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.
13
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.
I was so anxious to win the Tifton meet, I put thirty cocks into conditioning just to shape up six top fighters. Working thirty cocks daily rarely gave me a free hour to myself during the day, and I was usually asleep by eight thirty. Sunday is not a holiday for a cockfighter when he has birds to condition for a derby. There were too many things I had to do on Sunday to fight at the Ocala pit, but I sent Omar to the pit to fight some of the cocks that peaked fast. He didn’t lose a single hack out of the eight battles he fought.
Our wallets were growing fatter.
On the morning of November 9, we left for Tifton, Georgia, at five, and arrived at the Tifton game club at three the same afternoon. We signed the derby contracts and were assigned to a cockhouse and given a padlock for the door.
Jack Burke was an entry in the Tifton derby, and he looked me up that evening after supper. Omar had stayed in our motel room to watch television, but I was edgy and drove out to the pit to take a final look at the twelve cocks we had brought along. The birds were roosting all right. As I locked the door and lit a cigarette, Jack Burke approached me through the dusk.
“Evenin’, Frank,” he greeted me cordially. “It’s nice to see you again.” Jack looked prosperous in a double-breasted blue worsted suit, a wide paisley necktie, and black-and-white shoes.
“I don’t suppose you heard the good news,” he said, smiling bleakly.
I waited for him to tell it.
“I got married!” He laughed. “Bet that surprises you, don’t it? Yes, sir! Sooner or later they catch up with the best of us, Frank!” He hesitated. “I married Dody White, Frank,” he added softly.
I felt sorry for Jack, but I shook hands with him again anyway. So White was Dody’s last name. I had wondered about that. And now she was Mrs. Dody Burke.
“I wanted to bring Dody along to the derby, Frank, but she wouldn’t come because you were here. I tried to tell her you weren’t the kind who would rake up the past, but she w
ouldn’t believe me. She seems to have the idea that you can talk, and she’s afraid you’ll say something about her. I know you can’t talk, but I couldn’t convince Dody.” He hesitated. “Can you use your voice, Frank?”
I smiled and flipped the butt of my cigarette in an arc to the ground. The idea that I would ever say anything about Burke’s wife whether I could talk or not was patently ridiculous. And Burke knew it. Dody had undoubtedly forced him to ask me to keep quiet about our former alliance. For an instant I felt sorry for him, and then I despised him for being so damned weak and pussy-whipped.
“I feel like a fool!” Burke blushed. For a man in his midforties, the ability to blush is quite a feat.
“Well,” Burke said, “I’ll bring her along to the Plant City derby, and introduce you all just like you’d never seen each other before. That way, Dody’s mind’ll be at ease. All right?”
I nodded and looked away. I could almost smell the rancorous acid burning Jack’s insides. What a comedown for Jack Burke, to let a little tramp like Dody humiliate him this way.
“Now, to business!” Jack said briskly, in his regular voice. “D’you think you and that new partner of yours can show enough cocks after the Plant City meet to fight me in an old-fashioned main?”
The decision was up to me. I was positive Omar wouldn’t object to the challenge. Burke fed almost twice as many cocks as we did, but I had a fierce hankering to beat him in a two-entry main. I lowered my chin a fraction and spat between his feet.
“Good! I’ll make the necessary arrangements to get the pit on the thirty-first, the day after the derby. How does two hundred dollars a fight sound, with a thousand on the odd fight?”
For the third time in as many minutes, I shook hands with Burke.
He started to say something else, changed his mind, and walked away through the deepening dusk toward the parking lot. Burke was still a damned good man. In time he would learn how to handle Dody. But the memory of this humiliating episode would rankle him forever. I knew this, and I knew just as well that he would eventually blame me instead of himself. That’s the way men are.
The next day we lost only one fight in the six-cock derby, but it was one fight too many. Jack Burke didn’t lose a single fight, and picked up the thousand-dollar purse. Getting close only means something when it comes to pitching horseshoes. But despite the lost fight, Omar had placed enough judicious bets to add nine hundred dollars to our bankroll.
The money was welcome, of course, but the Tifton loss was made even more depressing by the sad news that Martha Middleton, Ed Middleton’s wife, had died of a heart attack. Her obituary appeared in the same issue of the Southern Cockfighter that carried the announcement of Ed Middleton’s retirement from the sport.
I had liked the old lady, and I tried to write Ed a letter of condolence. But after a futile attempt to write a decent letter that didn’t sound banal or morbid, I gave up on the idea and sent him a commercial condolence card by special delivery. Not much of writer himself, Ed Middleton acknowledged receipt of my condolences by thanking me on the back of a picture postcard of Disney World. His card was waiting for me when I returned to Ocala.
There was also a letter waiting for me in my mailbox from Frances, my fat sister-in-law. Frances was the last person I ever expected to hear from. After two stiff drinks and a wait of one hour, I made myself open the letter.
Dear Frank,
Only a few short weeks ago I hated you and would have been glad to shoot you. But now I see your wisdom in getting Randall out of the terrible rut he was in. He won’t write you, because he’s too proud. But he loves you and he’s your very own brother and I want you to write him soon.
It was an awful shock to move out of what I considered my home for life, especially knowing that wreckers were going to tear it down the next day.
But I forgive you, Frank, for what it did for Randy.
We could have moved in with Daddy in Macon, but Randy wouldn’t do it. We rented a room in a boarding-house in Macon instead—and Frank, Randy hasn’t had a single drink since the morning we left the farm!
