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  “Hey, Hughes!” he called to me when I came in, and then, to the fat one standing at the bar with him: “This is that fella I was tellin’ you about, that writer.”

  “Hello, Jay.”

  “Hello, Hughes. This is my friend Stanley.”

  “Hello, Stanley.”

  “Hello.”

  “He drove me up here,” Jay said. “He’s got his own car, so he drove me up.”

  Stanley was perspiring. It wasn’t particularly warm in the bar, but they were drinking beer and Stanley was just standing there, fat and red-faced and perspiring under his eyes and where his nose met the rest of his face and in the crevice of his chin.

  “What’ll you have to drink?” Jay said.

  “Give me some of that MacNaughton’s in plain water, Girot.”

  “This fella is a great writer,” Jay said, talking to Stanley and to Girot, who was standing behind the bar and pouring my drink.

  “I know,” Girot said, nodding, and then putting my drink down in front of me.

  “Thank you, Girot,” I said.

  “He don’t knock people,” Jay said to Stanley. “He ain’t like them other writers, knock people. He never knocks nobody.”

  “You mean almost never,” I said.

  “He writes for all the big magazines,” he said, still making a show for Stanley. “All the big ones.”

  “Yeah?” Stanley said.

  “I remember him when he was on the paper,” Jay said, and then to me: “Don’t I remember?”

  “Sure.”

  “How many years do I know you?”

  “I don’t know. Too many.”

  “What, too many? You ain’t so old.”

  “Well, since I can’t get any younger, I hope I get older.”

  “You think you’re gettin’ older? How old you think I am?”

  I know exactly, I said to myself. I happen to know that you’re sixty-three.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “About fifty-eight.”

  “You see?” he said, turning back to Stanley. “I don’t look it, but I’m sixty-three. He thinks I’m fifty-eight. You see?”

  “Yeah?” Stanley said.

  “I’m sixty-three,” Jay said, turning back to me. “Feel my belly. Go ahead.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Go ahead. Feel it.”

  I felt under his ribs in the front, and it was hard.

  “Like a rock,” he said. “Hit me a punch there.”

  “No. Have another beer.”

  “I’ll have one, but hit me there. Go ahead. Hard.”

  I pushed a short right hand into his belly, not hard but harder than I would want anyone to hit me.

  “Harder. Go ahead. Harder. That was nothin’.”

  “No, Jay. Please.”

  “You see, though? I’m in shape, hey? How many guys my age in that kind of shape? How many fighters, even, in that kind of shape today?”

  “Not many.”

  “You see?” he said to Stanley. “Here’s a guy knows boxin’. What’d I tell you on the way up? I mean about the old-time fighters and the fighters today?”

  “That’s right,” Stanley said, putting down his beer glass and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and nodding.

  “Stanley could tell you,” Jay said to me. “I was tellin’ him how we thought nothin’ of runnin’ ten miles and boxin’ twenty rounds in the gym.”

  “Fighters don’t think much of that today, either,” I said.

  “You think I’m kiddin’, hey?” Jay said.

  “No.”

  “I’m not kiddin’. Today you ask a fighter to do half that and he looks at you like you’re crazy. Today—”

  “I know.”

  “You want the same, Mr. Hughes?” Girot said.

  “Yes, and serve these gentlemen again, too.”

  “You know who’s the best-conditioned fighter in the ring today?” Jay said.

  “I can guess.”

  “Eddie Brown. Eddie Brown is far and gone the best-conditioned fighter in the ring today. You write a story on that, you’ll have a good story that nobody ever wrote.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly going to write a story on conditioning.”

  “I know. Don’t I know? You’ll get a good story, because you write a story on Eddie Brown you’ll have a story on the new middleweight champion of the world. Ain’t that right, Stanley?”

  “That’s right,” Stanley said, still perspiring.

  “I mean you’ll have the first. They’ll sell a lot of them magazines.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Sure. Why not? I’ll tell everybody I know to buy the magazine. Stanley’ll tell everybody he knows. Right, Stanley?”

