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In Case’s corner, the trainer was working frantically on the bad eye, squeezing something from a
tube and mooshing it around with the tips of his fingers. It looked like Crazy Glue to me, except I
don’t think that had been invented yet. Then he slapped Case in the chops with a wet towel. The bell
rang.
Dick Tiger bored in, jamming with his right and hooking with his left. Case dodged one left hook,
and for the first time in the fight, Tiger launched a right uppercut at the older man’s head. Case
managed to pull back just enough to keep from taking it full on the jaw, but it connected with his
cheek. The force of it distorted his entire face into a horror-house grimace. He staggered back. Tiger
came at him. The crowd was up again, bellowing for blood. We rose with them. Sadie’s hands were
over her mouth.
Tiger had Case pinned in one of the neutral corners and was hammering him with rights and lefts.
I could see Case sagging; I could see the lights in his eyes dimming. One more left hook—or that
cannon-shot right—and they would go out.
“PUT IM DOWN!” the chubby cigar-smoker was screaming. “PUT HIM DOWN, DICKY!
KNOCK HIS BLOCK OFF!”
Tiger hit him low, below the belt. Probably not on purpose, but the ref stepped in. While he
cautioned Tiger about the low blow, I watched Case to see how he would use this temporary respite. I
saw something come into his face that I recognized. I had seen Lee wearing the same expression on the
day he’d been giving Marina hell about the zipper of her skirt. It had appeared when Marina had come
back on him, accusing him of bringing her and the baby to a peegsty and then twirling her finger
around her ear in a you’re-crazy gesture.
All at once this had stopped being just a payday to Tom Case.
The ref stepped aside. Tiger bored in, but this time Case stepped to meet him. What happened
during the next twenty seconds was the most electrifying, terrifying thing I have ever seen as part of
an audience. The two of them simply stood toe-to-toe, slugging each other in the face, the chest, the
shoulders, the gut. There was no bobbing, no weaving, no fancy footwork. They were bulls in a
pasture. Case’s nose broke and gushed blood. Tiger’s lower lip smashed back against his teeth and
split; blood poured down both sides of his chin, making him look like a vampire after a big meal.
Everyone in the auditorium was on their feet and screaming. Sadie was jumping up and down. Her
fedora fell off, exposing the scarred cheek. She took no notice. Nobody else did, either. On the huge
screens, World War III was in full swing.
Case lowered his head to take one of those bazooka rights, and I saw Tiger grimace as his fist
connected with hard bone. He took a step backward and Case unloaded a monster uppercut. Tiger
turned his head, avoiding the worst of it, but his mouthpiece flew free and rolled across the canvas.
Case moved in, throwing haymaker lefts and rights. There was no artistry to them, only raw, angry
power. Tiger backpedaled, tripped over his own feet, and went down. Case stood over him, seemingly
unsure what to do or—perhaps—even where he was. His frantically signaling trainer caught his eye
and he plodded back to his corner. The ref commenced his count.
On four, Tiger took a knee. On six, he was on his feet. After the mandatory eight-count, the fight
recommenced. I looked at the big clock in the corner of the screen and saw there were fifteen seconds
left in the round.
Not enough, it’s not enough time.
Case plodded forward. Tiger threw that devastating left hook. Case jerked his head to one side, and
when the glove had flown past his face, he lashed out with his right. This time it was Dick Tiger’s face
that distorted, and when he went down he didn’t get up.
The pudgy man looked at the tattered remains of his cigar, then threw it on the floor. “Jesus
wept!”