"Block, Lawrence - Scudder 1982 - Eight Million Ways To Die" - читать интересную книгу автора (Block Lawrence)

'I don't see why he should.'

'Then what it's going to cost you, Matt, is the price of not one but two tickets. Be grateful it's an off-night at the Forum and not a title bout at the Main Garden. Ringside shouldn't be more than ten or twelve dollars, say fifteen at the outside. Thirty dollars at the most for our tickets.'

'You're coming with me?'

'Why not? Thirty dollars for tickets and fifty for my time. I trust your budget can carry the weight?'

'It can if it has to.'

'I'm sorry I have to ask you for money. If it were a track meet I wouldn't charge you a cent. But I've never cared for boxing. If it's any consolation, I'd want at least a hundred dollars to attend a hockey game.'

'I guess that's something. You want to meet me there?'

'Out in front. At nine - that should give us plenty of leeway. How does that sound?'

'Fine.'

'I'll see if I can't wear something distinctive,' he said, 'so that you'll have no trouble recognizing me.'

FOUR

He wasn't hard to recognize. His suit was a dove gray flannel and with it he wore a bright red vest over a black knit tie and another white dress shirt. He had sunglasses on, dark lenses in metal frames. Danny Boy contrived to sleep when the sun was out - neither his eyes nor his skin could take it - and wore dark glasses even at night unless he was in a dimly lit place like Poogan's or the Top Knot. Years ago he'd told me that he wished the world had a dimmer switch and you could just turn the whole thing down a notch or two. I remember thinking at the time that that was what whiskey did. It dimmed the lights and lowered the volume and rounded the corners.

I admired his outfit. He said, 'You like the vest? I haven't worn it in ages. I wanted to be visible.'

I already had our tickets. The ringside price was $15. I'd bought a pair of $4.50 seats that would have put us closer to God than to the ring. They got us through the gate, and I showed them to an usher down front and slipped a folded bill into his hand. He put us in a pair of seats in the third row.

'Now I might have to move you gentlemen,' he said, 'but probably not, and I guarantee you ringside.'

After he'd moved off Danny Boy said, 'There's always a way, isn't there? What did you give him?'

'Five dollars.'

'So the seats set you back fourteen dollars instead of thirty. What do you figure he makes in a night?'

'Not much on a night like this. When the Knicks or Rangers play he might make five times his salary in tips. Of course he might have to pay somebody off.'

'Everybody's got an angle,' he said.

'It looks that way.'

'I mean everybody. Even me.'

That was my cue. I gave him two twenties and a ten. He put the money away, then took his first real look around the auditorium. 'Well, I don't see him,' he said, 'but he'll probably just show for the Bascomb fight. Let me take a little walk.'

'Sure.'

He left his seat and moved around the room. I did some looking around myself, not trying to spot Chance but getting a sense of the crowd. There were a lot of men who might have been in the Harlem bars the previous night, pimps and dealers and gamblers and other uptown racket types, most of them accompanied by women. There were some white mob types; they were wearing leisure suits and gold jewelry and they hadn't brought dates. In the less expensive seats the crowd was the sort of mixed bag that turns up for any sporting event, black and white and Hispanic, singles and couples and groups, eating hot dogs and drinking beer from paper cups and talking and joking and, occasionally, having a look at the action in the ring. Here and there I saw a face straight out of any OTB horse room, one of those knobby on-the-come Broadway faces that only gamblers get. But there weren't too many of those. Who bets prizefights anymore?