Post Office. Chapter II: 19
The next night as they moved the group from the main build– ing to the training building, I stopped to talk to Gus the old newsboy. Gus had once been 3rd-ranked welterweight contender but he never got a look at the champ. He swung from the left side, and, as you know, nobody ever likes to fight a lefty—you’ve got to train your boy all over again. Why bother? Gus took me inside and we had a little nip from his bottle. Then I tried to catch the group.
The Italiano was waiting in the doorway. He saw me coming. He met me halfway in the yard.
“Chinaski?”
“Yeh?”
“You’re late.”
I didn’t say anything. We walked toward the building together.
“I’ve got half a mind to slap your wrist with a warning slip,” he said.
“Oh, please don’t do that, sir! Please don’t!” I said as we walked along.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll let you go this time.”
“Thank you, sir,” 1 said, and we walked in together.
Want to know something? The son of a bitch had body odor.
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