Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [2]
Burke had written me a postcard to Homestead, challenging Sandspur to the fight at even money. I had accepted by return mail, glad to get a chance at his Ace cock, Little David. Little David wasn't so little in his reputation. He was an eight-time winner and had had a lot of publicity. When my Sandspur beat Burke's Little David, his value would be doubled, and my chances for taking the Southern Conference championship would be improved.
On the drive from Homestead to Belle Glade, I had thought of the crack-on-the-bill plan, and now I didn't want even money or two to one either. After the bettors looked at the birds before the pitting, I expected to get odds of four to one, at least. I had eight hundred and fifty dollars in my wallet and I didn't want to take Burke's offer, but after accepting an even-money fight by mail, I couldn't legitimately turn down the new odds.
I snapped my fingers out four times, folded in my thumb, and held up four fingers. I nodded twice.
“You mean you've only got a hundred dollars to bet?” Burke said, with a short angry laugh. “1 figured on taking you for at least a thousand!”
I pointed to the coop and lifted a forefinger to show Burke I only had the one cock. He knew very well I had lost four birds at Homestead. By this time, everybody in Florida and half of Georgia knew it.
Jack Burke followed the Cocker's Code of Conduct, and he was honest, but he disliked me. Although my luck had been mostly bad for the last three years, four years before at Biloxi my novice stag, Pinky, had killed his Ace, Pepperpot. He would never be able to forgive or forget that beating. Pinky had won only one fight against five for his cock, and Burke had taken a terrific loss at five-to-one odds. More than the money he had lost, he had resented my winning. A columnist in The Southern Cockfighter had unfairly blamed his conditioning methods for the loss. Actually, Pinky had only made a lucky hit. A man is foolish to fight stags, but I had needed the young bird to fill out my entry for the main—not expecting to clobber Pepperpot.
Burke studied the ground, rubbing his freshly shaven chin. He was in his middle forties, and he wore his pale, yellow hair much too long. He paid considerable attention to his clothes. Even at daybreak he was wearing a blue seersucker suit, white shirt and necktie, and black-and-white shoes. Two-toned shoes indicate an ambivalent personality, a man who can't make up his mind.
“Okay, Mr. Mansfield,” Burke said at last, slapping his leg. “I'll take your hundred dollars and give you a two-to-one. I know damned well Sandspur can't beat Little David, but your cock always has a chance of getting in a lucky hit... the way Pinky did in Biloxi, for instance. So let's say you really get lucky—what do you have? Two hundred dollars. To give you a fighting chance to get on your feet again after Homestead, I'll put up eight hundred bucks against your car and trailer. Even money.”
I chewed my lower lip, but the bet was fair. My battered Caddy was worth at least eight hundred, but I didn't know what the trailer was worth. Secondhand trailers bring in peculiar prices, and mine was fairly small, with only one bedroom and one door. If I unloaded the car and trailer through a newspaper advertisement, I could've probably sold them both together for at least a thousand. Burke wanted to beat me so bad he could taste it. And if Little David won, I'd be out on the highway with my thumb out.
I stuck out my right hand and Burke grabbed it eagerly. The bet was made.
“Too bad you haven't got anything else to lose,” Burke laughed gleefully. “I'd like to make another bet that you just made a bad bet!”
My lips curved into a broad smile as I thought of Dody sleeping peacefully inside the trailer. In the unlikely event that Burke's cock did win the fight, he would also be stuck with Dody. When I pictured Burke in my mind stopping at every gas station on the road