Sucker Punch

by Ray Banks

  “Forget it. Mo comes back, I'll deal with the bastard again. Might not take a beating for an answer, but the point'll get through with enough kicking, eh?” Paulo runs a hand across the back of his neck. “I need a pint.”

  “No, you don't.”

  “Nah, I need a shot.”

  “You need a brew.”

  “That'll do in the meantime.” He gets up. “Ewan gone?”

  “Yeah. Took some persuading, mind.” My hand still aches, but I'm not about to rub it in front of Paulo. Not supposed to hit the lads. Not that hard, anyway.

  “Daft lad. I thought I knew him better than that.”

  “Can't save 'em all, mate.”

  “Rate I'm going, it's not even half,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “You want a brew?”

  “I could murder one.”

  Paulo nods, leaves. I go over to my desk, grind out the smoking filter I'm holding and take a pill. Mo Tiernan's still a problem I'll have to deal with.

  Maybe later, I think. When I'm not shaking so much. And besides, it's time I got back to work.

  3

  “No, Don. Listen to me. No.”

  But some people can't take no for an answer. Don Plummer's one of those people. He's spent so long schmoozing his way out of court appearances, he's somehow got it into his head that he's the Cary Grant of the slum landlord world. Which is why he's now giving me proper earache on the phone. I lean back in my chair, stare at a signed photo of Henry Cooper and Paulo. Cooper's signature, not Paulo's. And it reminds me that this room is now Paulo's office. Not that I've ever given it much of a makeover, but Paulo's stuff is everywhere, his boxing glory days captured in clippings and newspaper photographs dotted along the walls. A filing cabinet with the club's accounts and memberships, the lads' records dating back years. I'm sure I'm in there somewhere. And a photograph on the desk of Keith. I don't know much about the guy; just know that he warranted inclusion on Paulo's tattoo with his Mam and Dad.

  “I'm closed for business, Don,” I say. “I sacked that shite a long time back.”

  “Hey, c'mon, Cal. I know you, a couple of jobs—”

  “Bad jobs.”

  “Bad jobs, they'll put the wind up anyone.”

  “I mean it, Don. I'm working for Paulo now.”

  “You can't live off that.”

  “I do okay.”

  “Look, Cal, if it's a question of trust—”

  “Yeah, Don, because otherwise I trust you about as far as I can sneeze you.” I have to wedge the phone under my chin as I reach for my Embassys. “And anyway, it's not just the nature of the job—”

  “Here, this is legit, Cal. It's completely bona fide, alright?”

  “Only Arthur fuckin' Daley uses words like bona fide, Don.”

  “I never steered you wrong in the past, mate.”

  “And that's another one.” I light my cigarette, grab the phone. “Don, I go into Moss Side with an eviction notice, I'm liable to get my fuckin' head kicked in. And I'll tell you something, I'm sick of getting my fuckin' head kicked in. Doesn't hold the romantic mystery it once did.”

  Plummer sighs into the phone so hard, I have to hold the receiver away from my ear. When I put it back, he's talking again.

  That's what Plummer does best: talk. Talks himself into business, talks himself out of jail. He owns a string of properties across Manchester, most of which aren't fit to house a dying dog. But with flat prices being what they are, he still manages to find tenants desperate enough. Asylum seekers, students, down-on-their-luck-and-high-on-their-own-supply dealers. So it's no surprise that some of his tenants don't pay up on time, if at all. And when they don't, it's normally up to muggins here to deliver that piece of paper. At least, it used to be up to me. Too many times, people take offence at the sight of a pealy-wally lad handing them an official eviction notice. They have an allergic reaction, brings them out in vindictive arsehole, makes them reach for the bloodstained baseball bat they keep by the front door.

  “Y'know what, you're that worried?” says Plummer. “You bring along one of Paulo's lads, I'll pay him too.”

  “I tried that before, remember? They slammed the door on his fuckin' hand.”

  “I don't remember that.”

  I flick ash. “You were on the Costa.”

  “It's an easy job this time, though. No threat.”

  “Asylum seekers, Don?”

  “Uh, immigrants, yeah.”

  “So what is it? They didn't pay their rent, or do you still have their benefit books?”

  “I don't work like that, Cal. You know I don't. I'm one of the good guys.”

  “Then why d'you want them out?”

  He pauses. “Well, you know how it is.”

  “You found someone who'll pay more.”

  “No, it's the situation. With our asylum-seeking friends. I'm not a racist, you know that. I'm like fourth generation Irish, so talk about getting pissed on … But I can't take any chances right now, know what I mean? There's pressure on.”

  “Oh, I get it.” I sniff. “They've been handing out literature, buying rucksacks, that sort of thing.”

