Free Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 02 - Death in the Dark by Emily Kimelman

factory-applied blue still peeked through his paint job, God had blacked out the heavens without a patch of light in sight. The pavement under the wheels crunched with sand from the desert that surrounded the city. Out of the darkness rose a fairground, almost a mirage in that thick blackness.
    “It comes at this time every year,” Malina said. The Ferris wheel’s bright lights seemed suffocated by the dense night. Strung bulbs looped between shacks that offered games of chance. I paid the cabby and climbed out. A man stumbled past me, tripping on his own feet and spilled some beer out of the plastic cup he gripped. “Pardon,” he said, and then carried on toward a large tent at the rear of the fair. It’s red and green stripes gave it away as our destination.
    Children ran past in small groups, chasing each other, their laughter leaving a trail behind them. Malina glided through the crowd gathering the appreciative glances of every man we passed. The women on their arms scowled at her. I remained invisible. At the entrance to the tent, Malina flashed a smile to the man working the door and he pulled back the flap grinning widely.
    The tent was packed with men drinking, smoking, and yelling. They all faced the center of the space where bright lights illuminated a ring painted half red and half green. In the center of the ring a man stood with a rooster held above his head. The crowd pressed toward him. I reached out for Malina’s hand afraid that I would lose her in the squeeze. She laced her fingers with mine and pulled me through the crowd swiveling her head as she went. Men felt her touch and turned back with scowls until they saw whose touch it was. Once they’d had a second to take her in, they stepped aside allowing us to pass by without a word, some even took their hats off and nodded at her.
    Closer to the ring were benches where fat men sat passing bills between each other. Cigars hung from their lips and pesos popped from between their fingers. The smell of money was thick in the air. We stood at the edge of the benches watching. A fat fuck with greasy skin and thinning jet black hair stood in the center of the ring holding a rooster. He took the bird over to another man who appeared to be a judge of some kind. Short and sober-looking, he was tying something to the rooster’s legs. Malina leaned into me. “He is attaching the spurs.”
    “Spurs?”
    “They are sharp knives. And now you see-” The little man picked up a lime and squeezed it onto the spur. “He does this to get rid of any poisons that the owner might have applied. They fight to the death so it is very important that the fight is fair.”
    A second man stepped into the ring, a white rooster struggling in his grip. The first cock, armed and ready was handed back to its owner. The second man was handsome in a slimy kind of way. His broad shoulders drove sharp lines into the world around him. There was nothing wasted in his face, a roman nose and deep brown eyes placed above just the right amount of cheekbone. His shirt was buttoned-down and freshly pressed, his pants fitted, but not obscene. “That is Frito,” Malina told me. “He comes to where I work often. His looks are considered very fine.”
    “How are his cocks?” I asked.
    Malina laughed.
    After taking his bird to the referee who attached the spurs and sprayed the lime juice, Frito, cock in hand, faced the other owner. They pushed the birds at each other, who squawked and clawed at the air. The crowd leaned forward and there was a final rush to place bets. “Benito is there,” Malina said, tilting her head to our left. “Next to him is Adolfo, the young man. And his children too.” I scanned the crowded benches until I saw a big man with a paunch sitting next to a stone-faced youth his junior not only in years but in girth. Two boys on the cusp of puberty sat next to Benito, their faces lit up with excitement. Benito rested his arm on the closer boys shoulder and smiled down