Cockfighter (24 page)

The fourth hack was a miracle win. My 5:10 Mellhorn Black had been in fights before, and he smothered the Spanish in the first two pittings. In the third pitting, the Black attacked furiously the moment I released his tail. The Spanish was bowled over and fell back close to the wall. He leaped high into the air, and landed on the ground outside the pit. The Spanish was game—he wasn't a runner by any means—but he was outside the pit and my Black was still inside.

It was a tense moment. I held my breath, and none of the spectators made a sound. If Pete's Spanish had jumped back into the pit, the fight would have been continued.

He didn't. Confused, twisting his head about in search of my gamecock, the Spanish darted under the bleachers in bewildered retreat. The hack was mine by default.

I had known Pete Chocolate for several years, but this was the first time I ever saw him get really angry. He caught his gamecock, removed the heels, and swung the cock's neck against the upright post. He then jerked off the cock's head. This isn't easy. It takes a strong man to pull a chicken's head off with his bare hands. He tossed the dead chicken on the ground and came back to the pit.

“That's the first runner I ever had, Frank,” Pete said blackly. “A Spanish don't run! That same cock won two fights before. Is that a runner? D'you ever hear of me showing a runner?”

I shook my head solemnly. Blood had dripped from the dead chicken's neck onto the white polo shirt Pete was wearing with his tuxedo, and his white tennis shoes were splashed with blood.

“He didn't run, Pete,” Omar said. “He was confused and didn't remember where the pit was, that's all.”

“He won't get confused again!” Pete said with satisfaction. He whipped out his wallet and paid Omar off. We were ahead one hundred dollars from Pete Chocolate, and Omar had won eighty dollars more in side bets. We had lost one cock, and our Roundhead had been battered so badly he might not ever win another fight. We were just about even.

A good first day, I thought, as Omar joined me at the lunch stand.

“Frank,” he said, “there's a kid at the cockhouse with a Gray cross of some kind who wants to fight Icky. His name is Junior Hollenbeck. D'you know him?”

I nodded and finished my Coke. I didn't actually know Junior, but his father, Rex Hollenbeck, was a real-estate man in Ocala. He had introduced himself to me one day in town. Mr. Hollenbeck was a fan, he said, and he had seen me handling at the Orlando International Tourney.

“Do you want to fight him, Frank? The kid's only about nineteen, and his Gray shades Icky two full ounces.”

I started toward the cockhouse to see whether I did or not. Junior was waiting in front of Icky's coop, cradling his Gray gamecock in his arms. He was a well-dressed young man, wearing buckled shoes, charcoal-flannel Daks, and a gaily colored body shirt. His tangled chestnut hair was worn long, all the way to his shoulders, and his face was sunburned. He had a sparse straggly moustache, and the pointed chin whiskers of a young ram goat. Evidently his nose had peeled, because it was smeared with a thick covering of white salve.

“This is Mr. Mansfield, Junior,” Omar introduced us.

“I know. I saw the 4:02 weight on the blackboard, Mr. Mansfield,” Junior said, all business, “and thought I'd challenge you. My cock's won two fights this year and has a couple of ounces over yours, but I'm willing to cut away some feathers for the chance to fight you.”

I stared impassively at the kid, and he blushed through his sunburn.

“That is,” he added, “the man I bought him from
said
he won two fights in Tallahassee.”

I took the Gray out of Junior's arms and felt him. The bird went in and out like an accordion. I turned to Omar, winked, and moved my chin down a fraction of an inch.

“You've got a hack, Junior,” Omar said. “And you don't have to cut any feathers. The Southern Conference allows a two-ounce leeway either way on hacks. But you'll have to fight short heels. Got any?”

“No, sir. I don't have any heels at all. I thought I might borrow a set. And I want to bet twenty-five dollars, even money.”

“Fair enough. I'll lend you a pair. D'you want me to heel him for you?”

“I know how to heel him,” Junior said defensively. “I've heeled cocks plenty of times. Just lend me the heels and hold him for me.”

Omar laughed good-naturedly. “Sure. Wait'll I tell Bandy there's an extra hack, before his crowd gets away.”

There had been two hacks held before the four between Pete Chocolate and me. After our last hack, a few of the spectators had departed, including the nervous tourist, but there were still a dozen or more standing around discussing the fights. When Bandy announced that there was going to be another hack, they scrambled hurriedly into the bleachers and began making bets.

We heeled with inch-and-a-quarter gaffs. To my surprise, Junior did a good job of heeling his Gray. By the way he handled his chicken, I could see he knew his way around the pit, and I felt a little better about the fight coming up.

