Cockfighter

THERE WAS a burial hole in the marshy ground, about four feet square and three feet deep, on the far side of the parking area. Water was seeping visibly into the mucky pit, and the dead roosters in the bottom had begun to float.

I removed the gaffs from my dead cock’s spurs and added his body to the floating pile of dead chickens. As I put the heels away in my gaff case, Bill Sanders joined me at the edge of the communal burying pit.

“I just wanted to let you know that I got all your dough down, Frank,” he said. “Every dollar at three-to-one, and there’s nothing left.”

I shrugged and emptied the peat moss out of the aluminum coop into the hole on top of the dead chickens.

“You’re going to be all right, aren’t you? I mean, you’ll be on the Southern Conference circuit this year, and all?”

I nodded and shook hands with Sanders. As I looked down at Bill’s bald head, I noticed that the top was badly sunburned and starting to peel. The little gambler never wore a hat.

I clapped Bill on the shoulder to squeeze out a farewell. He went over to the blue Chrysler convertible and started talking to the blonde. She had evidently recovered from her upset stomach. She had remade her face, and she now listened with absorbed attention to whatever it was that Bill Sanders was telling her.

I removed the bamboo handle from the aluminum coop, collapsed the sides, and made a fairly flat, compact square out of the six frames. After locking them together with the clamps, I attached the handle again so I could carry the coop folded. A machinist in Valdosta had made two of the traveling coops for me to my own specifications and design. At one time I had considered having several made, and putting them up for sale to chicken men traveling around the country, too, but the construction costs were prohibitive to make any profit out of them. My other traveling coop was at my farm in Ocala.

Carrying my gaff case and coop, I walked back to the trailer camp. Dody met me at the door of the Love-Lee-Mobile Home with a bright, lopsided smile. Her lipstick was on crooked, and there was too much rouge on her cheeks. She wanted to look older, but the makeup made her look younger instead.

I leaned the folded coop against the side of the trailer and pointed to it with a gesture of exasperation.

“Oh!” she said. Her red lips were fixed in a fat, crooked “O” for an instant. “I’m real sorry, Frank.”

I placed my gaff case beside the coop and entered the trailer. There was a dusty leather suitcase under the bed, and I wiped the scuffed surfaces clean with a dirty T-shirt I found on top of the built-in dresser. I unstrapped the suitcase, opened it on the bed, and began to pack. There wasn’t too much to put into it. Most of my clothes were on the farm. I packed my clean underwear, two clean white shirts, and then searched the trailer for my dirty shirts. I found them in a bucket of cold water beneath the sink. Dody had been promising to wash and iron them for me for the past three days, but just like everything else, she hadn’t gotten around to doing it. I couldn’t very well pack wet shirts in the suitcase on top of clean dry clothing, so I left the dirty shirts in the bucket.

In the tiny bathroom I gathered up my toilet articles and zipped them into a blue nylon Dropkit. When I packed the Dropkit into the suitcase, Dody began to evidence an avid interest in my actions.

Despite the fact that I had never said so much as a single word to her in the three weeks we had been living together, she persisted in asking me questions that couldn’t be answered by an affirmative nod, a negative waggle of my head, or an explanatory gesture of some kind. If I had answered every foolish question she put to me in writing, I could have filled up two notebooks a day.

I tossed two pairs of clean blue jeans into the open suitcase, and then undressed as far as my shorts. I pulled on a pair of gray-green corduroy trousers, and put on my best shirt, a black oxford cloth Western shirt with white pearl buttons. The jodhpur boots I was wearing were black and comfortable, and they were fastened with buckles and straps. I had ordered them by mail from a bootmaker in El Paso, Texas, and had paid forty-five dollars for them. They were the only shoes I had with me. I untied the red bandanna from around my neck and exchanged it for a square of red silk, tying a loose knot and tucking the ends inside my collar before I buttoned the top shirt button. It was much too hot to wear the matching corduroy coat to my trousers, so I added it to the suitcase. The coat would come in handy in northern Florida.

