VIII
“And how is our Miss Sally Hastings these days?” Agnes asking this genially of Ginger Horton while giving Guy a meaningfully coy glance—for she had tried to interest her nephew in the young lady.
“Poor Sally,” said Ginger Horton, putting on her look of extremest nonchalance. “She’s become rather tiresome, I’m afraid.”
“Thatisa shame,” said Agnes. “Such a lovely girl—didn’t you think so, Guy?”
“A most charming girl,” said Guy Grand.
“And yet, I must say,youdidn’t seem to notice,”his aunt went on, rather severely, “hardly spoke two words all evening—though, if I’ve a shred of intuitiveness, she was very much attracted toyou, Guy.”
“We met later at her place,” Guy explained.
“Guy, you didn’t!” said Agnes in genuine annoyance.
“Yes, of course,” said Guy. “Just for a little tête-à-tête—nothing more certainly.”
“Well,” said Agnes, taking a long sip of her tea, and pursing her lips before speaking again to Ginger, “thatisa shame, Ginger. And such aclevergirl, too; but then I suppose so many of them are, aren’t they—young girls, I mean, of her sort? Personally, of course, I putqualitybeforecleverness—don’tyou, Guy?”
“Oh, I should think that goes without saying,” said Guy easily.
*****
Grand’s entrance into the world of championship boxing, significant though it may have been, went completely unnoticed by the savants of the press. They continued about their business, promoting the Champ. They said the Champ had plenty of heart and moxie, and that while he might not be thebrightest guy in the whole world, by golly, he was nobody’s fool, and pound for pound, he could punch with the best of them.
In the columns they set up hypothetical matches:
Maybe you’re asking, “Could the Champ have taken the Rock’s primeval right-cross?” The answer to that? Hecould, and he could have dished something out to boot! “But,” you want to know, “couldhe have handled the Bomber’s Sunday-one, I mean the one that could snap a two-by-four from nine inches!” Look, you want me to tell you something? If Champy couldn’t roll that punch, you know what hecoulddo? He could justlaughit off! “Granted,” you say, “but could the Champ have lasted with Big John L., when the chips were down bloody-bare-bone-knuckle in the 108th stanza?” You want my answer to that, buddy? Okay, I’ll tell you something. I was standing with the Champ and his gray-haired Mom one Saturday afternoon on the corner of Darrow and Lex when some punk hood comes up and starts slapping Champ’s Mom around.“You dirty old slut!” he yelled, slapping her around. The Champ’s Mom! Can you imagine!?!Well, if you think the American heavyweight boxing champion of the world stands idle while some cheap runt of a punk roughs up hisMom—you’vegot another think coming, Mister!You’dbetter put on your think-cap, Mister! The answer isN...O... spells “NO!” “Okay,” you say, “so far, sohunky-do-ray-me, but could the Champ have notched Demetrias—when Demi was swinging with the old net and trident, and the Champ was hog-tied?” What? You want my answer to that buddy? Okay, just listen. If Champ....
Maybe you’re asking, “Could the Champ have taken the Rock’s primeval right-cross?” The answer to that? Hecould, and he could have dished something out to boot! “But,” you want to know, “couldhe have handled the Bomber’s Sunday-one, I mean the one that could snap a two-by-four from nine inches!” Look, you want me to tell you something? If Champy couldn’t roll that punch, you know what hecoulddo? He could justlaughit off! “Granted,” you say, “but could the Champ have lasted with Big John L., when the chips were down bloody-bare-bone-knuckle in the 108th stanza?” You want my answer to that, buddy? Okay, I’ll tell you something. I was standing with the Champ and his gray-haired Mom one Saturday afternoon on the corner of Darrow and Lex when some punk hood comes up and starts slapping Champ’s Mom around.
“You dirty old slut!” he yelled, slapping her around. The Champ’s Mom! Can you imagine!?!Well, if you think the American heavyweight boxing champion of the world stands idle while some cheap runt of a punk roughs up hisMom—you’vegot another think coming, Mister!You’dbetter put on your think-cap, Mister! The answer isN...O... spells “NO!” “Okay,” you say, “so far, sohunky-do-ray-me, but could the Champ have notched Demetrias—when Demi was swinging with the old net and trident, and the Champ was hog-tied?” What? You want my answer to that buddy? Okay, just listen. If Champ....
The Champ was a national hero. He became a TV personality, and his stock in trade was a poignant, almost incredible, ignorance. He was good-natured and lovably stupid—and, boy-oh-boy, was hetough!
Well, Grand got through somehow, put his cards on the table (two million, tax-free) and made an arrangement whereby the Champ would throw the next fight in a gay or effeminate manner and, in fact, would behave that way all the time, on TV, in the ring, everywhere—swishing about, grimacing oddly, flinching when he struck a match, and so on.
The next big bout was due to go quite differently now. The challenger in this case was a thirty-three-year-old veteran of the ring named Texas Powell. Tex had an impressive record: 40 wins (25 by K.O.), 7 losses and 3 draws. He had been on the scene for quite a while and was known, or so the press insisted, as a “rugged customer,” and a “tough cookie.”
“Tex has got the punch,” they said. “The bigifis: Can he deliver it? Will he remain conscious longenough to deliver it?There’syour Big If in tonight’s Garden bout!”
Well, the fix was in with Tex too, of course—not simply to carry the fight, but to do so in the most flamboyantly homosexual manner possible. And finally, a fix—orzinger, as it was called in those days—was in with the Commission as well, a precaution taken under best advice as it turned out, because what happened in the ring that night was so “funny” that the bout might well have been halted at the opening bell.
Fortunately, what did happen didn’t last too long. The Champ and the challenger capered out from their corners with a saucy mincing step, and, during the first cagey exchange—which on the part of each was like nothing so much as a young girl striking at a wasp with her left hand—uttered little cries of surprise and disdain. Then Texas Powell took the fight to the Champ, closed haughtily, and engaged him with a pesky windmill flurry which soon had the Champ covering up frantically, and finally shrieking, “I can’tstandit!” before succumbing beneath the vicious peck and flurry, to lie in a sobbing tantrum on the canvas, striking his fists against the floor of the ring—more the bad loser than one would have expected. Tex tossed his head with smug feline contemptand allowed his hand to be raised in victory—while, at the touch, eyeing the ref in a questionable manner.
Apparently a number of people found the spectacle so abhorrent that they actually blacked-out.