Hawke was moving to his right. He immediately got tagged with a straight left hand to the jaw, followed instantaneously by a vicious right hook that connected, hard, rocking him back on his heels.
First blood. Hawke could taste it, the blood flooding his mouth. He remembered enough to swallow it quickly as he’d been taught, as something like tunnel vision and deafness descended on him. His anger at what this man had done to Ambrose had lifted itself and spiraled up into a kind of ecstasy. He was no great pugilist. But he was physically reckless, capable of unmitigated violence, he was strong, and he was motivated.
He had a chance.
Hawke smiled at his opponent, shaking it off, trying to rid himself of the carousel of cartoon canaries he saw circling inside his head.
“I’ve never been hit that hard before,” Hawke said, and grinned. “This is going to be more interesting than I thought.”
“I just gettin’ warmed up, old mon.”
“Your wrist seems to have healed nicely,” Hawke said, trying to get his feet moving again. He’d been hoping the injured wrist might still be a problem for his opponent. Been counting on it.
“Dat was Clifford’s wrist you broke, mon,” Desmond said, jabbing hard. “Not mine.”
“Called himself Desmond the day I broke his wrist on Tribe Road.”
“Cliff always sayin’ dat shit around town, mon. Sayin’ he Desmond. Say he get more pussy when he call himself me.”
Hawke kept his fists up beside his face in a defensive posture, still woozy from the tag, trying desperately to regain his composure. He knew he had to get back into the fight quickly. Because of Desmond’s lightning speed and power, Hawke couldn’t afford to get hit with another shot.
He moved left and right, stalling and thinking. The little camp boxing he’d done during the first Gulf War didn’t seem to be helping him much now. But one piece of advice kept trying to come back to him. What the hell was it?
When you’re facing a southpaw, Mr. Hawke, always lead with your right hand and throw a left hook behind it.
Yeah, that was it.
Hawke stepped into the man and threw the two prescribed punches, using everything he had. He saw immediately that he’d loosened a few of those shiny gold teeth in Desmond’s mouth. But Desmond shook it off and grinned.
The Jamaicans jumped to their feet, cheering their boy on with curses and shouts, hoots and hollers.
Desmond kept dancing, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his fist. “Is that it? Is that all you got, old mon? C’mon. Show me something. Show me what you got, white mon.”
Hawke realized that he’d just given this kid his two best shots and that they’d barely fazed him.
The fight was on.
Hawke circled Desmond. The Jamaican stood his ground, watching and waiting, a huge grin on his glistening black face. Hawke was bobbing and weaving. Desmond began to throw some brutal right jabs. One of them connected, catching Hawke over his left eye. The blow opened a cut that began to bleed instantly, filling Hawke’s left eye with blood.
“That’s one eye closed, Grandpa, now I’m going to shut the other one. You ready? Get ready!”
Desmond began jabbing wildly, dancing around the half-blinded Hawke, hurling insults and laughing loudly as Hawke’s punches went wide. The crowd was on their feet again, into it now, smelling the blood of an Englishman.
Hawke knew he was in serious trouble. His shots to the head weren’t connecting. The kid’s hand speed was lightning fast, and Hawke couldn’t see much anymore. His mind was scrambling, searching for anything useful he could dredge up from his brief boxing career. A phrase, something his coach used to beat into all of them in training, began to take form in his mind, and then suddenly he had it.
Kill the body, the head will die.
He stepped into the man and struck suddenly, viciously, and without warning. He threw two ferocious left hooks, delivered mercilessly, one to Desmond’s liver, the other to his ribs.
He saw a much surprised Desmond spit blood from the two body shots. The Jamaican had been wisely protecting his liver, keeping his elbows tucked in close. But Hawke had seen a fraction of an opening and had struck hard. And now the blood was surely bubbling up inside his opponent’s body. Desmond coughed, expelling a great looping gout of flying blood.
Hawke took one step backward and dropped a straight right hand directly on Desmond’s chin. The blow staggered the Jamaican, knocked him backward, arms pinwheeling, and he almost went down. Two old fellows leaped out of their seats and grabbed Desmond by the elbows, keeping him on his feet, one of them hissing in his ear, “Des, you going to let this old white candy-ass bastard kick your ass? No, you ain’t, boy! C’mon, now, fight! You a Jamaican, son, you a champion!”
Desmond stepped back into the fight. His eyes were moving around in his head, and Hawke could see he was forcing them to focus.
“Had enough, son?” Hawke said, keeping his feet moving. He had his breathing going now, feeling good, into it, the blood lust starting to rise.
“Just beginning to piss me off, mon. Thass all you be doin’.”
Hawke saw the anger flash in the kid’s eyes and knew he had a slight chance to win this. Get them mad, that’s how you win fights.
Suddenly, the kid charged him, windmilling, throwing a flurry of wild punches. Hawke got his hands up, catching punches on his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the real punch coming from down low. A haymaker right hook. It was coming up fast and looked as if it could knock over a tall building.
But Hawke slipped that punch and countered with another pair of lethal left hooks to the kid’s ribs. He heard a loud crack, the whole room did, and felt the man’s bone break under his fist. Desmond stopped breathing, but Hawke stayed right on him and threw a fast four-punch combination to his face, wham-wham, wham-wham.
Hawke stepped back. One of his punches had caught Desmond over his right eye, now bleeding profusely, and loops of blood were flying out of both nostrils.
Hawke was vaguely aware that Harry Brock was circling the ring, considering whether or not to step in and stop the fight. But Harry hesitated. He could sense that Hawke must be seeing some fight left in the kid. Hawke clearly wasn’t backing off. He wanted to throw one last shot.
“You want me to stop this?” Brock asked Hawke.
“He hurt my friend. An eye for an eye, a bone for a bone,” Hawke said out of the side of his mouth, his eyes focused only on his target. He wanted more.
Hawke wound up and delivered a big right hand to the jaw. The Jamaican, his jaw broken, folded up like an accordion, collapsing to the filthy floor strewn with broken glass and chicken blood, adding a little of his own to the mixture.
Hawke backed away, saw Harry Brock bending over Desmond’s unconscious body. Harry gave Desmond a fair ten count, allowing him every chance to get back on his feet.
“…Ten!” It was over.
Brock whirled around and grabbed Hawke’s right wrist, thrusting his hand into the air in victory.
The Jamaicans went wild, some of them coming out of their chairs to cheer the victorious Hawke. They didn’t care much who’d won; it had been a hell of a fight. Collapsed in a chair against the wall, Congreve raised his fist in the air, saluting the victory. Sir David even stepped into the ring, pounding his man on the back, shouting into Hawke’s ear words he couldn’t hear because the blood was pounding so hard inside his head.
Hawke saw the defeated Jamaican on the floor, his arms flung out as if someone had thrown him away. He was now stirring about, eyelids fluttering open, moving his lips, and he stepped over to have a word. Desmond’s father, who’d been tending to his son, turned away in disgust. Hawke took his arm and spun him around.