The Dogmen

By Michael McIntosh

Jason Stone is a retired government agent who worked for the Secret Service and DEA for many years, much of his time undercover. As a hobby in retirement he infiltrates and breaks up dogfighting rings. Stone adores dogs and abhors dogfighting. He is in his early sixties, a master of martial arts, highly educated (Princeton PhD in literature). He loves music and cooking and takes great solace from the land. He is haunted by memories of his childhood, of Viet Nam, and of experience as an undercover agent.

Stone strikes a deal with the Highway Patrol in a Midwestern state to penetrate and dismantle dogfighting operations. In the process he discovers a larger conspiracy that involves drug trafficking and sets out to take it all down.

The action builds to a climax in which Stone is forced to confront a bloody and gruesome death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 24, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462807192

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Copyright © 2009 by Michael McIntosh.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Lynda Mills

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PART 1 Going Under

PART 2 Going Deeper

PART 3 Touching Bottom

PART 4 Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PART 1

Going Under

A DUSTY TAVERN IN A DUSTY TOWN. As best Jason Stone could tell, the only surface not furred with dust was the bar top, which looked as if it got mopped once a week, need it or not. His mark was perched on a stool at the center of the bar, hunched over a long-neck.

Stone gave his eyes a moment to adjust from the bright sun outdoors to the interior gloom and then slid onto the next barstool. The mark didn’t look at him. The bartender, who looked like he, too, got mopped once a week, sidled over and raised his eyebrows.

Beer, Stone said. Whatever he’s having, and give him another one on me.

The mark graced Stone with a sidelong glance and grunted, Thanks. Stone sketched a dismissive gesture with one hand and said nothing.

The bartender set two long-necks in front of them. Stone downed half of his in a couple of thirsty swigs and rummaged in the pocket of his faded denim jacket, producing a pipe and a leather tobacco pouch. He looked at the mark and the bartender, held up the pipe, and said, Anybody mind?

The mark shook his head in one abbreviated gesture, and the bartender said, Hell, no. Wouldn’t be the worst thing ever got smoked in here, and retreated to the far end of the bar. Stone slowly filled his pipe, tamped it with a forefinger, dug out a disposable lighter and set the tobacco afire. After two or three contended puffs he murmured, too low for the bartender to hear, You the one they call Tiny?

Who wants to know? the mark said.

Name’s Stone. I’m sorta passing through, Stone said, still looking straight ahead.

The mark said, Humh.

After a few more puffs at his pipe and another swig of beer, Stone said, I hear you got a bad dog.

Where you hear that?

Around.

Around where?

Around here, fuckhead. Where do you think, around Chicago?

Whether the words or the edge in Stone’s voice, something made the mark swivel and look at Stone for the first time. The mark was a big man but soft-looking, more weight than muscle, with little porcine eyes glinting from a round, fat face. Bully all his life, Stone thought, thinking also how easy it would be to take this tub of lard down.

Listen, shit-for-brains, if you want to fuck around, you can do it with somebody else, Stone said. I hear you like a little sport now and then. If that’s so, and you’re Tiny, we might be able to have some sport and do a little business on the side. I’ve got a bad dog, too. Badder than yours, I expect.

Yeah, I’m Tiny, and there ain’t no dog around badder than mine.

Well, Tiny, Stone said, maybe we can find out some time. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days. Stone pocketed his pipe and most of his change and walked out, having touched exactly the nerve he’d hoped to.

Who the hell’s that? Tiny asked the bartender.

Dunno, the bartender said. Been in here a coupla times in the last week. Never seen him before, and tell you the truth, I wouldn’t be sad if I never seen him again. Somethin’ kinda scary about his eyes.

Ahh, Tiny said. Just a smart-mouth lookin’ to get his ass kicked.

Well, you’d be the one to do it, the bartender said.

TWO MONTHS BEFORE, Stone had sat across a desk from the Commanding Colonel of the state highway patrol, explaining for the third time why he was there. The Colonel was an officious man well on the way toward building a paunch. He fixed Stone with what he thought was a stern, commanding stare and said, Now exactly what is it you want?

Stone was having some trouble keeping his patience, but he blew out a breath and said, Colonel, I think you have a problem with illegal dogfighting in this state, and I want to help you clean it up.

