Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [95]
“I suppose you're goin' to tell Vern Packard how you beat me,” Mr. Peeples said, as I slipped behind the wheel and slammed the door.
Looking him directly in the eyes, I nodded my head.
“If you do, Mr. Mansfield,” he begged, “me or Tom neither'll be ashamed to show our faces down to the pit for two or three years.”
I shrugged, and let out the clutch.
As I drove out of the barn lot, Tom Peeples was still hunkered down dejectedly in the water trough like an old man washing his privates in a bathtub.
On the return drive to Vern Packard's house I missed one of the turns and had to redouble twice before I found the way back to the main road. It was dark when I wheeled into his driveway. Vern switched on the yard lights and came outside to meet me.
“Who won?” he asked excitedly, as I got out of the station wagon.
I handed him the fragment of rosin, took the wad of bills out of my pocket and counted off one hundred dollars. Grinning, I pushed the hundred dollars into his hand. He kissed the bills, and returned the sliver of rosin.
“You keep it, Frank,” he said happily. “You paid me enough for it. Come on inside and eat. I was looking for you to get back an hour ago, but I've been waiting supper on you. It's still warm though.”
As soon as I was seated at the kitchen table, Vern served the plates and turned the burner up higher under the coffee to reheat it. There were rolls, baked ham and candied sweet potatoes. Vern put enough food on my plate for three men, but I dug into it.
As he poured the coffee, Vern said jokingly, “What do you carry, Frank? A rabbit's foot, a lucky magnet or do you wear a bag of juju bones around your neck?”
I stopped eating and looked at him.
Vern laughed. “Your partner telephoned about twenty minutes after you left. Mr. Baradinsky. First, he wanted to know how you made out, and I told him. Then he had some news for you about the Chattanooga derby in the Southerner Hotel.”
I put my knife and fork down and waited, trying to hide my impatience at the way he was dragging out the story.
Again Vern laughed. “No,” he said, “it isn't what you're thinking, Frank. They weren't raided. The pit was hijacked, and the thieves got away with about twenty-five thousand bucks, according to your partner. He got the information secondhand, and it won't be in the papers. No chickens were lost, but everybody there—cockers, gamblers and even Mr. Reed himself—lost their pants. There were three holdup men, all with shotguns, and they knew exactly what they were doing. They made everybody take off their pants and throw them in the middle of the pit. Then one of them filled up a mattress cover with all the pants and they left the hotel suite. They didn't fool with rings or watches. Just the pants”—Vern laughed heartily— “but the money was in the pants! That closed the Chattanooga meet. I'll bet Fred Reed has a tough time getting an okay from Senator Foxhall for a S.C. derby next year!”
I pursed my lips thoughtfully, nodded my head, and started eating again. My swollen temple was throbbing, and I wanted to put an ice pack on it.
The next morning I left Cook's Hollow to join Omar in Biloxi, with a standing invitation to fight at Vern Packard's game club any time I felt like it. I had added $902 to my bankroll and ten purebred fighting cocks to our stake in the S.C. Tourney. But no matter what Vern Packard thought, I wasn't lucky.
At long last, my experience and knowledge of cockfighting were beginning to pay off. That, and the fact that I was using the good sense God gave me.
15
I have back issues of all five game-fowl magazines covering the Southern Conference derbies held at Biloxi, Auburn and Ocala, but I don't have to dig through them to find the results. I remember them, all of them, perfectly.
In Biloxi, we fought in the cockpit established in a warehouse near the waterfront, and we won the derby 6-3, plus three thousand five hundred dollars in cash. Icky also won his fourth hack at Biloxi over a Hulsey two-time winner entered by Baldy Allen from Columbus, Georgia. Omar, who was spelling me on handling