After a while the van drove away from the marshland.

It was the middle of August 2012. Training camp was over. The big fight was just weeks away and Billy Constable had arrived back in New York City.

The first morning in the office, Billy spent about twenty minutes searching for an old pair of his sneakers in a conference room closet. He remembered throwing the pair into the back of that closet months ago, or thought he did. Billy wanted to go running in Central Park during his lunch break. The problem of finding his sneakers in that closet was that everyone in the office threw things into it. The closet was the company catchall.

Billy couldn’t find his sneakers.

But he did find a box.

The box was buried under a lot of old flyers and pamphlets, snow boots, file folders, boxes of typing paper, manila envelopes, outdated electronic equipment, stuff like that. When he saw what was buried inside, Billy was dumbfounded.

“Why?” asked Jimmy Joel Jenks. The two friends were having a beer that evening at P. J. Clarke’s. “Why were you dumbfounded?”

Billy looked to his left and right before answering, then said, “The box was filled with stacks and stacks of red, white, and blue hundred-and-fifty-dollar ringside seats to the fight. I mean stacks of ’em.”

“For the big fight at Yankee Stadium you’re workin’ on?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy mackerel!” said Jimmy Joel Jenks. He wiped some beer foam off his upper lip with his shirtsleeve and said excitedly, “When’s the fight takin’ place?”

“I’ve told you a hundert times. The first Friday after Labor Day,” said Billy. “September the fourteenth.”

“That’s not too far away,” said Jimmy Joel.

“I know,” said Billy.

The two boys were standing at the restaurant’s bar.

After sucking on their beers for a minute or so, Billy said, “I’m kinda stoked about findin’ them tickets.”

“Yeah, and kinda scart too, I’ll bet,” said Jimmy Joel Jenks.

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Scart as a long-tailed cat in a room fulla rockin’ chairs, I’ll bet.”

“Maybe not that scart,” said a serious Billy Constable, squinting up his eyes at Jimmy Joel.

The boys were quiet again.

“Actually, you know somethin, JJ? Findin’ them tickets is the answer to my prayers. It’s as if God Almighty knew of my problems.”

“What problems?”

“My problems with the bent noses.”

“With the who?”

“The bent noses.” Billy Constable pushed his nose to one side with his forefinger. “That’s what they call them Eye-talian mob guys. Bent noses.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s ’cause most of their noses are broke. From fightin’, I guess. Anyways, my problem is bein’ over my head in gamblin’ debts. With them guys. You don’t go gettin’ into money problems with them guys. That’s one thing you don’t do.”

“Why?”

“’Cause they beat the shit outta you if they catch you. Or worse.”

“Or worse?”

“Yeah, or worse.”

“You owe them nose guys money now?”

“Yeah, sorta.”

“How much?”