Beery looked like he was going to fall off his chair. He muttered expletives under his breath.
A man crawled into the ring, followed by two Filipinos with their seconds. The house lights dimmed.
“Ladies and gentlemen... Six rounds... In this corner — Johnny Sanga... a hundred an’ thirty-four...”
Kells said: “I’ll be back in a minute.” He got up and squeezed out past the fat man.
At the head of the corridor that led to the dressing rooms a uniformed policeman said: “You can’t go any farther, buddy.”
Kells looked at him coldly. “I’m Mister Olympic — I own this place.” He twisted a bill around his finger, stepped close and shoved it into the copper’s hand, went on.
Gilroy was sitting on the edge of a rubbing table while a squat heavily sweatered youth taped his hands. A florid be-jeweled Greek sat in a chair tilted back against the wall, smoking a short green cigar. He stood up when Kells opened the door, said: “You can’t come in here, mister.”
Gilroy looked up and his face split in a huge grin. “Well Ah’ll be switch — Mistah Kells!” He got up and came towards Kells, held out his half-taped hand.
Kells smiled, shook hands. “H’are ya, Lonny?”
Gilroy’s grin was enormous. He said: “Sit down — sit down.”