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Mr. Fred aimed a pudgy index finger. Clarisse followed it over the heads in front of them to see Ashes sitting in the first row talking with an Oriental woman wearing a combination of bright colors and a small collection of gold chains and bracelets. “He's interviewing Ms. Ben Wah,” said Mr. Fred. “She's running for vice-president of PUMA in the upcoming election.”

“I do her nails,” Miss America confided. “They're three inches long. Mr. Fred says she could perform open-heart surgery without ever lifting a scalpel.”

Clarisse turned back to Mr. Fred. He was playing with one end of his mustache and she realized for the first time that it, as well as his hair, was no longer its usual chestnut shade. He caught her puzzled glance.

“Speed-o dye job,” he explained, instantly understanding her wondering expression. “Like it?”

Clarisse looked at his blond waves and then asked casually, “What did you mean when you said something about cops a few minutes ago?”

“I want a weenie!” exclaimed Mr. Fred, jumping up. “Who else wants one? My treat,” he added. Mr. Fred leaned across Clarisse and Miss America and lifted one of Joe's earphones. Sounds of the Rolling Stones' new album blared out tinnily. “Weenie, Joe?” Fred shouted.

“No!” Joe shouted back, not realizing he was talking above a normal tone. Mr. Fred let go of the earphone and, using Clarisse's thigh as a lever, pushed himself upright. “Susie? Julia?”

“I don't want no weenie,” said Susie Whitebread loudly, not even turning around. “Julia don't neither.”

“Mr. Fred—” Clarisse persisted.

“I'll be right back,” said Mr. Fred, and began moving through the row toward the concession stand.

Clarisse glanced over the audience again. Much of it was Italian, middle-class, and suburban. It was no wonder that PUMA wanted to keep their sponsorship of the match a secret. Susie rose, turned around, and climbed over the intervening row until she got to Mr. Fred's vacant seat. She pointed out to Clarisse the clusters of women who belonged to PUMA. They weren't hard to distinguish.

“Do you have any connection with Birkin Hare?” Clarisse asked Susie abruptly.

“I want a Coke,” said Miss America suddenly. She stood up and slipped past Clarisse, ignoring Susie's angry stares.

“Where'd you hear that?” demanded Susie.

“I heard a rumor,” said Clarisse. “I was curious.”

“A fat hair burner told you that, I bet,” said Susie. “A fat hair burner and a skinny fingernail butcher.”

“I didn't say that.”

“If it wasn't Fred and America who told you about that, then it must have been the cops.” Susie lowered her voice and narrowed her eyes on Clarisse. “You been talking to the cops about Sweeney, right?”

Clarisse fished her compact from her coat, snapped it open, and picked at her hair as she talked to Susie. “What's Sweeney got to do with Birkin Hare?”

Susie snatched the compact from Clarisse's hand, snapped it shut forcibly, and tossed it into Clarisse's lap. “You better level with me, honeybunch. You trying to implicate other people so nobody'll think
you
offed that creep in your bed?”

“I'm not accusing anybody of anything,” Clarisse shot back. “I wasn't even asking about Sweeney. I was asking about Birkin Hare, that's all. And I'm certainly not working with the police.”

“They didn't tell you about me and Sweeney?” asked Susie suspiciously.

“I brought all of us weenies,” announced Mr. Fred, returning from the concession stand. He settled into Miss America's vacated seat with a frail cardboard box bearing a pile of steaming hot dogs smothered with catsup, mustard, bright green relish, and chopped onions. A single can of Coca-Cola was angled into one corner. “Have a weenie, Clarisse,” he said, thrusting the box at her.

“You eat mine, Mr. Fred.”

“Susie?”

“I do not want a weenie, Mr. Fred!” she shrieked. “I told you that!” Without a further word to Clarisse, Susie got up and climbed unceremoniously back down to her seat. Julia stood up and screamed, “Let's get this show on the road! ”

There was a little applause. The crowd was getting restless for the next match. Susie glared up at Clarisse, then turned and said something to Julia.

“What's wrong with her?” Mr. Fred asked, indicating Susie. He moved back to his original place on the other side of Clarisse. “She's acting like a real cat woman.”

“I asked her about Birkin Hare and Sweeney,” said Clarisse coolly.

