Alix said nothing, staring.... _when this dumb Terror shall rise to
judge the world_....
A man with a hook and an urge to combat. The hard way? Maybe. He'd
taken enough punches to give him a lifetime lease on Queer Street.
But he'd handed out more than he'd received. A spoiler and a mixer. A
weight-draper and in-fighter and an easy bleeder.
_Blood will run in the streets, Alix...._
In the ring, Nick's blood would flow, and further stain the spotted
canvas. In the streets, the blood of Nick's brothers would flow, in the
streets around the world.
Title fight? Oh, yes.
The Irishman first, he'd come up through the ring to his grudging
equality, and the Jew, then, and the Filipino and the Negro and the
Cuban and all the others who wouldn't stay down. Who had their fists
and their guts. Mickey Walker, Benny Leonard, Joe Louis--immortals all.
Great men, great champs, great memories.
And he? Alix 1340? Different, a machine, no spark. He'd almost
forgotten about no spark.
Nick's manager came over to inspect the bandages on Alix's hands,
and then went back to his corner with Manny to inspect those on the
battered hands of the champ.
Alix's hands were clean lined, no breaks, no lumps. Alix was a
scientific hitter, and his protocol was better than the natural product.
_He watches the sparrows_, Manny had said. A _signal_, Joe had said. I
wish somebody would give me a signal, Alix thought. It's too big for
me.
The introductions, the numbers not blurred. The instructions, and
Willie saying, "Clean tonight, Nick. I know you well, Nick. But this
one is touchy, remember."
"Ah, save it," Nick told him. Champ, big man, Nick Nolan.
The buzzer and Manny's brief pat on the shoulder. Rising, and flexing
on the ropes, looking down into that sea of faces, white faces. The
ones who held dominion over sea and land.
Bugs in the arcs, a hush on the crowd and the bell.
Alix turned and here came Nick, shuffling across, wasting no time,
bringing the fight to the upstart.
Nick had a right hand, too, but it was clumsy. The hook was better
trained. Alix circled to his left, away from Nick's left, and put his
jab easily to Nick's nose.
There are sportswriters, Alix knew, who talked of a _right_ hook, but
a man would need to be a contortionist to throw it. Unless he was
_completely_ unorthodox. Or a southpaw.
Nick was neither. Nick had a right hand like a mallet, but it came from
below or above, and was telegraphed by the pulling up of his right
foot. Nick saved that for the time his opponent couldn't see or react.
Nick came in with the hook, trying to slide under Alix's extended left
hand, trying to time the pattern of his feet to Alix's circling,
looking for the hole.
Alix peppered him with the left, and then saw the low left hand of
Nick's. Alix stopped circling--and tossed a singing right.
It traveled over Nick's left and found the button. Nick took two
stumbling backward steps, and went down.
Resin dust swirled and the scream of the stands was like a single
anguished cry.
Alix went to a neutral corner, shrugging his shoulder muscles loose,
trying to still the sudden pounding of his heart. Nick had been knocked
down before, often.
He took a full count, under the rules, but was on one knee at three.
The big black semaphore of Willie's right hand and then those hands
wiping the gloves and Willie stepping clear.
Nick stormed in. He got through Alix's left, this time, and sent a
looping right hand high. It missed, but it was meant to miss. Nick's
elbow smashed Alix's mouth.
Rage, a red rage and they stood in the corner, trading leather.
The hook came in low, and pain knifed into Alix's groin. In his aching
blindness he could feel Nick's feet groping for his, trying to find his
instep.
Champion, model.
Alix grabbed, and hung on. This one he had to win. This one could be
lost, right now.
Nick said, "Break it up, phoney man. I can't hit you when you're
hanging on."
The big slap of Willie's hand. Willie, playing it straight. Alix broke
at the touch.
Alix broke--and Nick threw the right hand, on the break.
Foul? Of course, but Alix went down, his senses numb, his mind turning
black. He lay on his face, not moving, the blackness moving through his
body.
_What's this God like? It would depend upon who you ask. They ever tell
you what He looks like?_ The blackness turned red, the red of blood,
running in the streets. And there was suddenly a cross, and a dim
figure and he heard Willie's sonorous, "Five, six--"
He turned over at seven, was on one knee at eight and up at nine. And
Nick came bulling in, both hands ready.
The bell.
He got to his corner without Manny's help. The magic of Manny's hands
dug at his neck, bringing clarity. The ice, the other handler probing
at his flaccid legs.
"I saw a cross, Manny."
"Nobody's crossing us, Alix. Don't think, Alix. Here." He gave him the
water bottle.
Alix rinsed his mouth, and spit it out. "He's rough, Manny. He knows
all the tricks."
"Don't you?"
"I don't want to. I saw a cross when I was unconscious, Manny. A cross
like you see on a church."
"Don't tell me about it. Get him, boy. Don't try to mix with him, but
get him, with that left, with your speed, with your brain. Get him."
"I'll try. But he's not typical, Manny. They're not all like Nick."
"The hell they aren't. He's one of the better ones. Get him."
The buzzer, the bell, and Nick.
Nick with the iron jaw, Nick with the hook and the bulging shoulders,
Nick the champion.
Alix put the left into Nick's face, but it wasn't a jab. It was a
straight left, with shoulder in it. It twisted Nick's nose, and brought
blood.
Nick was nettled, and he charged. He charged into a straight, sweet
right hand that was delivered from a flat-footed stance. Nick wavered,
and tried to grab.
Alix felt his strength pour back and the pattern of his feet was sure
and planned. A left, a feint, a jolting right, moving around this hulk,
this blundering knot of flesh and muscle, beating a tattoo on him,
spreading the blood. _Get him._
It looked like a slaughter-house. Blood all over Nick's face, and blood
matting the curled, sweaty hair on his chest. Starting to look dazed,
starting to wonder, the champ. The untypical man? He must be, he had
to be, to have dominion over sea and land.
Why didn't he go down? Couldn't he see the pattern of it, the pattern
Alix was tracing for him with his blood-soaked gloves? Why didn't he go
down? Why didn't he quit?
He hadn't quit by the end of the fifth round. Out there, those eighty
thousand were silent. This was no fight, this was now murder. Why
didn't he quit?
Alix asked Manny, on the stool, before the sixth, "Why doesn't he quit?
He can't win. Manny, I hate to hit him."
"Don't be a sucker. Don't be a damned fool." Manny's voice was hoarse.
"As long as there's a spark of life in those bastards, they won't quit.
He's dangerous yet, Alix."
A spark, a spark--Life? Cognizance? No, life, a spark of life.
In the sixth, Nick almost went to his knees, in the middle of the ring.
But he got control, and stumbled toward Alix.
Alix came in fast and carelessly--and the earth erupted.
He's dangerous, yet, Alix. There was no blackness this time, just the
blood red. There was no cross. But a voice? "In the sky, in the sky--"
Silence.
Get up, Alix. For the black and brown and red and yellow who are
watching you, around the world, get up. You're their hope, you're their
WORD. Up, to one knee, and up just under the wire.
Nick didn't charge, this time. Wary and careful, he was, after the
pasting he'd been taking. Let Alix make the mistakes, like the one he
just had. Nick only needed one more.