Fighting to the Death

by Carl Merritt

  First off, they offered me £22,000. I knew they had more cash to spare so I countered that with a demand for £10,000 more. They looked well pissed off, especially since I’d got them to organise the fight before we’d agreed the money. But this fight was to be my parting shot and I wanted enough dough for me and Carole to buy our own house in London – otherwise it wasn’t worth it. Knowing that made me a tough negotiator. A few years earlier, I’d have backed down rather than risk losing the fight, but now I didn’t give a flying fuck. It was all or nothing.

  Kenny and Bill sussed I was deadly serious and it bothered them big time. I must have seemed like a different person from before. They’d been used to this lump of meat who just did what he was told while they scammed five figures out of each one of my victories. They also didn’t appreciate that this fight was motivated by a revenge factor.

  Kenny and Bill carried on haggling with me about money. ‘Twenty-two grand is a generous deal,’ said Bill.

  ‘Well then, forget it,’ I replied, knowing full well they’d be dead men walking if they tried to pull out of the fight.

  They looked at each other nervously – and a bit confused. I bet none of their fighters ever gave them this much grief. I was making demands. I could tell from their faces they thought I was taking the piss.

  I took a sip on my third pint of lager, lit up yet another fag and sat there in total silence. That’s when I caught Kenny eyeing me with a slight nod of the head and realised they thought I was going to be a lamb to the slaughter. It was exactly what I wanted them to think.

  I coughed heavily.

  ‘You keepin’ fit then?’ asked Kenny.

  ‘Course,’ I replied, while still coughing my guts up. Kenny laughed a bit nervously.

  ‘You sure you’re up for it?’

  I shot up and looked down at him.

  ‘You takin’ the piss?’

  ‘Only askin’,’ said Kenny, backing down with a false grin on his face.

  Bill, to his credit, said nothing but the look of contempt on his face told me everything I needed to know.

  Still standing, I announced: ‘Meeting adjourned, gentlemen. Call me when you’ve got what I want.’

  Kenny leaned over to shake my hand but I ignored him and walked to the bar where a couple of old mates were supping their pints. Then Kenny came up to me and whispered in my ear: ‘Thirty-two grand for a win.’ He left the pub before I’d had time for it all to sink in. I’d pulled it off. Even if I did cop it in the cage, the loser’s prize was bound to be enough for Carole and the baby to be properly looked after.

  Back at home, Carole looked very unconvinced when I told her I’d just got a new job as a doorman and wouldn’t be around most evenings. At least this time I wouldn’t be bulking up like before so she wouldn’t spot any change in my shape. But that antenna of Carole’s immediately picked up on what I was saying.

  ‘You sure it’s just a doorman’s job?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ I replied, knowing full well it was better to make my lies brief and to the point.

  ‘I’m off if you’re havin’ me on,’ warned Carole, and I knew she meant it.

  I still insisted it was just a doorman’s job. She looked daggers at me.

  ‘That’s it then, I’m going,’ she screamed. ‘I hope she’s worth it.’

  She stormed into the bedroom and began packing her bags. Once again, my misses thought I was knocking off another woman when all I was trying to do was earn enough money to buy the house of our dreams.

  ‘Don’t be daft, babe,’ I said, but of course I didn’t sound very convincing because I was lying.

  I had to tell her the truth before it was too late.

  ‘It’s not another bird. It’s a fight,’ I blurted it out at high speed.

  Carole stopped in her tracks. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got a big fight lined up. It’ll give us enough dough to buy ourselves a proper house here, Carole. We won’t need to live in LA. I’m doin’ it for us.’ I lied and told her Bill and Kenny had agreed a £32,000 fee ‘win or lose’. Truth is, I didn’t know what loot she’d get if I flopped.

  ‘That money’ll bail us out of here, babe,’ I said, pleading. ‘Just a few minutes’ work and we’re made for life.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’ll end up a widow with a little child. Great.’

  ‘I won’t lose, babe. No way. Look at me. I’ve never been fitter in my life. This is the big one. This is the one that’ll put us on a different level. You’ve gotta believe me.’

