Champ

by Rhona Davis

  Approaching the entrance to the club, I spy a group of teenage kids loitering around. I straighten my posture, and march right up to the door—my gait purposeful and confident.

  I pull on the rusty handle of the oniums steel door. The thing doesn’t budge.

  “Hey,” a voice shouts out to my left.

  I turn my head and see a gang of about five kids stare at me. The voice that spoke comes from what I assume to be the leader of their group—he’s young, but looks menacing.

  “Miss, do you know where you are?” He cranes his head back, and looks up at the sky. “It’s getting dark.”

  I pull away from the door and try to be as polite as I can. “Is this Monty’s place?”

  “Who wants to know?” another kid asks.

  “I’m looking for Monty Weathers.” I glance at the door. “Any idea when this opens?”

  “Never,” the first kid says.

  I frown.

  “Place shut down a few years back,” he continues. “You here to train or something?” He looks at me like I’m an alien. “You don’t look like no boxer to me.”

  They all laugh.

  “I’m not. I’m just a friend.”

  The kid eyeballs the rest of his gang. “Dirty old bastard.” They all laugh again.

  “Sorry?”

  His mouth creases. “How much you charge, baby?”

  I cross my arms and shoot the whole group an evil stare. “You got me wrong.”

  “You’re not a prostitute? My bad. Looking at you I’d say you charge a high rate.”

  They all giggle like idiots and give high fives.

  “How dare you,” I snap.

  Bad idea.

  The leader of the gang creeps toward me, his teeth clenched. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, I . . .”

  He stops just a few inches from my face, giving me a ‘kill’ look. His eyes are amber—a scar above his left eyebrow, a welt under the right.

  Shit, this is where I get beat up.

  As I brace myself for violence, he surprises me with the last thing I thought would happen. He actually smiles at me, softening his threating manner. “I’m just messing. You’re outta luck though. You won’t find Monty around here.”

  I let out the breath I was holding since I first saw the gang. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “You a cop?” shouts a different kid from the back.

  I shake my head and smile. “Oh god, no. I just really need to see him. Can you gentlemen please help me?”

  The young guy in front of me arches an eyebrow and smirks. “Gentlemen? Never been called that before. All right, seeing as you’re nice and polite I’ll tell you—”

  “But you have to kiss him first,” interrupts a loud mouth from behind.

  I try my best to hide my distain.

  The kid in front of me snaps his head around and tells the loud mouth to shut up. Then, he looks at me and stretches his arm down the street. “See that bar?”

  I squint.

  “There,” he says. “That tavern, with the shitty neon sign.”

  I nod my head. “Yes. I see it.”

  “That’s his spot. I think the bum must live there, never seen him leave.”

  Relieved, I smile. “Thank you.”

  As I start away, he grabs me by the wrist.

  I jerk to a stop. “Please.”

  He tuts, “You forgot something.” Palm up, he holds out his other hand. “Privileged information to a stranger costs around here.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Reaching into my handbag, which I keep tight to my body, I pull out a note.

  Drat.

  I was hoping to fish out a five but instead my hand pulls out a twenty.

  He grins, looking at the contents of my hand like a dog being offered a bone. I hand it over and he releases his grip.

  Finally, I walk off in the direction of the bar with my face intact.

  “If you want a little fun later, you come back you hear?” the kid shouts.

  They all wolf-whistle as I walk away.

  The bar is exactly what I’d expect to see in an area like this. Like one of those beaten down taverns from an old 70’s movie. Hidden away in the corner is a jukebox with one working speaker. Old Yankee stickers and framed pictures of sport heroes from years gone by. A handful of geriatric punters, all huddled over pitchers of beer as if they were slowly melting into them.

  I approach the bar and wait to be served.

