Low men in yellow coats by Stephen King

‘What did you do?’ Ted asked.

‘Not much,’ Bobby said. ‘I think I’ll lie down on my bed and read until supper.’

He went into his room. Stacked on the floor by his bed were three books from the adult section of the Harwich Public Library — Cosmic Engineers, by Clifford D. Simak; The Roman Hat Mystery, by Ellery Queen; and The Inheritors, by William Golding. Bobby chose The Inheritors and lay down with his head at the foot of his bed and his stocking feet on his pillow. There were cave people on the book’s cover, but they were drawn in a way that was almost abstract — you’d never see cave people like that on the cover of a kid’s book. Having an adult library card was very neat. . . but somehow not as neat as it had seemed at first.

Hawaiian Eye was on at nine o’clock, and Bobby ordinarily would have been mesmerized (his mother claimed that shows like Hawaiian Eye and The Untouchables were too violent for children and ordinarily would not let him watch them), but tonight his mind kept wandering from the story. Less than sixty miles from here Eddie Albini and Hurricane Haywood would be mixing it up; the Gillette Blue Blades Girl, dressed in a blue bathing suit and blue high heels, would be parading around the ring before the start of every round and holding up a sign with a blue number on it. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . .

By nine-thirty Bobby couldn’t have picked out the private eye on the TV show, let alone guessed who had murdered the blond socialite. Hurricane Haywood goes down in the eighth round, Ted had told him; Old Gee knew it. But what if something went wrong? He didn’t want Ted to go, but if he had to, Bobby couldn’t bear the thought of him going with an empty wallet. Surely that couldn’t happen, though . . . or could it? Bobby had seen a TV show where

a fighter was supposed to take a dive and then changed his mind. What if that happened tonight? Taking a dive was bad, it was cheating — no shit, Sherlock, what was your first clue? — but if Hurricane Haywood didn’t cheat, Ted would be in a lot of trouble; ‘hurtin for certain’ was how Sully-John would have put it.

Nine-thirty according to the sunburst clock on the living-room wall. If Bobby’s math was right, the crucial eighth round was now underway.

‘How do you like The Inheritors?’

Bobby was so deep into his own thoughts that Ted’s voice made him jump. On TV, Keenan Wynn was standing in front of a bulldozer and saying he’d walk a mile for a Camel.

‘It’s a lot harder than Lord of the Flies,’ he said. ‘It seems like there are these two little families of cave people wandering around, and one family is smarter. But the other family, the dumb family, they’re the heroes. I almost gave up, but now it’s getting more interesting. I guess I’ll stick with it.’

‘The family you meet first, the one with the little girl, they’re Neanderthals. The second family — only that one’s really a tribe, Golding and his tribes — are Cro-Magnons. The Cro-Magnons are the inheritors. What happens between the two groups satisfies the definition of tragedy: events tending toward an unhappy outcome which cannot be avoided.’

Ted went on, talking about plays by Shakespeare and poems by Poe and novels by a guy named Theodore Dreiser. Ordinarily Bobby would have been interested, but tonight his mind kept going to Madison Square Garden. He could see the ring, lit as savagely as the few working pool-tables in The Corner Pocket had been. He could hear the crowd screaming as Haywood poured it on, smacking the surprised Eddie Albini with lefts and rights. Haywood wasn’t going to tank the fight; like the boxer in the TV show, he was going to show the other guy a serious world of hurt instead. Bobby could smell sweat and hear the heavy biff and baff of gloves on flesh. Eddie Albini’s eyes came up double zeros . . . his knees buckled . . . the crowd was on its feet, screaming . . .