Axel Steele had removed his shiny necktie and now he was putting it back on, adjusting the knot fastidiously. “Leave him,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Trevor Malloy was attending to Danny’s bruised face as the crowd moved slowly out of the gymnasium, chattering with excitement. Mary-Jo was under Harper’s arm. She cast an uncertain glance back at Danny, then turned away. Axel Steele came back with some money in his hand. “Here, go and get drunk.”
“Stuff your money,” Malloy said.
“You were a disgrace to boxing,” Steele said, “and you’re still a disgrace. You never paid your dues. Now you try to cash in on a fluke friendship with the champ. You freeload a fight to feed your own pride.”
“Get lost, Steele.”
“Hopeless White.” The manager laughed. “Man, did they ever give you the right name.”
As Steele walked away Trevor Malloy said, “Forget it, Danny. He’s why you got out of boxing.”
The manager was back, tossing the money so the bills fluttered around the two men, landing on them and on the floor. “Go on, take the money — you earned it! You gave me a story I can tell for the rest of my life!”
Barbara White was surprised to see her husband back so early. Then she saw his battered face. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Stay there. I have to go out again.”
She had half risen from the kitchen table. Now she sank back again over her knitting, her open magazine, and her cup of tea. “You’ve been fighting. Are you drunk?”
“I’m very sober.” Danny headed for the bedroom.
“Where’s Trevor? Carla called before. He didn’t come home.”
“Trev is out getting loaded,” Danny called. He was opening the drawer in his bedside table, finding the automatic pistol, slipping it into his coat pocket. “He came into some money.”
When he came back into the kitchen, Barbara said, “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”
“I have to go out again. Trev let me have the car. There’s something I have to do.”
“Can’t it be done tomorrow?”
“No. A plane is leaving. I have to see a man.”
“Let me do something about that bruise on your face.”
“The bruise will get better by itself.” Danny put a hand on Barbara’s arm. He felt the muscular movement as she kept on knitting, needles clicking, something getting done. “It’s the least of my worries.”
He bent to kiss her cheek through a curtain of hair and when he went to the door and turned she was looking at him, the needles at rest. “Listen, that trip to Devon with Carla. You and Janice. That’s a good idea. I’ll miss you like hell, but go anyway.”
She heard the door slam behind him, followed by the mechanical roar of Trevor’s old banger starting up and driving away, and then Barbara was left with the most loving words he had ever spoken to her. I’ll miss you like hell, but go anyway.
This time it looked as if the champion and his party were finally going to get on an airplane. Fog conditions had improved slowly and at last their flight had been called. They were moving toward the departure area when Hanneford Harper said, “Hey, here comes Danny!”
Danny approached across the concourse at a near run. He ignored Harper, calling to the manager, “Steele! I want to talk to you!”
Axel Steele grinned. “Hello, Hopeless. You look like you walked into a truck.”
“Stand still,” Danny said. “You aren’t going anywhere.”
“Wrong. I gotta tell the boys at Sports Illustrated all about Hopeless White and his second professional fight.”
Danny took his hand from his pocket, showing them the gun. Hanneford Harper stepped between Danny and Axel Steele, his hands raised, his voice firm. “Danny, don’t make a stupid—”
The gun fired once and Harper fell. There was shouting and running. Harper’s trainer took the gun effortlessly from where it was hanging in Danny’s hand.
Axel Steele was livid. “He shot the champ! He’s a crazy person!” he screamed.
Harper’s head was resting on Mary-Jo’s knees. His eyes were wide open. “Danny, where are you? I can’t see you.”
Danny crouched beside him. “Here I am.”
“I knew I’d never get out of this place. Didn’t I tell you, Mary-Jo?”
“Shut up. We’re taking you home.”
“No. I’m not going anywhere now.” Harper turned toward Danny, not seeing him. “Axel is right. You are crazy.”
“I wasn’t trying to hit you. I was after him.”
“I know. And I was trying to do what you did this morning. We’re a couple of heroes.”
“Shut up,” Mary-Jo scolded gently. “Save your strength.”
“Hey, look at me,” he said. “I’m retiring undefeated.” He closed his eyes.
The airport security police took Danny White into custody as the airplane took off for New York without Hanneford Harper and his entourage. Danny was kept in an inside office while they waited for somebody from Scotland Yard to come and start the official investigation. The guard watching him was a friend and he tried to make conversation. But Danny was beyond communication. He was, in fact, reliving in his mind the first round, in which he had done quite well. And it was not happening in a motel gymnasium. It was taking place at Wembley Stadium on a summer night with 60,000 people loudly and solidly behind him. He knew it was only a dream, but it was the one he wanted and it was more than most men ever achieved.
Danny White was smiling as they drove him to London in the car with the flashing lights.
Why the Funnies Museum Never Opened
by Ron Goulart
Errol was greedier for old gold than for old comic strips...
It was probably the weather that got us onto the topic of death and violence.
The day was grey and rainy, and the Saugatuck River looked murky. Ty Banner had switched to rum but that didn’t keep him from now and then shivering and grumbling about how damp it felt inside the Inkwell Restaurant.
Zarley suggested it was only an allergic reaction. He’d started seeing an allergist about a month earlier and tended to connect most emotional and physical problems with allergens.
“Why are you guys so gloomy?” inquired Hollins as he strolled over to join us for lunch. “Myself, I’m deliriously happy.”
“Probably an allergic reaction,” suggested Zarley.
“Nope. It’s all the fan mail I’m getting.” Hollins took a seat at the large round table, glanced at the choppy river beyond the view window, and lit one of his black cigars. “All of a sudden people love Commuter Chuckles.”
We’re all of us professional cartoonists of one kind or another. When Hollins mentioned his rising popularity, we all leaned toward him. “Probably cranks,” suggested Heinz.
“Nope, these are all sincere devotees,” Hollins assured us. “They dote on my panel, demand originals to treasure.”
“Ha, that’s it,” said Banner, lifting up his rum. “There’s a whole flock of weirdos out there who do nothing but write to you begging for original drawings. Then they haul ’em to those comics conventions they’re always holding at sleazy hotels and sell ’em for fantastic prices.”
“Not your stuff,” said Zarley. “I saw a price list someplace and a Dr. Judge’s Family original was fifteen dollars.”
Banner blinked. “Fifteen dollars?”
“It was a Sunday page too.”
“I’m worth more than that. Don’t they know I won the National Cartoonist Society Award three years in a row back in the Sixties?”
“Collectors are goofy,” said Heinz. “Even my Seaweed Sam original strips go for around twenty-five dollars.”