While Jackson looked in slightly worse shape there was still nothing in the fight. Jackson had never gone fifteen rounds, his non-championship fights being fought over twelve. His title defences had always ended with a knockout inside ten rounds. Peekay too, was in no-man's-land; twelve was also his maximum. The last three rounds of a closely fought championship is all guts; the fighter with the most heart wins. The bell went for the fourteenth round and Jackson, already on his feet, came storming over to Peekay. There was little point in back-pedalling; staying out of harm's way could cost Peekay the fight.
They slugged it out toe-ta-toe. Jackson had worked out Peekay's tactic and was no longer protecting his eye, so Peekay hit him solidly with the left, opening up the eye badly, the blood covering Jackson's face. Should he go for a TKO? It was unlikely they'd stop the fight unless the eye looked in danger. As though reading his thoughts, Jackson changed back to protecting the eye and almost immediately caught Peekay with a beautiful right hand which put him down.
Peekay wanted an eight count; he was exhausted and the punch had made him groggy, but his head cleared quickly. He had to make the knock-down look slight, so at the count of three he was back up on his feet. He managed to tie Jackson up in a clinch until the strength returned to his legs. The referee called for them to break and Peekay moved out of trouble.
Jackson, sensing that he had Peekay, came at him with a long, raking right, but missed. Peekay hit him on the shoulder with a left, spinning him around. Jackson's right had been too hard and he'd left his torso exposed. Earlier in the fight Peekay would have put three, maybe six punches down, all of them hard, all of them within half an inch of the spot; now he put all his strength into the hook. He felt it land, enter and continue, as though Jackson's ribs had simply caved in. Jackson grunted and then sighed, falling against the ropes, his arms slung over the top. Peekay hit him with a right cross on the nose, busting it. A white-hot pain shot up his arm as his hand broke. For the second time in the fight, the bell went. Jackson was out on the ropes. The fourteenth round had been enough to win the fight for Peekay though technically he hadn't knocked Jackson out. Jackson's seconds had dragged him into his corner and were bringing him round. A doctor had climbed into the ring and was examining him.
'Stop it! Stop the fight! Stop the fuckin' fight!!' Togger was yelling hysterically at the medico. He wanted it to be over, to be Peekay's. Daddy Kockle was weeping openly.
Dutch worked on Peekay's eye. 'Steady now, my son.
You've got it. Just keep stickin' him, keeping him away.' He didn't think Jackson would come O,t for the final round, but Dutch, the consummate professional to the last, wasn't going to raise Peekay's hopes.
Peekay began to weep silently. He didn't know why; the pain was terrible, but it wasn't the pain. He knew if Jackson came out for the final round it was all over, he couldn't fight him with a broken hand. Hymie brought his mouth to Peekay's ear. 'The noise from the crowd was so terrific it was the only way he could be heard. 'One more, just one more, Peekay. I love you, Peekay. Just one more. Stay on your feet, just one more round!'
Peekay drew Hymie's head down so his ear was against his mouth. 'It's all over, old mate. I've broken my hand!' he sobbed, the tears running down his cheek.
Hymie face crumbled. He choked back the tears, but they came anyway, his heart suddenly feeling the size of a pumpkin in his chest. He couldn't think, the shock was too great. Tears streamed down his face. 'Oh, God, take my life! Take anything! But don't let Jackson get out of his corner!'
The ten-second bell went for the final round and Jackson stood up. 'The bell went and the two fighters went into the final round. Jackson's stamina was remarkable, and Peekay tried to keep him off with his left hand, prodding at him, holding him out.
Jackson knew with a sudden certainty what had happened. It lifted him, made him strong. 'The white boy's hand was broken, he was defenceless. He picked at Peekay, hitting him cleanly, playing with him; there was time, he had no strength, but there was time left. He had to make sure of the big punch, he only had one left in him, maybe not even that. Weaken him down, break the white boy. Break him to his knees! He worked his mind, gathering the strength he needed. Only one punch. One to finish the fight!
