him rattled — and ignored it until O’Hale landed two low blows near the groin in swift succession, which the referee, circling behind, did not observe.
The combination of insults, foul blows, and excruciating pain, produced the anger which Patroni’s opponent had counted on. What he did not count on was that Joe Patroni would deliver an onslaught so swift, savage, and utterly without mercy that O’Hale went down before it and, after being counted out, was pronounced dead.
Patroni was exonerated. Although the referee had not observed the low blows, others at ringside had. Even without them, Patroni had done no more than was expected — fought to the limit of his skill and strength. Only he was aware that for the space of seconds he had been berserk, insane. Alone and later, he faced the realization that even if he had known O’Hale was dying, he could not have stopped himself.
In the end, he avoided the cliche of abandoning fighting, or “hanging up his gloves for good,” as the usual fiction sequence went. He had gone on fighting, employing in the ring the whole of his physical resource, not holding back, yet testing his own control to avoid crossing the hairline between reason and berserk savagery. He succeeded, and knew that he had, because there were tests of anger where reason struggled with the wild animal inside him — and reason won. Then, and only then, did Joe Patroni quit fighting for the remainder of his life.
But control of anger did not mean dismissing it entirely. As the police lieutenant returned from camera range, Patroni confronted him heatedly. “You just blocked this road an extra twenty minutes. It took ten minutes to locate those trucks where they should be; it’ll take another ten to get them back.”
As he spoke, there was the sound of a jet aircraft overhead — a reminder of the reason for Joe Patroni’s haste.
“Now listen, mister.” The lieutenant’s face suffused a deeper red than it already was from cold and wind. “Get through your head that I’m in charge here. We’re glad to have help, including yours. But I’m the one who’s making decisions.”
“Then make one now!”
“I’ll make what I’m …”
“No! —
“There’s an emergency at the airport. I already explained it; and why I’m needed there.” Patroni stabbed his glowing cigar through the air for emphasis. “Maybe other people have reasons for hightailing it out of here too, but mine’s enough for now. There’s a phone in my car. I can call my top brass, who’ll call your brass, and before you know it, somebody’ll be on that radio of yours asking why you’re polishing your TV image instead of doing the job you’re here for. So make a decision, the way you said! Do I call in, or do we move?”
The lieutenant glared wrathfully back at Joe Patroni. Briefly, the policeman seemed ready to vent his own anger, then decided otherwise. He swung his big body toward the TV crew. “Get all that crap out of here! You guys have had long enough.”
One of the television men called over his shoulder, “We’ll just be a few minutes more, Chief.”
In two strides the lieutenant was beside him. “You heard me! Right now!”
The policeman leaned down, his face still fierce from the encounter with Patroni, and the TV man visibly jumped. “Okay, okay.” He motioned hastily to the others and the lights on the portable camera went out.
“Let’s have those two trucks back the way they were!” The lieutenant began firing orders at the state troopers, who moved quickly to execute them. He returned to Joe Patroni and gestured to the overturned transport; it was clear that he had decided Patroni was more use as an ally than an antagonist. “Mister, you still think we have to drag this rig? You sure we can’t get it upright?”
“Only if you want to block this road till daylight. You’d have to unload the trailer first, and if you do …”
“I know, I know! Forget it! We’ll pull and shove now, and worry about damage later.” The lieutenant gestured to the waiting line of traffic. “If you want to get moving right after, you’d better hustle your car out of line and move up front. You want an escort to the airport?”
Patroni nodded appreciatively. “Thanks.”
Ten minutes later the last pindle tow hook snapped into place. Heavy chains from one tow truck were secured around the axles of the disabled transport tractor; a stout wire cable connected the chains to the tow truck winch. A second tow truck was connected to the toppled trailer. The third tow truck was behind the trailer, ready to push.
The driver from the big transport unit, which, despite its overturning, was only partially damaged, groaned as he watched what was happening. “My bosses ain’t gonna like this! That’s a near-new rig. You’re gonna tear it apart.”
“If we do,” a young state trooper told him, “we’ll be finishing what you started.”
“Wadda you care? Ain’t nothing to you I just lost a good job,” the driver grumbled back. “Maybe I should try for a soft touch next time — like bein’ a lousy cop.”
The trooper grinned. “Why not? You’re already a lousy driver.”
“You figure we’re ready?” the lieutenant asked Patroni.
Joe Patroni nodded. He was crouching, observing the tautness of chains and cables. He cautioned, “Take it slow and easy. Get the cab section sliding first.”
The first tow truck began pulling with its winch; its wheels skidded on snow and the driver accelerated forward, keeping the tow chain straining. The overturned transport’s front portion creaked, slid a foot or two with a protesting scream of metal, then stopped.
Patroni motioned with his hand. “Keep it moving! And get the trailer started!”
The chains and cable between the trailer axles and the second tow truck tightened. The third tow truck pushed against the trailer roof. The wheels of all three tow trucks skidded as they fought for purchase on the wet, packed snow. For another two feet the tractor and trailer, still coupled together, as they had been when they rolled over, moved sideways across the highway to an accompanying ragged cheer from the crowd of onlookers. The TV camera was functioning again, its lights adding brightness to the scene.
A wide, deep gash in the road showed where the big transport had been. The tractor cab and the body of the loaded trailer were taking punishment, the trailed roof beginning to angle as one side of the trailer dragged against the road. The price to be paid — no doubt by insurers — for reopening the highway quickly would be a steep one.
Around the road blockage, two snowplows — one on either side like skirmishers — were attempting to clear as much as they could of the snow which had piled since the accident occurred. Everything and everyone, by this time, was snow covered, including Patroni, the lieutenant, state troopers, and all others in the open.
The truck motors roared again. Smoke rose from tires, spinning on wet, packed snow. Slowly, ponderously, the overturned vehicle shifted a few inches, a few feet, then slid clear across to the far side of the road. Within seconds, instead of blocking four traffic lanes, it obstructed only one. It would be a simple matter now for the three tow trucks to nudge the tractor-trailer clear of the highway onto the shoulder beyond.
State troopers were already moving flares, preparatory to untangling the monumental traffic jam which would probably occupy them for several hours to come. The sound, once again, of a jet aircraft overhead was a reminder to Joe Patroni that his principal business this night still lay elsewhere.
The state police lieutenant took off his cap and shook the snow from it. He nodded to Patroni. “I guess it’s your turn, mister.”
A patrol car, parked on a shoulder, was edging onto the highway. The lieutenant pointed to it. “Keep closed up behind that car. I’ve told them you’ll be following, and they’ve orders to get you to the airport fast.”
Joe Patroni nodded. As he climbed into his Buick Wildcat, the lieutenant called after him, “And mister… Thanks!”
2
Captain Vernon Demerest stood back from the cupboard door he had opened, and emitted a long, low whistle.
He was still in the kitchen of Gwen Meighen’s apartment on Stewardess Row. Gwen had not yet appeared