  Carole didn’t answer this time but at least she put her bag down. I’d won a narrow victory, but I knew I’d pushed Carole to the edge and I couldn’t do it ever again.

  Strong women like Carole don’t forget things in a hurry. She might have backed down about leaving, but she was still annoyed and very worried about my safety.

  In April 1997 we boarded a plane to LA but Carole still wasn’t really talking to me. At least she’d come with me which meant we’d get through this together. Within a few hours of touching down at LAX, I was on the blower to Kenny at his apartment in Venice Beach. Bill was staying at his place.

  ‘Still on for £32,000?’ I asked.

  ‘Yep,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. I was enjoying every minute of it. I felt as if I was in complete control for the first time in my career in the cage. I found out that I’d only get half that amount if I lost, and decided to own up to Carole.

  ‘But I’m not going to lose, babe,’ I said giving her a hug. She didn’t seem too convinced.

  Neither was Kenny. He and Bill had their doubts but I knew they wouldn’t try to put me off because there was too much money at stake. I wanted them to put all their money on the other man, convinced I’d lose. Neither of them had even asked me if I was training hard. They didn’t give a toss whether I won or lost.

  The following day, me, Carole and little Melanie went to Disneyland. I loved it and so did Melanie. But I could tell from the serious expression on Carole’s face that she was very worried about me. Even at the christening of John’s baby son Alfie there was a lot of tension between us.

  ‘So when’s it happening?’ she whispered to me as we walked out of the church.

  ‘Anytime now.’

  ‘Great …’ said Carole in a sarcastic tone of voice.

  I called up Kenny a couple of hours later to ask when the fight was.

  ‘Day after tomorrow, at that same place in Vegas,’ muttered Kenny.

  That evening, back at John’s apartment in Santa Monica I told him I didn’t want him to come with me this time. ‘I need you to stay at home with Michelle and Carole and keep an eye on them just in case anything goes pear-shaped,’ I said.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ asked John.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, big bruv. just trust me. It’s better this way.’

  ‘But you gotta have someone with you. Someone you can trust.’

  ‘They’ve got a couple of British minders who live here coming with me. It’ll be fine.’

  How I wished Neville and Wayne were going to be alongside me in Vegas. But we were a long way from East London. That evening, John and I went running near Santa Monica Pier. He pushed me as hard as he could because he knew that my fitness was crucial to my success.

  As we ran back through the streets of Santa Monica I looked at the deep orange glow of the sun as it dipped slowly into the Pacific Ocean and wondered if I’d just got myself in too deep. When I got back to the apartment a few minutes later, Carole looked worried and exhausted. What the hell was I doing putting her through this all over again? But then I thought of Kenny and Bill and the smell of revenge wafted through my nostrils. It had to be worth it …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Return Flight

  I’d been thinking about this moment for months and months, before I’d even set up the Vegas rematch. Every time I laid a brick on a building site and it cracked in two I felt that was what I’d like to do to Bill and Kenny
: smack ‘em together until they cracked into tiny pieces because they’d never really given a fuck about me. They’d used and abused me for years. But for the moment I’d bite my tongue and play dumb for a windfall that I hoped would set me and my family up for life.

  Bill and Kenny picked me up in Santa Monica with their two English minders in a black stretch limo to take me to the airport for the Vegas flight. Their flash motor was yet more evidence of the money they’d earned out of me. But this time I’d nailed them down for the purse and that had got right up their hooters.

  I could feel their irritation even as we rode in that limo to LAX. No doubt they thought they couldn’t lose, whatever the outcome of the fight. I could see in their eyes they thought I was nothing more than a stupid lump of lard.

  ‘You fit then?’ said Kenny, before giving Bill a big wink.

  Fucking arsehole thought I hadn’t spotted it. They were really getting on my tits. They no doubt thought I was walking into a thrashing. Maybe they were right, but I had a secret game plan and I was sticking to it.

  I didn’t respond.

