I clinched. The referee got us apart. Magoon came after me with that jab. I swung my left and right, but Magoon picked them off in air. I couldn't win and I knew it. I didn't have a chance. I wondered how long it would take before Magoon knew that too. Magoon was a pro. Once he learned it he wouldn't waste any time with caution. He would come in and cut me to ribbons. I'd be all right if I could keep him cautious, respectful, until I could find out what I had to about Sally and then look at the next address and give Angel Martell back his body.... * * * * * The next address! But the list wasn't here! How could the list be in my boxer shorts? The bathrobe? I wondered. I turned around to look at my corner. Something clobbered my head and the next thing I knew I was on my face on the canvas. There was a sound of thudding feet and a roar and then someone began to count. At five I got up to one knee. Magoon was in one corner, a neutral corner, banging his gloves together eagerly. "Seven, eight...." I got up. The crowd was very quiet. They sensed the kill now and were waiting for it. The referee rubbed my resin-powdered gloves against his shirt-front, then Magoon came tearing across the ring toward me. I backed into my own corner, then sidestepped desperately as Magoon came at me. He went by and whirled and we clinched and I saw my manager's face down there behind him and I opened my mouth to say, "Where's my bathrobe? See what you can find in the pockets, for gosh sakes!" But it came out all mumbled. I'd forgotten I was wearing the big, clumsy mouthpiece to protect my teeth. Magoon swung at me. Somehow I eluded that blow. Maybe it was a reflex action on the part of Angel Martell's trained body. Magoon swung again. I walked into a clinch and he pounded my back and kidneys before the referee broke us apart. Magoon gave me a peculiar look then. I didn't understand the look. But I would soon. He hit me in the chest. It wasn't much of a blow, and I countered with a flurry of lefts and rights. Magoon retreated. This surprised the hell out of me. I hooked my left and crossed my right and Magoon's knees wobbled. I hit him again and he bounced against the ropes. He came off them with a look of hate and rage in his eyes. He swung wildly three times with his right. The third one caught me flush in the mouth and I fell down, sprawling toward my own corner. I spit out the damn mouthpiece. The referee began to count. "My robe!" I hollered to the manager. "Look in the pockets." "You bum," he said. "Huh?" "You bum." "Six, seven, eight, nine...." * * * * * I got to my feet. The bell rang before me and Magoon could get together again. I went to my corner. Suddenly behind my manager I saw Sally's worried face.