by Peter Corris
‘What’s goin’ down, Wes? We goin’ to arm wrestle or are you opening up a branch down the block?’
‘Let’s cut the bullshit, Tank. My son’s missing. Hardy here’s looking for him and his enquiry has sort of led him here.’
Turkowitz shook his head. ‘Man, I didn’t even know you had a son. Me, I’ve got five, or maybe six. I forget.’
‘I’m not saying you know anything about Wes’s son,’ I said. ‘Not directly. But you did meet a man called Mark Alessio.’
‘Who says?’
‘He did.’
Turkowitz raised his hand to his mouth as if he wanted to chew at a fingernail. He thought better of it, but the hand wavered uncertainly. ‘He’s dead, I heard. An’ if he’s been shooting his mouth off about me I ain’t sorry.’
‘He hasn’t. He created some computer files about his investigation into how some athletes get hold of steroids. Your name’s in the files as someone who could put the finger on the source. Specifically, some steroids used by a girl named Angela Cousins. The stuff killed her.’
‘Dumb little shit. What’s he doing writing stuff like that down?’
‘All I want to know is what you told him.’
‘And why you talked to him,’ Wesley said.
‘Second question’s easy. Kid paid me. An easy two grand. Sold his fucking bike, he said.’
Wesley cracked the knuckles on one hand. ‘Did you kill him, Tank?’
‘Shit, no. But like I say, I might’ve if I’d known how loose his mouth was.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘He built a code into his computer set up. The file with your name on it got wiped when we called it up a second time.’
Turkowitz’s smile returned, complete with the glinting gold and what I now saw as the glistening porcelain caps. Slowly, lovingly, he turned the diamond stud in his ear. ‘Then you got no leverage,’ he purred.
Wesley cracked the other set of knuckles.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got Wesley who’s got a big vested interest.’
Turkowitz’s hands were folded again, composed. He stared at me and then shifted his massive head fractionally to look at Wesley. ‘Be interestin’,’ he said.
‘Ten years ago, Tank,’ Wesley said. ‘Maybe. Not now.’
Turkowitz sighed. ‘You’re right. But I could whistle an’ get me some heavy help.’
Wesley looked around the room and his gaze rested on the trophy cabinet which held, among other things, an ornate ceremonial sword. Turkowitz swivelled to see where he was looking.
‘I hate to think of the damage that could be done here,’ Wesley said. ‘Me being a man of peace.’
The tension went out of Turkowitz’s expression and body. He leaned back against his chair and it groaned in protest.
‘You’re a slob, Tank,’ Wesley said.
Turkowitz’s swarthy face darkened. A flush spread up to his bald head. ‘Don’t fuckin’ push me, Wes. Right, I talked to the Alessio kid. I have to say he had balls, comin’ in here like that. I told him who most likely gave the horse pills to this girl.’
‘Horse pills?’ I said.
Turkowitz waved me quiet. This was between him and Wesley now. ‘Manner of speakin’. I told him Stan Morris.’
It was Wesley’s turn to relax. ‘Morris being your main rival in the all-in fighting business.’
Turkowitz shrugged. ‘I heard all his blokes’re on the horse pills. Seemed likely.’
‘How do I get in touch with Morris?’ I said. ‘Where does he live?’
Turkowitz flicked a finger at his desk calendar. ‘I don’t rightly know and I don’t know nobody who does. Moves around, I guess. Just so happens though, there’s a smoko tomorrow night out Badgerys Creek way. I’ve got a boy up in the main event and so has Stan. You could try your luck there.’
‘Is that what you told Mark Alessio?’
Turkowitz nodded. ‘Same thing. Sent him to a smoko down south. Albion Park, around there.’
‘You wouldn’t tip Morris off about Hardy would you, Tank?’
‘Fuck, no. I wouldn’t tip Stan Morris off if there was a truck about to hit him.’
‘Okay,’ Wesley said. ‘And…’
Turkowitz crinkled his forehead. ‘What?’
‘Come on, Tank. The password.’
‘Oh yeah, almost forgot. Password’s “rust”.’
It was Wesley’s turn to look surprised. ‘Rust? Why?’
