“He’s dying! And he’s cracking up a little bit, too. I mean, why else would he be going to church three times a week? Would you like to walk in those shoes?”

“Fuckin’ wingtips, not me,” Kid Dynamite said. “I don’t think he’s going to die, either. Two packs a day. The two of them are screwing night and day—”

Mikey spoke abruptly, “You call off the dogs, okay? I don’t want to hear the piss and moan.”

Kid Dynamite shrugged. “They fuck like animals; it’s disgusting; I got to hear it—”

Mikey raised his hand like a stop sign. “I don’t want the ‘wah wah, boo hoo.’ Confine your violence to the ring or you’re going to end up in the bughouse, like your father, a paranoid freak. The world is not that bad a place.”

Kid Dynamite turned his palms up in exasperation. “I’m not a violent person. I’m a shy person. What do I do? I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I work. I help around the house. You don’t see my name on the arrest reports. I’m still a virgin. I don’t even jack off. Fuck, I’m a super guy. The only black marks against me are that I flunked geometry three times in a row and I’ve got a filthy mouth. You gonna come and see the fight? I’m going to pretend this guy is Frank and I’m going to kick ass!”

Mikey patted his nephew on the cheek just a little too hard. He laughed and said, “All right, kiddo. In the meantime, stay out of his way for a while.”

“Serious, Uncle Mikey! Are you coming to the fight?”

“I’ll be at the fight. If you don’t kick the guy’s ass and make it worth my while, I’ll be coming after you when it’s over. Deal?”

“Hey! I’ll kick his ass all right.”

Mikey laughed at this and exchanged seats with his nephew. South of Oswego, Kid Dynamite found a straightaway and got the Mercedes up to 130 mph. It didn’t seem as if the car was doing more than sixty. “German engineering,” Uncle Mikey said. “Hard work, attention to detail, and a willpower that never quits.” He gave his nephew a punch on the shoulder and said, “You’re lucky to be a German. Who knows, someday you might conquer the world.”