Jack's New Power (18 page)

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Authors: Jack Gantos

BOOK: Jack's New Power
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His biceps looked like a knotted rope under his skin.
“Hard as steel,” he claimed. “When I finish with you, you'll be strong and rich, and, buddy, that's all you need in life.”
I grinned. Strong and rich, I thought. Strong and rich. I loved the sound of those two words lined up shoulder to shoulder.
He started the engine. “Later, partner,” he said, gave me a snap salute, and pulled away.
I went around to the side of the house and entered my room from the French doors. I undressed and wrapped a towel around my waist. I needed to take a shower. I smelled like old leftovers from all that sweating. When I opened the bedroom door, Betsy was standing there.
“When I finish with you, you'll be strong and rich,
” she sang, parroting Cush.
“You spied,” I yelled.
She didn't care.
“So what? You should be disgusted with yourself,” she continued. “Mom said he spends his money on cockfights. That's animal abuse, and now you are part of it. You should be ashamed.”
“He does not abuse animals,” I said.
“Now you are lying,” she shot back. “You lie because you are guilty and you know it.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “You're right. He's betting it at the cockfights. But it's no worse than eating chicken for dinner.”
“Listen to what you are saying,” she said bitterly. “What's gotten into you? You're behaving so strangely.
You've fallen behind in school. You don't have any friends, and now you're hanging around with some criminal.”
“He's not a criminal,” I replied.
“What he does to those animals is criminal,” she shot back. “They let those cocks fight to the death for entertainment. You are making
blood money
off of innocent animals. Plus, it's illegal. Doesn't that bother you? How can you sleep at night?”
I slept just fine. Every night I fell asleep counting my money. More money than I had ever held at one time. More money than I had ever seen. I was raking in those bills as though I was raking leaves into a big heap. I rolled around in it, smelled it, and fell asleep on it. If I was losing sleep it wasn't over the cockfights, it was because Cush hadn't paid me yet.
“Just mind your own business,” I said.
“People like you and Cush should be taken out and horsewhipped!” she declared, and stomped up the hall.
 
I was in the back yard mixing concrete in a bucket when I heard someone whistle. I looked up and it was Cush. I put down my trowel.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“Well, I still don't have your money. But I have the proposition of a lifetime. I owe you around two hundred bucks. For three hundred dollars we can buy our own fighting cock and then split the winnings. This way, we can make the big money. What do you say?”
I thought about it. “Where do we get the other hundred?”
“I'll throw in a hundred.”
“Then I should get two-thirds of the profit,” I pointed out.
“You drive a hard bargain,” he remarked.
“I'm in this for the money,” I said, saying something he might say.
“You sound just like your old man,” he replied. “I like that. Right now, I've got to go take care of business. And by the way, I'll pick you up on the corner tomorrow at three and we can drive out to the cockfights and clean house.”
“What's a cockfight like?” I asked.
“Ah, they just kick the stuffing out of each other. Only lasts about fifteen seconds.”
“Betsy said they're pretty bloody,” I said. “She said it's animal abuse.”
“Has she ever seen one?” he asked. “I bet not.”
I shook my head. “I don't think so.”
“Well now, who are you going to believe? I've seen 'em a hundred times and I tell you they aren't so bad. Sure they get scratched up, but a real man doesn't faint from the sight of a little blood. Right, buddy?”
“Right,” I replied.
“Now, don't let her butt in,” he whispered. “This is for
men
only. She's just jealous because she's not in on this deal.”
I nodded.
He backed out of the driveway and vanished.
 