  Then Kenny asked me again if I was fit and healthy. I’d been very careful not to wear tight-fitting clothes so they couldn’t make out whether I was in shape or not. I ignored them again and asked for a drink instead – something I’d never done before a fight in my life. Kenny pulled open the minibar in between the soft white leather limo seats and poured me a huge bourbon. I knocked it back in one gulp. They looked at each other, then back to me.

  ‘You want another one?’

  ‘Why not?’ I replied, lighting a fourth Marlboro Light. They were loving every moment, but I didn’t give a toss that they thought I was a fat lump about to get a thrashing. By the time we got to LAX they were treating me as if I was not only stupid but also a drunk. Truth was, the adrenaline was rushing so fast through my body that the alcohol had little or no effect on me. I was buzzing with anticipation, and had Bill and Kenny in my sights.

  ‘You sure you can handle this one?’ asked Kenny, just before we clambered out of the limo.

  ‘Yeah!’ I drooled.

  Just then Bill chipped in merrily: ‘There’s no turning back now, Son.’

  ‘Turnin’ back?’ I grabbed him by the lapels drunkenly. ‘I’m gonna kill that bastard.’

  I slurped the bourbon out of the bottom of my glass and slammed it down on the armrest. Bill was smirking at Kenny again. It was a look of sheer contempt that they yet again thought I hadn’t noticed.

  They stuck me on an aisle seat next to the two English minders on the plane out to Vegas. These two meat merchants barely said a word, but they seemed happy to order me another bourbon. Just before we landed, one of them perked up and asked me: ‘How you feelin’ then?’

  ‘Mind your own fuckin’ business,’ I snapped back.

  It wasn’t difficult sounding aggressive, because I meant every word of it. This bout was going to be different from all the rest. Despite the booze and the fags I felt on top of the fucking world. Mentally and physically I believed I was numero uno. But you can never be sure if you’re kidding yourself in this game.

  There was another rented stretch limo waiting for us at Las Vegas Airport. We headed down the main strip past the biggest casinos and then turned into a vast open-air car park behind the big hall that was the fight venue. My pre-match diet of bourbon and Marlboro Lights had continued to amuse Kenny and Bill on the trip from the airport.

  I realised the moment I walked into the hall that this bout really had been hyped as the Big One. There were many more people than the last Vegas clash. The expectant buzz was there for all to see and feel.

  ‘This the only fight on the bill?’ I asked Kenny.

  ‘They’re all here for you, Son,’ he replied, but I could tell from the tone of his voice he didn’t mean a word of it.

  I told Kenny and Bill to make sure I wasn’t referred to as the ‘English Bulldog’ or ‘London Limey’ this time. I hated those nicknames and I also wanted to remain as anonymous as possible. I preferred everyone to think I was just a desperate nobody, out for drunken revenge on a tasty local fighter who’d given me a thrashing a few years back and was about to do it again.

  I stopped about thirty feet from the cage, blinked and cleared my throat. That’s when I wobbled a bit on my pins.

  ‘You alright, Son?’ asked Bill.

  I nodded and carried on heading towards the cage, wearing the usual jeans, but with an old baggy sweatshirt over my T-shirt.

  Kenny and Bill veered away from me and my two minders to speak with a smartly dressed fella in a light brown double-breasted suit. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but it was obviously important. Then they handed over a huge wedge of cash. It must have been tens of thousands of dollars. They were placing their bets but I knew it wasn’t on me. After all, I’d lost the last fight and now I looked like shit. Bets were probably in the region of three to one against me at the very least.

  I made a point of not taking off that old sweatshirt until I was just about to get in the cage because I didn’t want anyone – especially Bill and Kenny – to see what condition I was in.

  The crowd got more and more noisy as I approached. The compère was already standing in the cage with a mike in his hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the fight of the year. It’s a rematch. We’ve got Paco from Mexico City against the mystery man.’

  ‘Who da fuck is he?’ screamed one voice from the audience.

  ‘He got whipped a couple of years back. Now he’s back for more.’

  ‘Yeah, he looks real fat,’ yelled another above the din.

