“No. For the money. Least that’s what I think. It’s my…you know…my honest opinion. I’ve been studyin’ up on fighters who fought in championship fights and none of them spent their time dancin’ and sparrin’ with drunks and derelicts…an’…an’…”

“Fuckin’.”

“Yeah, and that.”

“So I was right, putzo, da guy’s up there for da pussy.”

“That and the money. You tell Mr. Sanseli this is comin’ from the horse’s mouth.”

“So you’re not a parrot. You’re a horse. So tell me, Mr. Horse’s Mouth, is ’at what the foreigner’s doin’? Dancin’ and fuckin’ all the time?”

“That’s what he’s doin’.”

“Lucky foreigner.” There was a pause and then the phoner said, “The boss is gonna put a lot of money on this fight.”

“Well, tell Mr. Sanseli to put all his money on the American. Tell him Billy Constable sez so. That’s me. I’m Billy Constable. Like I said, I’m the director of this here trainin’ camp.”

“Da boss don’t like to bet on niggers.”

“Tell him to bet on this one.”

“Ya said ya would bet on da nigger?”

“Yeah,” answered Billy Constable, “I’d bet on him. If I had some serious money.”

“What’d ya say your name was?”

“I told you. It’s Billy Constable.”

“I thought ya said ya was the horse’s mouth. Ya that too?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Okay, Horse’s Mouth, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“An’ Horse’s Mouth.”

“Yeah?”

“Ya better be right.”

Later that same night Rosie Feinstein and Billy Constable were in bed in Rosie’s room at Grossinger’s Resort Hotel in the Catskill Mountains. Billy Constable was in the middle of telling Rosie about his telephone conversation with the guy who called Billy Horse’s Mouth.

Rosie had her mouth full so she couldn’t reply.

“It was kinda scary,” Billy said.

Rosie made a throaty sound signifying interest.

“But then I got to thinkin’, if I’m right, which I know I am, I mean if the nigger’s suppose to be really trainin’ like they say he is an’ the Swede ain’t trainin’ at all, I mean the Swede’s doin’ nothin’ but dancin’ until two or three every mornin’ and God knows what he’s doin’ with the girls he takes back to his room every night after he leaves the nightclub…”

Rosie’s head popped up. She said, “I know what he’s doing.” And then she went back to work.

“…and he’s boxin’ sparrin’ partners that are half his size an’ half dead, I mean he was beatin’ the crap outta his brother the other day. Jesus, Rosie, you don’t beat the crap outta your own brother.”

Rosie made another throaty sound. This time signifying amazement. Or agreement. Or something.

“I mean, after talkin’ with that there business associate who telephoned yesterday, and explainin’ to him the ins and outs of the comin’ fight, I talked myself into wantin’ to bet on the nigger too.”

Rosie’s head popped up again. This time she was cross. She said, “I absolutely hate that word and you’ve said it twice just now. Cut it out!”