Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [67]
“I couldn't treat a gamecock like that, Frank,” Omar said, without looking at me, keeping his eyes on his open hands. “Sure, I know. A chicken is supposed to be an insensitive animal and all that crap. But I couldn't do it! I could no more set a cock on fire than I could—” His mind searched for something he could no more than do, and then he shrugged his heavy shoulders and took another shot of gin.
I took another short one myself.
“Was he game, Frank? It was too much for me. I couldn't stick around to see.”
I nodded glumly and lit a cigarette.
“Unbelievable, isn't it! Burning like a damned torch and still trying to fight! A man couldn't take that kind of punishment and still fight. Not a man in this world could do it.”
I stubbed out the cigarette. It tasted like scorched feathers, despite the menthol and filter tip.
“Well, Frank,” Omar said pensively, “there're a lot of things I don't like about cockfighting, but a cocker's got to take the bad with the good.”
I nodded in agreement and pushed the bottle toward him.
Omar studied my face and, ignoring the bottle, leaned forward.
“You and I need each other, Frank,” he said suddenly. “Why don't we form a partnership for the season?”
For some reason his suggestion startled me, and I shook my head automatically.
“Don't decide so hastily,” he continued earnestly, leaning over the table. “I've picked up twenty cocks already, and I've still got better birds to pick up on walks in Alabama. Between the two of us, if you conditioned and handled, and I took charge of the business end, we could have one hell of a season. I know how tough it's been since you lost your voice. I still remember how you used to holler and argue and knock down the odds before the fights. What do you say, Frank?”
I was tempted. Two of my cocks were gone before I started. I only had thirteen birds left for the season, and my cash was low. If we combined our gamecocks we could enter every money main and derby on the circuit, and if Omar didn't interfere with my conditioning—
“Let it go for now,” Omar said carelessly, getting to his feet. “Just think about it for a while. I don't like to mention my money, but I'm lousy with capital. I've got a lot more than you have, and if you had a partner putting up the forfeits, entry fees, and doing all the betting, you could concentrate on conditioning and handling. And on a partnership we can split everything we take in right down the middle.”
He turned in the doorway and his shadow fell across my face. “No matter what you decide,” he said cheerfully, “come over to my place for dinner tonight. I'll take that high-stationed Mellhorn home with me. I've always wanted to eat a Mellhorn Black with dumplings.” He laughed. “Chicken and dumplings for two! That's about thirty-seven, fifty a plate, isn't it?” Omar waved from the door and disappeared from sight.
I remained seated at the table. A few minutes later I heard the engine of his new Pontiac station wagon turn over, and listened to the sounds as he drove out of the yard. The pot of coffee on the hot plate burbled petulantly. I poured another cup, and a cock crowed outside, reminding me of all the work still to be done that morning. I couldn't put off the dubbing of Icky any longer.
Ordinarily, the deaf ears, wattles and comb are trimmed away when the bird is a young stag of six or seven months. Ed Middleton, for reasons known only to himself, had failed to dub Icky. He probably meant to keep Icky as a pet and brood cock and had never intended to pit him. But I was going to pit him, and he had to be dubbed for safety in battle. With his lovely free-flowing comb and dangling wattles, an opposing cock could get a billhold and shuffle him to death in the first pitting. I had been putting off the dubbing, afraid that he might bleed to death. With a stag the