Casino Moon

59

BY THE FIFTH ROUND, Elijah’s strategy had become clear. He was going to stand in the corner and let Terrence hit him until his arms got tired.

“YOU’RE BREAKIN’ HIS HEART, CHAMP!” John B. shouted. “YOU’RE BREAKIN’ IT IN TWO!”

In the meantime, Terrence was hitting him with every punch in the book: body shots, double hooks, battering rams, more rattlesnake rights, slithering lefts, jabs that came out like crocodiles to snap off little pieces of Elijah. At one point, Terrence stood back in the middle of the ring and looked at him, like: “You sure you wanna do this, old man?” But Elijah just pawed the air with a beckoning motion as if to say, “Come on and fight. This is what we came for.”

All that kept Elijah up was his ability to take a punch. His arms were like picket fences and his gloves were big meaty loaves for absorbing punishment. When a blow did get through, he knew how to move his head just a fraction of an inch to lessen its impact. Like John B. said, he’d learned to take three for every one he gave back.

But still Terrence kept coming. Jab. Jab. Jab. Each shot a little brushstroke of pain. Finally, toward the end of the round, Elijah dropped his hands and Terrence smashed him in the mouth with a devastating right hand. Just the sound of it was terrifying. You could almost hear the ocean breaking in Elijah’s head. Blood sprayed over us like water coming over the side of a boat.

And for the first time all night, John B. stopped talking.

Elijah fell against Terrence and staggered out to the center of the ring, trying to hold on to him. And just when I thought he was about to collapse, the bell rang.

He came back to the corner and sat on his stool. Dark red blood was gushing from the back of his mouth.

“Somethin’ the matter,” he mumbled. “I can move my jaw with my tongue.”

“Might be broken,” said Dr. Park, the ring physician, who’d climbed up the ring steps.

There were five of us clustered around Elijah. Me, John B., Victor the cut man, the doctor, and this cop Farley working for the boxing commission.

There was less than half a minute until the next round began. Elijah’s face was mashed almost beyond recognition. His lower features were so lopsided that they no longer matched with the upper ones. John B. was looking back and forth, unable to make a decision. Victor the cut man was busy with a cold-iron trying to reduce the swelling in Elijah’s jaw. The doctor hung back, maybe waiting for someone to promise to pay him off later.

I looked up at the spot where I’d seen Tommy Sick before. But he wasn’t there. I wondered if he’d moved down to a lower level to be closer to the action.

Elijah spit more blood in the bucket.

“He’s gotta keep fighting,” I said.

“You gotta go out there again,” I told him.

“He’s hurting,” John B. said plaintively. “I’m gonna throw the towel.”

“No, no, don’t take it away from him!” I panicked. “Let him decide. If he quits now, he’s through forever.”

The rest of them just looked at me like I’d suggested putting his head under an eighteen-wheeler.

“Brain damage last forever too.” John B. stared through me.

But no one could make Elijah do anything he didn’t want to do. The way he’d fought so far proved it.

“You all right to do this?” I said.

Elijah pushed himself off his stool and somehow managed to stand again.

“Just point me in the right direction,” he muttered through his wreck of a jaw. “I’ll find him.”