the middle of the man’s hardwood-brown face. It wasn’t a friendly smile. It promised pain.
Harris Greene advanced anyway, his gloved hands high, his body constantly moving. Walters, with the longer reach, could afford to stand back and fight at distance; Harris had to play the aggressor, constantly closing.
Harris started the round with a snapkick to Walters’ ribcage. Walters brought his left arm down to take the shot just above the elbow. Harris stepped in close, threw a right jab at the same ribs, then spun around counter-clockwise.
Harris Greene’s patented Spinning Backfist. He should have come out of the spin with his left fist slamming into Walters’ blocking forearm or, better yet, his unprotected head. But instead he unloaded the blow into empty air, the Smile somehow magically transported just beyond his reach. The exertion kept Harris spinning a fraction of a turn too far, leaving him out of position.
Walters’ right hook came up out of nowhere and took Harris on the point of his jaw. The blow rocked his head and he staggered a half-step back.
It didn’t really hurt, but bright little lights appeared in his vision, tiny fireflies dancing in front of him; he ignored them and kept moving backwards, buying time to recover.
But his feet wouldn’t cooperate. His back and head slammed into the canvas before he ever felt off balance. The crowd roared its approval.
They hadn’t yelled for Harris once during the match. He could smell the stink of their sweat, stronger than his own odor or Walters’, and for a moment he hated them—beer-chugging, screaming, sweating, cousin-fondling morons who should have been at home with their families but instead came to cheer while Harris Greene took a beating.
Already they counted him a loser. They were just waiting for him to prove them right.
Harris rolled up to a kneeling position and waited. The dancing stars began to fade. When the referee’s count reached seven, he stood. He forced his features back into his war-face, all glowering eyes and sullen expression, just as he’d practiced a hundred times for the mirror, but he was no longer sure who he was doing it for. The referee got out from between the two men and signaled for them to resume.
Harris forced himself to move forward again, straight for the Smile.
Miles away, on Manhattan, Carlo Salvanelli