"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.