But he'd left it too late. And he was careless. Knowing Peekay couldn't hit him, his gloves were wide open. Peekay's broken hand came up and connected under his heart. He heard Peekay scream with pain as the punch landed. Jackson went backwards, bouncing on the ropes; if he went down he'd never get up again. He clung on desperately, a deep red fuzz, like scarlet cotton wool, in front of his eyes, closing him down, bringing him to an end. He waited blindly for the shock of the punch which would put him away. But it never came. Peekay, groggy with the pain from his hand, was disorientated. Finally he managed to hit Jackson with a left, but the punch had no power. Jackson's knees caved in momentarily, but miraculously he stayed up, his arms hooked around the ropes. Only his courage kept him on his feet. Then he could dimly see Peekay through the red haze. Peekay threw another punch, another left; his right hand was useless, he barely had the strength to hold it above his waist. Had Jackson spat on him he'd have knocked him down. Jackson grabbed Peekay, his arms raising in slow motion, pulling his opponent into a desperate, instinctive clinch. Both boxers crashed to the floor. Both, on all fours, struggled to get up first, Peekay not having the strength in his left hand to push himself up from the floor. Finally he made it, hardly a second before Jackson. Technically it wasn't a knock-down and the referee signalled for them to fight on. The crowd was screaming for the knock-out to be accepted. Peekay had won, they'd seen it clearly; it was the white boy's fight! Jackson was trying to keep his balance, swaying on his feet, the bright crimson blood from his eye splashing down onto his jet black shoulder. The two boxers faced each other a foot apart, unable to move, neither with the strength to throw another blow. The bell went and Jackson gave a small sigh and fell backwards to the floor, landing hard on the seat of his pants, eyes wide in sudden surprise, then backwards still further, hitting his head on the deck where he lay sprawled on his back, one arm stretched out the other at his side, motionless.
Peekay hadn't the strength to move and collapsed into Hymie's arms as his friend ran to embrace him, tears streaming. 'Never, never again,' Hymie wept.
The Garden was chaos; suddenly a chant started at the back, then grew: 'Pee Kay! Pee Kay! Pee Kay!' People battered the back of their seats with the palms of their hands and beat the soles of their feet on the boards, 'Pee Kay! Pee Kay! Pee Kay!' The chant grew louder; people at the ringside now stood up, throwing their fists into the air. 'Pee Kay!
Pee Kay!' Society matrons and bankers shouted with good time girls, crooks, card sharps, con men, promoters and racketeers: 'Pee Kay! Pee Kay! Pee Kay!'
Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson's people had brought him into his corner for the third time. Jackson had come round, but he was hurt badly, his nose broken, his eye badly cut and both eyes closed. He was coughing blood where his broken ribs had punctured the lung. Peekay wasn't a lot better, his eye closed, his hand, possibly his jaw and probably several ribs broken.
The ring was filled with people and the police worked frantically to clear it. It was ten minutes before the announcer was able to get to the microphone. The TV cameras were recording the chaos from their platform above and to the side of the ring.
'Ladies and gentlemen, I have the judge's decision!' The announcer was forced to repeat himself four times before the Garden grew sufficiently quiet for him to continue. 'Judge Joseph Tesoriero scores it forty-four points Jackson, forty-four points Peekay!' A roar of approval went up, though mixed with some booing. 'Judge Mannie Mankerwitz scores it forty-four Peekay, forty-four Jackson!' The roar from the crowd increased; most people would have settled for a drawn contest. The crowd hushed as the final judge's decision was announced. 'Judge Hoover J. Booker scores it forty-four Peekay, forty-five Jackson!'
There was a moment's stunned silence and then the booing began. It was clear that the crowd wasn't happy. 'The winner on points and still welterweight champion of the world, Jake "Spoonbill" Jack-a-son!' the announcer bellowed.
Chairs were being broken and the police moved in to stop the riot. Twenty police surrounded the ring holding back the crowd. Jackson rose to his feet, his hands in the air, one hand holding the elaborate championship belt. The ring was being pelted with objects and Jackson was hit by a small cushion as the boos increased. He looked about him confused; he could barely stand up and his seconds rushed to surround him. In a moment he was lost from sight in the ring.
Slowly the police gained control. The Odd Bodleians under Jam Jar's direction had stood firm. Now they started to sing, 'When the Saints go Marching in'; it was the music, perhaps more than anything, which calmed the crowd.