Why? the Colonel asked.

Short answer? Because I love dogs, and I hate fighting. Any kind. I know how to fight, but I don’t like it. I especially hate dogfighting. If I had my way, anyone involved in dogfighting would just be taken out and shot. But the law doesn’t allow that, so we have to work with what the law does allow. About all we can do is throw a little Come to Jesus party with fines and jail time as stiff as a judge can impose. It won’t cure the problem, but it’ll make some of ’em think twice about doing it again. It’s become sort of a hobby in my retirement.

The Colonel looked at the man across the desk—of medium height but compact and fit-looking, dressed in jeans and denim jacket. Except for some creases on his forehead and around his extremely pale blue eyes, he looked no more than middle-aged, but wavy, silver-white hair fell to his shoulders. His close-cropped beard was the same color. The combined effect was of a man to be taken seriously, though one could not have said exactly why.

When the Colonel spoke again, his tone carried a bit more respect. How would you do this?

Go undercover and work my way into the fighting rings, then tip your guys when there’s a chance for a good bust. I’d do it all myself, but in the end I need some troops to do the cleanup.

Have you done this before?

Yessir, mostly in Texas and Louisiana. We didn’t get ’em all, but we surely thinned ’em out.

And where did you learn to do this?

"Oh, thirty years of working for the government was a good start.

Tell you what… I’ve taken up enough of your time. It was nice of you to see me in the first place. So why don’t you check me out and get back to me if you’re interested. Stone took out a business card and wrote on the back. Handing it to the Colonel he said, When you check me out, use the name on the back, and my cell-phone number is there, too. Just give me a call if you want to talk again.

A WEEK LATER Stone sat in the same chair across the same desk from the same Colonel. But not quite the same Colonel. This one had dropped his stony officiousness and adopted instead an attitude of deference.

Mr. Stone, he said, I did as you suggested and ran your name though all the channels available to us. I must say I am impressed. You once worked for the DEA.

That and some other agencies, Stone nodded.

Were you undercover all that time?

Not all but mostly, Stone said. At times so far under that even my contacts couldn’t find me. Drug Enforcement was the last. A man under cover has a limited shelf life. Either he gets killed by the cops or his cover gets blown and he gets killed by the people he’s taking down. It all amounts to the same thing—dead. In the end I was getting some funny looks, so after the last sweep I asked to be retired. They were good enough to accommodate.

According to what we learned, you didn’t exist till seven years ago.

Yeah, that’s about right, Stone said. The name I gave you is the one that would reach furthest back. It’s not my real name. Neither is Jason Stone, but that’s the one I use most often. You can use it, too.

Tell me again why dogfighting is so important, the Colonel said. After what you’ve done, I’d think this would be small potatoes.

The work I did for the feds was a job—one I believed in, but a job nevertheless. This is my passion. I called it a hobby when we talked before, but it’s more than that. I simply love dogs, and I can’t stand even the idea of one ripping up another for the sake of some bunch of morons who should be watching some other morons pretend to wrestle on television. That’s show-biz. A dogfight is real, usually ends with somebody dead. And I hate it. I can’t make it any simpler than that.

Well, Mr. Stone, I’m going to authorize this, the Colonel said. I don’t like dogfighting, either, and I certainly don’t want it going on in this state. Tell me what you need.

"I need two thousand dollars a month, as expense money. I’ll have to drive around a lot and stay in motels. I’ll keep it in a special bank account, and whatever’s left over when the job is done will come back to you.

"I need complete immunity from any law-enforcement agency in the state. If I’m going to get close to these people I’ll have to drink with them and then drive. I don’t do drugs—but I can almost guarantee that there’ll be drugs somewhere around the edges of this. I might have to hold, but I know I’ll have to drink. I won’t get plastered, but I don’t want to get hauled in by some wannabe Wyatt Earp whose balls are bigger than his brain.

"I don’t need a vehicle or any ID. I have my own. I don’t need a state driver’s license. I have a valid one from another state. My car’s registered in the same state, and that’s valid, too. And I don’t need a state concealed-carry permit. I have one issued by the feds that’s good in every state. And I will be carrying all the time.