  “No need for that, mate. I'm in a precarious position. Local community's been pretty bloody vocal about the whole thing, let me tell you. I mean, you know me, I'd keep 'em in if they paid, right? Money's money. But there's the big picture to look at, y'know?”

  “You been reading those Jeffrey Briggs pamphlets again? 'The Big Picture'. Jesus … Are they even fuckin' Muslim, Don?”

  “Here, you don't do it, I'll find someone who will.”

  “Yeah, go sniffing on the National Socialist circuit, I'm sure you'll find a couple skins who don't mind getting their boots bloody.”

  “What's your problem?”

  “I told you. I'm out of it. You opened your lugs every now and then, you'd know that.”

  “It's legit. I wouldn't come to you if it wasn't.”

  “Don, the Virgin Mary herself could tell me to hand over that eviction notice and I wouldn't do it. You know why? Because I'm working for Paulo now. You get that? I am working for Paulo.”

  “Look, just keep it in mind, Cal. I'll call you—”

  I slam the phone down on him. As I move to tap ash from my cigarette, my back flares from ache to full-blown agony. Reach across and struggle with the child-proof cap on my prescription bottle.

  “And I thought I was in bother.”

  Paulo's standing in the doorway.

  “You been there long?” I say.

  “Long enough to know you need a holiday.” I thought the club was empty, but somewhere behind him I can hear the thump of glove against bag. “'Bout time you and me had a talk.”

  I try to lean back in my chair, but just manage to look uncomfortable. I fiddle with the cap. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “You're a state.” Paulo folds his arms.

  “You blame me? After what happened …”

  “Yeah, I know. I thought, well, Cal's been through the bloody wringer, I'll let him wallow about until he can get his head from shed. Course, now you're getting on my tits.”

  “Yeah, me and everyone else. You're a fine one to talk about being fucked up, Paulo. I saw you today.” The cap doesn't budge. “Fuckin' thing.”

  “Push down and twist,” he says. “I know. Tell you the truth, mate, there's been some stress. Not just Mo, either. I need you to do something for me.”

  I push the cap, twist. It comes off easily. Dry-swallow a couple of pills and reach for another cigarette. Nicotine should kick in faster than codeine.

  “I already swept the floors,” I say. “I'll wait until your slugger out there's done before I pick up.”

  Paulo closes the office door, shutting off the sound of the club. He clears his throat, then hits me straight with it: “I need you to go to Los Angeles.”

  That hangs in the air for a bit. I feel like laughing. Or asking, Los Angeles as in America? But that's a stupid question. Far as I know, there isn't a Los Ang
eles in Salford. We're not that exotic.

  “You're joking,” I say.

  Paulo grabs a chair, pulls it over to the desk and sits down. “There's a kid been coming in for a while, he's a good fighter.”

  “Which kid?”

  “Liam Wooley.”

  I think about it. “Isn't he the fuckin' head case?”

  “He had some trouble.”

  “He did an old lady over.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Took her bingo money with menaces, as I recall. She was in hospital for a week.”

  “And he served his time.”

  “He's a fuckin' scally, Paulo.”

  “Here, did I ask for the lad's CV?” Paulo glares at me. “He's done his time, just like you did yours. And he got himself straight, got himself focussed. Which is more than I can say for some people.”

  “I'm straight.”

  “And I'm glad, Cal. But mentally, you're all over the bloody shop. You got back from Newcastle and, yeah, things went pear-shaped. But a bloke moves on with his life. You sitting round here, popping pills like they're sweets, it's doing my brain in.”

  I shake my head. “What's this got to do with Los Angeles?”

  “I been talking to a guy, he runs this amateur gym over there. Tells me there's this smoker he's been organising on behalf of the Enrique Alvarez foundation. It's not Golden Gloves or nowt, just a comp for a bunch of kids to come together and fight for trophies. But thing is, these smokers, they're a magnet for scouts. Couple of previous winners, they showed enough promise, they turned pro.”

  “And Liam can turn pro?”

  Paulo shrugs. “I think he's got it in him, yeah. He's the best I've seen in a long time. But he's not going to make it over here, not with the baggage he's carrying. And normally I'd say, fuck it, that's something he has to work through, but I don't have the time to invest and he doesn't have it to waste.”

  “I don't get why I have to go over,” I say. “It's got nothing to do with me.”

  “He's seventeen. I know the lad's mature enough, I could send him out there on his own, but officially, he's underage. He needs someone to go with him.”

  “Paulo, I'm not playing chaperone.”

