There was a place to sit at the end of the third row in the nearest tier. I climbed up there and rested my hams, scanning the crowd. Close to a hundred fanciers and spectators, all but half a dozen of them men. Mixed crowd in terms of age. And of dress: overalls and Levi’s jeans, sports outfits, even one guy in a jacket and tie.
“Pit!”
The handlers were back in the center of the ring, and at the referee’s cry they released the tails of their birds. The two cocks met in midair, seemed to hang suspended for three or four seconds amid a storm of feathers, blurred yellow feet slashing at each other; then they dropped, paused, lashed out, sparred, rolled against the wall and broke apart again. This time their reaction was to circle, ruffs up, heads low, exchanging fierce glances. The strawberry blonde set up her chant again, almost keening the words now.
I gave my attention to the crowd. None of the women was Gianna Fornessi. None was under thirty except for the big blonde, and from the look of her she was a lot older than her years. At first I couldn’t locate Chet Valconazzi, because he wasn’t wearing the Stetson hat today. Then I spotted his curly black head and flushed face in the front row on the far side; he had a fistful of cash and appeared to be taking bets on the half-dead gray cock.
“Five to one on my Whitehackle!” I heard him shout. “I’ll take five to one on my Whitehackle!”
Jack Bisconte? No sign of him. John Valconazzi? One of the men seated at the weighing table, I thought, the white-maned one in the middle—
Renewed action in the pit, sudden and furious. The two cocks came up off the floor and seemed to explode against each other with a tremendous whacking noise, like two pieces of wood banged hard together. Feathers flew, steel flashed. After a few beats they dropped again, with not much more damage done ... except that the savagery of the attack had further weakened both birds, the battered Whitehackle to a near-dazed state. The red stag—I heard somebody label it a Roundhead—stayed above its adversary on each subsequent clash, finally drove it to the ground and pecked relentlessly at its head, working on the one good eye.
“Kill him, Red, kill him, Red, kill him!”
The Whitehackle appeared to be completely blind now, its entire head a welter of blood. But it kept retaliating by instinct, legs drawn back with the gleaming spurs high—and the other rooster was too exhausted to avoid every random slash. One needle point ripped open the Roundhead’s breast. And when that happened I heard Chet Valconazzi’s voice lift high and frenzied above all the others, exhorting the Whitehackle as the strawberry blonde was exhorting the Roundhead.
Neither bird had strength left to get up in the air; all they could do was shuffle, their peckings and spur-strikes growing slower, more sporadic. This listless sparring seemed to go on and on, until at last the red cock staggered and went down on its side, couldn’t rise again and lay there quivering with its torn breast staining the sand. The gray weaved around stupidly, feeling for the other with beak and spurs. At last one blind thrust drove bloody steel into the Roundhead’s neck, upward into the brain.
The Whitehackle was still staggering back and forth, pecking the air, when its handler stepped forward and scooped it up; then the bird uttered a feeble crow of victory. Chet Valconazzi’s answering crow was loud, elated. The blonde had let out a moaning sigh when the red died; now she began to swear bitterly. Among the rest of the watchers the end of the hack brought about a release of tension that had an almost sizzling quality, like a sudden bleeding of steam from an overloaded boiler. I could feel the release myself—an unpleasant sensation that made me feel crawly, unclean. Sweat oiled my neck and face; I got my handkerchief out and sponged it away.
The Roundhead’s handler removed the ravaged corpse from the pit. The Whitehackle’s victory reward was a quick death: It was too badly hurt to survive and so its dark-skinned handler broke its neck, then tossed it into a wheelbarrow that waited near the far wall. The red cock’s remains went into the barrow too.
Chickens, that was all they were—just chickens. That was one of the arguments cockers used. Another was that mortal combat was the very nature of the gamecock; that the stags always fought fair and never quit and that death in battle, with a chance to defend themselves, to survive, was a better fate than accorded the bulls in bullfights and a far better fate than having their heads whacked off with an ax so they could be served up in somebody’s fricassee pot. Gallantry, raw courage—and the most exciting sport on earth. That was cockfighting, its proponents claimed, a cult and a diversion born a thousand years before Christ.
