Kells laughed.
The fat one grinned good-naturedly. “I sure slipped up the other night,” he said — “the gal cramped my style.” He glanced at Beery, looked back at Kells’ shoes, went on: “My name is Borg.”
Kells introduced Beery. Then the four of them went through the crowd to the dressing rooms.
There were a dozen or more men — mostly Negroes — in the corridor outside Gilroy’s room. Kells shouldered through, opened the door. The florid Greek was standing just inside, smiling happily. He poked a finger at Kells.
“I told you we would win — I told you,” he said. He turned, frowned at Beery and Borg — Faber had waited outside.
Kells said: “These gentlemen are friends of mine.”
They came in behind him.
Gilroy was lying naked on the rubbing table. His face was covered with little beads of sweat. He turned his head, said: “Hello, Mistah Kells.”
Kells went over to him. “How do you feel?”
“Ah’m all right. The Doc here says it’s jus’ a scratch” — he grinned with all his face — “jus’ a scratch.”