  As I got even closer to the cage I noticed a lot people holding bottles of champagne by the neck. Others were snorting cocaine off their clenched fists. Bill and Kenny stopped just in front of me to hand another bookie some more cash. I was well chuffed because I hoped they were about to lose a fortune.

  I then went through a drunken warm-up routine. Much louder and more obvious than ever before – I suppose some would call it showboating. The crowd laughed as if I was some kind of idiot. I even did a defiant one-minute Ali shuffle but they kept yelling at me like I was a stand-up comic telling lousy jokes. Across the other side of the cage my opponent looked totally chilled and super-confident. He was smiling and waving to the crowd. They loved him. I was just the patsy about to get a serious beating.

  Then I racked up the tension by stabbing my finger in the air at him.

  ‘I’m goin’ to ‘ave you,’ I screamed. ‘I’m goin’ to tear you to pieces!’

  I just couldn’t help myself. The crowd were loving it for all the wrong reasons.

  I looked across at Bill, pulled my cheeks up with my thumbs and forefingers to make a jokey, smiley face. He didn’t smile back. He was looking at me as if I was some sort of crazy, drunken lunatic.

  Dramatic classical music played over the PA system, making the atmosphere even more awesome. In earlier years, I might have felt intimidated, but not today. I was on top of the fucking world. The buzz was tingling through every bone in my body. And the crowd’s attitude didn’t bother me one bit.

  Just then the compère coughed to clear his mike. ‘Are the fighters ready to fight?’

  We both nodded at each other.

  ‘Will the warriors please enter the cage.’

  Warriors? Typical Yanks – they have to give everything a slab of top spin.

  Just before I stooped to get through the doorway to the cage, I ripped off the old baggy sweatshirt I’d been wearing. That’s when I spotted Kenny’s eyes examining my physique. His expression now wasn’t the chirpy, smiling one I’d grown to hate. He nudged Bill and whispered something in his ear. ‘I’ll show ‘em,’ I thought to myself. ‘I’ll fuckin’ show ‘em.’

  I entered the cage, crouching down low to squeeze through the doorway. This time I wouldn’t be making the same mistake as before. I sprang up into the cage and landed on both feet, steady as a rock. Then I held back patiently. I sized up my opponent then
beckoned him towards me.

  ‘Come on, pretty boy. Come and get me,’ I yelled at him. ‘Here boy, here boy, heeere boy.’

  He didn’t budge. He wanted me to go to him. To steam in blindly like I’d done at the opening of our last bout.

  ‘Come to me, gringo,’ he screamed. His eyes bored holes in me from twenty feet away.

  ‘Tu puto madre.’

  That means ‘motherfucker’ and, as you know, no-one insults my mum and gets away with it.

  But then I surprised him by squatting down and resting my fists on the wooden floor for balance. He looked confused. I put up one hand and started beckoning him with my finger again. The crowd were confused and went completely quiet.

  ‘Kill the crazy British motherfucker,’ said one voice.

  ‘Go get him!’

  Finally my flashy opponent fell for the bait and started heading for me. I stayed in that squatting position until he got really close. Then I jumped up and threw a punch right under him. The sheer force of my body movement guaranteed it was a sledgehammer.

  He wobbled, almost lost his footing and crashed past me right into the mesh. He quickly tried to turn and swing at me but completely missed. I was as steady as a rock and then started moving around him Ali-style as he leaned against the mesh trying to recover his composure. His face was black with fury, but there was an air of confusion about him, too. Then he came at me, wildly throwing punches into thin air. I caught him in the neck with a sharp snap which just missed his Adam’s apple, followed by a swift left that smashed into his cheek with an almighty crack. He pulled back away from me to give himself a moment to reform.

  ‘Come on, little girl. Come to daddy,’ I goaded with a sly smile, beckoning him with my finger yet again. ‘Come to daddy.’ I’d insulted his macho pride and he couldn’t handle it. That’s when he totally lost it and came charging back towards me. I was on top, no doubt about it. I caught him with a flurry of uppercuts to the face and forehead: bang, bang, bang. He reeled backwards before he could even throw a punch. The crowd still didn’t get it. But then they did have a lot of dough riding on my opponent.