Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [101]
Still gripping Ed's hand, I jerked my head for Omar to come forward and introduce himself.
“How do you do?” Omar said. “I've seen you referee, Mr. Middleton, but I've never had the pleasure of meeting you.”
“Glad to meet you at last then, Mr. Baradinsky. Evidently you've been a settling influence on my boy here. When I heard about the holdup in Chattanooga, I checked right away, and don't think I wasn't surprised when I learned that you two had pulled out before the meet! The old Frank Mansfield I knew would've been right in there, reaching for the ceiling with the rest of 'em.”
Omar laughed. “If there's any influencing going on, Mr. Middleton, it's Frank working on me, not the other way around.”
“Well, come on in,” Ed entered the hail ahead of us. “I'm not the official greeter here, Mr. Baradinsky. I'm only filling in for Mrs. Pierce. She had to go downtown for something or other.” Ed snapped his fingers at a grinning Negro boy of fourteen or fifteen in a white short jacket. “Take the bags out of the station wagon to Number Five upstairs.”
“Yes, sir!” the boy said quickly. He had been eager enough to get our luggage, but the three of us had blocked his way.
While Omar and I signed the guest register, Ed Middleton surprised me again.
“I'm not here as a spectator, Frank,” he explained. “I'm the referee, and don't think I won't be watching every move you make in the pits.” He turned to my partner. “I retired a while back from active cockfighting, Mr. Baradinsky, but I decided later that I was too young to quit.”
Ed laughed, and then he looked at me, staring directly into my eyes. “I promised Martha I'd quit, as you know, Frank”—he shrugged—“but now the promise doesn't mean anything—now that she's passed away. And I know damned well she wouldn't want me sitting around all by myself.”
I nodded sympathetically and smiled. Two full and active days on his feet could very well kill Ed Middleton. And yet, I was still glad to see him and delighted to learn that he was the Number One pit official. Suppose he did keel over dead? That was a much better way to go than eating his guts out with boredom while he stared at a grove of orange trees.
“Say, Frank,” Ed snapped his fingers as we started to go upstairs, “did your partner ever see the senator's flock of fancy chickens?”
“No, I haven't, Mr. Middleton,” Omar said, “although I've heard enough about them.”
“Good! Mrs. Pierce'll be back soon, and I'll take you on the ten-cent guided tour.”
We climbed the stairs to the second floor to where the Negro boy held the door open. I gave him a five-dollar bill, which was plenty, but Omar gave him a five as well. The boy was so astonished by the size of the two gratuities, he returned to our room in less than three minutes with four additional bath towels, a bowlful of ice cubes and a pitcher of orange juice.
Omar glanced critically around the. room and eyed the cut-glass chandelier in the high ceiling. “I'll say this much, Frank,” Omar said, “the rag rug on the floor isn't made of rags, the furniture wasn't made in Grand Rapids, and that calendar on the wall above my bed wasn't placed there by any Baptist.”
I opened my suitcase on my bed and unpacked, putting my extra black button-down shirts and white socks into the high walnut dresser between our beds. Omar pushed open the double French windows and looked out, his hands clasped behind his back.
“There's a good view of the cockpit from here, Frank,” he said. “The dome has turned rose in the afternoon sun. Take a look at it.”
I joined him at the window. A half mile away, the dome was pink on one side, and on the other side, away from the sun, the shadows were a dark purple. The twenty separated concrete cockhouses formed a U on the southern side of the circular pit. The Atlanta architect who had built the cockpit had settled for concrete blocks, but had incorporated many of the features of the Royal Cockpit at Whitehall Palace into the structure.