“Oh,” said Mr. Fred, snapping open his can of soda.

“What about it, Mr. Fred?” Clarisse insisted.

“I can't talk with my mouth full,” said Mr. Fred, taking a big bite of his hot dog. “When my mouth's…not full,” he mumbled, “I'll tell you all about it.”

The bell at ringside clanged frantically. The crowd cheered. Susie turned around to say something to Clarisse, but her voice was drowned out. She shut her mouth and looked back to the ring. The referee climbed between the ropes.

“The next match of the evening,” he announced into a handheld cordless microphone, “is a tag-team event between—” He paused significantly.

At that moment there was a loud and echoing sound of a door slamming shut. An expectant murmur ran through the crowd.

Two women—short, firmly built, identical—with closecropped flame-red hair, red body stockings, and red knee-high lace-up boots entered from opposite corners, jumped up into the ring, and began madly skipping bright blue jump ropes.

“The Vermicelli Twins! ” screamed the announcer.

The audience went wild. It rose. It cheered. It screamed its approval. The Vermicelli Twins were hometown girls, Joe shouted to Clarisse over the uproar.

The twins skipped twice around the ring before flinging their ropes into the crowd and setting off two small riots of souvenir hunters. The two women hopped to the center of the ring and jumped up and down a couple of times on the canvas. The crowd roared in delight.

“Versus,” continued the announcer.

The crowd sat down again. It booed. It hissed its disapproval. It stamped its feet out of rhythm.

“The Harlem Hellcats!”

All the PUMA audience members stood up and began screaming.

The Harlem Hellcats slinked in together at one corner of the ring, then separated, one going off to the left, and one off to the right. Their wild manes of bleached blond hair were streaked with black. Their black body suits were dappled with yellow leopard spots. Wedged into their carmine mouths were enormous beef bones, strips of raw meat dangling from the ends. They hissed and clawed at the audience, and then they flung their bones at a knot of teenagers who were yelling the loudest insults at them.

Joe said something more to Clarisse, but she couldn't make it out. She moved over onto the seat vacated by Miss America and pointed to Joe's earphones. He pulled them down about his neck and lowered the volume.

“Sorry. I said that they're actually from Roxbury. But Roxbury Hellcats doesn't have any ring to it at all.”

“I do their hair,” Mr. Fred told her. “They're honorary members of PUMA.”

The announcer introduced the four women to the audience. Clarisse was probably the only person there who had never seen them fight before. Then he introduced the referee, who was donning shin guards and elbow guards at ringside.

“All right,” said the referee, climbing into the ring, “I want a fair fight.”

At that moment, one of the Harlem Hellcats ran screaming across the ring, grabbed one of the Vermicelli sisters by the shoulders, and flipped her over backward into the center of the ring. Then she jumped up and down on her right hand.

The downed Vermicelli sister screeched in animated agony as the referee barked, “Wait for the bell! Wait for the bell!”

The Hellcat instantly jumped up and backed off, holding her hands up high above her head. “I didn't do nothing! ” she pleaded angrily. “I didn't do nothing! ”

Clarisse sighed patiently, and then leaned toward Joe. “Why is Ashes here covering a PUMA event? Do the readers of the
BAR
care about this sort of thing?”

“They eat it up.” He looked around at the crowd. “There's a photographer here too, somewhere. Ashes got an exclusive interview with Annie Hindle before things got started. Isn't that great?”

“If you say so.”

Two officials had now entered the ring and were in heated conversation with the referee and the defiant Vermicelli Twins in the corner.

In this lull, Clarisse said, “I wonder what Sweeney Drysdale would have made of all this.”

“He wouldn't have dared show up after that last column he wrote,” said Joe.

“What!” exclaimed Clarisse.

The crowd again grew anxious for the match to get under way. They began shouting their protest at the still-arguing officials.

“Ashes told Val that that column was lost,” said Clarisse quickly.

“I don't know,” shrugged Joe. “But I saw it. On Ashes' desk—about a week ago, I think.”

“What did Sweeney say?” demanded Clarisse excitedly.

“I don't remember,” said Joe.

“Please, Joe, try to remember.”

Joe looked at her curiously, thought for a moment, and then said, “Maybe it wasn't Sweeney's last column. But it sure was nasty.”

