Cockfighter (32 page)

The night fighting got bungled up.

There were two forfeits in the 5:12 weights, when Dirty Jacques Bonin and Jack Burke weren't heeled and ready on time, plus long technical arguments on both sides. To return to the cockpit after heeling, it was necessary to cross through the parking lot. Jack Burke claimed—and I think he had a reasonable point—that the automobiles leaving the area after the ten-thirty fight had held him up. He failed to see why he should be penalized for a parking attendant's failure to control the traffic properly. Peach Owen brought out the rules and read them aloud. The rules stated clearly that the handler was to be ready for pitting within fifteen minutes after receiving his weight slip. No provisions had been written concerning interference, so Jack forfeited the fight after being promised by Peach Owen that this provision would be discussed by the S.C.T. committee before the next season.

Due to these delays, it was after one o'clock before Omar and I got back to our room in the mansion. I had lost four fights out of twelve, but my partner, who had placed shrewd bets on every match held during the day, had added two thousand, eight hundred dollars to our bankroll.

“Are we going to win the tourney, Frank?” Omar said, as we undressed for bed.

Down to my underwear, I sat on the edge of my bed and checked over the official scorecard. Jack Burke, Roy Whipple and Johnny Norris were ahead of us, but they weren't so far ahead that we couldn't catch up with them the next day. I drew a large question mark on the blank side of the scorecard, sailed the square of cardboard in Omar's general direction and got wearily into bed. With a full day of fighting to go, the top three could just as easily be the bottom three when the points were tallied at the end of the meet.

Before Omar finished counting and stacking the money into neat piles on top of the dresser and switched off the overhead chandelier, I was sound asleep.

The next morning at eleven—during my third match of the second day—soft-spoken Johnny Norris was no longer a contender. His name was stricken from the lists, and he was barred forever from Southern Conference competition for ungentlemanly conduct.

At most southern pits, the sidewalls are constructed of wood, but the sunken pit at Milledgeville has concrete walls. At a wooden-walled pit, when two cocks are fighting close to the barrier, it isn't unusual for one of the fighters to jab one of his gaffs into a board and get stuck.

Because of this possibility, cockpits with sixteen-inch wooden walls have a ground rule “to handle” when an accident like this happens. The handler then pulls the gaff loose from the wall and, following a thirty-second rest period, the birds are pitted again.

There was no such rule at Milledgeville.

With a concrete pit, this ground rule was considered unnecessary. Unfortunately for Johnny Norris, after many years of operation, there were hairline cracks in the concrete wall. In the sixth pitting, my Claret drove Johnny's spangled Shuffler into the wall. During a quick flurry, the Shuffler hung a gaff into one of the narrow cracks. The long three-inch heel was wedged tight. The Shuffler was immobilized, with his head dangling down, about ten inches above the dirty floor of the pit.

Johnny looked angrily at Buddy and said: “Handle, for Christ's sake!”

“No such rule at this pit.” Buddy shook his head stubbornly.

My Claret had backed away and was eyeing the upside-down bird, judging the distance. Advancing three short steps, he flew fiercely into the helpless Shuffler with both heels fanning. The fight was mine.

Johnny swung a roundhouse right and broke Buddy Waggoner's jaw.

After a near riot, order was restored when Senator Foxhall announced that he would stop the tourney and clear the pit if everybody didn't quiet down. Johnny Norris was taken off the S.C.T. rolls and banished back to Birmingham. Because of Johnny's forced withdrawal, the remaining seven entries had to be reshuffled and rematched by the officials. This administrative work took more than an hour.

At one o'clock, when the lunch break was called, Mary Elizabeth still hadn't put in an appearance. I had made a nuisance out of myself by writing notes and checking periodically with the box office and parking attendants, but by one p.m. I had resigned myself that she wouldn't come.

I took Bernice to the house for lunch.

The rematching delay ruined the planned schedule. The last match between Roy Whipple and Colonel Bob Moore didn't start until three thirty. The moment the two cockfighters entered the pit, Omar and I raced for our cockhouse to heel Icky for the last hack between my bird and Burke's Little David.

