Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [107]
Omar and I left the pit together, planning to eat at the senator's house rather than wait for service in the crowded restaurant. As we left by the side entrance, a parking attendant came running over and caught up with us.
“Mr. Mansfield, there's a lady down in the lot who asked me to find you.”
“Shall I go with you, Frank?” Omar said.
I nodded, and we followed the attendant into the parking lot.
It was Bernice Hungerford. As we approached her car, she got out, slammed the door and waited. Bernice looked much prettier than I remembered. Either she wore a tight girdle, or she had lost fifteen pounds. A perky, wheatstraw, off-the-face hat was perched atop a brand new permanent, and her dark hair gleamed with some kind of spray. She wore a mustard-colored tweed suit, softened at the throat by a lemon-yellow silk scarf. The air was chilly, but it wasn't cold enough for the full-length sheared beaver coat she held draped over her left arm.
When I accepted her white-gloved extended right hand, I noticed that it was trembling.
“I had to send for you, Frank,” she apologized, lifting her face to be kissed. I brushed her lips with mine, and she stepped back a pace, blushing like a girl. “I've been here for more than an hour,” she said with a shy laugh. “But when I went up to the entrance and saw all those men standing around—and no women—I was afraid to go inside!”
“You'll find a lot of ladies here, once you get inside, Miss—?”
“Mrs. Hungerford,” Bernice said self-consciously.
“Mrs. Hungerford,” Omar said, “I'm Frank's partner, Omar Baradinsky. And I'm glad the boy caught us in time. We were just leaving for lunch, and now you can join us.”
“I feel better already.” Bernice smiled. “I started not to come, Frank.” She took my arm, and Omar relieved her of her heavy coat. “Tommy couldn't get away, and I dreaded coming by myself, but now... Mr. Baradinsky,” she turned impulsively to Omar on her left. “Is there such a thing as a powder room around here?”
Omar laughed. “If you can hold out for about five hundred more yards, Mrs. Hungerford, you'll be made comfortable at the house.”
“Thank you. How do I look, Frank? How does a lady dress for a cockfight?”
“A woman as beautiful as you,” Omar said, “could wear sackcloth and still look like a queen.”
“Now I do feel better!” Bernice laughed gaily. “What does one do at a cockfight?”
“At first, I'd advise you to merely watch. But if you decide to place a wager, let me know. Frank and I will be busy, but one of us will look after you when we're free.”
Thanks to my partner, the luncheon was a success. He was gracious and paternal toward Bernice, without being patronizing, and before we returned to the pit, she was no longer ill at ease or prattling with nervousness. When the fighting began, I rarely sat with her. Most of Omar's time was taken up with the placing of bets, payoffs and collections, but he joined her as often as he could.
There was another one-hour break at seven, and then the fights were to continue until midnight. According to the schedule—if everything went according to plan—the tourney would be completed by three p.m. the following afternoon. After the prizes and purses were awarded, the senator always held a free barbecue for everybody on the parklike lawn between his house and the cockpit.
We ate dinner, all three of us, in the restaurant. After dinner, Bernice begged off as a spectator from the evening fights. She was tired and bored from watching them. Without a basic understanding or knowledge of what to look for, Bernice's boredom was not unreasonable. Women rarely find cockfighting as exciting as men do.
Although I missed her friendly white-gloved wave and cheery cry of “Good luck” each time I entered the pit, I wasn't sorry to send her to the hotel in town. She promised to meet us at noon the following day, and I was relieved that I didn't have to entertain her until then.
The night