Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [58]
Very truly yours,
BRANTLEY POWELL
BP/bj Attorney-at-Law
I didn't mind the moralizing of the windy old man, because he didn't know what I planned to use the money for, but I was irritated because he had dictated the letter to his big-mouthed old maid secretary, Miss Birdie Janes. The small initials, “bj” in the lower left-hand corner of the letter, meant that my business would be spread all over the county by now. I realized that it was a long letter, and I appreciated the details, but the old man should have written the letter personally. When I returned to Mansfield, eventually, sides would be taken—some for Randall and some for me, but the majority would take Randall's side, even though I was legally and morally right about taking what rightfully belonged to me.
The letter from Jake Mellhorn was more pressing:
Dear Frank,
Glad to see you're getting sense enough to know that the Mellhorn Black is the best gamecock in the world, bar none!!! And you're lucky you wired me just when you did. I just brought in twenty-two cocks, but if you only want a dozen country-walked roosters, you can have the best of the lot, which is plenty damned good!!! I can ship you six Aces, two to three years old. The other six are brothers, five months past staghood, but all are guaranteed dead game, and they'll cut for you or your money back. As you know, I ship them wormed, in wooden coops, but they'll need watering upon arrival. Don't trust the damned express company to water birds en route—they'll steal the cracked corn out of the coops and make popcorn out of it. As a special price—TO YOU ONLY!!! One dozen Mellhorn Blacks for only seven hundred dollars. That's much less than seventy-five apiece. Let me know by return wire, because I can sell them anywhere for one hundred to one hundred and twenty-five dollars each.
For a good season,
JAKE MELLHORN
An outlay of seven hundred dollars, although it was an exceptionally fair price for Ace Mellhorns, would make a deep dent in my one thousand, five hundred dollars, but I had little choice. I had to have them, or others just as good. Another five hundred to Ed Middleton, seventy-five dollars for the truck, and I'd be down to only two hundred and twenty-five. Luckily, I had feed at Ocala left over from last year, and the older Flint corn is, the better it is for feeding. And within two weeks I could win some money at the Ocala cockpit. At least two, or possibly three, birds could be conditioned for battle by that time.
After packing and checking out of the hotel, I cashed the check at the bank. I wired seven hundred dollars to Jake Mellhorn immediately with instructions to ship the cocks to my farm. I mailed the signed papers back to Judge Powell special delivery, and headed for the used car lot to buy the staked-out pickup truck.
Within two hours, I was driving out of Jacksonville. The cocker's supplies from Doc Riordan were in the truck bed, along with my suitcase and gaff case, covered by a tarp. The remainder of my money, in tens and twenties, was pinned inside my jacket pocket with a safety pin.
As I turned onto Highway 17 I thought suddenly of Bernice Hungerford. She had been in my thoughts several times during the last three days, especially late at night when I had been trying to sleep, with hunger pangs burning my stomach. In fact, I had considered seriously going out to her house and chiseling a free meal. But I had felt too guilty to go. Leaving a broken guitar on her front porch hadn't been a brilliant idea.
There was a filling station ahead, and I pulled onto the ramp and pointed to the regular pump.
“How many, sir?”
I pulled a finger across my throat.
“Filler up? Yes, sir.”
While I was still looking at the large city map inside the station, the attendant interrupted me to ask if everything was all right under the hood. The question was so stupid I must have looked surprised, because he blushed with embarrassment and checked beneath the hood without waiting for a reply. How else can a man discover