“Was it or wasn't it his last column?” Clarisse demanded in growing exasperation.

Joe shook his head. “It was on plain paper, that's all I remember. But maybe it was an old column, and that's what I'm thinking of. If Ashes said the column got lost, then that's probably what happened. What difference does it make anyway?”

The bell rang. The officials left the ring while the referee swiftly briefed the two teams before stepping back out of the way. The crowd cheered in deafening anticipation.

Clarisse was about to ask whether the missing column had been on the desk in Ashes' office or the desk in Ashes' apartment, but it was too late. Joe's earphones were back in place. Miss America was suddenly beside her, wanting her seat back. Ashes himself was coming into the row from the other side. Clarisse moved over and gave her seat back to Miss America.

In return for the second Coke Miss America had brought him, Mr. Fred held out a cold hot dog across Clarisse's lap. “You want the last one?”

“You eat it, Fred,” said Miss America.

“I'd feel guilty,” he said without conviction.

“Think of all the starving hairdressers in India,” said Clarisse, pushing the hot dog, dripping mustard and relish, back toward Mr. Fred. She looked to her right and found Ashes smiling a silent greeting to her from the other side of Apologetic Joe.

In the ring, one of the Vermicelli Twins lowered her head into a battering ram, rushed up behind the Harlem Hellcat, and propelled her into the turnbuckle. The Hellcat bounced back and landed face up on the mat. The second Vermicelli sister lifted her leg high and brought her boot down with considerable force on the Hellcat's exposed neck. The Hellcat jumped up and staggered helplessly about the ring making choking noises, while she was mercilessly pummeled by her opponent.

“Give that bitch a mini-pile driver! ” shrieked Julia, jumping up and shaking both fists at the Vermicelli Twins.

Clarisse turned to Mr. Fred and insisted, “I still want to know about Susie and Birkin Hare. You've finished eating, so now talk.” Clarisse took a cue from Miss America: you sometimes had to be firm with Mr. Fred.

Mr. Fred didn't speak at once. He looked past Clarisse to his sister, who had heard Clarisse's question. His sister glanced back and gave one short nod of permission.

Clarisse saw this exchange and said, “Thank you, America. Now maybe I'll find out something around here.”

“Susie was a secretary at Birkin Hare,” explained Mr. Fred with a little sigh of resignation.

“A secretary? Susie Whitebread?” Clarisse glanced down with surprise at the back of Susie's head.

Carefully daubing a bit of spilled relish from his chin, Mr. Fred crossed his legs and leaned confidingly toward Clarisse. “Well, that was her job title, anyhow,” he went on, warming to his subject. “There was this real important scientist at Birkin Hare, and he was a three-hundred-pound tub-ola. So he went on a diet and he got down to a hundred and forty-five, and he was so happy that he started picking up girls in the Combat Zone. Isn't that what straight men do when they lose a lot of weight?”

“I don't know,” said Clarisse. “I have no idea.”

“Anyway, one day he met Susie, and he just fell head over heels. He couldn't ‘date' her often enough. But he was running out of money, paying for Susie's cabs and things.” Mr. Fred was a great one for euphemisms. “So when he couldn't afford it anymore, he put Susie on his payroll as a secretary. It seems he had all these research grants, and he put her down as his secretarial help. She was getting paid every week by the Antivivisection League. I know because I used to cash her checks.” Mr. Fred, eyeing yet another hot dog, took a breath.

“She went to Hawaii once and once to Palm Springs. Well, this scientist was so proud of himself that he told one of his friends in his laboratory, and then his friend started doing it, and all of a sudden there were secretaries on everybody's payroll,
if
you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly,” said Clarisse.

With a flying kung-fu-type maneuver, one of the Vermicellis landed a boot hard on the chin of a Hellcat. The crowd roared, but Clarisse was barely aware of what was happening in the ring, so intent was she on Mr. Fred's story. He had to wait till the noise of the crowd died down before he could continue.

“This was when Sweeney Drysdale used to be the afternoon bartender down at the Hungry Eye in the Combat Zone, where all the secretaries hang out. And it wasn't long before he found out what was going down. So when the scientists dropped into the Eye, Sweeney let them know he knew exactly what they were up to with the secretaries.”