MRS. CAMILLE MARINO was having another one of those dreams—the kind in which she was a Miss America contestant and her late son, Charlie, was the pageant host. She was about to kiss his cheek and accept the crown, when a voice from above asked where her husband was.

She opened her eyes slowly and saw a tall, square-headed F.B.I. agent kneeling at her bedside with a gun in his hand. He put a finger up to his mustache and indicated that he wanted her to be quiet. At least six other agents were standing by the open bedroom window with their guns drawn. Curtains flapped in the breeze.

“Just tell us where to find your husband, Mrs. Marino, and no one in your family will get hurt,” said the agent beside her bed.

Camille tried to speak, but no sound left her throat. A scream was stuck in her chest. At this ungodly hour, she didn’t know if she was more traumatized by the agents breaking into her house or losing Charlie again in the dream.

“Come on, Sadowsky, we got him!” called a voice from the other room.

All the agents went rushing into Teddy’s adjoining bedroom. Camille struggled to her feet, found her pink robe and fuzzy slippers, and went in after them. Teddy was down on his knees at the foot of his sofa bed with his hands behind his head. He wore only a striped nightshirt, exposing his big white butt.

“What are you waiting for?” he snarled at Camille. “Call Burt Ryan.”

She saw by the digital clock at his bedside that it was a quarter to six in the morning.

Kathy walked into the bedroom hanging on the arm of a muscular agent, like a lovesick teenager. She had no idea who these men were or what they were doing here, but she was lapping up the attention.

It was all too much for Camille. She sat down on the carpet and put her face in her hands. She heard the agents forcing Teddy into some street clothes as they slapped the handcuffs on him and read him his rights. From what she could understand, they were charging him with some kind of racketeering and tax evasion. She tried to shut out their voices. As far as she was concerned, her husband was in the linen business.

They yanked Teddy to his feet and started to haul him away. She went to the window and looked out. Birds were chirping. At least two dozen reporters and cameramen were gathered on the sidewalk. The TV vans were from as far away as Philadelphia. She turned her head and saw Teddy coming down the front steps. His hands were cuffed behind his back and he was surrounded by eight F.B.I. agents.

Kathy was already standing out by the model of the jockey on the porch, hopping up and down excitedly, like she was seeing her first Easter Parade.

The agents brought Teddy over to an unmarked blue Ford parked by the curb. The swarm of reporters followed as if drawn by magnetic force.

One of the agents put a hand on top of Teddy’s head while another opened the car door. The reporters were murmuring as Teddy looked up and saw Camille watching him from the window.

His face looked dark and haggard. For the first time in years, she felt something for him. But it was only pity.

They forced his head down and shoved him into the car, slamming the door after him. Another agent ran around the front and got into the driver’s seat. The cameramen and reporters closed in around the car windows, but Camille could see from the look on Teddy’s face inside he had nothing to say. The car started suddenly and drove away. A couple of reporters made a halfhearted effort to run after it. Most dispersed to their cars and were gone within two minutes. But Kathy was still jumping up and down on the porch, waving and shouting, “Goodbye, Daddy, goodbye.”

With nothing better to do, Camille wandered back into her bedroom and found her sleep mask. The Valium bottle was still open by her bed. She considered taking one. Or two. Or three. Or why not twelve? But then who would take care of Kathy?

No. Relief wouldn’t come so easily. She was stranded in this life, at least for a while.

She put the sleep mask back on and lay down again. And once more went looking for Charlie in her dreams.

WITH THE SIXTY THOUSAND dollars I borrowed from Danny Klein—at three percent interest, due every two weeks—I was finally able to pay for Elijah Barton’s training expenses and sanctioning fees. Eddie Suarez from the boxing federation took his ten thousand with about as much grace as a parking attendant accepting a two-dollar tip. I swore at him under my breath, but we were on the road. And with Teddy getting arrested, I didn’t have to worry about his interference for a few days.

The first thing John B. did was arrange a public workout at the Doubloon, to drum up press and show everyone Elijah was still in good shape.

But when Elijah walked into the Admiral’s Ballroom that mid-August afternoon, I noticed his face looked a little more bloated and bovine than before.

“What’s the matter with him?” I asked John B. as his brother slowly climbed through the velvet ropes of the ring they’d set up. “Has he been mainlining Haagen-Dazs or something?”

John tried to play it off. “No, no, man. That just the way he look when he’s in training. He’s already been sparring awhile. That’s why his face get all puffed up.”

Elijah began to walk in a circle within the ring, like a shaman priest trying to summon the spirit. He wore a long red robe with his name and the words “... Once and Future Champion” in white on the back. A red Everlast head guard covered most of his face like a mask. He shuffled a little as he walked, like a drunken sailor trying to cross the deck on a rainy night. I wondered if I’d made a mistake in borrowing all that money from Danny K.

But it was too late to back out. The sparring partners andtrainers had already been paid off and now gamblers from downstairs were streaming in to take seats in the folding chairs around the makeshift ring.

“You sure he’s not punch-drunk?” I asked John B. quietly.

“He just playin’ possum.”

The first of the young sparring partners climbed into the ring and the bell rang. Elijah shucked off his robe and started bouncing around. Rolls of fat jiggled at his sides. I found myself worrying he wouldn’t make his weight for the fight.

“Sure he’s not eating too much?” I asked John B., who sat next to me in the first row.