Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [13]
“Frank,” Ed Middleton said at last, lowering his voice to conspiratorial tones, “today's pitting at Belle Glade was my last appearance at a cockpit. Surprises you, doesn't it?”
It did indeed. I reached up and twisted the rear-view mirror into position so Ed could look at my face without taking his eyes off the highway too much. I looked seriously into the mirror and widened my eyes slightly.
“Nobody can keep a secret long in this business, Frank, but I've kept my plans to myself to avoid the usual arguments. I've argued the pros and cons of cockfighting thousands of times, and you know I've always been on the pro side. If there's a better way of life than raising and fighting game chickens, I haven't found it yet,” he said grimly. “But I'm a married man, Frank, and you aren't. That's the difference. I'm happily married, and I have been for more than thirty years, but I can still envy a man like you. There aren't a dozen men in the United States who've devoted their lives solely to cockfighting like you have, that is, without earning their living in some other line of business.
“I suppose I've known you for ten years or more and, as a single man, you've got the best life in the world. You've earned the admiration and respect of all of us, Frank.”
I was embarrassed by the praise.
“That was a clever trick you pulled this afternoon, Frank!”
I started with surprise, and Mr. Middleton guffawed loudly.
“I haven't seen anyone pull that stunt with the cracked bill to raise the odds in about fifteen years. Don't blame yourself for losing the fight. Write it off to bad luck, or face up that Jack Burke had the better chicken. But that isn't what I wanted to talk about.
“Martha has been after me to quit for years, and I finally gave in. I'm not too old, but I certainly don't need the money. I've got enough orange trees in Orlando to take care of my wants for three lifetimes. If Martha shared my enthusiasm for the game, it would be different. But she won't go on the road with me. This business of living alone in motel rooms doesn't appeal to me anymore. The two months I spent refereeing in Clovis, New Mexico, last spring were the loneliest weeks of my entire life.
“Anyway, I've sold all my Grays. Made a deal for the lot with a breeder in Janitzio, Mexico, and shipped out the last crate of April trios last week. If he fights my Grays as slashers, he'll lose his damned camisa, but at any rate, they won't be fighting in the States.
“If you wonder why I refereed today's fight, it was because I promised Captain Mack a year ago. But that was my last appearance in the pit, and you won't see me in the pits again, either as a referee or spectator.” Ed sighed deeply, his confession completed. “Like the lawyer feller says, Frank, 'Further deponent sayeth not.”
Several dissuading arguments came immediately to my mind, but I remained silent, of course. As far as I was concerned, what Ed Middleton did was his business, not mine, but his loss to the game would be felt in the South. We needed men like him to keep the sport clean and honest. But I didn't say anything because of my self-imposed vow of silence.
Up to this moment I've never told anyone why I made the vow. What I do is my business, but the silver medal on Ed Middleton's watch fob held the answer. Money had nothing to do with my decision to keep my mouth shut.
All of us in America want money because we need it and cannot live without it, but we don't need as much money as most of us think we do. Money isn't enough. We must have something more, and my something more was the Cockfighter of the