  Looking to my left, I notice a man of around sixty stare at me through half-closed eyes. His face is blotchy red, with an unkempt scraggly gray beard that peppers his paper-thin skin. This man, like everyone in here, looks broken. I’m sure they all started out life like the kids from the street outside. Fast forward fifty or so years and this is where they end up. God’s, or, for most of the lost souls in here, the devil’s waiting room.

  “What do you want?” The bartender asks in a curt tone. He’s a man of similar age to the patrons, although a little more respectable by mere virtue of holding down a job.

  “Beer, please.”

  “Pitcher or bottle, Miss?”

  “Bottle will be fine.”

  He reaches under the counter and pulls up a dusty bottle of bud. Popping open the cap, he slams the beer and a small glass down on the counter. “That’ll be four dollars, Miss.”

  As I hand him the money, I reach into my purse and pull out the old newspaper clipping of Monty that I snatched from Connor’s study. I hold it under a band of light which flickers from a naked bulb overhead.

  He studies the piece of crumpled up print.

  “Know where I can find this man?” I ask.

  He gives me a suspicious glare and then jerks his chin to his right. I look over and see a hunched figure, backed turned to me, sitting all by himself at the far end of the bar.

  “Thanks.”

  Here we go, Sofia.

  I fetch up my bottle and glass, and slowly walk over to the lonely shape of the man.

  I hesitate when I reach his table. “Mind if I join you?”

  The man’s head slowly lifts up. It’s like he’s been frozen in time and all of his joints are stiff from ice.

  He narrows his eyes at me and then looks across the half empty bar. “Can’t you find some other place to sit?”

  “I’m new in town. I don’t know anyone. Figured you could use the company as much as me.”

  “Presumptions are a dangerous thing.” He pauses, studying me like I’m some crazy woman he could feel sorry for if only he could be bothered.

  “Well? Mind if I do?” I press.

  “Free country ain’t it.”

  I shift around to the seat across from him and carefully sit down on a wooden stool. I smile, but he doesn’t notice. His gaze is fixed on the empty glass he cradles with both hands.

  I pour some beer into my glass and we just sit there. Aside from the crackle of Elvis in the background, we both share silence.

  I study the man for a moment. He’s an Afro-American guy of around sixty, maybe seventy. He looks well-worn, like a tired old dog now uninterested with life. A scar travels from his left eye to the bottom of his cheek. His short curl of hair is gray and thinning. The knuckles of his hands are calloused and enlarged. And his eyes . . . his eyes seem sort of dead.

  I look down at his glass, then back up to his face. He hasn’t budged since I first sat down.

  I hold up my bottle. “Want some?”

  He looks up at me with the same labored effort as before. He doesn’t answer.

  I take the liberty to pour him some anyway.

  When I pull the bottle away, he snatches up the glass and takes a gulp. His nose wrinkles. “I hate warm beer.”

  I wait.

  His hardened lips slowly draw into a partial smile. “Thanks all the same, Miss.”

  “Sofia.”

  “Sofia,” he repeats under his breath.

  “Do you . . .” I pause.

  He squ
ints.

  I take a deep breath. “Do you know, Connor?”

  His narrow eyes suddenly widen.

  “Connor Patrick,” I add.

  He bats his hand, clearly agitated. “Yeah, I know who Connor is damn it . . . you don’t have to go sayin’ his last name or nothing. Why? Who wants to know?”

  “I’m a—”

  “Reporter?”

  “No,” I lie. “I’m a friend.”

  He looks at me with a level of suspicion that tells me he knows I’m bullshitting.

  I smile. “Really, we’ve been friends for some time.”

  He sneers and takes another mouthful of beer. “That’s a good one.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Friends? Connor? A pretty lady? Miss— Sofia, or whatever the heck your name is . . . Connor doesn’t have lady friends. He fucks—”

  I can see him change tact before he finishes his sentence.

  Correcting himself, he continues. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “What happened?”

  He frowns, his eyes more alert and distrusting than before.

  “What happened, Monty? Between you two?”

  “So you are a reporter! Go on, lady, scram!” He turns his body away from me.

