Cockfighter

by Cockfighter (retail) (epub)

  The pick fell from my fingers and I looked numbly at the guitar. The room was silent as death. A moment later, like an exploding dam, the room rocked with the sound of slapping hands and stomping feet. I fled into the dressing room with the guitar still clutched by the neck in my left hand. The James Boys, who had been listening by the arched, curtained doorway to the hall, followed me into the small room, and Dick handed me the bottle.

  “I’ll be a sonabitch, Frank,” he said warmly. “I never heard finer guitar in my life. You can be a James Boy anytime you want. Go ahead, take another snort!”

  I sat down, lit a cigarette and studied my trembling fingers. My throat was dry and tight and for the first time in my life I felt lonely, really lonely, and I didn’t know why. I had buried all those memories for so many years, it was frightening to know that they were still in my head.

  The James Boys returned to the stand, leaving the door open, and I could hear the heated strings of their first number, “The Big D Rock.”

  “Mr. Mansfield—” I looked up at the sound of Lee Vernon’s voice, and got to my feet quickly as he ushered in ahead of him the young man and the woman who had been sitting at his table out front. “I want to introduce you to Mrs. Bernice Hungerford and Tommy Hungerford.” He turned and smiled at the woman. “Mr. Frank Mansfield.”

  “Tommy is my nephew,” Bernice Hungerford said quickly, holding out her hand. I shook it briefly, and then shook hands with her nephew. His expression was studiedly bored, but he was slightly nervous.

  Mrs. Hungerford was a truly striking woman, now that I could see her under the bright lights of the dressing room. A white cashmere stole was draped over her left arm, and she clutched a gold-mesh evening bag in her left hand. Her burnt sienna eyes never left my face. I was amused by the scattering of freckles on her nose. The freckles on her face and bare shoulders belied her age sure enough.

  With a straight face, Vernon said: “Mrs. Hungerford was very impressed by your concert, Mr. Mansfield. When I told her that you had studied under Segovia in Seville for ten years, she said she could tell that you had by your intricate fretwork.”

  Bernice Hungerford bobbed her head up and down delightedly and shook a teasing forefinger at me. “And I recognized the tone poem, too.” She winked and flashed a bright smile. Her teeth were small but remarkably well matched and white. “You see, Mr. Mansfield,” she continued, “I know a few things about music. When I hear Bach, it doesn’t make any difference if it’s piano or guitar, I can recognize the style. That’s what I told Mr. Vernon, didn’t I, Lee?” The woman turned to the implacable Lee Vernon who was covering his drunkenness masterfully. Only the stiffness of his back gave him away.

  “You certainly did, Bernice. But I had to tell her, Mr. Mansfield. She thought you were playing a Bach fugue, but it was a natural mistake. She didn’t know that it was a special Albert Schweitzer composition written on a theme of Bach’s. Quite a natural mistake, indeed.”

  “If we don’t get back to your guests, their throats will be dreadfully poached, Auntie dear,” Tommy said lazily. “We’ve been gone, you know, for the better part of an hour, and that’s a long time just to refurbish the liquor supply.” The careless elisions of his voice were practiced, it seemed to me.

  “But if we take Mr. Mansfield back with us, we’ll be forgiven.” Mrs. Hungerford patted her nephew’s arm.

  “I’ll certainly try,” he replied cheerfully.

  As soon as they had gone, Vernon closed the door, leaned against it and buried his face in his arms. His shoulders shook convulsively, and for a moment I thought he crying. Then he let out a whoop of laughter, turned away from the door and sat down. Recovering, he wiped his streaming eyes with a forefinger and said, “I’m sorry, Frank, but the gag was too good to resist. When she started that talk about Bach and Segovia at the table, I had to go her one better. But it’s a break for you. She has a few guests at her house, and only stopped by here to pick up some Scotch. I told her that she mustn’t miss your performance, and when you came out with that tricky, weird chording and impressed her so much, I thought it might be a break for you. Anyway, the upshot is that she wants you to go home with her and play for her guests. Should be worth a twenty-dollar bill to you, at least.”

