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moved like rooster half his size and had crazy cannibal bloodlust.
    I hit the bar up before placing my bet, and as usual Pablo was working it. He plopped a cold one in front of me and waved off my $5 bill.
    “Are you betting tonight, Larry?” He asked.
    “What kind of question is that?” I said. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
    Pablo leaned in close and nodded for me to do the same.
    “Tandy has a broken leg,” he whispered. “Juan has it taped up tight, but there’s no way he’s going to win tonight.”
    When a bird get injured before a match, most trainers won’t pull their bird from competition because of the two grand Pablo made them put down to be in the ring. Owners and trainers operated on a shoestring, so two grand was a big deal. Sure, their bird may be hobbling around, but there was always the chance that they might fight through the pain and win, and if the odds are high enough against the bird, the owner looks to quadruple the ring stake and pull in huge on any side bets they’ve got going on. Considering Tandy’s age, Coco was pretty much a 100% win.
    “No, shit.”
    “Yeah, and the thing is, nobody knows about it, and Juan plans on keeping it that way. Tandy’s ranked 12-to-1 right now.”
    My eyes turned to saucers and I’m not ashamed to say that I started drooling a little bit. 12-to-1 on twelve grand was huge; I’d have enough to pay off Junior, plus a little on the side so I wouldn’t have to worry about picking up PI work for at least a couple of months. But as I slugged back my beer, my lizard brain was going into overload. Imagine what I could make if I put down twenty or fifty grand? I’d be set up for four or five years if I played it right. The idea of it sent me into orbit, and then I opened my stupid mouth and said to Pablo:
    “How much can you stake me?’
    He ended up being able to front me only thirty grand, but Pablo knew it was a sure thing, and the whole reason he told me about the injury was because he was hoping I would hop at the chance to go big. Usually the house can’t put money down on a fight because the house usually knew the little ins-and-outs of what’s going on with the cocks. Plus, you’re taking food out of your partners mouths if another owner placed a bet, so they put money in the hands of shills like me. Yeah, Pablo would take a huge chunk of the take, but I would still get a big greasy hunk of it. The only downside was if Coco lost, because if that happened, I would expected to pay the mark plus its weekly interest. Yeah, it’s a screwed up little system, but you know what they say, if you want to win big, you’ve got to play big.
    Pablo handed me the marker when the first fight started and the bar cleared out, and I went and laid down the cash, and then went ringside to wait for my easy money fight.

You don’t have to hear the rest, because you already know how it went, so there’s no reason you need to hear a blow-by-blow description of the fight. All you need to know is that good old Tandy came hobbling out of his corner and he tore Coco to shreds, and I mean to shreds. It was so brutal people were throwing up over the carnage, myself included. But I was barfing because I was screwed six ways to Sunday. I now owed two HUGE markers, and considering that I didn’t know who Pablo’s partners were, I was completely in the dark on money owed or how long I would have to pay it back, or what would happen to me if I didn’t pay it back when they wanted it.
    But believe it or not, I was actually very well acquainted with Pablo’s partner.
    After the fight I headed back to the bar, and Pablo—who was a couple of shades whiter than a hospital pillow case—had a beer ready for me. After I slugged it back in three long gulps, I asked about the particulars of paying back the marker, and that’s when he dropped a bomb on me.
    The fight belonged to Junior. The whole thing, Pablo was just an employee.

I don’t expect you to feel sorry for me, I