Just then the warning whistle sounded. I looked across the ring at Magoon. The manager said: "At least dive in this round, you louse. Maybe they'll only let us off with a warning."
I didn't say anything. A fixed fight, I thought. I felt pretty good now, as if the tricks learned by Martell had gone into the storehouse of his muscular knowledge, along with walking and running and talking and how to hold a spoon, and were coming out now for my own use.
"Don't forget," the manager pleaded. "You promised before the fight. Gee, this wouldn't be the first one you dumped for money."
Martell, I thought. You're some athlete. Suddenly I didn't like the body I was occupying. But I liked the man across the ring even less.
It was a fast and furious round. Magoon came out swinging from the bell. I felt my legs go wobbly. I was driven back into the ropes. I took a lot of punishment around the head and upper body. Then Magoon shifted his attack to the waist. I came in over it with a flurry of my own at his face. He backed up. I followed him. He caught me with a looping right coming in and I went down to one knee. I rested there, taking a count of nine. I felt almost like a pro now. And if this Magoon had an unblemished record, I found myself thinking quite calmly, it was because other guys had gone into the tank for him. Oh, he was competent enough, but he wasn't another Marciano. Or even close.
I got up at nine. Magoon thought he had me. He came in with his hands low, ready to bring them up from his belt and finish me. The crowd was silent, waiting. I blocked a vicious right cross with my left glove. I swung my own right and it hit Magoon below the ear. I hooked my left at his other cheek. I brought the left down low, striking just under Magoon's heart. He spit his mouthpiece out. I hooked my left again and crossed my right. He swung back at me feebly. The crowd was roaring. I brought my right uppercutting at his jaw. His feet left the canvas and his whole body sank down on it, not falling, but slowly as if it were being lowered on strings.
He was counted out. The crowd screamed. The tired-looking manager held up my hand. He said nothing. We went back to the dressing room through throngs of well-wishers. They let little Sally come with us.
The door of the dressing room closed behind us. Two grim-looking characters were in there. They jerked their thumbs toward the door as if they were a team. The manager gulped and got out. I looked at Sally. Sally looked at me.
"You crossed us, Angel," one of the men said.