Of Death What Dreams

15

On the eighty-fifth day, Hy Goldblatt looked at William Bailey and wagged his head in exaggerated wonder.

“If I didn’t see it myself, I would never of believed it was the same man.”

Bailey turned this way and that, studying himself in the wall mirror. He walked a few steps, noting the automatic grace of his movements, the poise of his stance, the unconscious arrogance of his posture, the way he held his head.

“It’ll do, Hy,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”

“Where you going now? Why not stay on, help out in the gym? Look, I need an assistant—”

“Pressing business,” Bailey said. “What do you know about the Apollo Club?”

Goldblatt frowned. “I was in the place once, mat man for a cross-class match. Lousy. Fancy place, fancy people. You wouldn’t like working there.”

“I might like being a member.”

Goldblatt stared at him. “You really think you got a chance—Dutch tag and all?”

Bailey turned, gave the trainer an imperious glare. “Are you questioning me?” he asked in a steely tone. Goldblatt stiffened; then he grinned wryly at Bailey’s mocking smile.

“Maybe you do at that,” he said.