When we returned to the pit, jack Burke was already heeled and waiting. As the three of us stood in the doorway, watching the fight in progress, Jack looked contemptuously at Icky and said, “Let's raise the bet to two thousand, Frank.”

Omar bridled. “One thousand is the bet, Mr. Burke. You've had Little David on a country walk all season, and Icky's had to fight to qualify. If there's any bet-changing to be done, you should give us some odds.”

“Are you asking for odds, Frank?” Burke challenged, ignoring my partner.

I shook my head. Holding Icky under my left arm, I pointed to the pit with my free hand. Colonel Bob was carrying out a dead chicken, and Ed Middleton was cutting the gaff tie strings away from Whipple's winner with his knife.

We reported to the judge's booth and weighed in. Icky was at fighting weight, an even 4:02. The freedom of the long rest on a farm walk had brought Little David's weight up from four pounds to 4:03. Omar protested the one-ounce overweight immediately, and Peach Owen ordered Burke to cut away feathers until his cock matched Icky exactly.

“While the results of the tourney are being tabulated and rechecked,” Peach drawled into the microphone with his deep southern voice, “there'll be an extra hack for your pleasure. The weight is 4:02, short heels, between entries four and five!”

A murmur of approval and a scattering of applause encircled the packed tiers. The majority of the people in the audience were aware of the extra hack before the announcement. Omar had laughingly told me about some of the rumors he had heard. Some people thought that the hack was a simple grudge match, while others claimed that several thousand dollars had been bet between us. The reported incident at Plant City, when Dody had kicked me in the shins, had also caused a great many rumors. Supposedly, I had made a pass at Jack's wife, or Jack Burke had taken Dody away from me, and—wildest of all—Dody had been my childhood sweetheart. How a man of thirty-three could possibly have had a childhood sweetheart of only sixteen didn't prevent the rumors. What Jack had spread about himself, or what people said about me, didn't matter. My only concern was to win the hack.

Ed Middleton examined both cocks, returned them to us, and told us to get ready.

“I've
been
ready!” Jack said.

I bobbed my head, and Ed said, “Bill ‘em.”

We billed the cocks on the center score.

“That's enough,” Ed said, when he saw how quickly the combativeness of both cocks was aroused. “Pass ‘em once and get ready.”

Holding our gamecocks at arm's length, we passed them in the air with a circling movement and retreated to our respective eight-foot scores.

“Pit!”

As usual, by watching the referee's lips, I let Icky go first, beating Burke off the score. I needed the split second. The O'Neal Red, with its dark red comb, and fresh from a country walk, was faster than Icky. Despite his superb condition, the days and nights in a narrow coop walk had slowed my Blue chicken down. Icky missed with both spurs as Little David side-stepped, and my cock wound up on his back with a spur in his chest.

“Handle!”

The second I disengaged the spur from Icky's breast, I retreated to my side of the pit and examined the wound. It wasn't fatal. Using the cellulose sponge and pan of clean water furnished by the pit, I wiped away the flowing blood and pressed my thumb against the hole to stop the bleeding until the order came to get ready.

“Pit!”

Little David was overconfident and Icky was vigilant. The Red tried three aerial attacks and failed to get above my pit-wise Blue. With mutual respect, they circled in tight patterns, heads low above the floor, hackles raised, glaring at each other with bright, angry eyes. Icky tried a tricky rushing feint that worked. As Little David wheeled and dodged instead of sidestepping, Icky walked up his spine like a lineman climbing a telephone pole. There was an audible thump as Icky struck a gaff home beneath Little David's right wing.

“Handle!”

Burke removed the gaff with gentle hands. The O'Neal Red had been hurt in the second pitting. The wound in Icky's chest no longer bled, but I held my thumb over the hole anyway, and made him stand quietly, facing him toward the wall where he couldn't see his opponent.

The third, fourth and fifth pittings were dance contests that could have been set to music. The two colorful gamecocks maneuvered, wheeled, sidestepped, feinted and leaped high into the air as they clashed. When one of them did manage to hang a heel, first one and then the other, the blow was punishing.