  I shrugged into my corduroy jacket. All through the talk about Bach and Segovia I had thought they were attempting some kind of joke at my expense, but apparently Mrs. Hungerford actually believed I had studied under the old guitarist. Vernon had gone along with the gag, which was a break for me, although I detested the condescending sonofabitch. If she wanted to pay me twenty dollars I would accept it, play my three songs, and then get out of her house.

  I had already made up my mind not to return to the Chez Vernon. A final concert for a group of rich people who could afford to pay for it and wouldn’t miss the money would be a fitting end to my short, unhappy musical career.

  “By the way, Frank,” Vernon said, as soon as I was ready to go, “don’t get the idea that I was trying to make fun of you by falling in with the gag. If I’d been strictly sober, I might have set her straight, but basically I poured it on so you could pick up a few extra bucks. No hard feelings?”

  I ignored his outstretched hand and brushed by him, carrying my instrument. Vernon followed me out into the club. As I stopped at the stand, to put the guitar in the case, he handed me a ten-dollar bill

  “Hell, don’t be sore about it, Frank.”

  There was a black silhouette cutout of a plyboard cat at the end of the stand. I wadded the bill in my fist and shoved it into the open mouth of the kitty before crossing the dance floor and entering the inside door to the package store. If Lee Vernon had followed me into the package store, I would have knocked his teeth out, even if he was drunk. Although I wasn’t the butt of the joke, I didn’t like to be patronized by a man I considered an inferior. But Vernon was wise enough not to come outside, and I’ve never seen him since.

  Tommy drove the Olds and Mrs. Hungerford sat between us on the wide front seat. With the guitar case between my legs, my left leg was tight against her right leg, and I could feel the warmth of her body through my corduroy trousers.

  “This isn’t exactly a party, Mr. Mansfield,” she explained, as we drove through the light traffic of the after-midnight streets. “We all attended the Jacksonville Little Theater to see Liliom, and I invited the bunch home for a cold supper and a few drinks. It was a real faux pas on my part. There’s plenty of food, but I didn’t realize I was out of Scotch. But bringing you home to play will more than make up for my oversight, I’m sure. Don’t you think so, Tommy?”

  “If they’re still there,” he observed dryly

  “Don’t worry,” Mrs. Hungerford laughed pleasantly, “I know my brother!” She turned toward me and put her hand lightly on my knee. “There are only two couples, Mr. Mansfield. Tommy’s father and mother, and Dr. Luke McGuire and his wife. Not a very large audience, I’m afraid, after what you’re accustomed to, is it?”

  In reply, I spat out the window.

  “But I know you’ll find them appreciative of good music.”

  A few minutes later we turned into a driveway guarded by two small concrete lions. Tommy parked behind a Buick on the semicircular gravel road that led back to the street. The two-story house was of red brick. Four fluted wooden columns supported a widow’s walk directly above the wide, aluminum-screened front porch. The lawn slanted gradually to the street for almost a hundred yards, broken here and there with newly planted coconut palms. The feathery tips of the young trees rattled in the wind. She was wasting money and effort attempting to grow coconut trees as far north as Jax. The subtropics start at Daytona Beach, much farther downstate.

  Mrs. Hungerford rushed ahead of us after we got out of the car. Tommy, carrying two sacked fifths of Scotch under his left arm and a six-pack of soda in his right hand, hurried after her. As I climbed the porch steps, Mrs. Hungerford switched on the overhead lights and opened the front doors. She held a finger to he
r lips as she beckoned me into the foyer with her free hand.

  “Now, you stay right here in the foyer,” Mrs. Hungerford whispered excitedly, “so I can surprise them!”

  Closing the front door softly, she followed her nephew into the living room. The voices greeting them contained a mixture of concern over the prolonged absence, and happiness at the prospect of a drink. Above the sound of their conversation, the clipped electronic voice of a newscaster rattled through his daily report of the late news.

