“Dogfight!” “People want to bet, my friend, and drift trade is always willing to arrange the things they want to bet on—that’s one of the things drift trade is for. Dogs or roosters with steel spurs or maybe even two men with these itty-bitty sharp knives that look almost like spikes, and each of ’em bites the end of a scarf, and the one who drops his end first is the loser. What the Gypsies call ‘a fair one.’ ” Enders was staring at himself in the back bar mirror—at himself and through himself. “It was like the old days, all right,” he said dreamily. “I could smell their meat, the way they
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