Buk’s Women

“I got a stable,” I said. “Fighters. Four good Mexican boys. Plus one black boy, a real dancer. What do you weigh?”

“158. Were you a fighter? Your face looks like you caught a few.”

“I’ve caught a few. We can put you in at 135. I need a southpaw lightweight.”

“How’d you know I was a southpaw?”

“Your’re holding your cigarette in your left hand. Come on down to the Main Street gym. Monday AM. We’ll start your training. Cigarettes are out. Put that son of a bitch out!”

“Listen, man, I’m a writer. I use a typewriter. You never read my stuff?”

“All I read is the metropolitan dailies– murders, rapes fight results, swindles, jetliner crashes and Ann Landers.”

“Dee Dee,” he said, “I’ve got an interview with Rod Steward in 30 minutes. I gotta go.” He left.

Dee Dee ordered another round of drinks. “Why can’t you be decent to people?” she asked.

“Fear,” I said.

Women.

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