Prior to the sixth pitting, I held Icky's legs tight under his body to rest them, facing him toward the wall. I raised my eyes for a moment, and there sat Mary Elizabeth, not six feet away from me. I almost didn't recognize her at first. She was wearing a light blue coat with raglan sleeves, and she had a pastel-blue scarf over her blonde hair, tied beneath her chin. She sat in the second row—not in the seat I had reserved for her. Her skin was pale, and her expression was strained. As I smiled in recognition, Ed called for us to get ready, and I had to turn my back.

“Pit!”

For the first time in months I was second best in releasing my gamecock's tail. Little David outflew my Blue and fanned him down. On his back, Icky shuffled his feet like a cat. Both birds fell over, pronged together with all four gaffs, like knitting needles stuck into two balls of colored yarn.

“Handle!”

It took Burke and me almost a full minute to disengage the heels. Both cocks were severely injured and my hands were red with blood as I sponged my battered bird down gingerly with cold water. During the short rest period I didn't have time to exchange any love glances with my fiancée in the stands. Thirty seconds passed like magic.

“Get ready… Pit!”

Both gamecocks remained on their scores as we released them.

“Count!” Burke ordered.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and one for Mr. Burke. Handle!” Ed said, looking up from his wristwatch.

Both of us needed the additional thirty-second rest period. I sucked Icky's comb to warm his head, held his beak open wide and spat into his open throat to refresh him. I was massaging his tired legs gently when Ed told us to get ready.

“Pit!”

Stiff-winged, the two cocks advanced toward each other from their scores and clashed wearily in the center. Too sick and too tired for aerial fighting, they buckled again and again with weakened fury. Little David fell over limply, breathing hard, and stayed there. Grateful for this respite, Icky also stopped fighting, standing quietly with his head down, bill touching the dirt.

“The count is going on,” Ed announced, watching his wristwatch and the two cocks at the same time. At the silent count of twenty seconds, when neither bird had tried to fight, Ed ordered us to handle.

I wanted to work feverishly, but I was unable to do the nursing needed to help my fighter. Bough nursing could put Icky out of the fight for good. I sponged him gently and let him rest. Icky had recovered considerably by himself from the twenty-second count.

When the order to pit was given again, he crossed the dirt floor toward his enemy on shaky legs. Little David squatted on his score like a broody hen on eggs, with his beak wide open and his neck jerking in and out.

Icky pecked savagely at the downed cock's weaving head. An instant later, the maddened Little David bounced into the air as though driven by a compressed spring and came down on Icky's back with blurring, hard-hitting heels. My cock was uncoupled by a spine blow, paralyzed, and unable to move from the neck down. Little David's right one-and-a-quarter-inch heel had passed cleanly through Icky's kidney and the point was down as far as the caeca. On the order to handle, I disengaged the gaff and returned to my score.

I didn't dare to sponge him. There was very little I could do. Water would make him bleed more rapidly than he was bleeding already. I held him loosely between my hands, pressing my fingers lightly into his hot body, afraid he would come apart in my hands. Fortunately, Little David was as badly injured as Icky. His last desperate attack had taken every ounce of energy he had left.

After three futile counts of twenty, Ed Middleton ordered us to breast on the center score, one hand only beneath the bird.

Which gamecock would peck first?

Which gamecock would die first?

It was an endurance test. Little David had been the last chicken to fight. If Icky died first, Little David would be declared the winner by virtue of throwing the last blow. On the third breast pitting, Icky stretched out his limp neck and pecked feebly. The order to handle was given. Again we pitted, and again Icky pecked, and this time he got a billhold on the other cock's stubby dubbed comb. Little David didn't feel or notice the billhold. Little David was dead. And so was Icky, his beak clamped to the Red's comb to the last.

“I'll carry my bird out,” Jack Burke said.

“You're entitled to three more twenty-second counts,” Ed reminded him, going by the book.

“What's the use?” Burke said indifferently. “They're
both
dead, now.”

“Dead or not,” Ed said officially, “you're entitled by the rules to three counts of twenty after the other cock pecks.”