In the prime of Leon Spinks, that gusto-loving boyo, the editors of Playboy magazine had ordered an illustration to go with Sly's profile of the fighter.
The artist had delivered a drawing of Spinks attached to endless strings--some of them broken, some of them intact: a portrait of the champion as a puppet, a Leon lurching to the variegated dreams and schemes of others.
That image came sneaking up on Sly now as he watched Tyson grope for the answers the way Spinks, Jr., had a decade before. Now it was Tyson's turn to muddle his way. As Leon once had, Tyson exclaimed and declaimed with Solomonic certainty and in the next breath changed his mind and made confusion his accomplice.
At dinner in Vegas on that April night, he had said he would lay over for two weeks in Los Angeles; the next night, with Robin pleading the case, he had flown to New York instead. There he had met with Steve Lott, then spoken by phone to Cayton from Bernardsville, a conversation that had cheered Cayton enough for him to report afterward: "Mike is entirely with me."