  “Sure. I’d like to read it,” Stanley said.

  “You see what I mean?” Jay said. “You gonna put me in that story?”

  “Undoubtedly. I’m going to write about what a fighter goes through going into a fight and the people around him. You’ll have to be in there, Jay.”

  “Yeah? I could tell you a lot of stories you could put in. You know what I used to do before a fight?”

  “No.”

  “Listen to this, Stanley. You, too, Girot.”

  “I hear it,” Girot said.

  He was standing behind the bar with his arms crossed, and when I caught his eye he shook his head.

  “Before a fight I used to eat garlic. You know why?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t like to fight in close. You know? I mean, I could fight inside good enough. I could punch to the belly in close, but I liked to move around and box at a distance, you know? Everybody knew that, used to like to fight me in close, see? So I got the idea, eat garlic.”

  “What gave you the idea?”

  “I used to eat it some, anyway. I’m Italian.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Sure. So—”

  “What’s your right name?”

  “Don’t put that in the story.”

  “I won’t. What is it?”

  “Giorno. Don’t put it in.”

  “I won’t. What’s your first name?”

  “Joe.”

  “Giuseppe Giorno. That’s a nice name. It’s musical.”

  “Johnny Jay. Put that in. Everybody knows me, Johnny Jay.”

  “I’ve promised.”

  “So, I fought a guy at the Pioneer. You remember Jimmy Muldane?”

  “I remember the name. There were two brothers.”

  “For a featherweight a strong guy, liked to lay inside on you. So before I left for the club I ate garlic. Boy, I ate garlic, and in the dressing room Doc liked to die. He wouldn’t even stay with me. He went out and walked up and down the hall. Ask him. He’ll tell you.

  “So, the fight starts and Muldane moved inside and I blew a little at him and he pulled out. In a couple of moves he comes in again and I breathed in his puss again and you shoulda seen his face and he says: ‘You dirty, guinea punk.’ He didn’t come in again, and I licked him good.”

  “I like that, Jay,” I said, winking at Girot, who shook his head.

  “You think I’m kiddin’? I did that for every fight, maybe six or seven, and then one night, in the same club—the Pioneer—I’m fightin’ another guy, but the only trouble is he’s a Dago, too, and somebody must have told him, because I’m loaded and he likes to fight inside and comes in and I let him have a whole lungful, and nothin’ happens. What I don’t know, because I can’t tell it, eatin’ it myself, is that he’s loaded, too. The referee steps in to break us, and he like to pass out. He don’t break us again. He don’t even come near us again, and this guy lays all over me and it’s a lousy fight and everybody is booin’ and hollerin’ to throw us out.”

  “If I’m permitted the pun,” I said, “you guys really smelled the joint out.”

  “You’re right. But you know what happened? The referee complained to the commission, and I couldn’t do it no more. You wanna put that in your article?”
<
br />   “Well, I never know exactly what’s going in until I write it, but I appreciate your story.”

  “I got plenty more.”

  “Stanley,” I said. “How long did it take you to drive out from New York?”

  “How long it took us?” Jay said. “It took us three hours. You know why? Traffic. Every day in the week now it’s like a Sunday. Right, Stanley?”

  Stanley nodded.

  “Pretty soon the roads will all be filled with cars so nobody can move anywhere, so you know what they’re doin’? You know what they’re workin’ on now?”

  “No, Jay. What?”

  “They’re workin’ on some way where man can move in the air.”

  “The airplane was invented some time ago.”

  “I don’t mean like the airplane. I mean without wings, or motors. Just walk through the air. You don’t think it’s possible?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “I heard about it someplace. They’re workin’ on some way so that a man ain’t held to the earth, so he can just walk off the earth through the air. I think I read it.”

  “You mean that they’re trying to overcome gravity.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s some kind of a secret, but some of the old-timers could do it. You know that, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “I mean the real old-timers, like Jesus. Jesus could walk on the air, couldn’t he?”