The next day he was right on time. The moment it was three o'clock, he pulled up. I hopped in and we cruised down the road.
“Nice outfit,” I remarked. He was dressed in a pink-and-white-striped suit. He had a white shirt with big green-and-black diamonds across the chest. On his head he had a new white cap.
He smiled. “Thanks,” he said proudly. “I just bought it.”
I was wearing an old pair of khaki pants and a T-shirt. I knew blood stained, so I didn't want to wear anything that would make Mom suspicious.
“So,” he started up. “Have you figured out how you are going to spend your money?”
“Thought I'd save it,” I replied.
“Oh, you are one of
those
guys,” he remarked with a sneer. “Too cheap to puke.”
“What's wrong with saving money?” I asked.
“Money is to be spent,” he replied. “It was made for using, not for hoarding. If you are already a penny-pinching cheapskate at such a young age, you'll be an old tightwad when you grow up.”
“Well, I thought I would save up for a motor scooter.”
“Skip the scooter,” he advised. “Buy a Harley. That's a man's machine. Those scooters are like riding a hair dryer on wheels.”
“What are you going to do with your money?” I asked, wanting to change the subject.
“Me? I'm going to throw a huge party and invite everyone I owe money to. And when they are all drunk, I'm gonna stand on the dining-room table and tell some jokes, and when they're in a great mood, I'm gonna tell them that the party is their payment and that having a good time
among friends is better than having all the money in the world.”
“Do you think they'll go for that?”
“Sure,” he replied. “Who wouldn't?”
“Well, I wouldn't,” I said. “I'd rather have the money than a party.”
Cush reached across me and popped open the glove box. He removed a thin silver flask. “You want a drink?” he asked as he unscrewed the top.
“No, thanks,” I replied. “I don't drink and drive.”
“Knucklehead,” he said. “You aren't driving.”
“Knucklehead,” I shot back. “I'm only thirteen.”
He threw his head back and laughed.
I did the same. It felt good to laugh at something stupid, and feel free to say anything that came to mind. I didn't have to consider the
right
answer or the
best
or
safest
answer. Whenever I said something at home I had to defend it, explain it, and generally feel as though my whole life was a pop quiz. Whatever I said to Cush seemed just fine. Maybe this is what it's like to be a man, I thought. I can finally say and do anything I want. It was worth risking the forty bucks just to feel this free.
Cush took a sip from his flask and almost spit it out when I said, “I want a tattoo.”
“You're a kid!” he shouted, pushing my words back at me.
“So?”
“So, you'll regret it,” he said. “Look, when you have a crazy idea like getting a tattoo, you have to do something equally crazy to drive it out of your mind.”
“Like what?”
He swerved so hard to the left that I lurched sideways and bounced my forehead off the steering wheel. He gunned the engine, downshifted, and we tore up the side of Chalky Mountain, picking up speed all the way.
“Hang on,” he shouted as we reached the crest and dove over.
The road dropped away beneath us. All four wheels of the Triumph left the ground as we kept going up into the air. Then we nosed forward and came down with a hard jolt. My head hit the ceiling. Cush shifted into neutral and turned the engine off. The Triumph picked up speed as we tilted downhill. When we reached the flat part of the road, we coasted silently past rows of royal palms and harvested cane fields, string beans, and banana trees until ever so slowly the Triumph lost its velocity, and like a toy pushed across the floor, we finally rolled to a stop.
“Take a deep breath and listen to the birds,” Cush instructed.
I did. The crows were calling each other. The finches were twittering. The egrets were chuckling as they pecked insects off the field plants.
After a moment he asked, “Do you still want a tattoo?”
“No,” I replied.
“I didn't think so,” he said. “Every time I feel like doing something nuts I drive fast, then slowly coast to a stop, and by then that crazy feeling is gone. You know what I mean? Like now, I just feel calm, cool, and collected.”
I did, but it didn't last long enough. Just when I was trying to feel free and easy and listen to the birds, I thought
about my money. Dad always said only rich people and fools didn't worry about money. I guess I wasn't either.
And I was also worried about Cush. He could owe people money, spend wildly, and still relax. I didn't owe a cent and I was nervous about everything. I didn't think he was rich, so maybe he was a fool.
“You ready to kick some butt?” he asked.
“Ready,” I replied.
“Then put your game face on,” he said and passed his broad hand across his face. As he did so his expression changed from carefree to deadly serious.
“Let's clean house,” he cried out, and started the engine.
In a few minutes we arrived at a sugarcane plantation. We drove down a red dirt path that was rutted from heavy trucks. On either side the green sugarcane stretched out in rows. It looked like corn.
Where the cane stopped, we pulled up to an old stone bull pen. Cars and trucks were parked every which way around the tall walls. There was a solid wooden gate that was so large there was a small human-size door built into it. Cush knocked rapidly on the door. It opened a crack, then all the way.
“Cush man!” shouted a jolly voice. “Come in.”
I stepped in behind him.
“Jack,” Cush said, “this is Felix. Felix, this is my partner, Jack.”
We shook hands. “Hope you brought lots of money,” Felix said.
“I plan to leave with more than I arrived with,” I replied.
“
That is
why he is my partner,” Cush said gleefully, and slapped me across the back. “Now let's go find our golden goose.”
To one side of the bull pen was a circular pit surrounded by rickety bleachers. They were already half filled with men shouting bets at each other while waving thick wads of money in their hands. Other men ran around recording the bets in little black books.
On the opposite side of the pen was a gathering of owners, trainers, and cages filled with princely strutting cocks. Cush waved me along.
“This is Otis,” he said, introducing me to the trainer. Then he pointed at the rooster. “And this is Cash, the king of fighting cocks. Nice name, huh?”
I nodded.
He squatted down to look at the cock. It had clipped rusty feathers, a fluffy white neck, and a bouquet of black plumes bristling up from its tail. Its head was blood red and chopped the air like a hatchet blade as it pecked the wire cage. It paced back and forth on long strong legs with wide yellow feet. It looked mad. It looked like it was
always
mad.
“Bet everything you got,” Otis suggested. “It's feeling strong today.” He held out his arm and showed us a row of peck marks.
“That's all I need to know,” Cush replied, looking up at him. “Let's go all the way.” He took a balled-up handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. He opened it and handed Otis a pair of shiny spurs. “I sharpened them myself,” he said.
Otis held one up to the light. They were razor-sharp
blades mounted on a steel cuff small enough to fit around Cash's legs. “Nice job,” he remarked. “I'll get him ready.”
We took our seats on the bleachers and waited. There were no other kids. There were no women. There were just men and they were busy arguing and exchanging money.
“Let me do the talking,” Cush said as his eyes swiveled back and forth. “These guys are cutthroat bettors.” When he saw someone he knew, he stood up and carefully tiptoed through the crowd.
As soon as he was gone a man turned to me. He had one cloudy eye and was missing most of his teeth. He ran a long dirty finger across his wrinkled throat. “Cush's Cash is a punk bird,” he pronounced. “You'll be roasting him for dinner.”

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