Cockfighter (17 page)

“But old pickups don't sell so well these days. Too many rich farmers buying new ones. SO I'll let you have it for a hundred-dollar bill.”

I studied him for a moment, maintaining my expressionless face, and then got out of the cab of the truck. I started toward the looping chain fence that bordered the sidewalk, and he caught up with me before I reached the first line of cars. He put a freckled hand on my arm, but when I dropped my eyes to his hand, he jerked it away as though my sleeve were on fire.

“I'll tell you what I'll do, sir,” he said quickly. “Just to move the old Ford and get it off the lot, I'll give up my commission. You can have the truck for eighty-five bucks. Give me ten dollars down, and drive it away. Here're the keys.” He held out the keys, but I didn't look at them. I kept my eyes on his face.

“All right,” he said nervously. “Seventy-five, and that's rock bottom.”

I nodded. A fair price. More than fair. The truck had had hard use, and most of the paint had been chipped off in preparation for a new paint job. But no one had ever gotten around to repainting it. I pointed to the low sun above the skyline, and he followed my pointing finger with his pale blue eyes. To catch his wandering attention again I snapped my fingers and then held up three fingers before his face.

“Three suns?” he asked. “You mean three days?”

I nodded.

“Without a deposit, I can't promise to hold it for you, sir.”

I shrugged indifferently and left the lot. I had a hunch that the pickup would still be there when I came back for it.

When I got back to my hotel room I counted my money. Twenty-three dollars and eighty-one cents. Money just seems to evaporate. I had no idea where all of it had gone, but I had to nurse what was left like a miser. Twelve dollars would be needed to pay for four days' rent on the hotel room, and I would have to eat and smoke on the remainder. If I didn't get a letter from Judge Powell within three days, or four at the most, I would have to make other plans of some kind.

I spent the next three days at the public library. There was a long narrow café near the hotel that featured an Eye-Opener Early-Bird Breakfast, consisting of one egg, one slice of bacon, one slice of brushed margarine toast and a cup of coffee all for forty-two cents. After eating this meager fare, I walked slowly to the library and sat outside on the steps until it opened, thinking forward to lunch. I read magazines until noon in the periodical room, and then returned to the hotel and checked the desk for my mail. I then returned to the library. By two o'clock I was ravenous, and I would eat a poor boy sandwich across the street, and drink a Coca-Cola. The poor boy sandwich had three varieties of meat, but not much meat. I then returned to the library and read books until it closed at nine p.m.

My taste in reading is catholic. I can take Volume III of the
Encyclopedia Americana
out of the stacks and read it straight through from Corot to Deseronto with an equal interest, or lack of interest, in each subject.
Roget's Thesaurus
or a dictionary can hold my attention for several hours. I don't own many books. There were only a few on poultry breeding at my Ocala farm and a first edition of
Histories of Game Strains
that I won as a prize one time at a cockfight. And I also owned a beat-up copy of
Huckleberry Finn.
I suppose I've drifted down the river with Huck Finn & Co. fifty times or more.

When the library closed at nine, I ate a hamburger, returned to the hotel and went to bed.

Three days passed quickly this way. On the morning of the fourth day, however, I didn't leave the hotel. My stomach was so upset I didn't even feel like eating the scanty Eye-Opener Early-Bird Breakfast, afraid I couldn't hold it. I sat in the lobby waiting apprehensively for the mail.

There were two letters for me, both of them special delivery. One was a thick brown envelope from Jake Mellhorn. I didn't open either letter until I had reached my room. My fingers were damp when I opened the thick envelope from Judge Powell first, but when I emptied the envelope onto my bed, the only thing I could see was a gray-green certified check from the Mansfield Farmer's Trust, made out to my name for one thousand, five hundred dollars!

