Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [55]
Doc Riordan was sitting at the fountain counter, wearing a short white jacket, when I entered the drugstore. I eased onto the stool beside him and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hello, Frank,” he said, smiling. In the cramped space, we shook hands awkwardly without getting up. “Mr. Foster said there was a big man with a cowboy hat looking for me. Inasmuch as I don't know any bill collectors who don't talk, I figgered it was you.”
I handed Doc the envelope. He studied the list, and whistled softly through closed teeth. “That's a mighty big order on short notice, Frank,” he said, frowning. “I don't have any conditioning powder made up, and there's been so much flu going around Jax lately, I've got sixty-three prescriptions to fill before I can do anything else.” He tapped the list with a forefinger. “Can you let me have a couple of days?”
I had to smile. At that stage I could have let him have a couple of months. I clapped him on the shoulder and nodded understandingly.
“Good. Come in day after tomorrow and it'll be waiting for you. All of it.” He smiled. “Kinda looks like you've got your chickens for the season, and I hope you'll have a good one. Anytime you need something fast, just drop me a card here at Foster's. I know damned well I'll make the Milledgeville Tourney, but that'll be the only one this year. I've got too many feelers out on Licarbo to go to chicken fights. But then, I might get a chance to run down to Plant City—”
He had work to do, so I slid off the stool and left abruptly while he was still talking.
For the rest of the afternoon I prowled used car lots as a tire-kicker, trying to locate a pickup truck of some kind that would hold together for four or five months. Around four o'clock I discovered an eight-year-old Ford half-ton pickup that looked suitable, and the salesman rode around the block with me when I tried it out. All afternoon my silence had unnerved talkative used car salesmen. After five minutes of my kind of silence, they usually gave up on their sales talks and let me look around in peace. This fellow was more persistent. After reparking the truck in its place on the fourth row of the lot, I looked at the salesman inquisitively.
“This is a real buy for one fifty,” he said sincerely. He was a young man in his early twenties, with a freckled earnest face. His flattop haircut, and wet-look black leather sports jacket, reminded me of a Marine captain wearing civilian clothes for the first time. For all I knew, he was an ex-Marine.
I looked steadily into his face and he blushed.
“But old pickups don't sell so well these days. Too many rich farmers buying new ones. So I'll let you have it for a hundred-dollar bill.”
I studied him for a moment, maintaining my expressionless face, and then got out of the cab of the truck. I started toward the looping chain fence that bordered the sidewalk, and he caught up with me before I reached the first line of cars. He put a freckled hand on my arm, but when I dropped my eyes to his hand, he jerked it away as though my sleeve were on fire.
“I'll tell you what I'll do, sir,” he said quickly. “Just to move the old Ford and get it off the lot, I'll give up my commission. You can have the truck for eighty-five bucks. Give me ten dollars down, and drive it away. Here're the keys.” He held out the keys, but I didn't look at them. I kept my eyes on his face.
“All right,” he said nervously. “Seventy-five, and that's rock bottom.”
I nodded. A fair price. More than fair. The truck had had hard use, and most of the paint had been chipped off in preparation for a