Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [104]
No. 4. Jack Burke. Dody sat beside her husband, and I sat next to her—one of Mrs. Pierce's ideas. Dody spoke to me once, and only once, during dinner.
“Jack told me to apologize for kicking you at Plant City,” she whispered.
I waited politely for her to continue, but that was all she said.
Jack Burke also spoke to me during dinner, leaning forward in his chair and twisting his head in my direction.
“Let's make it an even thousand bet between Little David and your chicken, Frank. I've okayed it with Ed and Peach to have the hack immediately after the last tourney fight while the judges tote up the final scores. All right?”
When I nodded in agreement, he sat back in his chair.
No. 5. The English-Polish team of Mansfield and Baradinsky.
No. 6. Roy Whipple and his son, Roy, Jr. Mr. Whipple was the old cockfighter who had shared the velvet love seat with me in the bridal suite of the Southerner Hotel in Chattanooga. He had lost a bundle in the holdup, but it hadn't dented his bankroll. The old man owned three Asheville, North Carolina, resort hotels. Roy, Jr., was a senior at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, and had obtained special permission from the dean of men to assist his father at the meet.
No. 7. Baldy Allen, of Columbus, Georgia, was the owner of several liquor stores. Breeding and fighting milk-white Doms was not only a sideline for Baldy, it was a profitable enterprise. His gregarious wife, Jean Ellen, who did his betting for him, accompanied Baldy everywhere.
No. 8. Johnny Norris, Birmingham, Alabama. Johnny was famous as a conditioner of game fowl, but I didn't consider him a first-rate handler. For fifteen years he had conditioned cocks for the late Ironclaw Burnstead. When Mr. Burnstead died, he left Johnny three hundred thousand in cash and his entire flock of game fowl. In the past three years, Johnny had gained a reputation as an all-around cocker, and this was his first entry in the S.C. Tourney.
During dinner, I listened attentively to the conversation. All I heard was “chicken talk.” The only subject that any of us had in common was cockfighting, and the love of cockfighting was the distinguishing feature of every entry. Every man present had the game fowl, the knowledge, the ability and the determination to win the tourney, but only one of us could win.
I intended to be that one. 16
Out of long habit more than anything else, I drank a quick cup of coffee in the dining room the next morning and was in the cockhouse by five thirty. Gamecocks cooped for long periods in a small two-by-two stall have a tendency to get sleepy and bored. Too much lassitude makes a cock sluggish when pitted. To wake them up, I took each cock out of its coop and washed its head with a damp sponge dipped in cheap whiskey. By the time I finished the sponging at seven thirty, our gamecocks were skipping up and down inside their stalls with rejuvenated animation and crowing and clucking with happiness.
Omar joined me at eight, and a few minutes later Doc Riordan showed up at the cockhouse to wish me luck in the tourney. The pharmacist and my partner hit it off well together from the moment they met.
“I never miss the Southern Conference Tourney,” Doc told Omar, “but all season long I've been chained to my desk. I'm the president of the Dixie Pharmaceutical Company, as Frank may have told you, and this year our firm is launching a new product.” He reached into his coat pocket and handed Omar a small white packet. “Licarbo!” he said proudly. “Advertising is our biggest headache, although the raising of capital isn't the simple matter it used to be:,
“Who handles your advertising?” Omar