He found a position right away. You remember how he used to dig through those law books day after day? Well, he took some of his findings down to the White Citizen’s Council and they were actually amazed at some of the loopholes he found in the new bussing laws. Anyway, they hired him as a full-time WCC counselor with a retainer of eight thousand dollars a year! And it’s all been so wonderful for me, too. Randy takes me to all the meetings and I’ve met ever so many nice new people! His speeches are just wonderful, Frank, and he gets one hundred dollars and expenses every time he talks. Next Monday, we’re going to the WCC rally in Atlanta and Randy is going to talk about the black-power movement. I’m proud enough to bust and his picture will be in the paper! Next Monday, in the Constitution, but I’ll cut it out and send you a copy.
I can’t tell you how happy I am about Randy’s success. Make up with your brother, Frank. Please?
He loves you and so do I!
All my love, Frances
I had no intention of writing Randall and making up with him. But I appreciated the news from Frances. I had feared that the two of them would appear at my Ocala farm some morning, begging to be taken in—and I would have been forced to shelter them. Now that Randall was finally on his own, he could go his way and I would go mine. I didn’t answer Frances either, but I saved the envelope because it had their Macon address.
When Christmastime came, I would send them a card. Peace on Earth. Good Will toward Men! Anytime Randall really wanted to make up with me, all he had to do was to send me the three hundred dollars he owed me.
It was my fault that we lost the Plant City derby, although no one can win them all, no matter how good his gamecocks are. But I had concentrated on the selection and the conditioning of the cocks for the post-derby main with Jack Burke, and Omar had done most of the conditioning for the derby. I can’t blame Omar for the loss. He did a good conscientious job. I did feel, however, that if I had helped him more we would have come out better than third place. There was some consolation in the fact that Jack Burke finished fourth. Like me, Jack had undoubtedly concentrated his efforts on preparing for our main.
The Texas entry of John McCoy and Colonel Bob Moore were the winners of the derby, and it was no disgrace to lose to them. These partners are two of the biggest names in U.S. cockfighting.
Like a bridge player who can remember every important hand he held in a rubber of bridge five or ten years back, a cockfighter can remember the details of every pitting in an important cockfight. The details of the two-entry main between Jack Burke and myself are still as vivid in my mind as if it were held ten minutes ago. But I like the way Tex Higdon reported the event in the American Gamefowl Quarterly.
Tex had been reporting cockfights for game-fowl magazines for twenty years or more, and he’s a top fight pit reporter. And yet, hardly a season goes by when Tex doesn’t get into one or two fistfights for his pains. His way of writing rubs a lot of high-strung cockfighters the wrong way, especially when they are on the receiving end of his sarcasm. But his reporting is conscientious when it comes to accuracy. It takes a damned good eye to catch fast action in the pit. The following is a tear sheet of his article from the American Gamefowl Quarterly:
Red Heels At Plant City!
BY TEX HIGDON
Plant City Florida, November 31—If you’re looking for the results of the Southern Conference Plant City Derby, held November 30th, you’d better look elsewhere in these pages. This Texan is reporting the Main between the two master cockers, Jack Burke and silent Frank Mansfield. By the way, folks, Frank has gone out and got himself a partner after all these years, a New York country boy with the worst looking black beard your reporter has seen in a month of Sundays. It’s a good thing Frank don’t talk anymore. His new sidekick, Omar Baradinsky, does enough talking for three cockfighters!
The Main was a real old-fashioned-type event, well worth staying over
for in Plant City another day. I wish we had more mains like this one, or at least more mains. This is an old cockpit, but there’s plenty of room for three hundred people. The main pit is below ground, the way they ought to be; there are plenty of cockhouses, and clean latrines for visitors, plus a drag pit that’s better than most regular pits I’ve seen at supposedly high-class game clubs. Pit operator-referee Tom Doyle sells toasted cheese sandwiches for a dollar apiece, and that’s an outrage, but as long as people buy them, he’ll probably keep the same price. Next time I visit Plant City, this Texas boy will bring his own lunch!
Referee Tom Doyle announced right off: “If you people violate our rules, have yourself a few too many drinks and get tough, you’re just right for me to handle!” Tom Doyle is big enough for the crowd to believe him. They were downright cowed, and hip pints were well hidden.
There were three checkweights, 5:00, 6:05, and shake, as set up by Jack Burke. Frank won the toss and decided to fight from the bottom weights up. Twenty-six cocks were shown by both cockers and thirteen fell in.
No. One. Both show 5:00 cocks, Burke a Brady Roundhead, Mansfield an Allen Roundhead. Frank broke through early and then slowed up about the 12th pitting. He was blinded in the 20th right after they went to breast on the time call. The Brady was a hardhead that kept trying, took plenty of punishment, and broke counts as fast as the Allen Roundhead took them. In the 48th pitting Jack Burke won with a down cock that got the count and kept it while his opponent breathed gently down his neck but quit pecking.
No. Two. Burke a 5:01 Claret cross; Mansfield a 5:02 Mellhorn Black. This was a bang-up 1st pitting, followed by a dozen dirty buckles in the 2nd. Frank had the best cutter, and in the 18th Jack stayed put on his score. When they went to breast in the 25th the Mellhorn Black kicked like a taxpayer and won in the 30th when Burke carried his bird out.
No. Three. Burke showed an Alabama Pumpkin (if I ever saw one) bred by his brother Freddy in Vero Beach. Mansfield a Middleton Gray, 5:06. Frank had a great shuffler that wasn’t even touched. He was over the Burke chicken in the 1st pitting like a short-circuited electric blanket, uncoupled him in the 2nd, and won in the 5th where Burke carried out a dead one. This made the Gray a five-time winner, according to Mr. Baradinsky—who made a special trip to the press box to relieve me of fifty dollars—and I could very well believe it.
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