Rationalizations, every one.
What I had just witnessed was blood sacrifice, pure and simple. That blonde sitting there ... she didn’t give a hoot in hell about gallantry and raw courage and proud death. She wanted her bloodlust sated. They all did. Breeding their sacrificial birds, gathering in sweatboxes like this one, rationalizing it all so neatly in the name of sport ... shedding their veneer of civilization, giving in to atavistic cruelty and male narcissism. The Roundhead and the Whitehackle were only chickens; but intelligent men ought to be able to rise above the level of birds and beasts....
I made myself concentrate on the conversation that rose and fell around me. Listen and learn. I learned that today’s main was a contest between Chet Valconazzi, who mainly bred Whitehackles and Shawlnecks, and a breeder from Fresno, Ed Levinsky, who fought Roundheads, Dominiques, and Arkansas Travelers. Levinsky did his own handling; Valconazzi’s handler was a Mexican farmhand and experienced cocker named Miguel. The hack just completed was the second of the day, with Valconazzi Whitehackles winning both. He had a knot of men around him now, at the edge of the pit, and he was strutting a little for them like one of his own roosters. As I’d guessed, the white-haired man at the table, busy weighing birds and chalking numbers on the blackboard, was old John.
But that was all I learned. I tried to start a dialogue with the farmer type sitting next to me, but he wasn’t having any; he gave me a blank look when I mentioned Gianna Fornessi’s name and returned his attention to the pit, where Miguel and Ed Levinsky were working with two fresh, sleek fighting stags. Each held his bird under one arm, head away and legs raised in front, and with a little saw each cut off a bit of the natural spur on the back of the cock’s leg; then they wrapped the spur with chamois and tied on the wicked steel gaffs. The heels were an inch-and-a-quarter in length, one of the nearby fanciers said. He was unhappy because short heels were being used; he preferred two-inch spurs, or better yet, “those big knives they put on the slashers down in Mexico.”
There was a steady hum of noise in the big room—cocking talk, bets being made, birds making throaty challenges, benches creaking as people shifted about—but it quickly ebbed and died when the referee moved to the center of the pit and held up his hands. An immediate settling down, then; an air of expectancy, a subtle rebuilding of the tension.
“Five-twos this time, five-twos,” the referee intoned. Bird weights: five pounds, two ounces each. “Chet Valconazzi with a prize Shawlneck, Ed Levinsky with a Dominique. Standard rules—forty—minute time limit or kill.”
A ripple of good-natured cheering for one bird or the other. Valconazzi’s voice: “Five hundred on my Shawl—any takers? Who’s brave, come on, come on, who wants some action?” Somebody else’s voice: “I do. Gimme two hundred of that, Chet.” Somebody else’s: “I’ll take a hundred. You can’t stay lucky all day, by God.” A woman’s: “Here we go, here we go!”
The handlers moved forward. In their grasps both roosters gleamed in the brilliant light, hackles raised, wings low, combs and wattles trimmed close. The cocks’ eagerness to get at each other was contagious; the renewed hunger for action, for blood, was like a living presence in there. When the Dominique waved its bottle and started to crow, I could feel the hackles rise on the back of my own neck.
“Bill your cocks!”
Levinsky and Miguel stepped closer, holding their charges forward. The hackle feathers on each rooster rose in wide-open fans; the heads
darted forth and back in a series of lightninglike pecks.
“Pit!”
There was no midair collision this time when the handlers let go. The birds flapped down and stayed there, feet shifting restlessly, matching venomous stares. This went on for nearly half a minute before the first attack, a blur of steel and flying feathers ... and I stopped watching. I’d seen enough hopeless, mindless savagery. Enough of this kind of death in the afternoon.
