“Mike,” he protested, “anyone, a child — even Connie, your own daughter — might be sceptical of that. In fact, if she knew about your partnership with Spangler, she might even be afraid that you’re mixed up in something not quite—”
Grady stiffened, his face reddening.
“And what the hell has my daughter to do with this?”
The Saint’s disclaimer was as bland as cold cream.
“Why, nothing at all, Mike. I merely mentioned her as a possibility.”
“Well, you just leave her out of this!” Grady glared at him and then looked away restlessly. “Maybe it isn’t according to Hoyle for me to have a financial interest in Bilinski,” he grumbled, “but it doesn’t matter a damn to me if he wins or loses, just so I get my two grand back.”
“By the way,” said the Saint, “how does Spangler get away with Bilinski wearing that old sock over his head?”
“He has special permission from the Boxin’ Commission, Grady replied curtly. “It’s a legitimate publicity stunt.”
“If there is such a thing,” Simon admitted. “But it certainly improves his appearance.”
“He’ll have to take it off for the championship fight,” Grady informed him sourly, “when he gives Steve Nelson the beatin’ he deserves!”