‘If I told you you wouldn’t believe me.’
17
Wesley invited me back to his place for a meal, promising West Indian cooking. His house was in Haberfield, a Federation job on a big block leaving room for a sizeable swimming pool and a garage that had been converted into a gym. Mandy I’d met before briefly. She was small and slight and Wesley would be able to lift her with one hand. Maybe he did. She thanked me for giving them something to cling to about Clinton and her tired smile made me hope like hell that they were clinging to something solid. Clinton, with his narrow, fine features, favoured her.
‘Pauline’s out busking,’ Wesley said. ‘Mandy doesn’t like it but Pauline enjoys it and says she needs the money. What d’you think about that, Cliff?’
Mandy was watching me. ‘I like buskers when they play what I like,’ I said.
Wesley took three cans of light beer from the fridge and popped them. ‘Diplomatic. You know what I mean. Keeping kids safe. Jesus, our parents hardly had to worry about it.’
I accepted the beer and took a sip. ‘Can she handle herself?’
Mandy poured her beer into a glass. ‘We’ve had this discussion a hundred times, even before Clinton… ‘
‘Tae Kwon Do,’ Wesley said. ‘I wouldn’t back you against her.’
‘Surviving in the city’s mostly a matter of confidence,’ I said. ‘It sounds as if she’s got it.’
‘Yes, she has,’ Mandy said. ‘I hope you’re right. Dinner in twenty minutes.’ She saluted us with her glass and drifted off to the kitchen. I noticed that she held her head rather stiffly and remembered about the whiplash. What you really needed was luck. Confidence wouldn’t do you much good when a couple of tons of metal hit you, or some crazy with a gun came wandering your way. Still, it sounded pretty convincing at the time.
Wesley showed me the gym with some pride. ‘I’ve got machines here ain’t never been seen. Prototypes, man.’
‘For what?’
‘Fine-tuning. Show you.’
He showed me, by moving massive weights long distances in ways that I didn’t really understand, but I grasped enough to see that he’d made significant improvements to the standard equipment.
‘Could be money in this,’ I said.
Wesley finished the can he’d set aside and towelled off the light sweat he’d raised. ‘Yeah, if all this with Clinton gets sorted out I’ll think about raising some capital and getting on with it.’
Between the two of them, they’d shown me just how much was riding on my fragile information and hopeful assumptions.
The smoko was set for 10.30 p.m. at an abandoned Mechanics’ Institute building in a hamlet near Badgerys Creek that had lost its name along with its population somewhere between the wars. Turkowitz had given me a sketch map which he strongly urged me to eat after memorising it. His little joke. I matched it with some maps I had of the area and formed a pretty good idea of how to get there.
There was nothing to be said in favour of smokos. They were a reaction to many things- the moves by governments to control and perhaps ban boxing, the actions of Mike Tyson in Las Vegas, disappointment at the demise of Fenech and the defeat of Kostya Tszyu. I saw them as a foretaste of things to come if the pressure to ban boxing was successful. Previously, in English-speaking countries, all such efforts had failed and pugilism had survived, usually being conducted under worse conditions than before. I had no doubt that it would be the same again, but the smokos were jumping the gun. There was no protection for the fighters; they were breaking the law and liable to assault
charges if discovered. Medical facilities, I’d heard, were minimal, and the equipment was often in poor condition-important when you’re talking about the hardness of floors that men might fall down on with force.
I was breaking the law myself by attending and didn’t feel altogether good about it. I had a professional excuse of course, but that wouldn’t cut any ice if the cops decided to raid the place. Truth was, I was interested to see what such fights were like because I knew that courage and desperation would be on display and they’re always interesting to witness. But I didn’t kid myself-the reason smokos existed was not, as their defenders said, to give outlets to aggressive young men. The reason was money. Australians are said to be willing to bet on anything. They’d certainly bet on two men prepared to fight almost to the death. According to all accounts, a lot of money changed hands at a smoko.
The arrangement had been for Wesley and me to go together but he rang me late in the afternoon to tell me that he couldn’t make it. Mandy had been taken to hospital with a complication to do with her neck injury.