I watched the Valconazzis instead. Chet was wild with it, sweat streaming off his narrow face, eyes so wide they looked exophthalmic, spittle glistening on his mouth and chin as he entreated his Shawl. The old man’s interest was intense but oddly passionless—the unblinking gaze of a connoisseur who sees and calculates everything that is happening in and around the pit. For him, cockfighting was more than a sport and an avocation—it was an intricate pageant enacted for his personal pleasure and careful analysis. For his son, it was the fighting itself; it was the blood.
This third pitting seemed interminable, with dozens of “Handle! Thirty seconds!” and “Handle! Forty-five seconds!” and “Pit!” When it finally ended—I didn’t see or care how—the Dominique was the victor. Two hacks to one now, in Chet’s favor. Nine more to go ... ten, if the first twelve ended in a six-all standoff and a thirteenth was necessary to decide the main. There would be an intermission after the sixth hack, so the fanciers and spectators could partake of the food and refreshments, but that wouldn’t be nearly enough respite for me. There was no way I could stick it through to the end. The heat and the frenzy already had my insides churning.
I got up, moved around a little. Tried again, vainly, to talk to a couple of the men about Gianna Fornessi. This was not the place for questions. The watchers’ minds were so focused on the cocking, it was as if they were all subjects in an experiment in mass hypnosis.
Fourth hack. Won within the first two minutes, mercifully, by a Levinsky Roundhead to even the main at two hacks apiece. Chet Valconazzi was so upset by the outcome that he climbed into the pit and cursed the bloody remains of his Whitehackle, kicked the corpse clear over the wall toward the wheelbarrow. The crowd laughed; the strawberry blonde jeered him in a shrill voice. And I got out of there. Quick, before I puked up what was left of my Larkspur Landing lunch.
I walked slowly through the barn, taking deep breaths. Even the manure-and-hay smell was a relief. Outside, now a breeze had blown up; I leaned against one of the open doors, letting it dry my sweat.
The lanky ranchhand was still standing watch, one shoulder resting comfortably against the barn wall twenty feet away, his booted feet crossed at the ankles. He wasn’t looking my way; his eyes were on the women still arranging food and drink under the oaks. When my stomach quit kicking I went over to where he was.
“Hot inside,” I said conversationally. “Fresh air tastes good.”
He nodded, shrugged, reached into his shirt pocket for a tin of Copenhagen. With his thumb and forefinger he withdrew a generous pinch and worked it inside his mouth until he had it seated where he wanted it between cheek and gum.
I said, “I didn’t see Gianna in there.”
“Who?”
“Gianna. Young Italian babe, dark hair, nice body. You know, John’s friend.”
“Oh,” he said, “yeah.”
“Not around today, I guess.”
“Ain’t seen her.”
“She was here last week, though.”
“Guess she was, Saturday.”
“How about Sunday?”
“No cocking on Sunday.”
“Oh? Supposed to be, wasn’t there?”
“Supposed to be,” he agreed.
“How come there wasn’t?”
“Mr. Valconazzi called it off.”
“Why was that?”
“He was away on business.”
“Ranch business?”
“Horse business. Morgan breeder over in Nevada decided to sell off a couple of prize studs.”
“Ah. When’d he leave for Nevada?”
“Saturday afternoon.”
“Before the cocking was finished?”
“Before it started. Soon’s the breeder called him.”
“He go alone?”
“Seems like,” the lanky guy said. His eyes, narrowed down a bit now, roamed over my face. “You a friend of Mr. Valconazzi’s?”
“More a friend of a friend of Chet’s.”
“Who’d that be?”
“Jack. Jack Bisconte.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You know Jack, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seen him around today?”
“Nope.”
“How about last Saturday? Was he here?”
“Seems like.”
“Gianna leave with him, you remember?”
“Nope.”
“No, she didn’t or no, you don’t remember?”
“Don’t remember.”
The sun-squinty eyes had gotten even narrower. “You say you know Chet. Whyn’t you ask him?”
“Well, you know how it is.”
“Can’t say I do. How is it?”
I put on a sheepish grin. “That Gianna,” I said. “She’s got me drooling on myself. I’d like to get to know her, if you know what I mean, but I don’t want to rock any boats.”
“Uh-huh.”
“With either John or Chet.”
“Uh-huh.”
