But the list wasn't here! How could the list be in my boxer shorts? The bathrobe? I wondered. I turned around to look at my corner.
Something clobbered my head and the next thing I knew I was on my face on the canvas. There was a sound of thudding feet and a roar and then someone began to count. At five I got up to one knee. Magoon was in one corner, a neutral corner, banging his gloves together eagerly.
"Seven, eight...."
I got up. The crowd was very quiet. They sensed the kill now and were waiting for it. The referee rubbed my resin-powdered gloves against his shirt-front, then Magoon came tearing across the ring toward me. I backed into my own corner, then sidestepped desperately as Magoon came at me. He went by and whirled and we clinched and I saw my manager's face down there behind him and I opened my mouth to say, "Where's my bathrobe? See what you can find in the pockets, for gosh sakes!" But it came out all mumbled. I'd forgotten I was wearing the big, clumsy mouthpiece to protect my teeth.
Magoon swung at me. Somehow I eluded that blow. Maybe it was a reflex action on the part of Angel Martell's trained body. Magoon swung again. I walked into a clinch and he pounded my back and kidneys before the referee broke us apart. Magoon gave me a peculiar look then. I didn't understand the look. But I would soon.
He hit me in the chest. It wasn't much of a blow, and I countered with a flurry of lefts and rights. Magoon retreated. This surprised the hell out of me. I hooked my left and crossed my right and Magoon's knees wobbled. I hit him again and he bounced against the ropes. He came off them with a look of hate and rage in his eyes. He swung wildly three times with his right. The third one caught me flush in the mouth and I fell down, sprawling toward my own corner. I spit out the damn mouthpiece. The referee began to count.
"My robe!" I hollered to the manager. "Look in the pockets."
"You bum," he said.
"Huh?"
"You bum."