Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [102]
The square squat ugly restaurant, with a white asbestos tile roof, had been added ten years after the cockpit had been finished and was connected to the pit by a screened-in breezeway. The restaurant was entirely out of keeping with the general design, and I had always thought it a pity that it hadn't been built in the first place by the original architect.
The interior of the two-story pit held circular tiers rising steeply to the rim of the dome, and seated four hundred people. The judge's box was to the right of the connecting hall to the drag pit, and the press box was directly above this exit. Including the new doorway that had been cut through the wall leading to the restaurant, there were five arched doorways to the pit.
I finished my unpacking, and slipped on my jacket again in preparation to go out. Omar turned away from the windows, and poured a glass of orange juice.
“I want to tell you something, Frank.” The husky tone of his voice stopped me before I reached the door. “Whether we win the tourney or not, I want you to know that I'll always be grateful to you for getting me this far. This is truly the greatest experience of my life.”
He said this so warmly that I hit him fondly on the arm with my fist. I was tempted to tell my partner about my vow of silence, but this wasn't the time to tell him. If he knew that my voice was riding on the prospect of being awarded the Cockfighter of the Year award, he would have gotten more nervous about the outcome than he was already.
“Well,” he said cheerfully, clearing his throat, “isn't it about time to take a look at those fancy chickens?”
I wagged my chin and pointed to his chest. I couldn't go with him, but I knew he would enjoy seeing them. Senator Foxhall had one of the finest collections of fancy game fowl in the world. He had turned fancier, after getting too old to fight chickens in the pit. He raised purebred Gallus Bankivas, the original wild jungle fowl from which all game fowl are descended, Javanese cocks, with tails ten feet long, miniature bantams from Japan—beautiful little creatures not much larger than quail—and many other exotic breeds. If Mary Elizabeth came to the meet, I intended to show them to her. But I couldn't go with Ed and Omar right then. I had to drive into Milledgeville.
I had wired the Sealbach Hotel and reserved four rooms, but with the crowd of visitors expected the next day I knew the manager wouldn't hold them for me unless I paid for them in advance. I wrote a short note for Omar, telling him where I was going and why.
“if you want me to, I'll go with you.”
I shook my head.
“Okay. But rest easy about your guests, Frank. I'll see that they're well taken care of, don't worry. Didn't I ever tell you that I was once a vice-president in charge of public relations?”
I waved a hand in his direction, and drove into town.
By seven thirty that evening all the official entries had signed in, and the great downstairs hall was crowded as we waited for Senator Foxhall to come downstairs to lead the way into the dining room. On time, the old man came down the wide stairs, clutching his housekeeper's arm tightly for support. A slight, spare man, not much taller than a fifteen-year-old boy, he still managed to hold himself rigidly erect. In his old-fashioned, broad-lapeled dinner jacket and white piqué vest, he had an almost regal appearance. His pale blue eyes, deeply recessed now in his old age, were still alert and friendly behind his gold-rimmed glasses as he passed through the crowd. Somehow, he had preserved his hair, and his ivory mane was combed straight back from his high forehead in a well-groomed pompadour.
Ed Middleton, my partner and I were standing together. When the senator reached us, Ed introduced the old man to Omar.
“Oh, yes. Baradinsky? You're a Russian, aren't you?”
“No, sir,” Omar replied. “Polish.”
“You look