“What word?”

“Nigger. It’s a Southern thing and I personally detest the sound of it. Stop saying it.”

“It ain’t a Southern thing, Rosie, it’s—”

“Just stop saying it.”

“Okay, okay I’ll stop sayin’ it. Anyway, if ever there was a sure thing, this gotta be it. The nigger’s gonna…I mean the American’s gonna win this fight walkin’ away. It won’t even be close, Rosie. The American’s gonna kill the Swede.”

“You’re absolutely certain?” asked Rosie Feinstein, having stopped for a bit.

“Absolutely certain.”

“If you’re absolutely certain…I’ll lend you twenty dollars so you can bet.”

“That’s not what I’m talkin’ about, Rosie, honey.”

“So what are you talking about?”

“I’m talkin’ about bettin’ twenty thousand dollars. Maybe a hundred thousand dollars. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

“Goodness,” said Rosie Feinstein in a small voice.

“The only problem is…”

“Is what?”

“…is where am I gonna get that kinda money?”

Ten days later Billy Constable found the box.

“What? Please speak louder,” begged the cripple at the producer’s dinner table.

“I said I want to do The Death Game.”

The cripple breathed a sigh of relief. “Great. I knew you would. Only you coulda said something at my place. You know, told me—”

“I will want to change several aspects of the program, including its name, the qualifications for your contestants, and the way you eliminate them from the competition.”

“Well, I think—”

“I am not the least bit interested in what you think,” stated the producer, “and I shall continue without interruption, if I may.”

The cripple was clearly shaken. He glared down the long table at the producer, trying to control the anger simmering in his chest. Lousy for the blood pressure, he thought to himself. And this is the last place I want to drop dead, on this bastard’s dinner table. Still, nobody speaks to me like that.

“I will call the program The Big Question,” continued the producer. “I will pick contestants that are experts in their field. There will be other changes I won’t bother to mention here.”

“I’ll think about what you just said,” said the old cripple bravely. “I’ll want a list of the other changes you have in mind that you haven’t men—”

“You don’t seem to understand,” snapped the producer. “I am not the least bit interested in your approval and you will not receive any such list.”

Sigmond Levy cleared his throat. The producer and the cripple turned their heads in the direction of his phlegm. Levy said, “My client”—the lawyer nodded in the producer’s direction—“will own the show. He will receive an executive producer credit and a created by credit. You will not receive any credits. You will not be permitted to come to any of the show’s tapings. You will get a royalty, period.”

“Wait a minute. I don’t—”

“As he mentioned before,” interrupted Levy, “my client is not the least bit interested in what you think. And as my client mentioned, he loathes to be interrupted. If you are not happy with the situation, then I suggest you find another backer for your program.”