Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [23]
I nodded, accepted the bill and buttoned it into my shirt pocket. That made five hundred and twenty dollars I owed him, but I was grateful for the loan.
We shook hands rather formally, and Ed plucked at his white chin with his puffy fingers. “Now don't worry about Icarus, Frank,” he said with an attempt at levity. “I'll take good care of him whether you come back for him or not.” His eyes were worried just the same.
I held up two spread fingers in the “V” sign. It was a meaningless gesture in this instance, but Ed smiled, thinking I meant it for him. I remained at the curb and waved to him as he drove away.
I picked a folder out of the rack, circled Jacksonville on the timetable with my ballpoint pencil, shoved the folder and my twenty under the wicket, and paid for my ticket. After slipping the ticket into my hatband, I gathered my baggage around me and sat down on a bench to wait for the bus.
I thought about Icky. In reality, five hundred dollars wasn't even enough money to get started. I needed a bare minimum of one thousand, five hundred dollars to have at least a thousand left over after paying for the cock. Two thousand was more like it.
Somehow, I had to get my hands on this money.
5
I didn't arrive in Jacksonville until a little after three that afternoon. Instead of waiting for an express, I had taken the first bus that left Orlando, and it turned out to be the kind that stops at every filling station, general store and cow pasture along the way. A long, dull ride.
After getting my baggage out of the side of the bus from the driver I left the station and walked three blocks to the Jeff Davis Hotel, where I always stayed when I was in Jax. On the way to the hotel I stopped at a package store and bought a pint of gin.
Perhaps the Jeff Davis isn't the most desirable hotel in Jax, but it is downtown, handy to everything, the people know me there, and crowded or not I can always get a room. The manager follows cockfighting, advertises in the game-fowl magazines, and there is usually someone hanging around the lobby who knows me. The daily rate is attractive, as well—only three dollars a day for cockers, instead of the regular rate of five.
As soon as I checked in at the desk and got to my room, I opened my suitcase and dug out my corduroy coat. In September, Jacksonville turns chilly in the afternoons, and the temperature drops below seventy. Not that it gets cold, but the weather doesn't compare favorably with southern Florida. The long pull of gin I took before going out on the street again felt warm in my stomach.
I walked briskly through the streets to the post office, entered, and twirled the combination dial on my post-office box. It didn't open, but I could see that there was mail inside the box through the dirty brown glass window. I searched through my wallet, found my box receipt for the rental, and shoved it through the window to the clerk. He studied the slip for a moment, and called my attention to the date.
“You're almost ten days overdue on your quarterly box payment, Mr. Mansfield,” he said. “Your box was closed out and rented to somebody else. I'm sorry, but there's a big demand for boxes these days and I don't have any more open at present. If you want me to, I'll put your name on the waiting list.”
I shook my head, pointed to the rack of mail behind him. This puzzled him for a moment, and then he said: “Oh, you mean your mail?”
I nodded impatiently, drumming my fingers on the marble ledge.
“If you have any, it'll be at the general-delivery window.”
I picked up my receipt and gave it to the woman at the general-delivery window. She handed me two letters and my current Southern Cockfighter magazine. I shoved the letters and magazine into my coat pocket and filled in change-of-address cards to transfer the magazine and post-office-box letters to my Ocala address. After mailing one card to the magazine and turning in the other to the woman at the window I returned to my hotel room.
The first letter I opened was from a pit operator in Tallahassee inviting me to enter