My reaction to the check surprised me. I hadn't realized how much I had counted on getting it. My knees began to shake first, and then my hands. A moment later my entire body was shivering as though I had malaria, and I had to sit down quickly. I was wet from my hair down to the soles of my feet with a cold, clammy perspiration that couldn't have been caused by anything else but cold, irrational fear. Of course, I hadn't allowed my mind to dwell on the possibility of failure, but now that I actually had the money, the suppressed doubts and fears made themselves felt. But my physical reaction didn't last very long. I stripped to the waist and bathed my upper body with a cold washrag, and dried myself thoroughly, before reading Judge Powell's letter. It was a long letter, overly long, typed single spaced on his law firm's letterhead, watermarked stationery:

Mr. Frank Mansfield

c/o Jeff Davis Hotel

Jacksonville, Florida

Dear Frank:

I handled this matter personally, following your desires throughout, feeling you knew your brother Randall better than me. You did. When I called on him and informed him that you intended to break the will of your father, he laughed. If it hadn't been for your copious notes, his laughter would have surprised me.

“Is Frank willing to fight this in court?” he asked me.

“No,” I told him (again following your instructions). “Your brother, Frank, said it wouldn't be necessary. ‘When Randall sees that he is in an untenable position, he will sign a quitclaim deed immediately and move out.”'

Again your brother laughed as you predicted.

“Do you think I'm in an untenable position, Judge?” he then asked.

“Yes, you are,” I told him. “That's why I brought a quitclaim deed for you to sign.”

He laughed and signed the deed. “In New York,” he said, “you wouldn't have a chance, Judge.” I remained silent instead of reminding him that the case, if brought to a trial, would be held in Georgia. “When does Frank want me to leave?”

“As soon as the property is sold.”

“Does Frank have a buyer in mind?”

“He recommended that I try Wright Gaylord first,” I said.

This statement gave your brother additional cause for merriment, because he laughed until the tears rolled down his face.

“Frank only wants a profit of one thousand, five hundred dollars,” I told your brother. “He instructed me to give you any amount over that, after deducting my fee, of course.”

“That's generous of Frank,” he said, “but there are some taxes due, about seven hundred dollars.” “I'm aware of the taxes,” I said.

“All right, Judge. You've got your quitclaim deed Continue on down the road and sell the property to Wright Gaylord. I'll be ready to leave tomorrow morning when you bring me my share, if there's anything left over.”

Wright Gaylord gave me a check the same afternoon for three thousand, five hundred dollars, which I accepted reluctantly. Given more time I am positive that your property would have sold for eight or possibly ten thousand dollars. But the sum adequately covered your required one thousand, five hundred and my fee of five hundred dollars, so I closed the sale then and there. You didn't mention it in your notes, but I realize the astuteness of selling to Mr. Gaylord, although I doubt if he did. Upon your marriage to his sister you will automatically get half your farm back and half of his as well. Mr. Gaylord is also a client of mine, and this was a fine point of legal ethics, but inasmuch as he is certainly aware of your engagement to his sister, I did not deem it necessary to remind him.

Enclosed is a certified check for one thousand, five hundred dollars. My fee of five hundred dollars has been deducted, the taxes have been paid, plus stamps, and miscellaneous expenses. I gave your brother a check for seven hundred and sixty-eight dollars and fifty cents. Randall and his wife left yesterday on the bus for Macon.

Mr. Gaylord has already begun to tear down your father's farmhouse and the outlying buildings. He hired a wrecking crew from Atlanta, and I saw some of their equipment moving through town yesterday. However, he agreed to keep your Negro tenant on the place if he wanted to stay, per your request. But he would not consent to keep him on shares because Charley Smith is too old. Your main concern, I believe, was to maintain a home for Charley and his family, so again, in lieu of instructions to the contrary, I agreed to this condition.

There are also some papers enclosed for you to sign on the places marked with a small X in red pencil. They have been predated, including the power of attorney, in order to send you the money without undue delay. Please return them (after you have signed them) as quickly as possible.

