"—poor little Billie McElroy I wanted to—to scratch his eyes out."
I pointed out that McElroy weighed in at two forty-one and had gone on to win the match. Sherry never heard me.
"And the way the Weeping Greek kept hitting the other fellow—the announcer said he was throwing Judo cutlets."
"Cuts, not cutlets."
"But aren't Judo cutlets illegitimate?" The barest hint of a puzzled frown tugged at her flawless brows as she poured ice water into my glass.
"The word," I repeated, "is cuts. And the blow is not illegal." I gave my eyes another treat. What a chassis. And what a mind. "Anything these days, so long as you don't kill your opponent, is legal in wrestling."
Suddenly we had company: a little man who made scarcely a sound as he slid into my booth and sat facing me. "Rassling, yet," he said, in bitter tones. "What a woid. Dun't be saying it." He helped himself to a cigarette from my pack lying on the table, and put the pack in his pocket. He lit the cigarette, using my lighter, which he held a moment longer than necessary before replacing it—regretfully—on the table.
He inhaled deeply. "Rassling!" he repeated. "Leave us not discuss it."
