Big Al came for me. Amos would have been a softer match, but Amos was no longer in sight. “Franky!” Angelo shouted, and came over to help Al. Two against one. … They were muckers, like Otis. What has happened to American tradition? I would have gone up clean against Al, man to man. John Wayne was dead; somebody had to carry on the tradition. The lamp I hit Al with was smaller than the one Amos had thrown through the window, but it was cut glass and it cut up his forehead pretty good. The blood running down over his eyes could have been the reason his looping overhand right missed me by a foot. I put my own right into his nose to hamper his breathing, as Angelo circled to get a side shot at me. Together, they could have taken me—maybe. But from the doorway Jack called, “Hey, Angelo, baby! This way. You’re mine, Angie!” He came in, as Angelo moved toward him. Another hulk, probably Franky, came running into the foyer—and into Joe. The grapple and groan boys against club fighters?
