"You've gone crazy, Charlie. You've gone stark ravin' mad!"
Charlie Jingle whirled.
"All these years, Mish, I starved and sweated in tank-joints. All these years I broke my back, and nobody lifted a finger except a choice one or two. Now I've got a crack at somethin' good and everybody wants in. Well I don't want them in! I want them to stay clear, and lemme go my own way! Is that crazy?"
"But Charlie," moaned Mischa Hannigan. "You can't go laughin' at the Fixer like that! Don't you have enough worries without gettin' killed?"
Charlie Jingle looked at him a blank moment and then laughed. He turned, looking toward the ring below. The Tanker was on the Gym floor, looking up. He waved. Charlie turned to Hannigan.
"Can you get me the Jawbreaker to spar with Tanker, Mish?"
Hannigan sank slowly into his leather chair behind the beat-up, rusting metal desk. He rubbed a patch of rust with his thumb.
"Sure. Sure I can get the Jawbreaker. Can you get the match?"
"You just watch my dust," said Charlie, and went out.
Mischa Hannigan crinkled his nose. He began to feel his asthma coming on.