Kid Dynamite lay awake all night in rage and anticipation. Mikey didn’t show up until noon. He was wearing a suit and tie, an indication there would be no violence. At forty, the former heavyweight champion of the Seventh Army looked like he could still fight at the drop of a hat. Unlike his brother, Kid Dynamite’s old man, Mikey did not become a professional fighter; he was too smart for that. Instead he went into sales and had become the most materially successful member of the family. As far back as Kid Dynamite could remember, Mikey had the best cars, houses, clothes—the best of everything. It was Mikey, however, who had introduced Cancer Frank to his mother, and the kid’s admiration for him was severely mitigated by that factor. In his suit and tie, on an early Saturday afternoon, Mikey was very solemn. Kid Dynamite knew grave matters would be discussed and threats would be issued. Compromises and concessions would be few.

After shooting the bull with C.F. and the Driver, Mikey politely invited Kid Dynamite for a drive in his new Mercedes convertible. It was a nice car and Mikey was proud of it. He talked about the virtues of German engineering as he took the river road and drove south toward Oswego. Kid Dynamite fell into a pout and nothing was said for a few miles. Then Mikey looked over at him with mounting irritation and said, “What the fuck is the matter with you? Why are you giving Frank such a hard time? He has cancer, for Chrissakes. What are you busting his balls for?”

Kid Dynamite looked straight ahead and said nothing. His body was coiled to dodge a side-arm blow, but better that than surrender his pride.

Mikey looked over and said, “I know what it is. It’s Mag—your goddamn grandmother. She’s been poisoning your mind against him, hasn’t she?”

Kid Dynamite kept his eyes straight ahead. “No. She doesn’t poison anybody. In fact, she pays Frank’s bills,” he said.

“Don’t get sarcastic with me!” Mikey said. “I’ll pull over and give it to you right now, you stupid little fuck!”

Kid Dynamite removed the wiseass from his voice and said, “It’s true. She pays.”

Mikey shook his head and sighed. He removed his Italian sunglasses and threw them on the dashboard so he could rub the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I’m thinking…let me think. You’re in over your head in this boxing tournament. ‘Hard’ Reine is going to fall all over you, is that it? I saw a piece about this motherfucker in the Sun Times. The same guy that got you last year. He ran over you like a freight train.”