He let the kid storm over to him and he covered up quickly, moved into a clinch. In the clinch he worked his left free, brought it up inside, rapping his wrist against the kid’s throat, then wiping the inside of the glove and laces up across the kid’s face, forcing his head up, using the leverage to force the kid away from him out of the clinch, then crossing the right hard against the kid’s cheek, twisting the glove in the moment of impact, splitting the flesh cleanly. The referee stormed in, shouldered him over to the ropes and bawled, “Fight clean!”
The kid was bleeding. Lew made himself smile and ceremoniously insisted on touching gloves. The kid looked puzzled. He bounced in, jabbing stiffly, and bringing the right hand home. Lew moved his head a fraction of an inch and the blow that would have felled him for the night missed. Lew groped his way into a clinch, and, letting himself go slack, he banged the cut cheek with his head. He heard the kid gasp. He hammered the kidneys, then trod heavily on the boy’s instep, wiped his glove upward across the kid’s face again.
The referee shouldered him over and said, “One more little deal like that and you lose the round.”
“Dear me,” Lew said thickly around the mouthpiece.
He smiled broadly at the kid and went out, both gloves outstretched. As the kid started to touch gloves, Lew banged him hard in the mouth, then muscled him back into a clinch, laying him against the ropes, leaning against him, hearing the irate boo of the crowd. He suddenly broke the clinch himself and, grasping the top rope in his left glove for leverage, hooked Hode hard with his right, hooked him on the injured cheek. Stung, Hode came after him. Lew bounced off the ropes and came forward, arms high, protecting his face, throwing himself into a clinch again as the kid tried futilely to get one clean punch home. In the clinch he spun the kid back against the ropes, burning his back. The bell sounded as the referee was yammering and prying at them. Lew had his shoulder comfortably tucked under Hode’s chin and he brought it up sharply after the bell.
Lew padded slowly to his corner and eased himself onto the stool. The crowd was booing him with a single voice. He decided mildly that he was unlikely to win any popularity contests. He looked idly across at the kid. They were pouring advice into both of the kid’s ears, but he didn’t seem to be listening. He was staring across at Lew and looked likely to break into tears. Hode had taken a humiliating roughing-up. He’d been hurt and outraged. Lew thought of all the times it had happened to him, of the times he had taken it and weathered it and refused to let it anger him beyond the point of caution. It was something Hode had to learn sooner or later, and this was as good a time as any. He checked his own body, felt the hint of putty in his legs, and the beginnings of pain in his left side.
At the fourth-round bell he let the kid come to him, as before. Lew blocked an overeager left, took a jolting right and fell into a clinch, working his elbows and shoulders against the kid, saying, over the crowd-roar, “May I have this dance?”
Hode cursed him and wasted his strength trying to break free. The referee pried them apart. As the referee went between them, Lew slammed a long looping right flush against the kid’s nose. Again the referee warned him. Lew smiled at the kid. Hode was close to tears. He came flailing in, all science forgotten, all skill ignored, intent only, like a small boy in a schoolyard, on inflicting maximum damage in the minimum length of time, wasting three wild roundhouse swings to land one. Lew could dimly hear the kid’s crew in his corner yelling to him to take it easy.
Lew let the slapping punches make dramatic sounds on his shoulders and the sides of his head. He smiled inwardly, planted himself flatfooted, picked his spot, and dropped the right on the exposed jaw of the maddened Hode. It dropped the boy and he scrambled up at the count of two, his eyes wet, his mouth contorted, windmilling his way in again, intent only on killing the mocking man who had humiliated him and knocked him down.
Lew rode the punches, and he was now in his element, now in control, now in the driver’s seat. The boy’s right eye was puffing shut. His mouth was cut. Lew dropped his weight onto his heels and made no attempt to feint or jab. He just kept himself covered, picked the spot again and dropped the short smashing overhand right on the exposed shelf of jaw.
Hode stood still, eyes, blank, arms dropping slowly. As he wavered, Lew coldly, clinically, put the right hand in exactly the same place, turned his back and walked to a neutral corner — hearing behind him the sudden tumble of heavy limbs and body onto the taut canvas. He turned in the corner and rested his arms along the top ropes, sucking the hot August air deep into his lungs through his open mouth.
At the count of seven, Hode, surprisingly, got his arms under him, pushed his shoulders up off the floor. At nine his arms crumpled and he fell back to lie still. Police came into the ring. Lew was comforted to see them. His hand was raised and the announcement was made:
“In two minutes and seven seconds of the fourth round—”
A cigar butt, thrown in fury, snapped against Lew’s forehead and the shower of sparks stung his left arm and shoulder. He showed no expression. He stayed well inside his cordon of police, and his seconds huddled near him. After the interminable walk, the dressing-room door closed off most of the subdued mutterings of the departing throng.
He said to the tall second, “Lock the door and find out who wants in each time. I’ll tell you who to let in.”
Lew stretched out on the table, listening to the gradually slowing thud of his heart, the diminishing tempo of his breathing. He rolled over and the other second worked with hard, deft fingers on the calves of his legs, on his shoulders and the nape of his neck. A long hot shower would help keep away some of the stiffness.
“Jud Brock outside,” the tall second said.
“Let him in alone.”
Jud came in. Lew sensed him standing by the table; he craned his neck and smiled up at Jud.
“The most popular man in town,” Jud said.
“I’m crying because nobody loves me any more.”
“It was the only way you could do it, wasn’t it? You’re an evil ol’ man, Lew.”
“If I hadn’t, somebody else would. You know that.”
“Are you making excuses?”
“No, Jud. It’s a man’s game, they tell me. And he turned out to be a boy.”
“A sad, wise boy at the moment. Going to stop in?”
“I guess not. Give him my love. Tell him to pick a new business.”
“He will. You lost me a good boy.”
“Not you. You wouldn’t stick after Sheniver took over.”
“No. So there’s no beef. That girl of his, she’ll probably send you Christmas cards from now on. Right now, you know, you could swing a title shot. Louis isn’t around any more. It might work.”
Lew sat up and waved the second away. “Thanks — that felt good... No, Jud, not me. And a funny reason I’ve got. 1 wasn’t having any fun out there. I was damn’ near bored. Know what I mean?”
“You mean the racket is a game for boys, and you grew up late. I haven’t any idea what I’m thanking you for, but thanks anyway. I got to go back and hold the kid’s hand.” Jud went toward the door and turned. “What’s with Jack?”
“I don’t know, Jud, and for some reason I don’t care.”
He took his long hot shower, and dressed slowly. It seemed a great effort to tie his shoes. He inspected himself in the mirror, fingered the swollen areas of soreness. His right hand was badly puffed. There were dimples where the knuckles should be. As he opened the door into the corridor, Jud came in quickly. His eyes were uncertain and the W. C. Fields nose was the only color in his face.