9. The heat under the lights was intense. Bruno had to wring his towel out more than once as he wiped the steaks of sweat from my panting body. An ice pack rested on my swollen eye. My head hurt. Meanwhile the crowd buzzed with anticipation ... wondering aloud whether I stood a chance in hell of making it through round 3 with Katrina.
"Now listen to me kid," intoned Bruno, who seemed to have developed a genuine fondness for me. "Here's what I think you oughta do. The object is to last one more round, right? You know you can't stand and fight. She'll pulverize you! So, follow my advice. Whatever she does, run the other way. Stay out of her reach. The crowd will boo. Ignore them. Its only for three minutes. It's your only chance!"
I nodded as he removed the ice pack and I stood up shakily to face a very intimidating-looking Katrina, who pounded her gloves together and mouthed the words "you die" at me from her corner on the opposite side of the ring.
The gong sounded and the crowd roared. Round three had begun. Katrina lumbered across the ring, looking like a freight train with a full head of steam. I waited until she had covered more than half the distance that separated us, then took off like a scared rabbit along the ropes to the right. She gave chase and the crowd booed and hissed over what they took as an act of extreme cowardice on my part.
For something like a minute and a half, she chased me around the ring. Whenever she seemed to corner me, I ducked or dodged away and took off again. I began to think I just might be able to burn the whole three-minute round running about like that when she finally succeeded in blocking my escape. Backed into a corner, with no way out, I put up my gloves and tucked in my elbows, and prepared to ward off the coming onslaught.
The attack was immediate and violent. In a matter of seconds I was pummeled under a cascade of blows to the body and head. And as I tired and gradually dropped my guard, she landed the one she was waiting for ... an uppercut to the chin that snapped my head back, followed by a "coup de grace" roundhouse smack to the side of the head. I saw stars. I tottered. My knees buckled and I headed for the mat.
But halfway down, well short of actually hitting the mat, she reached out to catch me under the arms. Then she lifted me high in the air, carried me straight back into the corner, and "crucified" me on the ropes.
Barely conscious, hanging limply, with my arms out and thrown back over the ropes, I heard the crowd go wild as Katrina bent down and, placing a gloved hand on either side of my hips, slid my loose-fitting trunks down to my ankles. Beaten, naked and humiliated, head down, chin testing on my chest, hair in my face, I was done.
The ref began to count "1 ... 2. ... 3 ... 4." In my stupor, I vaguely heard Carlo Zamboni arguing with someone about whether hanging on the ropes could be regarded as a KO. "5 ... 6 ... 7." I opened my eyes to see blood from my nose spatter on my heaving breasts. The ref continued, "8 ... 9 ... "
Suddenly everyone in the salon began screaming. There was a scrambling of feet, the sound of chairs being overturned., grunts, groans and curses, both in Italian and English. Someone yelled "G-men!!!! It's a raid."
I raised my head and opened my eyes in time to see Neanderthal and Melon-head pull out guns and start shooting, only to be cut down in a hail of bullets. Screams and more shooting, fusillades of bullets cut through the air in all directions. Katrina collapsed in front of me, a bullet hole in her forehead. The post directly behind me shook with the impact of bullets. I passed out.
By the time I came to, the shooting was over. I still hung from the ropes. The place was in absolute chaos. Dozens of G-men milled about. Sullen-looking gangsters were being lined up against the wall, hands cuffed behind their backs. Bullet-riddled bodies lay everywhere.
From somewhere in the room, I heard a familiar voice ... It was my Chief shouting, "there she is ... that's Moore up there on the ropes."
From somewhere else, a man with obvious authority in his voice, bellowed, "Get up in that ring and get that girl down off those ropes. She's a newspaper reorter!"
"Yes, Mr. Hoover, right away!" shouted two G-men as the clambered through the ropes and into the ring. My vision blurred and I closed my eyes as they rushed over to me.
A moment later I heard the Chief again, much closer now, exulting, "Moore, this is going to be one helluva story you're going to write for me. Could be Pulitzer Award time for you and the paper!"
"Get her down and cover her up. The woman is nude!!!" shouted the man they called Hoover, a tone of moral indignation edged with revulsion in his voice.
I began to lose consciousness again as they attended to me. My head hurt and everything was spinning. They took me down and gently laid me out on the mat.
As things went black, the very last thing I remember was one of the G-men, who crouched over me, straightening up, shaking his head ruefully and saying, "Sorry, Mr. Hoover. She ain't gonna be writing anything. Looks like she took a stray slug to the back of the head."
