Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [97]
“It's going to make a big difference, Frank,” Omar said, rereading the telegram for the tenth time that day. His initial delight over our joint-acceptance—which in my mind had never been in doubt—had gradually turned to concern about whether we would win the tourney or not.
“I know we won't need as many cocks as we figured on,” he continued, “but neither will the other seven entries. Every cock in the tourney will be a topflight Ace.”
I nodded understandingly. Omar's concern was justified. With only eight entries instead of ten the competition would be a lot stiffer. In comparison with a derby, a major tournament is a complicated ordeal. The matchmaker for a tourney has a compounded headache. In setting up the matches for a derby, the matchmaker only has to match the cocks to be shown at the closest possible weights.
In a tournament, every entry must meet each other at least once. Not only is the matchmaking more complicated, each tourney entry must have an Ace for every weight— that is, if he expects to win.
I wanted to win the tourney just as much as Omar did, but this was my fifth try against my partner's first, and I refused to worry about winning. There was nothing more either one of us could do except pray. We had to fight the gamecocks we had, and they were in the peak of condition. To worry needlessly about winning was foolhardy.
“Do you think we've selected the right cocks?”
I nodded.
“That's it, then.” Omar closed the ledger. “I'm not taking our entire bankroll, Frank. Four thousand is in the bank, and I'm leaving it there. That way, if we lose, we'll still have two thousand apiece to show for the season. I'm taking eight thousand in cash to the tourney, and I'm going to lay it fight by fight instead of putting it all down on the outcome. No matter what happens, we'll still have a fifty-fifty chance of coming home with a bundle. Now, just in case we win the tourney, how much do we stand to win?”
I wrote the information on a tablet, and shoved it across the polished table.
Not counting our separate bets—
8 entries @ $500 each $4,000
Sen. Foxhall purse $2,000
Total $6,000
If I win the Cockfighter of the Year Award, that'll be another $1,000—
Omar dragged a hand through his beard as he looked at the figures. “Doesn't Senator Foxhall take a percentage of the entry fees like the derby promoters?” he asked.
I shook my head and smiled. The senator wasn't interested in money. He had more money than he knew what to do with, but he would still come out even and probably ahead. There would be at least four hundred spectators at the two-day tourney paying a ten-dollar admission fee each day. And the senator would make a profit from his restaurant, too. The Milledgeville cockpit was seven miles out in the country. Where else could the visitors eat?
“Do you have to win the tourney to get the Cockfighter of the Year award, Frank?” Omar asked me.
I spread my arms wide and shrugged my shoulders.
I didn't really know. Senator Foxhall hadn't given the award to anybody in three years, and it was possible that he wouldn't give the medal again this year. All I knew was that the senator awarded the medal to the man he thought deserved it. I didn't want to think about it.
I studied my partner across the table. If anything, his beard was blacker and more unkempt than it had been at the beginning of the season. He still wore his bib overalls, short-sleeved work shirt and high-topped work shoes. During our association, I had never seen him dressed differently. He was a free American and entitled to dress any way he pleased. Once a week, when he took a bath, he changed his overalls, but he wore them everywhere he went, to dinner when we ate in Ocala, and downtown when we had fought in Biloxi. Everywhere. This was my problem, and I had to tell him.