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Two men, probably. Maybe one of them a big nigger. Philo Skinner had always feared black men. Maybe the other, some sleazy little kike friend of Arnold’s. He would try to run but they’d corner him in the kennel. The dogs would bark wildly at the implacable strangers. They’d find Philo’s grooming shears. The spook would want to castrate the honkie. The Jew would decide they should leave him in condition to sell and borrow and come up with the coin. The Jew would smile and say: “Let’s circumcise this schmuck.” Or maybe …
    But it was enough. His side of the bed was soaked. He’d have to get up in a minute and change pajamas. His teeth and jaws ached from gnashing and clenching. This kind of sweat wasn’t work sweat. It smelled entirely different. Now he had the impetus to do what he wanted to do. Philo Skinner learned what so many lawbreakers learn, and often admit, but not to judge and jury. It was a goddamn thrill. He was high! Philo Skinner drank moderately and despised the effect of drugs. He smoked grass and hash only to impress any young women he met in bars. Now, listening to the rain in the night, he was flying.
    Fifty-two years of obeying every goddamn law on the books whether it made sense or not. Just this once he’d do it. And it wouldn’t hurt anybody. Not very much, anyway. And not for very long. He’d never felt so alive.
    Before he changed his sweaty pajamas, Philo Skinner lit his seventy-fourth cigarette of a very long day. He lay in the darkness, smiling. He was betting seven thousand dollars on the Minnesota Vikings. And they were going to lose. And then he would have to do it. And he would be rich. And free! He knew a former handler who had become a Mexican national and was doing all right as a partner in a Mexican hotel. Puerto Vallarta. Margaritas at sunset. White teeth. Brown bodies. All willing. Seventy thousand tax-free American dollars. Good-bye, Mavis. Good-bye to all the dogs.
    He thought of the feisty Minnesota quarterback. Fran Tarkenton, I hope they break your fucking arm.

4
    The Rabbit
    Valnikov slept in the yellow rubber raincoat. He slept crossways on the daybed, one shoe on, one shoe off. He slept on his back, head tilted, face florid. His eyes were almost stuck shut from sour vomitus belches.
    Valnikov snored and wheezed, and as usual, dreamed of the rabbit. He cried out in his sleep and awoke when the hunter cut the rabbit’s throat, broke the rabbit’s jaws, and began peeling the skin back over the rabbit’s face. The tearing muscle hissed and jawbones crackled in the powerful hands.
    â€œLord God!” he sobbed and awoke himself.
    It was hard to tell where he hurt most. His head felt like a huge festering sponge. His back felt hinged. If he tried to straighten, the crusted rusty hinges would scream.
    He almost screamed when he stood. Now at least he knew what hurt most: the festering sponge. His head was mushy. Lord God, have mercy. He fell back on the bed, moaning. Then Misha said, “ Gavno. ”
    â€œPlease, Misha,” Valnikov pleaded. “Oh, my head!”
    But Misha repeated, “ Gavno, gavno, gavno. ”
    Misha only knew one Russian word and it meant shit. In fact, it was the only human word he could say.
    Valnikov glared with one blazing eye and saw that Misha was standing on Grisha’s head. Misha twittered and chirped and sang for his master, who held his ears and cried: “Please, Misha, please. Noise hurts. ”
    But Misha just tossed his lovely emerald head, preened, and said: “ Gavno. ”
    Shit.
    Then Valnikov became aware that he was soaked by the perspiration from the oppressive rubber raincoat, and by the dream of the rabbit, which always brought night sweats.
    Misha yelled: “ Gavno! ” like a challenge and through the agonizing mist of the vodka hangover Valnikov was amazed to see that Misha had just crapped on Grisha’s head. As though he truly