At that, Art's battles weren't over. "Anybody got the time?" he asked quickly. "8:15," came the answer. "The night's young," said Aragon brightening up. "Anybody know where there's some action?" What did you say before the fight, Art was asked. "I left home and said I thought I'd go take in a fight," said Art. "But it was lousy. I should of stayed home."
He surveyed the reporters. "Will you guys do me a favor?" he suddenly demanded. The reporters looked uncomfortable. "What do you want us to do, Art?" asked one. "I want you to commit yourselves first," commanded Art. The press nodded miserably. "O.K.," said Art. "There's a knothole from Texas outside and need I say more? He's gonna serve me with papers which will hold up $20,000 of my end of the purse. I want you guys to block for me while I heel-and-toe outta here. Actually, he's only a bantamweight."
The reporters shrugged and crowded out of the room. It was impossible to tell whether they were really aiding Aragon or whether the quarters were so cramped no other course was possible. Aragon rushed out behind his interference.
" Art Aragon, summons and complaint!" bellowed the process server, lunging for the fighter. Aragon fled down the stairs from the dressing room to the ball park concourse. A knot of a couple of hundred fans began to cheer. Then their jaws gaped open. Here came their hero flying down the stairs in wild flight from a fattish, hysterical man, waving papers. What made Artie run was not decipherable to his fans. But run Art did. Out into the night, between parked cars, weaving through the crowds of fans streaming out of the park. "Hey, Art," said one baffled observer, " Basilio's gone." But Art didn't stop to joke. He fled. The summons-server was in hot pursuit. But Art's footwork was improved. He disappeared into the night, coat-tails flying in undignified rout.
In another part of the park, Telecaster Gil Stratton spotted Mrs. Aragon. "How did you like the fight?" he asked innocently. Georgia looked at him. "Fine," she said evenly. "Just fine."