Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [105]
“Unfortunately,” Doc sighed, “I have to handle it myself. That's been my main trouble. But I'm a registered pharmacist, and most of the drugstores in Jax have allowed me to put my posters in their windows.”
“I think you've got a good idea here in Licarbo,” Omar said sincerely. “After the tourney I won't have too much to do until April, and maybe you and I can get together on this product. I used to be in advertising in New York. Perhaps Frank told you?”
“No, he didn't.” Doc looked at me reproachfully. “I didn't know Frank had himself a partner until I read the account of the Plant City Main between you-all and Jack Burke. Now, that was a main I wish I'd seen! That reminds me, Frank—” Doc took a small bottle of black-and-gray capsules out of his pocket and placed it on the workbench. “These are energy capsules. I made 'em up for Mr. Burke from a formula he gave me, and they should be good. They take about an hour for the best results, but when I made 'em up for Mr. Burke's chickens, I said to myself: 'While I'm at it, I'll just make up a batch for Frank Mansfield:
“We appreciate it, Doctor,” Omar said—and then to me, “The restaurant should be open by now. Let's get some breakfast.”
Shaking my head, I opened my gaff case on the workbench and started to polish gaffs with my conical grinding stone.
“I'll have some coffee with you, Mr. Baradinsky,” Doc offered.
“Fine. I'd like to find out more about Licarbo.”
“Right now,” Doc said, “advertising isn't quite as important as raising a little capital. However, I'd appreciate any advice you'd—”
“I'll bring you some coffee, Frank,” Omar said over his shoulder. “Capital, Doctor, is simply a matter of devious stratagems worked out through a mathematical process known as pressure patterns peculiar to pecuniary people.”
As soon as they were out of earshot I opened the small bottle of energy capsules Doc had given me, dumped them on the floor, and crushed them into powder with my heel. The capsules might have been wonderful, but I wouldn't take any chances with them. Jack Burke knew that Doc Riordan was a friend of mine, and that fact alone was enough to make me distrust the medicine. Perhaps Jack didn't have enough brains to plan anything so devious, but I wouldn't have used a strange product on my chickens whether Burke's name had been mentioned or not. A major tournament is not the place for experimentation.
As the parking lot filled slowly, I leaned against the locked door of our cockhouse and watched the arriving cars as they pulled in and parked under the directions of the attendants. By nine a.m., when the time came for Omar and me to go over to the pit for the opening of the tourney, there was still no sign of either Bernice or Mary Elizabeth.
Tension was building up inside me, as it always does just before a meet, and I was happy when Peach Owen disengaged the mike, and handed it to Senator Foxhall. Peach played out the extra cord behind the senator as the old man marched stiffly to the center of the pit. The senator waited for silence, which didn't take very long. This early in the morning, there were only about two hundred spectators, but by two in the afternoon, the place would be jammed.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Senator Foxhall said in his high reedy voice, “welcome to the Southern Conference Tourney! We sincerely hope that all of you will have a good time. There is only one rule that you must observe during the meet.” He paused. “Conduct yourselves like ladies and gentlemen.”
(Applause.)
“Before the tourney is over,” he said wryly, licking his thin lips, “some of you may desire to place a small wager or two—”
(Laughter.)
“If you do, make certain you know the man you're betting with—there may be Internal Revenue agents in the crowd!”
(Laughter.)
The old man turned the hand microphone over to Peach Owen and returned to his chair beside the judge's box. For the remainder of the tourney he would sit there quietly, watching everything that went on with his deep-set,