Free Canvas Coffin by William Campbell Gault Page B

Both of you are.”
    “I’m going down for a drink, then,” Max said. “I won’t move out until she moves in.” He looked at Sally. “I mean — moves her clothes in; she’s already taken over everything else.”
    “Max,” I said, “I love you, but you haven’t got her build. Why don’t we make up and all go down for a drink?”
    “Not today,” Max said. “Maybe tomorrow, but not today.” He went out, and the door slammed behind him.
    Sally pretended to read.
    I said, “Why don’t you get out of his hair?”
    “Why doesn’t he get out of mine? He’s jealous, I think. Could that be?”
    “No. If you want a drink, order one. And a bottle of beer for me, Eastern beer.”
    “Yes, dear,” she said. “Aren’t we bossy, though? Aren’t we the executive type?”
    “My hand hurts,” I told her, “and you two sit there and bicker like a couple of punks. Why don’t you read to me?”
    “This one’s beyond you,” she said. “I’ll order the drinks and we’ll talk.”
    Scotch, she had, and the boy brought me a bottle of Milwaukee beer. We talked about marriage, and where would we live?
    “Here?” I suggested.
    “I don’t know. So many phonies. It’s got everything, Luke, but it’s so — transient, sort of.”
    “Four million people in the county,” I said. “Some of them are bound to be real. I like it, phonies and all.”
    “And what would you do?”
    “I don’t know. Live off you. This should be a good town for a commercial artist.”
    “It isn’t. I’d live off you, and how much can you make, selling pencils?”
    “I could write a sports column, or something. That should be a breeze, in this town. Or I could fight Patsy Giani and bet all the money I could borrow plus my share of the purse on him.”
    “You’ve ducked him long enough. I wonder why the Commission lets Max get away with that?”
    “Nobody decent wants Patsy Giani as a champ. Nobody who has any regard for boxing.”
    “Giani,” she said thoughtfully. “And Bevilaqua. Both Italian, aren’t they?”
    “Mmmm-hmmm. But if you think there’s a connection, you’re wrong. Harry hates the man’s guts, though he admires his power.”
    “He didn’t sound that way to me.”
    “It isn’t how he sounds, it’s how he is. Harry had a lot of regard for the boxing game, and he probably still has. His manager was one of the straightest noodles in the business.”
    “You’re certainly a fast man with an opinion. There’s something back in that owl’s roost that we didn’t get. I can feel it; I know it. We ought to go back.”
    “After my hand’s better. I’d be at a disadvantage there, with only the left hand.”
    “Did you see that girl at the end of the bar? Do you think she was — a — you know — a — ”
    “I don’t know. I’ll find out when we go back. Don’t be so superior, my motel miss.”
    “You’re vulgar,” she said. “That’s just one of the reasons I’m afraid to marry you. You’re cruel, at times, and vulgar a lot, and you haven’t any money sense at all. And you’re not very well read.”
    “Think of my body and forget the rest. Not an ounce of fat on me. Did you see me tip over that big dago?”
    “Italian. That’s another thing, you’re bigoted.”
    “No. I’m sorry; I was trying to annoy you. You know I’m not bigoted.”
    “All right, then, not that. But vulgar and occasionally cruel and highly opinionated and egotistical, too. You think you’re something.”
    “I am,” I said. “I’m champ.”
    “Champ! In what kind of trade?”
    “In my trade. Remember, we talked about King George, and that’s what I liked about him. He was champ in his trade.”
    “Edward would have been better.”
    “No. He had his chance at the title, and missed it. Never mind why; he wasn’t man enough for the job. But George was.”
    “Edward gave up the crown for the woman he loved. Wouldn’t you?”
    “No. I wouldn’t give it up for Jesus Christ. I earned it; the next champ is