Love and Other Wounds Read Online Free PDF

get out the staple gun for the worst of them. They bind the wounds together with a great loud CLICK. Lucy does not wince or whine while the staples snap down on her flesh.
    Tough little bitch. Proud little warrior.
    I will not let her die. But there’s nothing I can do now. I have to give the fluids a chance to work. She sleeps. I can’t. I watch bad teevee, something with fat people sweating on treadmills. I switch channels. People screaming at each other, throwing glasses, throwing punches. I switch again. The news, nothing but lying politicians and pretty dead white girls.
    A knock at the door. I check out the peephole. It’s Jesse. I open the door. A miasma of whiskey-stink comes in with him. He looks at Lucy. He whistles a low note.
    â€œShe still living?”
    â€œFor now.”
    â€œDo what you can, man,” he says. “She’s hardcore. Me likey.”
    â€œShe’ll be a hell of a dam,” I say. I’m talking too fast. I never was a salesman. “Let’s breed her with that brindle stud that Lopez has . . .”
    â€œHell, no, not yet. Bitch has fights in her yet.”
    â€œJesse, she’ll never come back all the way from this,” I say. “She’s already going to be a legend. Four pounds under and the dead-game bitch won. Breed her.”
    â€œShe’s going back in the pit,” he says. I chew a chunk out of the side of my mouth.
    â€œThat rapper dude who was there, the one who owns Cherry? He wants to match her,” Jesse says. “Shit, man, Cherry’s a grand champion. She’s legit.”
    â€œLucy’s leg won’t ever heal right. She can’t win another fight.”
    â€œFuck it, then we lay money on her to lose. It’s still getting paid.”
    I don’t say anything. My hands are shaking again. I don’t want Jesse to see.
    â€œPalmer?” He looks at me.
    â€œShe can’t go back in the pit,” I tell him. I try to sound calm and steady.
    â€œWhat’s this can’t shit?” Jesse turns his body sideways. It’s an unconscious reaction of a fighting man to a threat. You turn sideways to make your body a smaller target to your enemy. I think about the stories I’ve heard. The things Jesse’s done to men who cross him. Stories with knives in them. Pliers. Heated pieces of metal.
    There is a scratch line in front of me.
    I do not scratch. I do not fight.
    â€œI’m your dogman,” I tell him. “You’re the owner. You make the call. If she lives, Jesse. Big if.”
    His posture goes back to normal. He smiles.
    â€œThat’s the spirit. If she dies, she dies. But if not, patch her up and we match her against Cherry. The gate will be enormous. Anyway, I didn’t get into this to be a breeder, like some bored Grosse Pointe housewife with her goddamn Pekinese. I’m in it for the blood. Win or lose it’s a payday, isn’t it?”
    I say, “Yeah.”
    Cur. Goddamn cur.
    Jesse leaves. I look toward Lucy. Lucy’s ribs rise and fall so gently. If she lives, she will not recover fast enough. She will lose her next match. Lucy is dead game. She will not quit until she is dead. And Jesse won’t pull her out.
    If she pisses, she lives. But then what? She fights. She dies. Dies bad.
    I’m saving her life to kill her in a month.
    Tough little bitch. Proud little warrior.
    I’m sorry I am not as strong as you.
    At the bottom of the tackle box is the final treatment. Vets call it T-61. It’s a fatal mixture of narcotics and paralytics, legally available only to licensed veterinarians. If I inject the T-61 into the IV bag, Lucy never has to wake up again. I take the plastic stopper off of the T-61.
    The IV continues its drip-drip-drip. Lucy stirs. Her legs run in dog dreaming, swaddling up the blanket around her. She snarls. She bites the air. Still fighting in her sleep.
    Still fighting.
    Okay then. We’ll do it her way.
    I