  “It was written that he walked on the water.”

  “Water, air. One is as hard as the other, ain’t it?”

  “All right.”

  “The thing is, he knew the secret, but he didn’t tell nobody. Now they’re tryin’ to find the secret, and when they do, everybody’ll be able to go anyplace. There’ll be plenty of room around for everybody, the whole sky and everything.”

  Girot was shaking his head again.

  “Make me another, will you, Girot?” I said.

  “Where you goin’, Stanley?” Jay said.

  “I’ll be back,” Stanley said.

  “He’s a hell of a guy, ain’t he?” Jay said.

  “I guess so, but he talks too much.”

  “What? He don’t talk too much, but he’s a hell of a guy, hey? He’s got a real good job, too. You know?”

  “What does he do?”

  “I don’t know what he does, but he works for the union, the electrical union. It’s one of them real good jobs. I know him maybe fifteen years, and he’s never out of work yet. He knows some of the higher-ups, too. Every year he gets three weeks’ vacation, with pay, and him and his wife they go down to Rock-away. It’s real nice there in the summer, but once, he was tellin’ me, he and his wife took their vacation and drove down to Virginia. You know Virginia?”

  “Virginia who?”

  “You kiddin’?”

  “All right, men. Attention!” Penna said.

  He was walking in with Eddie. They shook hands with Jay and Penna asked Girot for a glass of water and Girot gave it to him.

  “How you feel?” Jay said to Eddie.

  “Good.”

  “You’ll get in great shape. You’ll be in the best shape of your life, and I was tellin’ Hughes, here, that he’ll have the first story about the new middleweight champion of the world.”

  “Swell,” Eddie said, smiling and winking at me.

  “You bring any dames up for us?” Penna said.

  “Sure,” Jay said. “I got three of them waitin’ out in the car.”

  “‘Our love is forever,’” Penna sang, throwing his arms, “‘no flighty, transient thing.’”

  “Hey, Stanley,” Jay said, seeing Stanley back at his beer. “This is Eddie. Shake hands with Eddie.”

  “Hello, Stanley,” Eddie said.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Stanley said, shaking Eddie’s hand.

  “This is Al Penna,” Jay said.

  “The uncrowned lightweight champion of the world,” Penna said, shaking hands with Stanley.

  “I’ll crown you,” Eddie said.

  “Hey!” Penna said, letting go of Stanley’s hand and looking at him. “Get a load of this guy. Here’s a guy built like Schaeffer. How’d you like to spar a couple of rounds with a heavyweight we got up here, Paul Schaeffer?”

  “No, thanks,” Stanley said, shaking his head. “Not me.”

  “Is Schaeffer up here?” Jay said.

  “Sure,” Eddie said.

  “Good. The first few days you can use him for a sparrin’ partner.”

  “I bet this guy can out-eat Schaeffer, though,” Penna said, still looking at Stanley. “How about we match him eatin’ against Schaeffer? You like to eat?”

  “I like to eat,” Stanley said.

  “Stanley wants your autograph,” Jay said to Eddie. “Girot, give us one of them cards you got.”

  Girot reached behind some glasses behind the bar and handed over a postcard. On its face was a photograph, taken from the lake, of the inn.

  “Write, ‘To my friend, Stanley,’” Jay said to Eddie. “Then sign it, ‘Eddie Brown.’”

  “Sure,” Eddie said, putting an arm around Jay’s shoulder. “Who’s got a pen?”

  Without saying anything, Girot handed a pen over to Eddie. Eddie put the card down on the bar and wrote on it, and then he waved it to dry the ink.

  “You write on it, too,” Stanley said to Penna.

  “Me? Sure,” Penna said, and he took the card and started to write on it. “‘The uncrowned lightweight champion of the world. Al Penna.’ Don’t ever lose this.”

  “You put your name on, too,” Stanley said to me.

  “Why me? I’m not a fighter.”

