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."