FIFTY GRAND
“H OW are you going yourself, Jack?” I asked him. “You seen this, Walcott?” he says.
“Just in the gym.”
“Wel ,” Jack says, “I’m going to need a lot of luck with that boy.” “He can’t hit you, Jack,” Soldier said.
“I wish to hel he couldn’t.”
“He couldn’t hit you with a handful of bird-shot.”
“Bird-shot’d be al right,” Jack says. “I wouldn’t mind bird-shot any.” “He looks easy to hit,” I said.
“Sure,” Jack says, “he ain’t going to last long. He ain’t going to last like you and me, Jerry. But right now he’s got everything.”
“You’l left-hand him to death.”
“Maybe,” Jack says. “Sure. I got a chance to.” “Handle him like you handled Kid Lewis.” “Kid Lewis,” Jack said. “That kike!”
The three of us, Jack Brennan, Soldier Bartlett, and I were in Handle
