looked mockingly at the irate houseman. “He looks like a punch-drunk pug to me.”
“You bastard”—Feivel tensed—“don’t you call me punch-drunk! I can still lick punks like you with both hands tied behind my back!”
“Take it easy, Feivel,” one of the Tigers taunted him, “or you’ll strain a gut.”
“Shut up!” Feivel swung around and then turned back quickly to the stranger. “I’m giving you your last chance. Are you gonna get out or do I have to knock you around?”
“Why don’t you guys go?” Frank said to them. “Go ahead,” he said anxiously to the fellow who had hung up his cue, “get your buddy out of here.”
“Come on, Lenny,” the fellow said, “let’s go.”
“I’m staying.” Lenny took off his wrist watch and dropped it into a trouser pocket. “Now”—he turned to Feivel—“you son of a bitch, let’s see if you can do anything besides talk!”
Feivel spit on his hands and clenched them tight. “You asked for it, you bastard!” He hunched his left shoulder and tucked his chin behind it. Then he began to shuffle forward, moving his fists in small circles, moving his head in short arcs as he advanced toward Lenny. His eyes were narrowed and he flicked his nose with his right thumb, but there was no spring in his legs, no swiftness of movement, no hint of speed or sudden change of pace.
Lenny watched him circle about and waited for Feivel to rush him. When Feivel moved in Lenny danced aside and clouted him on an ear. With a roar Feivel came in for a clinch, but Lenny maneuvered away from him and ran toward the front of the poolroom where there was more space. Again Feivel rushed him, and Lenny side-stepped and Feivel ran into the wall. For a moment he hesitated, and in that instant Lenny hit him a chopping blow in the back of the neck. Feivel’s head rammed into the wall, and when he turned around his nose was a bloody mess and pain made his eyes wobble.
Now the guys could see that Feivel was worried. He wiped his nose with his left hand, and the blood left a sticky smear on his cheeks and chin. Slowly he shuffled toward Lenny, trying to recall the skill which he had used more than twenty years ago when he had been good and could have killed a kid like this Lenny in less than one minute of the first round. As he inched in he realized for the first time that he wasn’t the man who had battled it to a draw with Lew Tendler. The ease of movement, the artful co-ordination of mind, body, legs, and arms, the swift smile of confidence as he had moved about the ring, happy in the knowledge of his skill and the power of his right hand—all were gone. All he had been doing for the last ten or more years was to talk about how good he’d been and to drag out the old scrapbook and show it to people. That had been enough to keep people afraid of him. But he hadn’t had a workout since he had tried to manage Young Lerner way back in 1933. Now he knew he was slow and through, and what hurt most was not that his nose kept dripping and that the back of his head felt as if it had been rammed by a pile driver, but that the kids in the poolroom, those snotty little Tigers, were watching him take a beating from a kid, and not one of them said anything or tried to stop it. They wanted to see him get a beating—he knew that—for now they saw that he was just a bag of wind, a guy with a big mouth, a punch-drunk pug, a has-been. And that was why he was going to be careful and try desperately to beat the hell out of this kid who stood facing him the way he used to stand a long time ago, waiting for a nervous kid who was new at the game to step in close or rush him. He had to beat this kid, and he wondered if he could. He had to beat this kid or he would never know another moment’s peace in the poolroom.
“What’re you waiting for?” Lenny taunted him. “Come on, I’m waiting.”
Feivel did not answer him. Now he realized how the raw kids who came up against him must have
“You bastard”—Feivel tensed—“don’t you call me punch-drunk! I can still lick punks like you with both hands tied behind my back!”
“Take it easy, Feivel,” one of the Tigers taunted him, “or you’ll strain a gut.”
“Shut up!” Feivel swung around and then turned back quickly to the stranger. “I’m giving you your last chance. Are you gonna get out or do I have to knock you around?”
“Why don’t you guys go?” Frank said to them. “Go ahead,” he said anxiously to the fellow who had hung up his cue, “get your buddy out of here.”
“Come on, Lenny,” the fellow said, “let’s go.”
“I’m staying.” Lenny took off his wrist watch and dropped it into a trouser pocket. “Now”—he turned to Feivel—“you son of a bitch, let’s see if you can do anything besides talk!”
Feivel spit on his hands and clenched them tight. “You asked for it, you bastard!” He hunched his left shoulder and tucked his chin behind it. Then he began to shuffle forward, moving his fists in small circles, moving his head in short arcs as he advanced toward Lenny. His eyes were narrowed and he flicked his nose with his right thumb, but there was no spring in his legs, no swiftness of movement, no hint of speed or sudden change of pace.
Lenny watched him circle about and waited for Feivel to rush him. When Feivel moved in Lenny danced aside and clouted him on an ear. With a roar Feivel came in for a clinch, but Lenny maneuvered away from him and ran toward the front of the poolroom where there was more space. Again Feivel rushed him, and Lenny side-stepped and Feivel ran into the wall. For a moment he hesitated, and in that instant Lenny hit him a chopping blow in the back of the neck. Feivel’s head rammed into the wall, and when he turned around his nose was a bloody mess and pain made his eyes wobble.
Now the guys could see that Feivel was worried. He wiped his nose with his left hand, and the blood left a sticky smear on his cheeks and chin. Slowly he shuffled toward Lenny, trying to recall the skill which he had used more than twenty years ago when he had been good and could have killed a kid like this Lenny in less than one minute of the first round. As he inched in he realized for the first time that he wasn’t the man who had battled it to a draw with Lew Tendler. The ease of movement, the artful co-ordination of mind, body, legs, and arms, the swift smile of confidence as he had moved about the ring, happy in the knowledge of his skill and the power of his right hand—all were gone. All he had been doing for the last ten or more years was to talk about how good he’d been and to drag out the old scrapbook and show it to people. That had been enough to keep people afraid of him. But he hadn’t had a workout since he had tried to manage Young Lerner way back in 1933. Now he knew he was slow and through, and what hurt most was not that his nose kept dripping and that the back of his head felt as if it had been rammed by a pile driver, but that the kids in the poolroom, those snotty little Tigers, were watching him take a beating from a kid, and not one of them said anything or tried to stop it. They wanted to see him get a beating—he knew that—for now they saw that he was just a bag of wind, a guy with a big mouth, a punch-drunk pug, a has-been. And that was why he was going to be careful and try desperately to beat the hell out of this kid who stood facing him the way he used to stand a long time ago, waiting for a nervous kid who was new at the game to step in close or rush him. He had to beat this kid, and he wondered if he could. He had to beat this kid or he would never know another moment’s peace in the poolroom.
“What’re you waiting for?” Lenny taunted him. “Come on, I’m waiting.”
Feivel did not answer him. Now he realized how the raw kids who came up against him must have
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