“You aren’t leaving, are you, Frank?” Dody asked worriedly. “I mean, are we leaving the trailer?”

I nodded impatiently, and searched through a dozen drawers and compartments before I found my clean socks. There were only three pairs, white cotton with elastic tops. I usually wear white socks. Colored socks make my feet sweat. I put the socks into the suitcase.

There were five packages of Kools left, a half can of lighter fluid and a package of flints. I put a fresh pack of Kools in my pocket, and tossed the remaining packs, fluid and flints into the suitcase. After one last look around I closed the lid and buckled the straps. To get my guitar from under the bed I had to lie flat on the floor and reach for it. The guitar was now the substitute for my voice, and my ability to play it is what had attracted Dody to me in the first place. When I needed a woman again, the guitar would help me get one.

I carried the guitar case and suitcase into the combination kitchen-living-dining room.

“Why don’t you answer me!” Dody yelled, pounding me on the back with her double fists. “You drive me almost crazy sometimes. You pretend like you can’t talk, but I know damned well you can! I’ve heard you talking in your sleep. Now answer me, damn you! Where’re we going?”

I drank a glass of water at the sink, set the glass down on the sideboard, and pointed in a northerly direction.

“I don’t consider that an answer! North could be anywhere. Do you mean your farm in Ocala?”

Dody had an irritating voice. It was high and twangy, and there was a built-in nasal whine. I certainly was sick of listening to her voice.

The pink slip for the Caddy and the mobile home were in the drawer of the end table by the two-seater plastic couch. I opened the drawer, removed the pink slips and insurance papers and put them on the Masonite dinette table. In the linen cupboard of the narrow hallway I found a ruled writing pad and a dirty, large brown Manila envelope. I took the five twenty-dollar bills out of the utensil cupboard and sat down at the table. Now that I had lost, I was happy about having the foresight to hide the money from Dody to cover my bet with Burke.

Standing at the sink, her arms folded across her breasts, Dody glared at me with narrowed eyes. Her lips were poked out sullenly and drawn down at the corners. I put the insurance policies, pink slips and money into the envelope. With my ballpoint lead pencil I wrote out a bill of sale on the top sheet of the ruled pad:

To Whom It May Concern,

I, Frank Mansfield, hereby transfer the ownership of a 1963 Cadillac sedan, and one Love-Lee-Mobile Home to Jack Burke, in full payment of a just and honorable gambling debt.

(Signed) Frank Mansfield

That would do it, I decided. If Burke wanted to transfer the pink slips and insurance to his own name, the homemade bill of sale would be sufficient proof of ownership.

Although I answered with a short, negative shake of my head, Dody rushed across the narrow space, snatched the pad from the table and read it anyway. Her flushed face paled as her lips moved perceptibly with each word she read.

I nodded, curiously watching her face. The girl was too young to have control over her features. Every emotion she felt was transmitted to her pretty, mobile face. Her facial expressions underwent a rapid exchange of dismay, anger, frustration and fear, settling finally on a fixed look of righteous indignation.

“And, of course,” she said, with an effort at sarcasm, “you lost all your money, too?”

I nodded again and held out a hand for the pad. She handed it to me, and I ripped off the top sheet and added it to the contents of the bulging envelope.

I shook my head. I felt sorry for her, in a way, but I didn’t worry about her. She was pretty, young and a good lay. She could get by anywhere. Twisting in the seat, I reached into my pocket for my key ring. I unsnapped the two car keys and the door key for the trailer. After dropping them into the envelope, I licked the flap, sealed it and squared it in the center of the table.

There was a rap on the door. I jerked my head toward the door, and Dody opened it, standing to one side as Jack Burke came inside.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” Burke said politely, removing his hat. He turned to me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mansfield, but I made the bet in good faith and sure didn’t know Sandspur had him a cracked bill. But if you’d won, I know damned well you’d of come around for eight hundred dollars from me. So I’m here for the car and trailer.”

Still seated, I shoved the envelope toward him. Burke unfastened the flap, which hadn’t quite dried, and pawed through the contents. He put the hundred dollars into his wallet before he read the bill of sale. His face reddened, and he returned the bill of sale to the envelope.