“John’s possessive about her—real possessive.”
“Seems like.”
“And Chet ... well, I’m not sure how he feels.”
No immediate response. From inside the barn annex, the cockers and their worshipers were screaming approval at another kill or near kill. Up under the oaks, the women continued to work industriously but placidly, as if they were volunteers at a church social.
Pretty soon the lanky guy said in neutral tones, “You want some friendly advice, mister?”
“Sure, why not. I’ve got an open mind.”
“I was you, I’d back off on that Gianna woman.”
“Why?”
“Just would, I was you.”
“Because of John or Chet—”
I broke off because he wasn’t listening; he was all through with me. He shoved off the wall, spat brownly, wiped his mouth, and walked away into the barn.
Chapter Twenty
I WANDERED UP toward the house. It was cool under the oaks, the air heavily scented with food aromas. Some repast: two long tables sagged under the weight of cold cuts, cheeses, breads, salads, hot dishes. One of the hot dishes was chicken and dumplings. Made with the bodies of cocks killed in battle? It wouldn’t surprise me. Pagan societies ate animals and fowl that had died for their amusement; why not these modern-day blood-worshipers?
There was nothing for me there except a mug of ice-cold beer from one of the kegs. The women all looked to be ranchers’ wives and daughters; most would know about Gianna, but none of those who did would talk about her to a stranger, much less admit that she was a prostitute keeping company with their host. I stayed just long enough for the beer to ease the dryness in my throat and complete the settling process in my stomach. Then, girding myself, I walked slowly back to the barn.
The lanky ranchhand was sitting on an old milking stool just inside the entrance. He looked at me as I came in, looked away without speaking. Minding his business and letting me mind mine.
Inside the annex there was a lull between hacks. The main now stood at three-to-two in favor of Ed Levinsky, but that hadn’t daunted Chet Valconazzi’s fervor. He was still holding court, still arrogantly predicting victory, still taking high-stakes bets from all comers. I sat where I had earlier, well away from where he was.
Too soon to suit me the sixth hack got under way, between a Valconazzi Shawl and an Arkansas Traveler bred by Levinsky. Big stags, these, at six pounds each, and fierce in both demeanor and action; even at opposite sides of the pit, held tightly by their handlers, they beat their wings, grumbling and tra
sh-talking each other in a treble key. Partly for that reason, and partly because this was the last hack before the mealtime intermission, the atmosphere in there seemed even more supercharged. When the referee shouted, “Bill your cocks!” and the handlers brought their birds forward, the racket surged and rolled almost painfully against my eardrums, like thunder in a vacuum.
Sweating again, I turned my attention inward—replayed and reexamined my conversation with the ranchhand. If what he’d told me was accurate, John Valconazzi would seem to have no connection with Gianna’s disappearance. She’d been here when he left the ranch last Saturday, had remained for most if not all of the day’s cockfighting; and by the time the main was over, old John would have been in Nevada. Or would he? Suppose he’d doubled back for some reason, say, to catch Gianna and another man together.... No, hell, I couldn’t buy that. He may have been possessive, as the ranchhand had indicated, but jealous to the point of violence? Over a hooker, even a young and attractive hooker?
All right, assume John did go to Nevada as advertised. By leaving as abruptly as he had, he might have been the inadvertent catalyst for whatever had happened to Gianna. One of the other men tries to take advantage of the fact that she’s available ... makes a pass, is rejected, retaliates with violent anger, and homicide is the result. That I could buy. Chet? He was into rough sex, and it was obvious that blood excited him; that kind of man is a walking powder keg. Dick Morris? He’d already had her, yes, but at what he considered too high a price. And if you dug down under that icy exterior, deep inside his prudish core, you might find something ugly. Bisconte? He was another story. The only motive I could figure for him was problematical: Gianna had decided she didn’t need a pimp any longer, wanted to open shop on her own, and he’d taken exception. It could even be that Ashley Hansen had made the same decision, that that was Bisconte’s motive for killing her. Yet it didn’t ring true somehow. Didn’t feel right to me.
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