Vera Bundle and Billy Constable were listening to the voice of host Rip Puckett on their headsets in their soundproof booths.

“Everything okay?” asked the host.

Both Vera and Billy nodded yes.

Rip Puckett, reading the script from cue cards, said, “You two know the rules. I’ll ask you each a question that deals with your specialty, Vera’s being geography and Billy’s boxing. If you both answer correctly, I’ll ask you each another question. The first one to get the correct answer after the other misses will be our winner and will go on to try for the hundred-million-dollar grand prize…or that disgusting glass of poison. Our loser will receive ten thousand dollars in cash courtesy of The Big Question. Age before beauty,” said Puckett. “So Vera, are you ready for your first question?”

In the control room, Tammy Teesdale asked, “Wouldn’t it have been nicer if the host had said ‘Ladies first’ and not ‘Age before—’”

“Shut up,” said the producer.

Onstage, Vera Bundle nodded she was ready. She stood up straight in her booth, calmly clasping her hands together as if in prayer, her index fingers pressing against her nose and lips, her thumbs under her chin.

“Okay, here it is,” said Rip. “For a chance to win one…hundred…million…dollars, your question is: In 1554, the Spaniards came to the New World and founded the city of Trinidad. Where is the city of Trinidad located?”

The orchestra started to play the music of time passing but didn’t get very far. Vera was waving her hand. She was ready.

“In Cuba,” she answered.

“That is correct!” shouted the host.

The audience howled and screamed their approval. Kindly old Vera was definitely a crowd pleaser.

Then Rip Puckett turned to a visibly nervous Billy Constable and said, “Billy, you’ve got to get this question or you’re outta here. Ha ha ha ha. Here’s your question: Who did Joe Louis fight and was so convinced he lost that he left the ring only to hear when he was going up the aisle that he—Joe Louis—was the winner by a unanimous decision?”

Billy Constable’s color drained from his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered aloud. He rubbed his hands together as if he were washing them with soap. He squinted. He prayed. He said, “Oh, Lord, please help me.”

Silence.

More silence. Billy Constable’s time was almost up.

“I’m sorry…Billy…but…”

“Oh, God, have mercy on me,” whispered Billy.

“…but…time’s up. I need your answer,” begged a bewildered Rip Puckett.

“Jesus Christ Almighty, my mind’s gone empty on me. I…I…I don’t know the answer,” said Billy.

The audience moaned.

“I’m sooooo sorry,” said Puckett sadly. “The answer is Jersey Joe Walcott.” Rip’s sadness was sincere. He had grown to like Billy just as the audience had.

Rip Puckett dawdled for a few minutes so the audience in the studio and around the country could feel and see Billy Constable’s considerable pain, his arms by his sides, his head and shoulders bent, tears streaming down his cheeks.