“Please accept my apology, Mr. Mansfield. I don’t know why, but I guess I expected an argument.”

Either he was plain ignorant or he was trying to make me angry. A handshake by two cockfighters is as binding as a sworn statement witnessed by a notary public, and he knew this as well as I did. For a long moment I studied his red face and then concluded that he was merely ill at ease on account of Dody’s presence and didn’t know what he was implying.

Dody leaned against the sink, glaring angrily at Burke. “I never heard of nobody so low-down mean to take a family’s home away from them!” she said scathingly.

Her remark was uncalled for, but it caused Burke a deeper flush of embarrassment. “I reckon you don’t know Mr. Mansfield, little lady,” he said defensively, “and not overmuch about cockfighting neither. A bet is a bet.”

“For men, yes! But what about me?” Dody patted her big breasts several times with both hands and looked beseechingly into Burke’s eyes. He was troubled and he scratched his head, slanting his wary eyes in my direction.

I stood up, smiled grimly, and holding out my hands with the palms up, I made an exaggerated gesture of presentation of Dody to Jack Burke. There could be no mistake about the meaning.

“Well, I don’t rightly know about that, Mr. Mansfield.” Burke scratched his head. “I already got me a lady friend up Kissimmee way.”

I stepped out from behind the table and put on my cowboy hat. Dody came flying toward me with clawing nails. The space was cramped, but I sidestepped her rush and planted a jolting six-inch jab into her midriff. Dody sat down heavily on the linoleum floor and stayed there, gasping for breath and staring up at me round-eyed with astonished disbelief.

There are three good ways to win a fight: A blow to the solar plexus, first, an inscrutable expression on your face, or displaying a sharp knife blade to your opponent. Any of these three methods, singly or in combination, will usually take the bellicosity out of a man, woman, or child.

The swift right to her belly and the sight of my impassive face were enough to take the fight out of Dody. Burke tried to help her to her feet, but she shrugged his hands away from her shoulders as she regained her lost breath.

“You—can—go—to—hell, Frank Mansfield!” Dody said in gasps. “I can take care of myself!” However, she prudently remained seated, supporting herself with her arms behind her back.

Burke said nothing. He ran his fingers nervously through his long hair, looking first at me and then at Dody and back to me again. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what to say. I sat down at the table again and scratched out a short note.

Mr. Burke—If your Little David is still around, I challenge you to a hack at the Southern Conference Tournament—

I pushed the straw cowboy hat back from my forehead and handed him the note. After reading the message, Burke crumpled the paper and looked at me thoughtfully.

“Do you honestly believe you can train a short-heeled stag to beat Little David, a nine-time winner”—he counted on his fingers—“in only six months’ time?”

“Sure, Mr. Mansfield. I accept, but it’ll be your funeral. And I expect you to put some money where your mouth is when the hack’s held.”

We shook hands. I picked up my suitcase and guitar and went outside. As I collected my gaff case and coop together, trying to figure out how I could carry everything, Burke and Dody followed me outside. The four odd-sized pieces made an awkward double armload.

The suggestion was so stupid that I didn’t dignify it with so much as a shrug. If Burke wanted a coop like mine, he could have made one.

Ralph Hansen had Burke’s Ford pickup parked on the road about twenty yards away from the trailer. Burke strolled over to his truck to say something to Ralph. The other handler was in the truck bed with Burke’s fighting cocks. The truck bed had steel-mesh coops welded to the floor on both sides, with solid walls separating each coop so that none of the cocks could see each other. A nice setup for traveling, with plenty of space down the center to carry feed, luggage and sleeping bags. I walked down the sandy road toward the open gate and the highway.

“Please, Frank,” she pleaded, “take me with you. I don’t want to stay with Mr. Burke. He’s an old man!”

Burke was only forty-five or -six and not nearly as old as Dody thought. I shook my head. Dody ran ahead of me then, and planted herself in my path, spreading her long bare legs, and holding her arms akimbo. I stopped.

