were clearly gentlemen, he would not insist on the cash in advance�and turned to an old drunk pulling at his sleeve.
     
�Last call, gentlemen,� the boss called out as he pounded a fist on the closed barrel at the rim of the pit. �Place all bets!�
     
There was a sudden flurry of cries and raised hands as the dogs� masters removed the ropes from their muzzles. The dogs barked furiously, foam flying from their lips. Then a bell rang, the pit boss shouted, �All done!� and everyone's eyes turned toward the barrel. The boss yanked off its lid, and with his foot tipped it over.
     
A swarm of rats, black and brown and gray, tumbled out and fell in a frenzied torrent into the pit. They righted themselves quickly and ran in all directions, some nipping at each other, others scrabbling at the wooden boards that lined the pit. Several actually managed to leap out, but the laughing gamblers booted them back in again.
     
The dogs went into a frenzy at the sight of the rats, and their masters had no sooner unhooked the leads than the dogs sailed into the pit, jaws snarling and claws bared. The white one was the first to make a kill, grabbing a fat gray rat and biting clear through it.
     
Sinclair clenched a fist in triumph, and Frenchie shouted, �Good work, Whitey!�
     
Duke, the black and tan, quickly evened the score, shaking a brown one like a rag until its head flew off. The rats scurried to the sides of the pit, clambering over each other's backs in their rush to escape. Whitey lunged at the one on top of a pile and tossed it into the air. The rat landed on its back and before it could turn over Whitey had lunged for its belly and ripped it open with one swipe.
     
There was a huzzah from Whitey's supporters in the crowd.
     
And so it went for the full five minutes. Blood and bone and bits of rat flew everywhere�Sinclair always made it a point to stand well back so that his uniform would remain unmarred�but at some point Whitey seemed to lose his enthusiasm for the kill and decided to eat his prey. That was not good training, Sinclair thought; whilethe dog should be kept hungry before a bout, enough to keep its instinct for blood alive, it should not be so starved that it stopped to consume the quarry.
     
�Get up, Whitey!� Frenchie shouted, as did many others, but the dog remained on all fours munching the dead rodents scattered around its paws. Duke, meanwhile, continued about his grim business.
     
Sinclair could see his money evaporating even before the bell rang and the boss called out