按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
d Ed stuck his head in。 〃Can you use some corn？ Barley？〃
I nodded。
〃Good。 There're about three or four partly used sacks of both in the feed shack。 But if you want 'em； you'll have to carry 'em to the truck yourself。 I'll be goddamned if I'm going to do it！〃 The door slammed again。
I wanted to follow him out the door but thought it best to finish my breakfast and let Ed cool off a little bit。 He had never really expected me to show up with five hundred dollars for his pretty pet gamecock。 But his astonishment was in my favor。 He had been shamed into returning four hundred dollars； and now I was way ahead of the game。 The Middleton Gray game hen was valuable for breeding； and the two Gray gamecocks were worth at least fifty dollars apiece。
〃Don't you pay any mind to Ed's bluster； Frank；〃 Martha said gently。 〃He's just upset and doesn't mean half of what he says。 I know how much store he sets by those chickens。 Someday； he'll thank me； Frank。 You think I'm unreasonable； I know； making him give up his chickens and stopping him from following fights all over the country； but I'm not really。 Ed's had two heart attacks in the last eighteen months。 After the last one he was in bed for two weeks and the doctor told him not to do anything at all。 Nothing。〃 She shook her head。
〃He isn't supposed to pick so much as an orange up off the ground。 Why； the last time the doctor came out and saw that the roosters were still out there he had a fit！ Now go out and get your chickens； Frank； and don't let Ed help you lift anything〃
I slid out from the table and patted Martha on the shoulder。 Ed Middleton certainly knew how to keep a secret。 I hadn't known anything about his ailing heart。
〃I know you won't say anything； Frank；〃 Martha said； smiling； 〃but don't look anything； either！〃 Despite her smile and the humor in her voice； there were sparks of terror in her eyes。 〃Ed hasn't told a soul about his bad heart； and I know he wouldn't want me to tell you。 He tries to pretend he's as strong as he ever was。〃
I wanted to say something； anything that would fort the woman； but I couldn't。 He was going to die soon。 I could tell by her eyes。
I smiled； nodded and left the kitchen。 The moment I was outside； I lit out around the little lake at a dead run to get my prize rooster before Ed Middleton could change his mind。
10
The scarlet cock； my lord likes best；
And next to him； the gray with thistle…breast。
This knight is for the pile； or else the Black。
A third cries no cock like the dun； yellow back。
The milk…white cock with golden legs and bill。
Or else the Spangle； choose you as you will。
The King he swears （of all）； these are the best。
They heel； says he； more true than all the rest。
But this is all mere fancy； and no more；
The color's nothing； as I've said before！
This anonymous English cocking poem was thumbtacked to the wall beside my bed。 I had copied it in longhand and stuck it there as a reminder that experience； rather than experiment； would be my best teacher。 This poem must have been more than two hundred years old； and yet it still held a sobering truth。 The best gamecock has to be of a proven game strain。 Crossed and recrossed； until the color of the feathers resemble mud； if a cock can be traced to a legitimate game strain on both sides； he will fight when he is pitted and face when he is hurt。 This old poem contained a particularly worthwhile truth to remember； now that I possessed Icky； the most gaily plumaged cock I had ever owned。 The bettors at every pit on the circuit would be anxious to back him because of his bright blue color； and he would have to be good； because of the odds I'd be forced to give on him。
While I poured coffee into cups at the gate…legged table； Omar Baradinsky； his hairy fingers clasped behind his back； studied the poem on the wall。 He must have read it three or four times； but if he moved his lips when he read； I wouldn't have known about it。 Omar's pale face； which no amount of exposure to the Florida sun could tan； was almost pletely covered by a thick； black； unmanageable beard。 This ragged hirsute growth； wild and tangled； began immediately below his circular； heavily pouched brown eyes； and ended in tattered shreds halfway down his chest。 A thick； untrimmed moustache； intermingled with his beard； covered his mouth pletely。 When he talked； and Omar liked to talk； his mouth was only a slightly darker hole in the center of the jet…black tangle of face hair。 Out of curiosity； I had asked Omar once why he wore the beard； and his answer had been typical of his new way of life。
〃I'll tell you； Frank；〃 he had boomed。 〃Did you ever eat baked ham with a slice of glazed pineapple decorating the platter？〃
When I admitted that I had； he had pulled his fingers through his beard fondly and continued。 〃Well； that's what my face looked like when I went to the office every day in New York。 Like a slab of glazed； fried； reddish pineapple！ For me； shaving once a day wasn't enough。 The whiskers grew too fast。 I shaved before leaving home in the morning； again at noon； and if I went out again at night； I had to scrape my jowls again。 For as long as I can remember； my face was sore； raw in fact； and even after a fresh shave people told me I needed another。 So； I no longer have to shave and I no longer shave； and I'll never shave again！〃
To see Omar Baradinsky now； standing in my one…and…ahalf…room shack near Ocala； wearing a pair of faded blue denim bib overalls； a khaki work shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders； scuffed； acid…eaten； high…topped work shoes； and that awe…inspiring growth of black hair covering his face…no one in his right mind would have taken him for a once successful advertising executive in New York City。 A closer look at his clothes； however； would reveal that Omar's bib overalls and shirt were expensive and tailored… which they were。 He ordered his clothes from Abercrombie & Fitch up in New York； and they would wash and dry without needing to be ironed。 In the beginning； I suspect that he had probably started to wear bib overalls as a kind of uniform； to fit some imaginary role he had made up in the back of his mind。 But now they had bee a part of him； and I couldn't picture Omar wearing anything else。
But Omar had been an advertising man； four years before。 Not only had he been a successful executive with a salary of thirty…five thousand dollars a year； he had also owned a twenty…unit luxury apartment house in Brooklyn。 He was now a breeder and handler of gamecocks in Florida； keeping Claret crosses and Allen Roundheads； and after four experimental years； slowly beginning to pull ahead。 The one remaining tie Omar had with New York was his wife。 She visited him annually； for one week； when she passed through central Florida on her way to Miami Beach for the winter season。 So far； she had been unable to make him change his mind and return to New York。 Omar's wife wasn't the type to bury herself on an isolated Florida chicken farm； so they were stalemated。
Unlike most American sportsmen； the cockfighting fan has an overwhelming tendency to