  I have to think fast.

  Pulling out my phone, I show him a picture of me and Connor together. We’re both smiling in the photo, which Alex took a few days ago in the gym. Reluctantly looking at the picture, his eyes soften.

  “You know as well as I do, Monty, that there’s no way Connor would let a reporter into training camp.”

  He studies the spittle and foam at the bottom of his glass. Taking it as a cue, I refill him.

  He lifts the glass up and nods to me by way of a thank you, and then downs the whole thing in one.

  “Okay, lady, I believe you. So, what do you want? You’re obviously here for a reason.”

  “Do you believe Adam was killed? On purpose, I mean.”

  His face screws up. “Why come around here and ask a question like that?”

  “Connor is in a bad way. He isn’t training for his fight properly. He seems different. Like something’s on his mind.” I pull my stool closer. “I’m worried about him. If something went down then I have to know. Please.”

  I lied about the reporter part. I didn’t lie about being worried.

  He chews the inside of his mouth. “I miss him.”

  “And he misses you.” Another lie. I simply don’t know.

  “I’m sure of it,” he says.

  “What, that it was no accident?”

  “It was no accident, Miss. The other fighter’s corner wrapped the opponent’s hands the wrong way. I saw fragments of plaster fall off in the ring. They killed Adam because he wouldn’t take a dive.”

  I furrow my brow. “Dive?”

  “Boxing is corrupt. The whole thing is rotten to the core. Of course, I couldn’t prove it at the time. That night I didn’t just lose Adam, I lost Connor.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He looks down at the table. “Connor blamed me for not protecting Adam. It was slow at first, the split. He went off the rails. I tried to tell him about the plaster, and that’s when it turned bad between us. He was doing so well before . . .”

  “So what did he blame you for?”

  “For not throwing in the towel. For not stopping the fight when I should have. For inventing a story about the loaded gloves. Miss, you have to understand something . . . I only knew about the wraps after the fight. When I did, I was gagged. Well, they tried to gag me, but I went to the press anyway. Since then I lost everything.”

  “Like the gym?” I say.

  “You saw that? That’s been closed for years now. They drove me out. The corrupt promoters, their lawyers . . . it’s a fucking mafia.” He looks at me, his eyes glazed. “Sorry for cussing, Miss.”

  I shake my head. “It’s okay.” I pause. “So what was your relationship like with Connor?”

  “I was more than a trainer to the brothers. I raised those kids like they were my own. When their mother left—”

  “Their mother?” I interrupt. “I thought he was raised in a children’s home. It said on his official Wikipage that both of them were brought up in an orphanage. It was only when Adam started training that you took them under your wing.”

  “Connor spoke to you about his momma?”

  I shake my head.

  “She was a beaten woman. The boy’s father used to beat her up so bad that one night he almost killed her. When Connor was just six, she left them both in a home. She feared for their safety. She had no choice, their father was one mean son of a bitch and she was scared he’d track her down and finish the job. Maybe even kill the boys.”

  “Did you know them back then?”

  “No. This is all stuff Adam told me. Being the older of the boys he witnessed it all. Connor was shielded from it. The last time I spoke with Connor he still believed his mom abandoned them. I wish Adam would have set the record straight before he . . .” Monty’s eyes close.

  My head spins from his candid revelation.

  “Do you know what their mother looked like?” I ask.

  He nods. “Adam had a picture of her in his locker at the gym.”

  I reach into my bag and pull out the photo I stole from Connor’s drawer. I place it on the table. “Is this the woman?”

  He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

  “Monty?”

  He looks into my eyes and nods. “That’s her. Where did you get that picture?”

  “Connor’s study—I mean, Connor kept it.”

  “He kept that photo, even though he thinks she gave up on him?”

  “Maybe it was a keepsake from Adam? I don’t know.”

  Monty pushes from the table. “Keep him safe, Miss. He doesn’t have many friends he can count on.”

