On The Coat Tales of a Gambler
After spending the night in Phenix City, we decided to sleep in before continuing our journey to Atlanta for the cockfights. Vincent had never experienced a cockfight before, so during the drive, Scarpone took the time to answer his question and explain how the chaotic betting system resembles the trading pit at the Chicago Board of Trade. Between Vincent and Scarpone, they had a total of 55 thousand dollars. I understand that all of this may sound unbelievable, but it truly displays the extent of illegal gambling during that time.
Most of the participants at the cockfight appeared to be ordinary individuals dressed in overalls, some of whom were worth millions and would bet thousands of dollars on two chickens fighting to the death. It was a truly crazy time, and astonishing amounts of money would change hands in a remote barn located in the rural countryside. These fighting roosters were highly valued as family pets, but at the same time, this blood sport was an all-in kind of game. Two birds would enter the arena, but only one would usually survive. Sometimes, even the eventual winner wouldn’t live long enough for all the bets to be settled. It was a brutal sight, and it was hard to fathom the frenzy that people would experience at these cockfights.
Interestingly, the cockfight didn’t actually take place in Atlanta. Scarpone had me drive to Griffin, Georgia, which happened to be the birthplace of Doc Holliday. I visited the Doc Holliday Museum in Griffin a few years ago during my previous tour of the South on my way to South Carolina. Scarpone’s contact was located in Griffin, so once we arrived, he made a call to him. The contact instructed us to wait for him at the Holliday Café, mentioning that it would take him approximately thirty minutes to arrive.
We patiently waited at the café, enjoying some coffee and homemade pecan pie. Eventually, a black sedan pulled up, and a man wearing a black fedora stepped out. He casually lit a cigarette and leaned against the front fender of the car. That was our signal. We finished our coffee, and Vincent took care of the bill while Scarpone and I made our way to the Lincoln. Before getting back into the car, Scarpone briefly conversed with the man in the hat. Once in the Lincoln, Scarpone initiated the plan. He instructed me to tail the other vehicle, but I had to wait for a few minutes. During our wait, Scarpone informed me that our route would take us north to Ellis Road, where we would make a left turn. Our contact would be waiting for us on Ellis Road, leading us to the town of Vaughn.
It was mid-afternoon when we arrived in Vaughn. We stopped at the only gas station in Vaughn, where the contact exited his vehicle and approached Scarpone’s side of the car. He mentioned leaving his car at the gas station and joining us in the back seat to guide us to the rest of the way. We had a little time to kill. The cockfights typically commenced after nightfall and could extend well into the early hours of the following day. With daylight still abundant, we made our way to the designated location. The cockfights were clandestine and meticulously organized, relying on word of mouth to disseminate the cockfight’s location. Only trusted gamblers were privy to the information. Conducting the events under the cover of darkness helped maintain a low profile on the otherwise tranquil back roads.
I was instructed to head north on a dirt road. After a few miles, the contact directed me to keep an eye out for an old tractor in a ditch. Just beyond the tractor, a driveway to the right would lead us. The driveway, lined with trees, eventually opened to a grassy field revealing an old plantation house and a sizable barn behind it. I parked the car in the field behind the barn. As I stepped out of the vehicle, the contact’s parting words lingered, “I hope ya’al can find your way back?” He had a brief word with Scarpone and disappeared. I am certain I saw Scarpone had the contact a wad of cash.
We arrived at the venue in good time, as a substantial crowd had already gathered. The field was teeming with cars and numerous trucks, some of which carried wire cages housing the contenders for the night’s matches. A barbecue and food table were set up alongside the barn, offering unlimited food for a nominal fee. Alcohol was also available for purchase, although many attendees brought their own unmarked bottles.
Roosters possess a territorial instinct, which is a well-known fact. The saying that having too many roosters in the hen house can lead to trouble is indeed true. It doesn’t take much for roosters to engage in aggressive behavior towards each other. Apart from their tendency to jump and attack one another, using their sharp beaks to tear at each other, roosters also have natural spurs on their legs. These spurs, which are long and sharp, serve as formidable weapons on their own. However, the handler takes it a step further by attaching steel blades to their spurs, ensuring a brutal fight that usually ends in death.
Gambling on a cockfight is simple. There is nothing like a racing forum with a chicken’s history of successful bouts. Essentially, you choose a bird that you believe will win and place your bet accordingly. The more money that is wagered, the greater the potential winnings. Sometimes, you may bet against the person next to you, while other times there were individuals taking bets. Due to the nature of this sport, there is typically no clear favorite with favorable odds. Simply put, the birds involved in cockfights rarely live long enough to establish a reputation. In every fight, there will always be a winner and a loser. Unfortunately, the loser seldom survives, and even the victor often sustains injuries that prevent them from fighting again. Therefore, betting on a cockfight is essentially a fifty-fifty chance, similar to flipping a coin. The only difference is the cock fight last a bit longer and is an emotional chaotic frenzy of people screaming, yelling, and cussing.
Vincent and Scarpone were deeply involved in the betting during the fights, wagering anywhere from $1000 to $5000 depending on the outcome of the previous bet. The handlers would bring their roosters into the ring, riling them up before releasing them to fight. By blowing cigar smoke at the birds and taunting them with each other, the handlers would provoke the birds into a frenzy of aggression. Once the birds were at their peak of madness, they were let loose to battle it out. The chaotic spectacle of the birds attacking each other lasted only a few seconds The bets were settled, and the handlers prepared another pair of cocks for the next event. Cockfights were extremely noisy, and it seemed that the excitement of it all perpetuated the din and insanity as the night progressed. Though, I suppose, the abundance of alcohol contributed in part.
Scarpone won about ten grand that night. Vincent won even more. Again, there is no skill to gambling on roosters, just pick one and go. Vincent was a wealthy man and had the huevos as well as the money to gamble. As it turned out, the Atlanta Mafia produced this particular event. Scarpone’s contact was a “wise-guy” with the Atlanta mob. Scarpone’s invitation to the cockfight came from a mob guy, “Fraticelli.” Scarpone sometimes gambled with Fraticelli. Fraticelli thought Scarpone was Sicilian because of his nickname, and I suppose with his Spanish heritage, he could be mistaken for Sicilian. There was more to the invitation for Scarpone than just a cockfight. Fraticelli wanted Scarpone to consider joining partnership in illegal gambling, bootlegging, and drugs.
The Atlanta mob wanted to move into Southern Alabama. Specifically, they wanted business in Montgomery and Mobile. Scarpone was known to the boys from Atlanta to be a professional gambler and they wanted a savvy frontman, someone local to help them set up their connections. It was not a secret that the cops and judges in Southern Alabama were on the take. The Atlanta Mafia hoped that by bringing in Scarpone, he could help the mob by greasing the right palms of the politicians in Alabama.
Although Scarpone held a mild interest in Fraticelli’s proposal, it was later withdrawn when Fraticelli learned that Scarpone was Spanish, not Sicilian. I remember Scarpone saying to me that it was just as well. He was a loner at heart and when it came to business, Scarpone wanted to call the shots, and he especially did not want to be in a position of perhaps being shot at.
That was a long time ago and I don’t know if there is a difference between the Atlanta mob and the Dixie Mafia. Hope to have more for you soon, Sailor
On The Coat Tales of a Gambler continues in
Episode 22 – New York World’s Fair