“May I move to the chair on your left?” the cripple asked the producer. “I can’t hear very well.”

The producer appeared extremely annoyed by the cripple’s request. “My lawyer and I will speak up,” he replied.

“Sneak up? Sneak up on who?” asked the cripple.

“Speak up. We will both speak up,” said the producer, very irritated.

“See what I mean?” said the cripple.

The two at the other end of the table didn’t see.

The cripple sat down in his assigned seat.

A middle-aged woman dressed in a black uniform with a frilly white collar and a white apron brought in three lobster cocktails. When she placed the lobster cocktail in front of the producer, he said, “Thank you, Millie.”

Sigmond Levy never looked at the cripple. In fact, he never looked up. His eyes were riveted on his lobster cocktail. The cripple recognized Levy’s wristwatch. He wore an expensive Patek Philippe gold perpetual. The cripple once owned the same watch but had to sell it. The old cripple really liked that watch.

“I want to do The Death Game,” said the producer, breaking the silence.

As it grew closer to the big fight, Billy Constable began receiving telephone calls asking who he thought was going to win. Billy, puffed up by this new attention, was happy to give his “expert” opinion to one and all.

One day Billy Constable received a phone call from someone who simply said, “Who’s this?”

“Billy Constable.”

“Whataya do?”

“I run the heavyweight champion of Europe’s trainin’ camp.”

“Then you’re the guy I wanna talk to. So, whodaya like?”

“Who’s this?” asked Billy.

There was a long pause, then the voice said, “I’m calling for Mr. Giuseppe Sanseli.”

“And who am I speakin’ to?” asked Billy, all friendly-like but still curious.

“Never mind who ya speakin’ to, putzo. Just tell me, whodaya like?”

“Who do I like?” asked Billy, legitimately confused.

“Whodaya think is gonna win da fight, you moron.”

“Oh. Who do I think is gonna win?”

“Ya a fuckin’ parrot or somethin’? Yeah, putzo, whodoya think is gonna win?”

“Well,” said Billy, once again pleased to be considered a knowledgeable boxing authority by whoever was calling, “if it was my money I’d put every cent on the American.”

“Ya think the nigger’s gonna win this fight?”

“Let me tell you, Mr…. who’d you say you were?”

“I didn’t. Why would ya put your money on da nigger, putzo?”

“Well,” said Billy, his eyes squinting with seriousness, shifting the telephone receiver to his other ear, “for one thing, I read that the American is trainin’ like crazy down at Pompton Lakes, New Jersey. I can tell you this, Mr…. sir, the Swede ain’t trainin’ like crazy. He’s doin’ everything ’cept trainin’ like crazy. I think he’s up here at Grossinger’s for the…for the…”

“For da pussy?” asked the man on the telephone.