“What’s the matter with you?” Waller mumbled as he laced my gloves. “You look like
someone’s already socked you.”
“Could have,” I said, and smiled at her, and she smiled back: an intimate, we-could-have-fun-together kind of smile that hit me where I lived.
I turned to see who she was with: an expensive-looking item in a fawn seersucker suit. He
was handsome enough with his dark, wavy hair, his olive complexion and his regular
features, but his good looks were marred by his thin, hard mouth and the viciously angry
expression in his eyes as he returned my curious stare.
“Get out there,” Waller said, and shoved me to my feet. “The ref’s waiting. What’s the
matter with you?”
And the referee was waiting, and the Kid was waiting too. I joined them in the middle of
the ring.
“It’s all right, chummy,” the Kid sneered. “You don’t have to hue your corner that long. I
ain’t going to hit you just yet.”
“All right, boys,” the referee said sharply, “let’s cut out the funny stuff and get down to
business. Now, listen to me …”
He started on the old routine I had heard so often before. While he was talking, I asked
myself why she had looked at me like that. I don’t claim to know much about women, but I
knew that smile was an open invitation.
“Okay, boys,” the referee said when he was through with the routine stuff, “back to your
corners, and come out fighting.”
“And, chummy, you’ll know you’ve been in a fight when you leave feet first,” the Kid said,
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slapping me on the back.
And so would he, I thought, as I returned to my corner.
Waller took off my dressing-gown and I turned to get a last look at her.
She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling.
“Knock that smug smile off his face, handsome,” she called. “It’s time someone did.”
Her escort put his hand on her arm, scowling, but she shook it off impatiently.
“And good luck …”
“Thanks,” I said.
Outraged, Waller got between her and me.
“Keep your mind on this fight,” he said as the bell went.
The Kid came out fast, his chin tucked down into his left shoulder, a cocky grin on his face.
He led with a left that was a foot short, weaved away and tossed over a right. That was short
too. I moved around him looking for an opening. I wanted to land one hard jolt that would
slow him down. I could see he was a lot faster on his feet than I was.
He caught me with a left to the face: not a hard punch. I countered with a left and right to
the body. His left jumped into my face again, and he tried a right cross, but I ducked under it
and socked him in the body. He got in close and began hammering away at my ribs, but I tied
him up, and the referee had to pull us apart. I got in a good left jab to his face as we broke,
and he didn’t like it. He moved away fast, snorting, then came in again, throwing rights and
lefts. I smothered everything he handed out, stepped in and nailed him with a block-buster
that sent him down on his hands and knees.
The crowd went mad. A knock-down in the first two minutes of the fight was something
they hadn’t expected, and they rose to their feet, screaming for me to go in and smash the
Kid.
I had gone to a neutral corner while the referee began his count. I was a little worried. I
hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. He remained on hands and knees, looking up at the
referee’s arm, a glazed stare in his eyes. But he got up at the count of seven and immediately
started back-pedalling. I went after him, hitting him with rights and lefts, but pulling my
punches, not wanting to get him into more trouble, but putting up a show to please the crowd.
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They were pleased all right. Every now and then I landed with an open glove, and the slap it
made sounded as if I were killing him.
He finally got his head clear and began to fight back. He was snarling and scared. I could
tell how scared he was by the way he threw punches that were yards short. All he was
thinking about now was to keep clear of my right. He had had one dose of it and he didn’t
want another.
The round ended with us leaning on each other and slamming at each other’s ribs. At close
quarters he was good, and he got in a couple of digs that hurt.
The bell went and I returned to my corner. While Waller was working over me, I looked in
her direction.
She was staring up at me, not smiling, her eyes angry, her mouth set. I knew what was the
matter with her. She hadn’t been fooled by those open-glove slaps even if they had fooled the
crowd. Waller shoved a sponge of cold water in my face. He was smart enough to see who
was distracting my attention, and he moved around so his body blocked her from my sight.
Brant came up as Waller was drying my face.
“What are you playing at?” he demanded in a breathless whisper. His face was white and
strained. “Why did you hit him like that?”
“Why not? He’s in here for a fight, isn’t he?”
“Petelli says …”
“Oh, the hell with Petelli!”
The bell went for the second round, and I moved out of my-corner. The Kid came out
cautiously, an apprehensive expression on his face. He kept pushing his left out, trying to
keep me away, but I had the longer reach. I poked one in his face, stepped in and hooked him
high up on the head. He fought back, catching me with a right and left that had a lot of steam
in them, and for a few seconds we mixed it, socking each other about the body while the
crowd roared its approval. The Kid was the first to break off.
I caught him with a hook as he moved away and opened a cut under his right eye. He was
swearing at me now, and I went after him, jabbing at his face with lefts and rights. He kept
covering up, trying to protect his damaged eye. I got in close and socked him in the body. It
must have dawned on him he wasn’t going to get an easy win, and in a frenzy of rage and
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desperation he suddenly cut loose.
He caught me with a right swing that had all his weight behind it. It was a stunning punch,
and it dazed me. As I groped my way into a clinch, trying to get my head clear, he butted me
in the face. I reeled back, covering up, and as he rushed, I slammed a left in his face, but he
knew he had hurt me, and kept coming, throwing punches from every angle. I rode most of
them, smothered the rest. It was a hectic minute, but I kept my head, knowing he was certain
to give me an opening, and he did. He slung a wild right that left him as wide open as the
ocean, and I stepped in and hung one on his jaw. He went down as if he had been cut off at
the knees.
Before the referee could start a count, the bell went. The Kid’s handlers rushed into the ring
and dragged him to his corner.
I went slowly back to my stool and sat down. Pepi was waiting for me.
“Next round, you fixer,” he snarled in my ear. “That’s orders.”
“Get away from me!” I said, and greatly daring, Waller shoved him off the apron of the
ring and began to sponge my face. Waller was breathing heavily and grinned excitedly at me
as he worked over me.
“You’re doing fine,” he said. “Watch his right. He can still punch.”
I looked across the ring. They were working like madmen on the Kid, flapping towels at
him, holding smelling-salts under his nose and massaging the back of his neck.
“Well, I guess this is it,” I said. “Last round coming up.”
“Yeah,” Waller said. “Anyway, he’s been in a fight. You ain’t cheated anyone.”
I looked over my shoulder at her. She was smiling again, and waved to me.
The bell went, and I moved out. The Kid started to back-pedal. He had a gash down the