“I’ll be good to you, Frank,” she said tearfully. “Real good! Honest, I will! I know you don’t like them TV dinners I been fixin’, but I’m really a good cook when I try. And I’ll prove it to you if you’ll take me with you. I’ll wash your clothes and sew and everything!” She began to blubber in earnest. Juicy tears rolled out of her moist brown eyes and flowed over her smooth round cheeks, cutting furrows in her pancake makeup.

I jerked my head for her to get out of my way. Dody moved reluctantly to one side and let me pass. At the open gate to the highway I put my luggage down and lit a cigarette. Ralph stopped the white pickup at the gate.

“I can carry you up as far as Kissimmee, Mr. Mansfield,” he offered. “Mr. Burke is going to bring your Caddy and trailer up tomorrow, he said.”

I shook my head friendlily, and waved him on his way. I didn’t want any favors from Jack Burke. After Ralph made his turn onto the highway, I looked back toward my old trailer. Jack Burke and Dody had their heads together, and it looked like both of them were talking at the same time. A moment later, Burke held the trailer door open for Dody and then followed her inside.

It occurred to me that I didn’t know Dody’s last name. She had never volunteered the information and, of course, I had never asked her. I hate to write notes, and I only write them when it is absolutely necessary. What difference did it make whether I knew her last name or not? But it did make a difference, and I felt a sense of guilty shame.

The long blue convertible came gliding down the trail from the cockpit. The driver stopped at the gate. The blonde sat between the two Miami gamblers on the front seat, and Bill Sanders, puffing a cigar, was sitting alone in the back.

“We’ve got plenty of room,” the driver added cheerfully. “Glad to take you with us.”

I shook my head again and waved them on. Sanders raised a hand in a two-finger “V” salute, and the big car soon passed out of sight.

I didn’t want to go to Miami, and I had turned down a free ride to Kissimmee. Where did I want to go? The lease on my Ocala farm had two more years to run, and it was all paid up in advance. But without any game fowl, and without funds to buy any, there was no point in going there right now. The first thing on the agenda was to obtain some money. After I had some money, I could start worrying about game fowl.

Doc Riordan owed me eight hundred dollars. His office was in Jacksonville, and he was my best bet. My younger brother, Randall, owed me three hundred dollars, but the chances of getting any money from him were negligible. Doc Riordan was the man to see first. Even if Doc could only give me a partial payment of two or three hundred, it would be a start. With only a ten-dollar bill in my watch pocket, and a little loose change, I felt at loose ends. After collecting some money from Doc I could make a fast trip home to Georgia and see my brother. I couldn’t go home completely broke. I never had before, and it was too late to start now.

As I thought of home I naturally thought of Mary Elizabeth. My last visit had been highly unsatisfactory, and I had left without telling her good-bye.

On my last trip home two years before, I had been driving a black Buick convertible, and I had worn an expensive white linen suit. Although I looked prosperous, most of it was front. My roll had only consisted of five hundred dollars. That was when Randall had nicked me for the loan of three hundred. In the rare letters I had received from him since—about one every four or five months—he had never once mentioned returning the money.

Jacksonville it would be then. If nothing else, I could pick up my mail at the Jacksonville post office.

Two ancient trucks rolled through the gate, loaded down with fruit tramps. They were returning to the migrant camp on the other side of Belle Glade. A couple of the men shouted to me, and I waved to them. There was a maroon Cadillac sedan about two hundred yards behind the last truck, hanging well back out of the dust. This was Ed Middleton’s car. As he came abreast of the gate, I grinned and stuck out my thumb. Mr. Middleton pressed a button, and the right front window slid down with an electronic click.

“Throw your stuff in the back seat, Frank,” Ed Middleton said. “I don’t want to lose this cold air.” The window shot up again.

I opened the back door, arranged my luggage on the floor so it would ride without shifting, slammed the door, and climbed into the front seat. A refreshing icy breeze filled the roomy interior from an air-conditioning system that actually worked.

I settled backed comfortably, and Ed pointed the nose of the big car toward Orlando.

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