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Cheryl Sue was still trying to work out what that meant when Wilson, the guy who swept up around Ring Lights, stuck his head in the door. "You got a call."
"They probably want to bronze my nose for the Boxing Hall of Fame," I said, as I walked out to the pay phone in the hallway.
The receiver was dangling from the wall, spinning slowly on its metal cord. I reeled it in and said hello.
"Cavanaugh? This is Charlie Considine. You probably heard of me. We book fighters."
"Sure, sure, Mr. Considine," I said. "Who hasn't heard of you?" What I'd heard was that he was a crook, not like you'd expect anything else in this game.
He ignored my nonanswer. "I think we can work together," he said. "I love light heavies."
"You name it, and I'm there," I said. "Unless it's to fight a Mexican in Mexico. Anything else is negotiable."
"Nah, this is a New York fight. Hell, you can take the subway to it."
"I only need a couple weeks to get ready," I told him. "I was doing good tonight against Warren Davis till he got lucky and busted my nose, so I'm pretty close to top form. Who is it? That young guy from Texas been knocking everybody out?"
Considine took his time answering. "Nah, somebody older than that," he said finally, "but you know him. We want you to fight your dad."