While Bandy examined both cocks prior to the fight, I listened to the bettors. Although the Gray was announced as a two-time winner, and the Blue—as Icky was called—was announced as a short-heel novice in his first fight, most of the bettors were taking Icky and offering five to one. The odds were caused, in part, by my reputation, but they really preferred my gamecock because of his color. This kind of thinking was like betting on the color of a jockey's eyes instead of on the record of the horse at a racetrack. At any rate, Omar had a hard time getting bets. Even with the high odds, only a few men were willing to back the Gray. But Omar finally managed to lay three ten-dollar wagers.

Junior was nervous during the billing, but he handled fairly well.

When Bandy told us to “get ready” in his reedy old man's voice, Junior squatted behind his score, and held the Gray's tail like a professional.

“Pit!”

Icky took two short steps forward and then flew six feet into the air. The Gray ran forward on the ground at the same time, and Icky landed behind him. They wheeled simultaneously and mushed, breast against breast, engaged in a shoving contest. The Gray backed off, and then tried a short rushing feint that didn't work. Icky got above him, shuffled, and the two went down with Icky's right gaff through the Gray's left wing.

“Handle!”

Junior disengaged the heel from the Gray's wing bone, and we retreated to our respective scores for a thirty-second rest. He worked so furiously over the Gray I had to grin. He blew on the cock's back, stretched and jerked the neck, spat into its mouth, rubbed the thighs vigorously between his hands, and licked the head feathers and hackles with his tongue.

These were all legitimate nursing techniques, but to use them, any of them, after the first pitting was ridiculous. Over-nursing does more harm than good. Unless a gamecock is in drastic need of help, the handler can help him best by letting him rest between pittings. I laced Icky away from the Gray and let him stand quietly so he could get the maximum benefit from the rest period.

“Get ready,” Bandy said, watching his wristwatch sweep-hand.

“Pit!”

We dropped them on their scores. Because of rough over-nursing, more than for any other reason, the Gray was slow in getting started. Icky made a forward dash with raised hackles, took off in a low, soaring flight, fanning in midair, and cut deeply into the Gray's neck with blurred gaffs. The left heel stuck, and the two cocks tumbled over, coupled.

“Handle!” Bandy said quickly.

The instant Junior removed Icky's gaff from the Gray's neck, his gamecock strangled. When a cock's long neck fills with blood, the strangling sound is unmistakable. Except for going through the motions in accordance with the rules, the fight was over. Until the Gray actually died, or refused to fight through three twenty-second counts, or unless his handler picked him up and carried him out, we still had to go through the routine pittings and counts.

Junior had heard the strangle, but he nursed the Gray furiously. He sucked blood out of the Gray's throat and rubbed its chest hard enough to dislodge the tight feathers. He held the feet, placed the cock on its chest and pressed his mouth against the back, blowing his breath noisily into the feathers to warm the Gray's circulation. The Gray was down, his neck stretched flat, and his eyes were glazed. Blood bubbled from his open beak, but he wasn't dead. And then, right before my astonished eyes, Junior inserted his right forefinger into the downed Gray's vent and massaged the cock's testicles!

I snapped my fingers in Bandy's direction, but he had witnessed the foul as soon as I had.

“Foul!” Bandy yelled. “The Blue wins in the second pitting!”

I picked Icky up and held him tail first toward Bandy so he could cut the tie strings away from the heels with his penknife. None of the spectators complained about the ruling. The Gray had obviously lost before the foul was called anyway. With his sunburned face redder than it had been before, Junior pushed between us.

“What do you mean, foul!” he shouted at Bandy.

“Mr. Mansfield and I both saw you put your finger in the vent, son,” Bandy said quietly. “And so did everybody else, if they had any eyes.” Omar joined me in the pit and I handed Icky over to him.

“That's no foul,” Junior protested. “Nursing's allowed, ain't it?”

“Legitimate nursing, yes. Not that kind!”

“I was told if you rubbed the balls with your fingers you could put new life in your chicken—” Junior argued futilely.

“Who told you that, son?” Bandy cut him off.

“My dad told me,” Junior replied. We were all three staring at him now, and he looked at us worriedly. “Is that considered a foul?”

“Your daddy told you wrong, Junior,” Bandy said quietly. “You rub a cock's balls and you take every speck of fight right out of him. It's a deliberate way of throwing a fight.”

“Well, I didn't know it,” Junior said. “I want to apologize, Mr. Mansfield,” he said, with evident sincerity.

“Too late for that now,” Bandy told him. “You're through.

I got to send in a report on this to the Southern Conference. As of now, you're blacklisted at every cockpit in the S.C. I reckon that's what your daddy wanted or he wouldn't have told you no lie. But you've pitted your last gamecock at this game club, Junior.”

Junior's sun-reddened face was reduced to a pink glow. “How long's the blacklist last, Mr. Taylor?” he asked.

“Forever. Whether you knew what you were doing or not don't make no difference. You threw the fight and there was people with bets on your Gray. I don't want you comin' here no more, and you tell your daddy that he ain't welcome out here neither!”

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 my 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 up Icky 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.

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.