He drove them out of town, north on Highway 49 for a few miles, then turned onto a county road that led deep into the piney woods. On a gravel trail, they saw other cars and trucks parked haphazardly along the ditches and in the fields. Men were walking toward an old barn with a peeling tin roof. They parked and went with the others until they were stopped by a man with a shotgun. “You boys are too young to be here,” he growled.
Hugh was not intimidated and said, “We’re guests of Nevin Noll.”
He stopped frowning, nodded, and said, “Okay, follow me.”
As they got closer to the barn they heard shouting and the voices of excited men. A line waited to get in. They went around to a side door and were told to wait. The guard disappeared inside.
“This is still illegal, right?” Joey asked.
“Illegal as hell,” Hugh said with a laugh. “Best cockfights on the Coast.”
Nevin appeared and Hugh introduced him to the other three. They knew his name because Hugh had told many stories. Nevin said, “You guys stay in the back, away from the crowd. Got a full house this morning.” They eased through the narrow door and entered another world.
The barn had been converted into a cockfighting arena. A large pit filled with sand, perhaps twenty feet square, was dead center and everything else was built around it. It was bordered by a plank wall two feet high, to keep the roosters from escaping, and on top of the wall was a narrow counter where the men with the front-row seats could lean on their elbows and place their drinks. Behind them were rows of benches elevated one after the other so that the spectators were looking down at the action. Behind the last row of benches and in the aisles and exits there was a hodgepodge of lawn chairs, old theater seats, church pews, stools, upside-down barrels, and anything else a man could possibly sit on. Men only. The crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder. A thick layer of cigar and cigarette smoke hung above the cockpit and was not disturbed by several large box fans trying vainly to break up the humidity. The temperature outside was at least ninety, but even higher near the pit. Chewing tobacco was widely in use and some of the men in the front seats spat their juice onto the sand. Almost everyone had a tall paper cup with a drink, and bottles were passed around.
The men were boisterous, talking loud, even yelling at each other across the pit in good-natured fun. They were waiting for the next fight, when their moods would change. In one corner, behind a section of seats, two men in white shirts and ties worked behind a counter, taking in cash, recording the bets, trying frantically to keep straight the rush of gambling. In another corner, the voices grew louder and there were more shouts as two handlers emerged from the outside pens and walked toward the pit. Each carried a rooster, and when they stepped into the pit they held them high for the crowd to admire.
The gamecocks were naturally aggressive toward all males of the same species. The good breeders picked the heavier and faster ones and bred them over and over for increased strength and stamina. They trained them by forcing them to run long distances and obstacle courses, and they fed them steroids and adrenaline to enhance performance. Two weeks before the fight, they were kept in small dark boxes to isolate them and jack up their aggressiveness.
Both handlers were extremely careful because their roosters were equipped with razor-sharp steel gaffs tied to their legs, deadly weapons that resembled small curved ice picks.
A gentleman in a black cowboy hat and matching bow tie was yelling here and there, encouraging all bets to be placed. Hugh said, “That’s Phil Arkwright, he owns the place. Makes a lot of money off this racket.”
“And you’ve been here before?” Keith asked, knowing the answer.
“Couple of times,” Hugh said with a smile. “Nevin loves these fights.”
“What about your dad? Does he know?”
“Probably.”
They were behind the back row, looking down at the pit. Hugh felt at home. The other three could only gawk. The two handlers met in the center of the ring, squatted, allowed the roosters’ beaks to touch, then turned them loose. They attacked with their beaks, squawked fiercely and crowed, rolled around in the sand as feathers flew. One managed to pin the other and unloaded with the gaffs, jabbing away with both feet. The wounded bird scrambled to his feet and there was blood on his chest. They traded attacks and wounds and neither retreated. The one showing the most blood began to fade and the other moved in for the kill. Half the crowd wanted more blood, half wanted a time-out. No one kept quiet.