  The foyer was carpeted in a soft shade of rose nylon. The same carpeting climbed the stairway to the walnut-balustraded second floor. A giant split-level philodendron sat in a white pot behind the door. There was a spindly-legged, leather-covered table beneath a gilded wall mirror, and a brass dish on the table held about thirty calling cards. Out of long-forgotten habit I felt a few of the cards to see if they were engraved. They were. I turned my attention to a marble cherub mounted on a square, ebony base. It was about three feet high, and the well-weathered cherub looked shyly with its dugout eyes through widespread stubby fingers. A lifted, twisted right knee hid its sex, and three fingers of the left hand were missing. I removed my cowboy hat and hung it on the thumb of the mutilated hand.

  The bored announcer was clicked off in midsentence, and Mrs. Hungerford came after me a moment later.

  “They’re all tickled to death, Mr. Mansfield,” she said happily. “Come on, they want to meet you!”

  In one corner of the large living room, Tommy was engaged behind a small bar. Two middle-aged men got out of their chairs and crossed the room to greet me. Dr. McGuire was a thickset man without a neck, and his gray hair was badly in need of cutting. Mr. Hungerford, Sr., Tommy’s father, was an older edition of his blond son, except that he no longer had his hair and the top of his head was bronzed by the Florida sun. Both of the men wore white dinner jackets and midnight blue tuxedo trousers. I acknowledged the introductions by nodding my head and shaking hands. The two wives remained seated on a long, curving white sofa, and didn’t offer their hands to be shaken.

  “I know you’re all eager to hear Mr. Mansfield play,” Bernice announced to the room at large,” but you’ll have to wait until he has a drink first.”

  Welcome news. After dropping my guitar case on the sofa, I headed for the bar.

  “There’s plenty of gin if you don’t want Scotch,” Tommy suggested.

  I poured two ounces of Scotch into a tall glass in reply, and added ice cubes and soda. An uneasy silence settled over the room as I hooked my elbows over the bar and faced the group. Bernice, or Tommy, had evidently informed them about my inability to talk, and they were disturbed by my silence. The two matrons, bulging in strapless gowns, had difficulty in averting their eyes from my face. I doubt if they meant to be rude, but they couldn’t keep from staring at me. Dr. McGuire, standing with his back to the fireplace, lit a cigar and studied the tip through his bifocals. Only Bernice was at ease, sitting comfortably on the long bench in front of the baby grand piano, apparently unaware of her guests’ discomfort. Mr. Hungerford, Sr., cleared his throat and set his glass down on a low coffee table.

  “Bernice tells us you studied under Segovia, Mr. Mansfield,” he said.

  “Yes,” Bernice replied for me, “That’s what Mr. Vernon told us, didn’t he, Tommy?”

  “That’s right. And he played a beautiful thing written by Dr. Albert Schweitzer. I hope he’ll play it again for us.”

  “African rock ‘n’ roll, I suppose,” Dr. McGuire chuckled from the fireplace. “That would be a treat!” When no one joined him in his laughter, he said quickly, “We’re very grateful you came out to play for us, Mr. Mansfield.”

  I finished my drink, lifted my eyebrows for Tommy Hungerford to mix me another. I took my guitar out of the case, and started to restring it with another G string to replace the broken one. While I restrung the guitar, Mrs. Hungerford asked her brother and the doctor to move chairs into the center of the room and form a line. She then had her guests sit in the rearranged chairs facing me, as I stood with one foot on the piano bench. Tommy Hungerford, smiling at the new seating arrangements, remained standing at the bar. I plucked and tightened the new string, and Bernice hit the G on the piano for me until I had the guitar in tune. Satisfied, I put the guitar on the bench and returned to the bar for my fresh drink. The small audience waited patiently, but Dr. McGuire glowered when Tommy insisted that I have another before I began. I shook my head, picked up my guitar and played through my three-song repertoire without pause.

  The moment I hit the last chord I smiled, bowed from the waist and put the guitar back in the case. Bernice Hungerford, who had hovered anxiously behind the row of chairs during my short concert, led the applause.

  “Is that all he’s going to play, Bernice?” the doctor asked. “I’d like to hear more.”

  “I think we all would,” his fat wife echoed.

  I shrugged, and joined Tommy at the bar for another drink.

