Battle Cry - Leon Uris [54]
“Hey, you.”
Marion did not look up from his book.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, Sister Mary.”
“What do you want?”
“I hear you used to box in school.”
“A little.”
“Well, I’m learning to box and I’d like a couple of pointers. Let’s step out to the ring and spar a few rounds.”
“The hike tired me out, I’d rather not.”
“You aren’t chicken, are you, Sister Mary?”
Marion carefully marked his book, placed it in his seabag, took off his glasses and set them carefully in his breast pocket. “Let’s go,” he said.
Spanish Joe winked to us and followed him to the door. We all dropped our business and poured out after them.
The gloves were laced on Sister Mary and I whispered in his ear, “This guy fought professional. Why don’t you just fall down after the first time he hits you? Nobody will think you’re chicken.” Marion gazed at the ring mat, deaf to my plea. We all saw, though, that he had some muscles of his own, with shoulders like a medium tank.
“Take it easy on me, Sister Mary,” Gomez called across the ring.
“The bastard,” I sneered between my teeth.
We gathered close about the apron of the ring as L.Q. called “Time!” This was going to be awful. It was. Spanish Joe was the two-round world’s champ light heavyweight. His rapier left jab flicked out at Marion a hundred times from a hundred different angles. The broad-shouldered book reader moved after him with the grace of a pregnant elephant. His wild blows never even dented Joe’s shadowy form. He backed Joe into a corner, Joe spun him around and clobbered him. Hooks, jabs, uppercuts, but Marion kept coming on. His ribs were red and his face starting to look like a hunk of raw liver. I said a Hail Mary, wondering what was holding him up. Toward the end of the round Joe’s left came in slower and Marion’s punches got closer.
The content of an entire gin mill was finding its way through Spanish Joe’s pores.
“Time!”
I wiped the blood from Marion’s face. He sat there staring at the deck. Joe leaned on the ropes breathing heavily. “I guess that’s about it for today, huh kid. Unlace my gloves, Danny.”
Marion Hodgkiss arose and walked over to Gomez. “I’m just getting warmed up, let’s go.”
A smile lit up Joe’s face. “O.K., the joke’s over, I don’t want to hurt you. That’s enough.”
“Yellow?” Sister Mary asked softly.
Gomez looked stunned. He gazed from the corner of his eyes at the men gathered around the ring. He rolled his tongue about the top of his sweat-beaded lip. “O.K., kid,” he said viciously, “let’s go.”
We clung to the bottom strand of the ropes. “Time,” Jones croaked.
Spanish Joe moved slowly to the center of the ring, the sweat making him shine like a panther stalking for the kill. He mustered every ounce of his whisky-soaked strength and lashed out with a right hand. It caught Sister Mary in the mouth with a sharp snapping echo. Joe dropped his hands, his face wreathed in a victor’s smile, and stepped back to make room for Marion to fall.
Not only was Marion Hodgkiss upright, but he uncorked a right uppercut from the top of his boondockers, powerful enough to sink the U.S.S. Pennsylvania. Gomez, caught flush on the button, was lifted six inches off the deck and landed in a crumpled heap. We all jumped into the ring, showering hugs and kisses on Marion’s swollen face and lovingly escorted him back to the barracks. We just let Spanish Joe lay there.
Fifteen minutes later, Gomez had rejoined the living. We were still gathered about his sack; Marion playing coy, engrossed in his Plato. We eyed Spanish Joe stalking into the barracks and cleared a path. Sister Mary turned a page and adjusted his glasses.
“Hey, kid.” No answer. “Hey kid, that was a lucky punch, you know that!” Marion withdrew a handkerchief and blew his nose. “To show you there ain’t no hard feelings, let’s shake hands.”
Sister Mary again lay his book down and arose. Spanish Joe extended his hand. Marion let fly a punch sinking almost elbow deep into Joe’s guts. Gomez groaned, clutched