‘She’s paralysed,’ Wesley said.
‘Jesus. What’re they saying?’
‘What they always fucking say-wait and see. I’m at the hospital now and I’ve got to stay here. I’m sorry, man.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘You stay there and do what you can. Is your daughter there?’
‘Yeah, I wish…’
‘I know, Wes.’
‘You take care, Cliff. There’s some mean bastards at those things and some heavy stuff goes down. You can’t trust Tank not to double-cross you. And look what happened to that Alessio kid.’
‘I’m not a kid. All I’m going to do is identify him and follow him to somewhere I can catch up with him when it suits me. I’ll be right. You take care of Mandy. I’ll be in touch.’
In one way, I was relieved. It’s hard to be inconspicuous in the company of Wesley Scott, and if I was going to be able to play this thing the way I wanted, that’s how I’d need to be.
The day had been hot but the Sydney evening breezes were doing their job when I set off for the west. I was wearing jeans, sneakers and a black T-shirt with my freshly washed bush shirt loose over it. The cosh was coiled in my hip pocket; the Smith amp; Wesson was in the glove box. I had a couple of hundred dollars in cash to bet with and the car was full of petrol. I bought six cans of VB so that I could swing them from a finger by the plastic strapping. Makes a handy weapon that, even if you’re forced to drink two or three of the cans beforehand.
You have to wonder what the local cops thought about a procession of cars crawling along dirt roads to nowhere late at night. A football club barbecue? A Vietnam veterans’ reunion? A republican movement convention? Surely not an illegal prize fight, not in this day and age. In the old days, when first bareknuckle and then glove fighting were outlawed, the organisers took great care to do two things-first, pick an out-of-the-way spot for the fight and advertise only among ‘the Fancy’. Second, ensure that for one reason or another the local constabulary turned a blind eye. It wasn’t unknown for the district magistrate to referee the stoush.
It wasn’t a crush, but there was certainly more traffic than you’d expect for that neck of the woods and I noticed a few iridescent markers on the trees here and there just in case we got lost. Not much chance of that. I found myself following a white Mercedes with the vanity numberplate CHAMP. Whoever the champ was, he clearly knew the way, even though his erratic driving suggested that he might have started celebrating something a trifle early. I swigged from a can as I drove just to get into the spirit of things.
The Merc driver flashed his high beam at a dark spot and I saw the light glance off chrome and duco somewhere ahead. Another few minutes brought us into a clearing behind a long, narrow brick building with an iron roof. I could hear a generator humming and there were lights showing in the building and under a big marquee strung between it and some trees. I switched off the engine and my lights, grabbed the cans and opened the door.
A large figure loomed up out of the dark and gripped the door, holding me half in and half out of the car.
‘Evening, sir.’
‘Evening.’
‘Password, please.’
It had slipped my mind. What the hell was it? I was wondering whether I was going to have to grease a palm or two when it came to me. ‘Rust,’ I said.
‘Very good, sir. Please leave the beer in the car. You can buy drinks inside.’
So much for my improvised nulla. Tall and wide, he strode off to intercept the next arrival. I locked the car and went towards the marquee where a bar had been set up, if you call a couple of trestle tables with a keg of beer, an array of bottles, plastic cups and some buckets of ice a bar. About thirty men and five or six women stood around drinking. Most of them were smoking, an unusual sight in a group that size. Twenty-five dollars bought me an admission ticket and another five bought me a can of beer. At those prices the organisers were going to make money whatever happened inside.
I sipped the beer and surveyed my fellow aficionados. The men came in all shapes and sizes but were much of an age, forty and over. Some were in suits, some were as casual as me but there was no one in stubbies and thongs. The word you’d use to generalise was prosperous, or nearly so. The women came in only one category- young, thin and good-looking. They were fashionably and expensively dressed and most of them were showing some gold somewhere. Their companions wore suits and were drinking spirits. Most of the women had champagne. The best-looking of them all was a tall redhead in a tight, short green silk dress with a black jacket. Her partner was twice her age, fat and bald. She had to bend over to talk to him.
