Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [83]
Bandy turned away, his speech over, but Omar took a grip on his arm. “Now, just a minute, Bandy,” Omar said good-humoredly, “aren't you carrying this thing too far? The kid said he didn't know about the rule, and he apologized. Isn't that enough? The Gray had strangled anyway.”
“Are you arguing with me, Mr. Baradinsky?” Bandy said testily. “You'd better read up on the rules before you try! My decision's final, and if you want to argue you just try it! I'll suspend you from this pit for thirty days so fast your head'll spin!”
Omar started to say something else. I managed to catch his eye, and put a finger to my lips. Bandy turned away and headed for the cockhouse, walking as dignified as a bandy-legged man is capable of walking. I took out my notebook and pencil, scribbled the word Apologize!, and handed the open notebook to Omar.
“The hell with that crusty old bastard,” he said, returning my notebook. “Why should I apologize?”
“Please don't get into trouble on my account, Mr. Baradinsky,” Junior said humbly. “I've learned a lesson today I'll remember all my life.”
“I agree. But it's a hard lesson. Bandy meant what he said, you know. You're washed up when it comes to cockfighting'
“I know it, sir. But I still want to apologize to you both.” Junior hung his head, and started to leave the pit. I snapped my fingers, and held out my hand, palm up.
“Oh, that's right!” Junior smiled winningly. “I owe you twenty-five dollars, don't I? Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Mansfield, I don't have any cash with me. I was so sure I'd win I didn't think I needed any. But I've got some money at home, and just as soon—”
I grabbed Junior's wrist, twisted his arm behind his back and put some leverage on it. He bent over with a sharp cry of pain, and then whimpered. I took his wallet out of his right hip pocket with my left hand and passed it to Omar who promptly put Icky on the ground. Omar opened the wallet and counted seventy-eight dollars. After taking twenty-five dollars from the sheaf of bills, he returned the remainder and threw the wallet disgustedly on the floor of the pit.
As I released Junior's wrist, I coordinated nicely and booted him with the pointed toe of my jodhpur boot. He sprawled awkwardly on the hard ground, and his head made a solid “thunk” when it bounced against the low pine wall of the cockpit. Without a word of protest, Junior picked up his wallet and broke for his car in the parking lot at a dead run. I picked Icky up and grinned.
For a moment, Omar stared at the bills in his hand, and then cleared his throat. “Well, Frank,” he said, “I guess I'd better find old Bandy Taylor and apologize, if anybody learned a lesson today, it was me.”
Omar headed reluctantly toward the cockhouse, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Omar might have been a big shot in the advertising business, but he certainly had a lot to learn about people if he wanted to make a name for himself in cockfighting.
13
To prepare our cocks for the six-cock Tifton derby, I found it more practical to move myself and my gamecocks to Omar's farm. I was made comfortable there. I had my own bedroom, there was an inside shower and bathroom, and the meals prepared by Mary Bondwell were a lot tastier than the bachelor meals I had been cooking for myself.
I was so anxious to win the Tifton meet, I put thirty cocks into conditioning just to shape up six top fighters. Working thirty cocks daily rarely gave me a free hour to myself during the day, and I was usually asleep by eight thirty. Sunday is not a holiday for a cockfighter when he has birds to condition for a derby. There were too many things I had to do on Sunday to fight at the Ocala pit, but I sent Omar to the pit to fight some of the cocks that peaked fast. He didn't lose a single hack out of the eight battles he fought.
Our wallets were growing fatter.