  “No, that’s enough,” Bernice said. “Mr. Mansfield has been playing all evening and he’s tired. We shouldn’t coax him. The concert is all over. Go on home. You’ve been fed, you’ve had your drinks, now go on home.”

  Bernice herded the two wives out of the room to get their wraps, and their husbands joined Tommy and me at the bar for a nightcap.

  “You play very well, young man,” Dr. McGuire said. “Did you ever play on television?”

  I shook my head, and added Scotch to my glass to cut the soda.

  “I think you should consider television, don’t you, Tommy?”

  “Not really, sir,” Tommy wrinkled his brow. “I’m not so sure that a mass audience is ready for classical guitar music. I’m trying to recall, but I can’t remember ever hearing or seeing a string quartet on television. If I did, I can’t remember it.”

  “By God, I haven’t either!” the doctor said strongly. “And certainly the string quartet is the most civilized entertainment in the world! Don’t you agree, Mr. Mansfield?”

  I shrugged my shoulders inside my jacket, and lit a cigarette.

  He didn’t want a reply, anyway. “But there’s a definite need for serious music on TV,” he continued. “And, by God, the public should be forced to listen! No matter how stupid people are today, they can be taught to appreciate good music.” He banged his fist on the bar.

  The two middle-aged men drained their glasses quickly as Bernice came into the room, and turned to join their wives in the foyer. Bernice crossed the room, and placed a hand on my arm. So far, she had never missed a chance to touch me.

  “Mrs. McGuire would like to know if you’d consent to play for her guests next Saturday night. She’s giving a party, quite a large one, and she’s willing to—”

  I shook my head and crushed out my cigarette in a white Cinzano ashtray.

  “It’s ‘no,’ then?”

  I nodded. She smiled, turned away and returned to the foyer to say good night to her guests and break the news to Mrs. McGuire.

  “Tell me something, Mr. Mansfield,” Tommy said hesitantly. “Did you really study under Segovia?”

  I grinned, and shook my head. After setting my glass down, I picked up my guitar case. Tommy laughed, throwing his head back.

  “I didn’t think you did, but I’ll keep your secret till the day I die.”

  Bernice Hungerford returned with a smile brightening her jolly face. I didn’t know why, but I was attracted to this graceful, pleasant woman. She appeared to be so happy, so eager to please, and yet, there were tiny, tragic lines tugging at the corners of her full lips.

  “I’ll drive Mr. Mansfield back into town, Auntie,” Tommy said.

  “Oh, no you won’t!” Bernice said cheerfully. She took the guitar case out of my hand and placed it on the couch. “I’ll drive him back myself. You can just run along, Tommy. I’m going to fix Mr. Mansfield something to eat—you could eat something, couldn’t you?”

  I shrugged, then smiled. She hadn’t paid the twenty dollars ye
t, and I could always eat something. The cold buffet supper, however, didn’t appeal to me. There were several choices of lunch meat, cold pork, three different cheese dips and pickles. I looked distastefully at the buffet table.

  “Now, don’t you worry,” Bernice said, patting my arm with her small, white hand. “I won’t make you eat the remains of the cold supper. I’ll fix you some ham and eggs.”

  “Me too, Auntie dear?” Tommy grinned.

  “No, not you. Don’t you have a job of some kind to report to in the morning?”

  Tommy groaned. “Don’t remind me. Well, good night, Mr. Mansfield.” He shook hands with me, brushed his lips against his aunt’s cheek and made his departure from the room. A few moments later the lights of his Olds flashed on the picture window as he made the semicircle to the street.

  Now that we were alone in the big house, Bernice’s composure suddenly disappeared. She blushed furiously under my level stare, and then took my hand. “Come on,” she said brightly. “You can keep me company in the kitchen while I cook for you.”

  I followed her into the kitchen, and sat down at a small dinette table covered with a blue-and-white tablecloth. There were louvered windows on all three sides of the small dining alcove, but the kitchen itself, like those of most Depression-built homes, was a large one. The cooking facilities were up to date, however. In addition to a new yellow enameled electric stove, there was a built-in oven with a glass door, and a row of complicated-looking knobs beneath it.