I need anonymity. No police department, sheriff’s department, town constable, or village idiot is to know about me, not even the patrolmen in your own department. I don’t exist. But I do need a contact here, one man—and not some burned-out bureaucrat counting down to retirement. I need a cop, one who understands what I’m doing. Nobody else, except you and I, are to know about me. Otherwise, it won’t work.

The Colonel pursed his lips and pondered for a few moments, thinking more, Stone suspected, about the $2000 monthly draw than anything else.

All right, Mr. Stone, he finally said. I’ll agree to everything you ask. In fact, I’d already decided to assign you to Major Harrison for contact. He works in this building. I’ll brief him on what we’re doing. Go see him tomorrow. I wish you good luck.

Stone nodded thanks and left.

MAJOR HARRISON had a face and a demeanor that Jason Stone immediately liked and instinctively trusted. His skin was the texture of old, softened leather, creased and crinkled in ways that said this face had been somewhere and done something. His bright green eyes said he hadn’t lost his edge or his sense of humor along the way.

Sit down, Mr. Stone, he said, indicating a chair in front of his desk. As Stone sat, Harrison came from behind the desk and took the chair next to him. Another good sign, Stone thought.

It appears that we’re to work together, Mr. Stone, Harrison said.

You can call me Stone.

And you can call me Paul. The Colonel has explained what you want to do, and that he agrees. I’m to give you all the support you need. What I don’t quite understand is exactly why you want to do this.

I can’t tell you any more than I told the Colonel, Stone said. I hate dogfighting like God hates St. Louis. Harrison grinned. And if I can help clean it out, great. But I’ll need backup. As best you know, how much fighting goes on in this state?

Not that much, but some, Harrison said. And I’d like to see it cleaned out, too. How do you want to proceed?

Basic undercover sting. We’re not dealing with Colombian drug lords. In my experience these guys are about two-jewel when it comes to brains. Do you know where the fighting is and who’s involved?

Rumors, mostly. We’ve never been able to penetrate any rings.

Not surprised, Stone said. Nowadays, cops and deputies and troopers all look like their mamas scrub ’em up every morning. I doubt they could penetrate a church choir. Harrison grinned again. "Just give me names and towns, and I’ll take care of finding them and working my way in. What I need most is an absolute promise that you’ll arrange the bust when I tell you it needs to go down. It needs to involve everybody around who’s wearing a badge; sometimes the crowds at these things are fairly big, and you’ll need enough troops for containment. A bus or two to haul them all off would be nice.

I imagine just attending a fight is some low-grade misdemeanor, but I hope organizing one is at least an E felony. Harrison nodded. "It’d be great if you know a judge who’d keep everyone in jail overnight. A night in the slammer—and then having to explain it to their wives—does a lot to cool off the casuals.

"Naturally you’ll have to arrest me, too, because I’ll be there. And I don’t want any of the officers to know who I am. But if you can get to somebody in charge and think of a way to separate me out without drawing suspicion, fine. Otherwise, don’t worry about it. I’ve spent a few nights in jail, not the end of the world.

I also need a secure way of contacting you, anytime day or night, and a way of getting any local fuzz off my back if I get busted for something else. I expect the Colonel told you that.

Well, Stone, Harrison said, "you’ve obviously done this before and know what you’re doing. You’ll get everything you want from me. I’ll give you a phone number that’ll reach me any time. You can also give it to the ‘local fuzz,’ as you say, if you get jammed up. I’ll take care of it.

Actually, we do have a couple of troopers working undercover with drugs. They’re good men, and if you get a solid hint of something they should know about, let me know. Stone nodded.

It’s not unusual to find drugs where there’s dogfighting, he said. But I won’t know till I get there. The bigger the operation the more likely it’ll be something a lot heavier than a few dime bags of grass. When you make up your list of places and people, I’d appreciate it if you’d start with the ones you think are the largest. We might be able to knock off two birds at once. It was Harrison’s turn to nod.

Stone, he said, I have to tell you that I wish I was twenty years younger and could go with you.

I wish that, too, Paul. I’d be happy to have somebody good watching my back.

I don’t know how good I am any more, Harrison said. But it just sounds like fun. I don’t get much of that in the job I have now. But I think I’m gonna have a good time backing you up.