His mobile phone rang. He answered it and turned away from her to talk. She caught me looking at her and smiled. There was a lot of promise in that smile, but before I could return it Fatty was snapping his fingers at her and handing her the phone. I moved away so I could watch them from another angle. She finished with the phone and gave it back. Fatty was putting it away when a man who looked something like the attendant who’d met me appeared at his side and spoke to him. Fatty, a foot shorter, nodded, switched off the phone and handed it over. He was given a ticket. It looked like security was tight. Lucky they didn’t frisk me and find the cosh. More cars arrived, more drinks were bought and people began to move into the building. Just out of curiosity, I wondered who Champ was. All I could tell from behind was that he was big with square shoulders and wearing light clothes. I settled on a 190-centimetre heavyweight in a cream suit who was smoking a cigar and trying to make some time with the redhead. Fatty was looking worried but not about the woman. His hand strayed to his belt where presumably he usually kept his mobile phone. Then he remembered and looked annoyed. Workaholic.
I finished the beer, dumped the can in a rubbish bin and went inside. A ring was set up in the middle of the space with rows of plastic chairs on all sides. I estimated there was seating for about two hundred people and the chairs were filling up fast, first come first served. I got on the aisle, giving me a good view, although I was a fair way back. Fatty, the redhead and the man I’d decided was the Champ, sat in front of me. I could always admire her shapely neck and the back of her head if I got bored by the fights. The smoke was thick and getting thicker, it was no place for the respiratorially challenged.
A batch of large, athletic attendants appeared and began handing out sheets detailing the night’s entertainment. There were five fights only, two four-rounders, two six-rounders and a main event described as a ‘KO contest’-only to be concluded by one of the fighters being unable to continue. The weight divisions were ignored in favour of ‘catch weights’, meaning that lightweights could be fighting middleweights and middleweights heavyweights and everything in between. The preliminaries were glove fights, the main event was almost a throwback to the nineteenth century-the fighters would have taped hands but no gloves. It was all totally illegal and I could understand the rigmarole of the password, the b
an on mobile phones and the breadth of shoulder on the attendants.
In the old days, betting on the fights was an impromptu business organised by the spectators themselves. Not so here. Before the first fight the attendants worked the aisles, accepting and rejecting bets proposed by the punters. The fight card showed how many smokos the fighters had participated in and their win/loss record. Just to be in the swim, I bet ten dollars on Mario (no surnames were given), in the red corner to beat Paddy in the blue at even money. The redhead bet on Paddy with some of Fatty’s money.
The preliminaries were unremarkable except for the lack of skill of the fighters, the ruthless urging of their seconds, the laxity of the referee and the bloodlust and ignorance of the crowd. None of the fights went the distance and most of them would have been stopped earlier due to blatant fouls-eye gouging, low blows and use of the elbows-in a legitimate contest. The referee’s job seemed to be limited to seeing that the fighters didn’t kick each other in the balls and the seconds didn’t belt their man’s opponent with the stool.
The attendants took orders for drinks and delivered them and most of the crowd was pretty well stoked by the time of the main event. Fatty had slipped out, maybe to drain the dragon, and the Champ had his hand up under the redhead’s dress-not a very hard thing to do. I’d lost both bets and was disinclined to throw more money away. It was hard to tell in mayhem like this, but I had a distinct feeling that the results had been orchestrated well in advance of the event. I got another beer and settled back to watch what was the business end of the evening for the fighters, the punters and especially for me.
18
Tank Turkowitz appeared at ringside with his fighter, who was named Kito, and a couple of handlers. Kito was a Maori heavyweight, liberally tattooed and decked out in very flashy boxing gear-tasselled boots, knee-high socks, silk shorts, satin robe. His opponent was Albie, a pale freckled character with wide shoulders and stick-thin legs. When he took off his towelling robe you could see the good muscle definition in his arms and on his chest, but he had to be giving away twenty kilos and fifteen centimetres. He wore plain black boots without socks, black shorts and his taped hands were big, out of proportion to the rest of him. Kito looked to be in his twenties; Albie was thirty if he was a day, with a battered face and going thin on top.