“Why not? Thirty dollars for tickets and fifty for my time. I trust your budget can carry the weight?”

“It can if it has to.”

“I’m sorry I have to ask you for money. If it were a track meet I wouldn’t charge you a cent. But I’ve never cared for boxing. If it’s any consolation, I’d want at least a hundred dollars to attend a hockey game.”

“I guess that’s something. You want to meet me there?”

“Out in front. At nine—that should give us plenty of leeway. How does that sound?”

“Fine.”

“I’ll see if I can’t wear something distinctive,” he said, “so that you’ll have no trouble recognizing me.”

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

He wasn’t hard to recognize. His suit was a dove gray flannel and with it he wore a bright red vest over a black knit tie and another white dress shirt. He had sunglasses on, dark lenses in metal frames. Danny Boy contrived to sleep when the sun was out—neither his eyes nor his skin could take it—and wore dark glasses even at night unless he was in a dimly lit place like Poogan’s or the Top Knot. Years ago he’d told me that he wished the world had a dimmer switch and you could just turn the whole thing down a notch or two. I remember thinking at the time that that was what whiskey did. It dimmed the lights and lowered the volume and rounded the corners.

I admired his outfit. He said, “You like the vest? I haven’t worn it in ages. I wanted to be visible.”

I already had our tickets. The ringside price was $15. I’d bought a pair of $4.50 seats that would have put us closer to God than to the ring. They got us through the gate, and I showed them to an usher down front and slipped a folded bill into his hand. He put us in a pair of seats in the third row.

“Now I might have to move you gentlemen,” he said, “but probably not, and I guarantee you ringside.”

After he’d moved off Danny Boy said, “There’s always a way, isn’t there? What did you give him?”

“Five dollars.”

“So the seats set you back fourteen dollars instead of thirty. What do you figure he makes in a night?”

“Not much on a night like this. When the Knicks or Rangers play he might make five times his salary in tips. Of course he might have to pay somebody off.”

“Everybody’s got an angle,” he said.

“It looks that way.”

“I mean everybody. Even me.”