Stone rose and turned to leave. One more thing. Is this how you look when you’re undercover?

Stone affected a look of wide-eyed innocence. Why, no, Major. I got dressed up to come meet with you.

Harrison was still laughing when Stone closed the office door behind him.

TINY WAS ON THE SAME BARSTOOL in the same dusty tavern. Even the beer bottle in front of him looked dusty. Tiny himself, Stone thought as he slid onto the next stool, wasn’t likely to be this year’s Best-Smelling Man in the County, nor even runner-up. He ordered a beer and motioned another for Tiny.

So, did you check me out?

Tiny grunted. Yeah. Nobody around here ever heard of you.

Not surprised. Never been around here before.

Tiny had decided to play it cagy. Just whaddya want around here?

I told you before, Stone said. I’m just a sportsman, like yourself, looking for some action. If you don’t have any, no big deal. I’ll be on my way.

You sound like ya done this before, Tiny said.

Unh-huh. Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Loosiana. Kansas is more interested in fightin’ chickens. I got nothing against it, but I can’t get too excited about two birds that oughtta be Sunday dinner tryin’ to stick each other. Not my cup of tea, as they say. Oklahoma is just nickel-and-dime shit. But them old boys in Texas and Loosiana are serious, willing to put some real money for a real fight. That’s what I’m lookin’ for. Either you got it or you don’t. Just say so. I’m tired of dancin’ around.

Well, Tiny said as if having pondered the question, we might have a scrap or two now and then. Why don’t you bring that bad dog of yours around and we’ll see.

Stone shook his head. Not how it works. I get to check out the local talent first. If it’s worth a shit and there’s some money on the table, I might. I won’t put my dog against some mutt. Even a mutt might get in a lucky bite and damage an ACL. Then we’re fucked.

Tiny slowly mulled the question of what an ACL might be and finally concluded that it sounded like some liberal organization he would be almost certain not to like. But he didn’t ask, and Stone didn’t volunteer an explanation.

Stone went on. Tiny, two things you need to understand. One is that I don’t pit my dog for less than twenty thousand. Tiny’s piggy little eyes widened fractionally. The other is that I have an advantage. Most fighting dogs are males. Mine’s a female. A lot of male dogs are reluctant to fight females. That hesitation, no matter how small it is, gives me an edge, ’cause she’s a scratchy bitch that doesn’t give a shit who she chews up. She only fights once a night, win or lose—but you can put in the best you’ve got and see what happens. Now, do you have anything to see or not?

Friday nights at McComber’s. Stone’s expression indicated that he hadn’t a clue where McComber’s might be. I’ll give you directions, Tiny said, and recited them slowly while Stone sketched some notes on a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket. Tiny slid a solid-red card across the bar. Show this to the guys at the gate and they’ll let you in. Just don’t let anybody else see where it is.

Stone didn’t reply, merely waved a small salute and left.

Sumbitch sure talks big, Tiny muttered at the bartender. Kinda pushy. We’ll see what it gets him.

BY FRIDAY, Stone knew the location of McComber’s as if he’d driven there a hundred times from every direction. A wire farm-gate blocked the entrance. In the distance, Stone could make out a barn but no house.

He’d called Harrison to report the location. Let’s keep this between us till I find out what goes on. If some dumb-ass deputy sheriff stumbles into it, they might move the show. And I have a feeling there could be more than meets the eye. Tiny passes himself off as the kingpin, but I don’t believe it. He doesn’t have brains enough to not wipe his ass crossways. If there’s somebody behind this it may involve more than fights. I’ll see if I can flush anyone out.

They agreed to talk again on Saturday.

STONE ROLLED IN just before dusk. The gate was open, and two men stood blocking the driveway, one making a show of the pistol holstered on his hip. Stone showed the red card Tiny had given him, and one man waved him through, saying, Just follow the road. Stone nodded and drove in.

The road led to the distant barn and as Stone had guessed, there was no house. The barn was of average size for that part of the country, its siding weathered but not dilapidated. He parked among a few cars standing in a broad, graveled area and made his way up a gravel path to the front door.

Two men stood by the door, sharing a joint. Stone