Karl, the other henchman, had ceased his ministrations and was listening with a certain degree of envy. “Doc,” he suggested, “maybe better I should go and help chase ’em away, yah?” His accent was a curious blend of Yorksville kraut and Bowery bum.
Doc Spangler smiled, glancing at the half-open door. Only Maxie’s distant profanities were still audible, and that, too, finally ceased.
“I think Maxie has everything under control,” Spangler said pleasantly. “Better finish taking off the Angel’s shoes so he can take his shower and get dressed. We’ve got to have some supper.”
The Angel heaved up to a sitting position.
“I’m hungry,” he announced heavily. “I wanna double porterhouse and shoestring potaters.”
Spangler’s colourless eyes flitted tenderly over the Angel’s three-storied bay window.
“You’ll have a triple filet mignon with truffles à la Waldorf Astoria three times a day if we can win the title.”
The Angel grinned dully.
“Leave it to me, Doc. I’ll take Nelson.”
“Of course you will — if you’ll always remember to do exactly as I tell you. It was only by obeying my instructions that you got through that first round tonight — and don’t forget it. I won that fight for you, my lad.”