Lucy and Gabe's supervisor Lieutenant Heckman had turned their information over to her superior, Captain Burch. The dogfights, while generating tens of thousands of dollars on their own, were a mere front. El Gallo and his Los Locos were running guns. "El Gallo," always managed to ensconce the events with aggravating efficiency.ĭistressingly the CI, Xochitl Magaña, had given Lucy and Gabe much more than they'd hoped for. These East Los Locos had been brokering dogfights for years, but their slippery leader Memo Morales, a.k.a. When the confidential informant had approached Lucy and Gabe about dogfighting behind her cantina, it had been just the break they'd been looking for. Tonight's raid was another point of contention with their ACTF lieutenant. Both she and Gabe had risked both badge and incarceration many times, as they rescued dogs from backyard dogfighting with or without departmental approval.
Her partner for five years, Gabe was as fierce an animal rights protector as Lucy had ever met. Officer Gabe Torres of the LAPD Animal Cruelty Task Force quietly crouched down next to Lucy, indicating with a nod that he too had spotted "El Gallo." Teeth clenched, Lucy drew her sidearm and looked back down the alley. An ugly curse cut through the tumult as a man in a formfitting white T-shirt and dark designer jeans parted the crowd. "Bitch won't fight no more, jefe." The young man with the cap delivered a kick to the blue nose pit's side. She could make out the distant roar of jet engines. The lights of an airplane outshone the sliver of the waning crescent moon. Lucy breathed in slowly and directed her gaze from the hurt dog to the few stars blinking in the murky L.A. Why'd I chance it with the cabeza quesadilla on top of those goat tacos? Eddie, the owner, always included extra mango guacamole with Lucy's order. Cabra Blanca, their favorite late night food truck, had been parked close to the raid at Montana and Alvarado. The dollar tacos she and her partner Gabe had devoured on their way to Echo Park threatened a hasty exit.
"Whoa, Puta." A young man with a baseball cap turned backwards yanked the dog's collar hard, causing the pit to drop to the ground as if taking cover.įrom her hiding place, Lucy could see deep scratches on the pit bull's face, bite wounds bleeding on the shoulder and old burn marks seared into the fur. Clearly dead tired and hurt, the blue nose pit bull started toward the line of cages against the opposite fence. The mastiff's handler fussed at the dog's mouth, unfanging the dog's lip from its teeth. "Handle your dog, güey!" a paunchy man yelled from just outside the ring.Īccompanied by loud taunts, men from each side of the pit dragged their dogs back to the scratch lines. Through the wall of men, Lucy caught a glimpse of a blue nose pit bull turning away from its opponent, a muscular pit mastiff mix. Strewn around, discarded like trash, lay lumps of fur and flesh Lucy didn't have the stomach to focus on. Through holes in the camouflage canvas stretched over the parking lot's chain-link fence, Lucy counted thirty East Los Locos gangbangers crowding around a shallow dogfight pit. Vicious barking and short, pained shrieks lacerated the seedy revelry. Coarse Spanglish curses pierced the night, accompanied by loud cheers and snatches of Tijuana narco-pop. Lucy Lowell tucked into the shadows behind the white cinder block wall of Xochitl's Cantina and listened.
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