Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [88]
14
When the pressure's on, a promoter's got to do the best he can,” Fred Reed said petulantly for the fourth time during his sales talk. He ought to make a recording, I thought to myself.
Fred Reed had done the best he could all right, but I didn't like the setup, not any part of it. Including Mr. Reed, there were nine of us sitting around in the plush pink-and-white bridal suite of the new Southerner Hotel in Chattanooga. Johnny Norris, Roy Whipple, Omar and myself were all Southern Conference regulars, but the other entries were not, although they had paid their fees for the Chattanooga derby.
Except for promoter Fred Reed, who wore a suit and necktie, the rest of us were either in sports clothes or blue jeans, and we looked as out of place in the mid-Victorian decor of the bridal suite as a honeymoon couple would have looked bedded down in a cockpit. My picturesque partner, with his wild beard and bib overalls, sat uneasily on a fragile gilded chair by the door to the bathroom. I was sharing a blue velvet love seat with Old Man Whipple, a gray-stubbled cockfighter from North Carolina whose odor would have been improved by a couple of quick runs through a sheep-dip.
Mr. Reed wiped his sweaty brow with a white linen handkerchief and continued: “Boys, when the S.P.C.A. really puts their foot down, the sheriff has to go along with 'em, that's all there is to it!
“Elections are coming up, and I just couldn't pay nobody off. But I did get to the city officials and we can stage the derby right here in this suite without interference. I know you men have all fought cocks in hotel rooms before, but you've never had a better one than this! Just take a look at this wonderful floor.” Mr. Reed bent down with a broad smile on his face and rubbed the blue nylon carpet with his fingers. “Why, a carpet like this makes a perfect pit flooring for chickens! And don't worry about damages. The manager has been tipped plenty, and I promised him I'd pay any cleaning charges on the carpets. You've all got reserved rooms on this floor, and we've got the exclusive use of the service elevator to bring the cocks straight up from the basement garage.
“Frankly, boys, I think the Chattanooga derby is better off here than it is at my pit outside of town. There won't be as many spectators because of the space limitations, but I've invited some big money men, and you'll be able to place bets as high as you want to on your birds.”
Old Roy Whipple, sitting beside me on the love seat, spat a stream of black tobacco juice onto the nylon carpet and then cleared his throat. “Where're we goin' to put the dead chickens, Mr. Reed?”
“That's an excellent question, Mr. Whipple,” Reed replied pompously. “I'm glad you asked it. The dead cocks will be stacked in the bathtub. Are there any other questions?”
“Yes, sir. I have one,” Johnny Norris said politely. “The action will be slowed down considerably, won't it, if we have to bring the cocks up from the basement before every fight? It'll take forever to finish the derby. And what do we use for a drag pit?”
“That's another good question, Mr. Norris,” Reed replied, with the deference in his voice that Johnny Norris usually received. “But these matters have all been taken into account. Except for the traveling pit, the rest of the furniture in here will be removed, and folding chairs will be set up. You'll heel the cocks in the bedroom, and the weights'll be announced far enough in advance so that there'll always be another pair waiting to pit. There's another connecting door through the bedroom to the next suite—the V.I.P. suite, the hotel calls it—and the living room of the next suite'll be used as a drag pit. With two referees, I can assure you, gentlemen, that the fighting will be as fast here as anywhere else. Are there any more questions, anything at all?”
There were no more questions.
“All right then, gentlemen. The fighting starts at ten a.m. tomorrow morning.