If your father were still alive, I know he would want you to use your money wisely, so I can only say the same. “A rolling stone gathers no moss” is an old saying but a true one nevertheless. If I can help you further do not hesitate to ask me.

I didn't mind the moralizing of the windy old man, because he didn't know what I planned to use the money for, but I was irritated because he had dictated the letter to his big-mouthed old maid secretary, Miss Birdie Janes. The small initials, “bj” in the lower left-hand corner of the letter meant that my business would be spread all over the county by now. I realized that it was a long letter, and I appreciated the details, but the old man should have written the letter personally. When I returned to Mansfield, eventually, sides would be taken—some for Randall and some for me, but the majority would take Randall's side, even though I was legally and morally right about taking what rightfully belonged to me.

The letter from Jake Mellhorn was more pressing:

Dear Frank,

Glad to see you're getting sense enough to know that the Mellhorn Black is the best gamecock in the world, bar none!!! And you're lucky you wired me just when you did. I just brought in twenty-two cocks, but if you only want a dozen country-walked roosters, you can have the best of the lot, which is plenty damned good!!! I can ship you six Aces, two to three years old. The other six are brothers, five months past staghood, but all are guaranteed dead on, and they'll cut for you or your money back.
As
you know, I ship them wormed, in wooden coops, but they'll need watering upon arrival. Don't trust the damned express company to water birds en route
—
they'll steal the cracked corn out of the coops and make popcorn out of it. As a special price—TO YOU ONLY!!! One dozen Mellhorn Blacks for only seven hundred dollars. That's much less than seventy-five apiece. Let me know by return wire, because I can sell them anywhere for one hundred and twenty-five dollars each.

An outlay of seven hundred dollars, although it was an exceptionally fair price for Ace Mellhorns, would make a deep dent in my one thousand, five hundred dollars, but I had little choice. I had to have them, or others just as good. Another five hundred to Ed Middleton, seventy-five dollars for the truck, and I'd be down to only two hundred and twenty-five. Luckily, I had feed at Ocala left over from last year, and the older Flint corn is, the better it is for feeding. And within two weeks I could win some money at the Ocala cockpit. At least two, or possibly three, birds could be conditioned for battle by that time.

After packing and checking out of the hotel, I cashed the check at the bank. I wired seven hundred dollars to Jake Mellhorn immediately with instructions to ship the cocks to my farm. I mailed the signed papers back to Judge Powell special delivery, and headed for the used car lot to buy the staked-out pickup truck.

Within two hours, I was driving out of Jacksonville. The cocker's supplies from Doc Riordan were in the truck bed, along with my suitcase and gaff case, covered by a tarp. The remainder of my money, in tens and twenties, was pinned inside my jacket pocket with a safety pin.

As I turned onto Highway 17 I thought suddenly of Bernice Hungerford. She had been in my thoughts several times during the last three days, especially late at night when I had been trying to sleep, with hunger pangs burning my stomach. In fact, I had considered seriously going out to her house and chiseling a free meal. But I had felt too guilty to go. Leaving a broken guitar on her front porch hadn't been a brilliant idea.

There was a filling station ahead, and I pulled onto the ramp and pointed to the regular pump.

“How many, sir?”

I pulled a finger across my throat.

“Filler up? Yes, sir.”

While I was still looking at the large city map inside the station, the attendant interrupted me to ask if everything was all right under the hood. The question was so stupid I must have looked surprised, because he blushed with embarrassment and checked beneath the hood without waiting for a reply. How else can a man discover whether oil and water are needed unless he looks?

I traced the map and found Bernice's street. Her house was about three miles out of my way. I didn't really owe her anything, but I knew my conscience would be eased if I repaid the woman the thirty dollars she had advanced me when I had needed it. I turned around, and drove slowly until I reached a shopping center that had a florist's shop. I parked, entered the shop, and selected a dozen yellow roses out of the icebox. The stems were at least two feet long.