  “Put it on,” Jay said. “When your story comes out in the magazine Stanley’ll have your autograph, too. He can show it to people.”

  “You asked for it,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Stanley said, when I gave him the card back. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where’s he goin’?” Penna said.

  “Out with our signatures to forge our names to three checks,” I said.

  “Him? Nah,” Jay said. “He’s gonna call his wife. Tell her he’ll be late.”

  “What a build the guy’s got,” Penna said. “Wait’ll Schaeffer sees him. He’ll be jealous.”

  “Stanley’s a hell of a guy,” Jay said. “He works for the union.”

  “Wait’ll Schaeffer sees him,” Penna said. “I’ll tell him: ‘In ten years you’ll look like that.’ He’ll be proud of it. I’ll tell Polo he should manage this guy, too. He’d have the greatest stable of feeders in the world.”

  “You’re forgetting Calumet,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you somethin’ else about that garlic,” Jay said to me. “The night after them fights I couldn’t get a dame. You know? No dame would stay with me, and that’s good. A fighter shouldn’t get a dame right away after a fight. A fighter trains, he gets all wound up. He should unwind slow-like. A couple of nights later it’s all right, but not right after a fight.”

  “You’re crazy,” Penna said.

  6

  The morning after Jay arrived, Eddie did his first roadwork. When I was younger and working for the paper and covering fight camps I would sometimes go out on the road with the fighters. I don’t mean that I would keep up with them and run all the way with them, but at least, now and then, I would get up when they did and go maybe a mile or two. Then I would turn around and start walking back until they would pick me up, and I would try to stay with them coming back into camp.

  It used to make me feel as if somebody had taken my insides apart and put them together again all wrong, but I was always glad when I did it, because it was a way of getting with the fighters. They would get to kidding me about it, and it would become the joke of the camp and sometimes it would last right up to the fight.

  “Wake me when you wake Eddie, will you, Jay?” I said the night before.

  “What for?”

  “I want to get up when
he does.”

  “Heck, I’m getting up at six-thirty,” Eddie said.

  We had been watching TV and now it was ten o’clock. Eddie was standing and stretching, and Jay was still sitting in one of the old overstuffed chairs and watching the commercial for an electric mixer and I could not conceive of him ever baking a cake.

  “What do you want to get up for?” Jay said, standing up when the commercial had finished. “Relax. Get a good rest while you’re up here. Just sleep and eat and breathe this air. Make the most of it.”

  “I haven’t anything else to do. I just want to get up when Eddie does and watch him go out and be around when he comes back. That’s all.”

  “Okay, I’ll wake you. I wouldn’t get up, though, if it was me.”

  “I understand, Frank,” Eddie said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  When Jay banged on my door I got up and got dressed and went into their room where Jay was walking around, busy looking for something on the tops of the two bureaus and on the card table where he had his boxes of gauze bandage and tape and a couple of small bottles. Eddie was sitting on his bed, seemingly removed from it all. He had on long underwear and Army khaki trousers, and he was pulling on a pair of heavy work shoes, and he looked sleepy.

  “Now I bet you wish you didn’t get up,” Jay said, seeing me.

  “I’ll feel fine later. How are you, Eddie?”

  “I’ll let you know later, too.”

  “C’mon, let’s get a move on,” Jay said. He seemed to have found whatever he was looking for, and he was watching Eddie lacing the shoes. He was wearing old, chocolate brown trousers, worn shiny, and a brown-and-orange-striped Basque shirt and, over that, an old, dark blue Navy zippered jacket with the knitted collar and cuffs showing the wear. On his head he had a blue baseball cap with a white B on the front.

  “Where’d you get the Brooklyn cap?” I said.

  “This?” he said, taking it off and looking at it. “One of them sports writers knows the Dodgers got it for me. I was born in Brooklyn. Since the Dodgers win the pennant last year I wear it for luck.”

  “Go on,” Eddie said. “You wear it to keep your bald head from showing.”

  “Sure, sure. Let’s get goin’.”