Cover

marKus

ZusaK

Fighting

Ruben Wolfe

Dedication

For Scout

1

The dog we’re betting on looks more like a rat.

‘But he can run like the clappers,’ Rube says. He’s all flannelette smiles and twisted shoes. He’ll spit then smile. Spit then smile. A nice guy, really, my brother. Ruben Wolfe. It’s our usual winter of discontent.

We’re at the bottom of the open, dusty grandstand.

A girl walks past.

Jesus, I think.

‘Jesus,’ Rube says, and that’s the difference, as both of us watch her, longing, breathing, being. Girls like that don’t just show up at the dog track. The ones we’re used to are either chain-smoking mousy types or pie-eating horsy types. Or beer-drinking slutty types. The one we watch, however, is a rare experience. I’d bet on her if she could run on to the track. She’s great.

Then there’s only the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can’t touch, or at lips that don’t smile at me. Or hips that don’t reach for me. And hearts that don’t beat for me.

I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out a ten-buck note. That should distract me. I mean, I like to look at girls a bit, but it always ends up hurting me. I get sore eyes, from the distance. So all I can do is say something like, ‘So are we puttin’ this money on or what, Rube?’, as I do on this greyish day in this fine, lecherous city of home.

‘Rube?’ I ask again.

Silence.

‘Rube?’

Wind. Rolling can. Bloke smoking and coughing close behind. ‘Rube, are we betting or not?’

I hit him.

A backhander.

To my brother’s arm.

He looks at me and smiles again.

He says, ‘Okay,’ and we look for someone to con into placing our bet for us. Someone over the age limit. It’s never hard around here. Some old bloke with half his crack pouring out the back of his trousers will always put one on for you. He might even ask for a share of the winnings, if the pooch you bet on wins, that is. However, he’ll never find you — not that we would leave him out anyway. You have to humour those poor old alcoholic please-don’t-let-me-turn-out-like-him sort of fellas. A cut of the winnings isn’t going to hurt them. The trick is to win something at all. It hasn’t happened yet.

‘C’mon.’ Rube stands up, and as we walk, I can still see that girl’s legs in the distance.

Jesus, I think.

‘Jesus,’ Rube says.

At the betting windows we encounter a small problem.

Cops.

What the hell are they doin’ here? I wonder.

‘What the hell are they doin’ here?’ Rube says.