Peekay rose wearily; he too could barely stand. He moved over to the people surrounding Jackson, trying to get to the champion to congratulate him. Intent on protecting their man, Jackson's seconds wouldn't let him into the circle. Peekay turned to return to his corner. A TV commentator had managed to get into the ring and he now accosted Peekay.
'The crowd are obviously disappointed, they think you won, I think you won, do you think you won?' he yelled.
Peekay wanted to cry. He was empty. He'd hit bottom, there was nothing left. He felt dead inside.
'Jackson won. That was the judge's decision,' Peekay said into the microphone.
Inside him a voice cried out, protested that there was more to it than this! That he had a right to be hurt, to feel bitter, to allow himself the indulgence of suggesting it was a home-town decision. But in his mind he'd always won the title convincingly, not like this. Had he won, Jackson's side would feel as he did now. His camouflage was back.
'What will you do now, Peekay?' the man asked, disappointed, wanting the vitriol.
Peekay paused. The noise from the crowd was dying down, the police gaining control. The camera on the platform above the ring framed his face in the lens; the picture, in black and white, showed a young man with his right eye closed, deep lines of exhaustion etched down either side of his mouth, his good eye sharp, curiously untouched, incongruous, looking as it did out of a battered, broken face. But his face also registered a small, wan smile, which served to make the moment America witnessed more poignant. 'I'm going to find a quiet place where I can bawl my eyes out.' He paused and shrugged his shoulders, his mouth was close to the microphone and carried clearly, hardly above a whisper, like a small boy's. 'You see, I don't know what to do. I don't know how to fight any better than that.'
Back in the dressing room the doctor appointed by the New York Athletic Commission examined Peekay. He was a man in his fifties, wearing a cheap, baggy suit. He had a wild mop of steel-grey hair and a somewhat untidy, bushy moustache, stained yellow with cigar smoke. He looked well worn and comfortable, as though he was used to working around fighters. He handled Peekay expertly, knowing precisely what he was looking for. 'The hand is broken badly, in more than one place I should think; counting your wrist bones there are twenty-seven possibilities.' He grinned. 'It isn't possible to hit a man with a hand broken like this, hit him hard enough to lay him down. Nobody could take that much pain at once. But you did. I saw it myself. I've looked after boxers for thirty years. That was the best, the best fight I've ever seen!' He cleared his throat, embarrassed at his outburst, his voice brusque again. 'We'll need to X-ray immediately, then set it. If the broken bones are set incorrectly, your days as a fighter will be over, son.' He put his stethoscope to Peekay's ribs, testing both sides. 'Breath in!' Peekay took a deep breath. 'Pain? Sharp, sudden, like a knife going in?'
'No sir, just straight pain.'
'That's good, looks like none of the breaks have punctured the lung. They're probably all broken any way, the X-ray will tell. I also want a brain scan. You took a lot of punishment about the head.' He started to pack his bag. 'Sorry I can't give you a shot of morphine to kill the pain, it will interfere with the anaesthetic. Jackson will be in hospital for several days, you'll have to join him there, at least overnight.' He walked to the door. 'He left in an ambulance, on his back. I guess you can walk out and leave in a limoâ¦like the champ you are, son!'
Dutch had needed to cut the glove from Peekay's hand and now it was swollen to nearly twice its normal size. Peekay sat with the elbow cupped in his left hand, holding the hand upwards, above his heart so the blood would drain from it and relieve the pain c. little. Togger was holding a towel packed with ice, making Peekay hold his broken hand in the ice as long as he could before bringing it up again. He too had cried unashamedly at the end of the fight and again when the decision had been announced. Now he stood quietly by, trying to pass on some of his love for his friend to use as emotional balm to soothe him. 'If I live ter be a hundred, I'll never see a better fight, never be more soddin' proud, Peekay.'
Daddy Kockle was standing quietly by the door, holding a large cardboard box Hymie had given him to keep. The old man was exhausted.
Hymie had been talking quietly on the phone, now he walked over to Peekay. 'Come, old mate, we've got to take you to Cedars of Lebanon.' He grinned. 'I told Aunt Tom your hand was broken and now one of New York's foremost orthopaedic surgeons is standing by to operate on it.'