He thought of the way he would feel if something happened to Lara, and he completed the sentence: “Might kill himself.”

Walsh nodded. “Not with liquor or jumping out a window—Joe ain’t that kind. But ‘e might ’ole up where ‘e could be by ’imself with nobody ta bother ’im. Out west someplace, I guess. ’E wouldn’t never fight again.”

He recalled that the red-faced man had said that Overwood was at the foot of the mountains, and asked, “Would Joe go to the mountains, you think? Somewhere around Manea?”

“Yeah.” Walsh nodded gloomily. “That’s just what ’e might do.”

The light went out.

Walsh’s gritty voice came through the darkness. “Joe’s at the reception desk. They switch it off from there.”

As his eyes adjusted, he made out the dim outline of the doorway. “I’m surprised they let you have visitors this late.”

“One of the guys that works ‘ere’s Joe’s ’andler,” Walsh said. “’E knows I gotta see Joe after the fight.”

He hesitated, but there seemed to be nothing more to say. The little copper pick felt hard and heavy in his hand. “Well, good night, Eddie.”

“G’night.”

In the hall he saw (with a shock of deja vu) Joe walking noiselessly toward him. He started to speak, but Joe raised a warning finger, and he did not. When they were some distance down the hall, Joe guiding him gently but firmly by the arm, Joe said, “Would you like some coffee? Or pop? They’ve got pop.”

He asked, “Will they give us some this late?”

“It’s machines. W.F. will let us in.”

Joe opened a door that appeared locked, a heavy metal door marked C, with a large lock clearly intended to keep people out. They went down flights of narrow concrete stairs, landing after landing, and through a second door into a wide, empty room where orderly rows of battered wooden chairs and tables stretched into the darkness. One corner of the room was lit, and the black man sat in that corner, still wearing his crisp white uniform, a cup of steaming coffee before him.

Joe waved to him, then fished in his pocket for a scuffed leather coin purse. “I’m going to have a cream soda,” he said. “What would you like?”

“Coffee, I guess. Cream and sugar.”

“All right.” Joe selected two nickels from the purse and snapped it shut. “You can sit down with W.F. if you want to. I’ll bring them.”

He nodded and did as he had been told, wishing he had seen the nickels better. They had not looked quite like the nickels to which he was accustomed.

W.F. said, “What I tell you ‘bout gettin’ out the bed, man? Woo-oh! You ass mud now.” He had an infectious smile.

“You’ll have to turn me in, I guess.”

“You guesses? What you mean, guess? You know I do! Goin’ to be KP for you all year. You get dishpan hands clean up the elbows. The women see you, they think you a hundred years old. Leave you alone for sure.”

He nodded and said, “At least I ought to be able to rip off some chocolate pudding.”

W.F. chortled. “You all right! No wonder Joe like you so fast.”

He glanced over at the big man, now moving slowly from one machine to another, a red bottle in his hand. “Is Joe really a prizefighter?”

“Don’t you know? I his handler. You see me on TV?”

He shook his head.

“Hey, man, you miss a good one—we the main attraction. Hey, Joe, tell him you the main event.”

Joe, coming toward them with the bottle in one hand and a steaming cup in the other, shook his head. “Last prelim.” He looked apologetic. “Five rounds to a decision.”

“Only you didn’t need no la-de-da five rounds. You KO’d him in the third.”

Joe slid the coffee cup over, and slowly, heavily, seated himself in one of the battered wooden chairs. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Eddie thinks I’m the heavyweight champion of the world.”

“I know.”

“I’m not. Probably I never will be.”

He nodded. “I never thought you were, Joe.”

W.F. put in, “But you goin’ to be the main event next time, if that sweet Jenny know her stuff.”

Joe nodded slowly. “Maybe.”

“Maybe! You means for sure.”

“Jennifer’s been managing me since this happened to Eddie. Eddie’s still my real manager. He’ll take over again when he’s feeling better.”

“Eddie used to handle Joe hisself,” W.F. explained. “Then he come here, and there wasn’t nobody ’cause Jenny

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