Beery sat tinkling ice against the sides of his glass. When Kells turned off the shower Beery yelled: “The old lady don’t want to go anyway.”
Kells stood in the bathroom door, grinning.
Beery looked up at him and then down at his glass. “I guess she don’t like you very well.” He picked up the phone and asked for a Hollywood number.
Kells disappeared into the bathroom again, and when he came out Beery smiled happily, said: “Okay. She’d rather go to a picture show.”
The seats were fifth row, ringside — two seats off the aisle. The second preliminary was in its last round when Kells and Beery squeezed past a very fat man in the aisle seat, sat down.
The preliminary ended in a draw and the lights flared on. Kells nodded to several acquaintances, and Beery leaned forward, talked to a friend of his in the row ahead. He introduced the man to Kells: Brand, feature sports writer for an Eastern syndicate.
Kells had been looking at his program, asked: “What’s the price on Gilroy?”
“The boys were offering three to two before dinner — very little business. I’ll lay two to one on Shane.”
Gilroy was a New York Negro, a heavyweight who had been at the top of his class for a while. Too much living, and racial discrimination — too few fights — had softened him. The dopesters said he’d lost everything he ever had, was on the skids. Shane was a tough kid from Texas. He was reputed to have a right-hand punch that more than made up for his lack of experience.
Kells remembered Gilroy — from Harlem — had known him well, liked him. He said: “I’ll take five hundred of that.”