sharp. Every now and then Waller caught me with a dig that hurt. He kept shuffling away
from me, making me come to him, and countering every time I landed on him. Suddenly he
stopped in his tracks and let fly a right that landed high up on the side of my head. I was
rolling by the time it landed, but it was a good solid punch, and it shook me.
As he rushed in I let go a left: the first punch I’d thrown with any steam in it. He went back
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as if he had run into a brick wall. I could see the surprise on his face.
We moved around. He was more cautious now. That left had startled him. I got in two jabs
and collected a dig in the body that made me grunt.
I was now having trouble with my breathing. You’ve got to be in strict training to take the
heavy bangs I was taking and not worry about them. If I was going to keep out of trouble I’d
have to stop him, and stop him quick.
He saw my wind was going and began to pile on the pressure. He was a difficult target to
hit, and for the moment all I could do was to jab away at his face and head and hope for an
opening. I smothered most of the punches he was throwing, but some of them landed and
they hurt. I was glad when the bell went and I could flop on the stool and take a breather.
Brant sponged the blood from my nose, his fat face thoughtful.
“You’ve been out of training too long,” he said. “You’re not timing your punches right.
Better take it easy in the next round. Box him this time and keep away from him.”
I didn’t say anything. I had my own ideas what to do. I’d have to finish him in this round or
I wasn’t going to last.
Waller hadn’t bothered to sit down. He lolled against the ropes, looking bored.
“Okay?” Brant asked as he reached for the gong-string.
“Yeah,” I said, and came out slowly.
Waller moved in, set to nail me. He slung a left. I shifted so it slid over my shoulder and hit
him three rimes to the body. I heard him gasp as he went into a clinch. His weight sagged on
me. I tried to shove him off, but I couldn’t do it. He hung on desperately, and didn’t pay any
attention to Brant’s yells to break. He was hurt and worried. We wrestled around, and finally
I got clear of his hugging arms. I caught him with a right upper-cut as we broke. Snarling, he
fought back, and for a second or so we slung lefts and rights at each other. He was flustered
now. I was timing them better, and they were sinking into him. A left prepared the way. His
guard dropped, and I whipped over the right hook. It caught him flush on the jaw and down
he went. I moved away, wiping the blood from my nose and breathing heavily. I wasn’t
worried. He wasn’t going to get up in a hurry.
Brant climbed into the ring, beaming from ear to ear. Together we dragged Waller to his
corner and propped him up on his stool. We were working on him when a voice said, “I like
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this boy. Where did you find him, Brant?”
Brant started as if someone had goosed him with a red-hot poker.
Three men had appeared from nowhere and were standing near the ring. The one who had
spoken was short and square-shouldered. His face was as uncompromising as a hatchet and as
thin, and his black eyes were deep-set, still and glittering. He had on a bottle-green linen suit,
a white slouch hat, and his pencil-lined moustache looked starkly black against his olive skin.
The other two were the kind of muscle-men you can see in a Hollywood movie any day of
the week. Two Wops, pale imitations of their boss, tough, dangerous, and more at home with
a gun or a knife than with their fists.
I didn’t like the look of any of them.
“Hello, Mr. Petelli,” Brant said, his grin fixed and his eyes scared. “I didn’t see you come
in.”
Petelli let his eyes slide over me. I had a feeling there wasn’t a muscle, mole or freckle