  I stand up. “Monty, how can I stop the fight from happening?”

  He stares at me blankly.

  “Please, Monty.”

  “If you can prove his opponent is cheating again, or that it’s a set up, then great. But even so, I don’t think there’s any way of stopping Connor. As soon as he sees the man who killed his brother the first time he steps in that ring, the whole world won’t be able to stop him.”

  As he walks off, I call after him. “Monty, come with me. You and Connor can talk.”

  He gently smiles. “Lady, this ain’t no Hollywood movie. Connor’s done with me. No point in shovelling up the past.” He pauses, fastening the buttons on his coat. “You just be kind to him, Miss. He’s a good kid.”

  With that said, he leaves the bar.

  15

  Sofia

  My feet seem to have a life of their own—a brain in each sole, telling me to walk faster.

  I glance at the time on my phone. I have exactly five minutes to catch the last train home and I’m at least ten minutes away. I knew I shouldn’t have had that last beer.

  Spotting an alleyway to my right, I head down it. Although it’s now pitch black at night, I don’t care. I need to get that train or it’s sleeping on a park bench for me. I shoot down the alley, hoping to make up valuable time.

  Walking turns to jogging turns to running . . .

  “Fuck,” I shout.

  Bumping straight into someone who’s walking in the opposite direction to me, I pull back and look up at some strange guy. He exposes a crooked grin and looks like seriously bad news.

  “You in a hurry, sweetheart?” he says.

  I brush myself down and begin to walk past him. “Sorry.”

  I make it about a foot before he grabs the sleeve of my coat. Spinning around to face him, I notice straight away that he’s showing an unhealthy interest in the handbag that’s slung over my left shoulder.

  It doesn’t take me long to realize what this is.

  “I don’t have anything. Please, just cut me a break here.” I should be scared for my life but my mind is set on that train.
>
  He holds out his grubby hand. “Give me your wallet . . . now.”

  “I’ll scream,” I warn him.

  “No one will hear.”

  “I have mace.”

  He lunges for me, his hand covering my mouth. Instinctively, my knee meets his groin . . .

  Crunch.

  He falls to his knees in agony. “You bitch!”

  I run.

  As I charge down the ill-advised shortcut, another, much bigger, guy springs out from behind some trash cans. He drags me into his arms, almost crushing me with his brute strength.

  I wriggle and jerk. “Let me go . . . HELP!”

  He gags my mouth with his thick, disgusting fingers. They smell of cheap tobacco and motor-oil.

  The first creep approaches. “God catch, Sonny. Now, where were we? Oh yes . . . your wallet.” He reaches out for my handbag.

  As his hand latches onto the straps of my bag, I lash out with my legs.

  “Sonny, hold that bitch tight.” His face contorts with anger. “You hit me once, but you won’t hit me again.”

  Once he’s ripped the bag away from my shoulder, he jumps off to the side. “Hey, what the—?”

  A rock misses him by an inch.

  “Leave the girl alone,” a stranger shouts.

  I know that voice.

  “Mind your own business,” the creep shouts back.

  As the mugger braces himself for this unwanted intervention, I get a good look at my knight in shining armour.

  “Connor?” I shout.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” he calls back.

  The creep nods to his goon, who drops me to the floor. I push to my feet and use a trash can for shelter as they both approach Connor.

  “It’s not worth it,” I call out to him.

  “Don’t worry, Sophie, this will be easy work.”

  The two guys sprint for him, but they don’t get far. Like lightning, Connor unloads with just two punches. As soon as each shot connects, they crumble to the ground like a pack of cards—out for the count. It’s over before it even started.

  I race over to meet Connor. As I get close, he frowns at me. He looks strong; the muscular shape of his body clearly showing through his snug blue hoodie.

  The man oozes sex appeal. I’m not sure if my heart is beating out of my chest as a result of fear for what just happened, or as a result of seeing Connor beat two men down in a Nano-second.