If he hadn’t been half crazy with rage he wouldn’t have thrown the punch he did. It was a
round house swing that started from his ankles and telegraphed itself all the way. The kind of
punch you’d throw at someone who didn’t know the first thing about fighting. The kind of
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punch that would have flattened an elephant if it had landed, but it didn’t land.
I moved inside it and socked him with my special right hook that travelled about four
inches and had my whole weight behind it. It exploded on his jaw with a devastating impact
and he went down as if he’d been pole-axed. I didn’t wait to see if he were going to get up. I
knew he wouldn’t. When they go down like that, they stay down.
I stepped back and looked at the fat man.
“Get this hunk of garbage out of here before I really go to town on him.”
The fat man was staring at the big fellow, spread out on the floor, as if he couldn’t believe
his eyes. As he knelt beside him I went over to Roche and helped him to his feet. He was
breathless, but he could stand, and he had still a lot of fight left in him. He made a move
towards the big fellow as if he were set on hitting him again, but I held him back.
“He’s had enough,” I said. “You don’t want to break your hands on a lump like him. Take
it easy.”
The girl came over and put her arms round him. I left him to her and joined the two men in
singlets and the trucker who were staring down at the big fellow.
The fat man was trying to bring him round without much success.
“Bust his jaw,” the trucker said, and drew in an excited hiss of breath. “I’ve never seen a
punch like it! Didn’t travel an inch–and socko! Well, the bum certainly asked for it.”
“Get him out of here,” I said. “Come on, boys, hoist him up and get him outside.”
The fat man looked up. He had eyes like pools of beer, and from his expression I thought
he was going to burst into tears.
“You’ve broken my boy’s jaw,” he said, “and he’s righting on Saturday.”
“I should have broken his neck,” I said. “Get him out of here before I change my mind and
finish the job.”
The big fellow opened his eyes, groaned and sat up. The lower part of his jaw sagged
hideously, and an ugly red patch showed on his right cheek where I had slapped him.
The two guys in singlets hauled him to his feet and supported him. He went with them
without looking at me, his head on his chest, his eyes glazed and his legs like rubber. The fat
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man brought up the rear. He looked as if he were following behind his mother’s hearse.
The trucker turned to gape at me as if I were the miracle boy come down from the sky on a
cloud of fire.
“Well, for crying out loud!” he exclaimed. “Do you know who that was - the guy you
socked? That’s Joe MacCready, the local champ. He’s fighting the Miami Kid on Saturday,
and there’s a load of dough spread on the fight. Take my tip, brother, and get out of town.
When Petelli hears what you’ve done to MacCready, he’ll blow his top. I’m not kidding.
Petelli’s as dangerous as a rattlesnake. Get your skates on and beat it!”
II
I pushed back my chair and reached for a cigarette, but Roche beat me to it. Everything was
on the house this night. I had just climbed outside the best meal I had eaten in years, and
while I ate Roche and his wife, Alice, kept me company. I liked them. They were the kind of
folk I could get along with, and we were on first-name terms before I had finished the meal.
They had done most of the talking while I was eating, and now I knew it was my turn.
“Maybe you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” I began, when Roche had lit my cigarette.
“Well, I’m from Pittsburgh. My old man ran a cafe bang opposite the Carnegie Steelworks.
You’d have thought a cafe situated outside the biggest steelworks in the world would have