  “You don’t have to chaperone nowt, Cal. Liam's driven. He knows he's not going to get many chances like this in his life, and Christ knows I told him exactly how many strings I had to pull to get him considered. So you don't need to keep an eye on him. I don’t expect you to. If Liam fucks this up because he goes out and gets hammered, he knows he'll get a thrashing when he comes back.”

  “No pressure then.”

  Paulo opens his hands. “Here, he does his best, he'll have done his best. That's all I want.”

  “I can't do it, Paulo,” I say. “I'm still on licence.”

  “I been counting the days just like you have. Today was the last.”

  “Fuck's sake, man, I'm no good with these lads. What do I have in common with Liam except a record? You go with him.”

  “I need to take care of this place.”

  “I can take—”

  “You can't even take care of yourself right now, I'm not going to trust you with my club. Besides, you're not listed staff, Cal. Anything happens, I'll need to be here. And you need a holiday.”

  “I don't like holidays.”

  “Then don't treat it as a holiday. Treat it like work. You've been saying you're working for me, well, here's your job. And I already bought the tickets, so you can't get out of it.”

  “What the fuck am I going to do in LA?”

  Paulo's eyes drop to slits, like he's actually thinking about it. “Well, let's see. You're going to look after Liam, pep him up when he needs it, leave him alone when he wants to be left alone, look after all the admin like his pass book and stuff and basically let him do what he needs to do. And while you're keeping out of the way, you're going to go to bars or Universal Studios or Hollywood, eat a burger or a hot dog or some Reese's Pieces and act like a bloody tourist. Pretty much anything you want that'll get you out of this funk you've been in.”

  “Why didn't you ask me about this before?”

  “Because you would've said no.” Paulo gets up, pushes back his chair. “C'mon, I'll introduce you to Liam.”

  I drag a few quick ones off the Embassy before I grind it out and follow Paulo out into the club. He's obviously picked up a few moves from Don Plummer, added a few of his own. Like me not having the chance to turn him down. I promise myself I'll find a way out of it. I'm not well. Got to go to the doctor's tomorrow and get a refill on my script, so I'll get him to conjure up a bogus sick note. My GP's a bastard, but I get the feeling he's corrupt. Because I don't think I'd be able to stand the flight, never mind all the crap I'd have to do in Los Angeles. Apart from my back, which has been murder for months, I'd have to spend time with Liam Grannybasher Wooley.

  As soon as I see him, I recognise the lad. He was just a record before, but now his face pops into my memory. A couple of months ago, he'd been a real beast and a bad fighter. Anger issues, not someone you wanted to fuck about with. He had the scally dead-eye to a tee and liked using his forehead instead of his fists.

  Now the kid I knew has been stretched to a hair under six foot. His face is long, sallow in the strip light. Liam's sporting a number one and deep shadows under his eyes. As we approach, he's battering the shit out of a heavy bag. For all the force, the bag doesn't move that much.

  “Liam,” says Paulo.

  Liam laces a couple more rights into the side of the bag before he takes a step back and looks at the pair of us. Gives me the once over and obviously isn't impressed with what he sees. I'm the same, reckon he looks like a thuggish gazelle.

  “What's up?” he says.

  Paulo points at me. “This is Cal.”

  “Y'alright?” says Liam with a twitch of the chin.

  “Cal's going with you to the smoker.”

  Liam's eyes flash blue just the once. He almost looks happy. “You sorted it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ah, sweet.” Liam pulls off one glove with his teeth, offers me his hand, slick with sweat. I take it, shake it. His is a solid-grip handshake with nothing to prove, a direct contradiction to his eyes. It doesn't sit well with what I know about him. “Nice to meet you, Cal.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You too. Can I have my hand back now?”

  4

  I know they're in there. As I pull up outside the Harvester, I notice Baz's pimped-out ride parked up the street. A Vauxhall Nova, Baz is the kind of bloke to spend all his money on a car that's neither fast nor furious. This isn't the country for fast motors, but to Baz it's all Miami waiting to happen. Doesn't matter that the underlighter he's got on the car probably eats away half the battery.

  I feel like putting a brick through the windscreen. Stick my hands in my pockets instead. I'm shaking, don't want Mo to see the tremble in my hands. He might think it's got something to do with him. And that's the last thing I want.

  The Harvester's the hyena's den. They want to be lions in here, but there's no chance. Skinny, teeth permanently bared in a whisky grimace, the scavengers of Salford come here to drink when they've been barred from all the other pubs. Mo Tiernan's barred because he kicks off, or he deals. Or it's one of his dad's pubs. Time was, Morris Senior ignored Mo's activities as long as they didn't step on his own, but that time's long gone. Last I heard, Mo'd been dealt a paternal beating that puts him way out on his own. Uncle Morris Tiernan, veteran hard bastard, wants nothing to do with his son. He's out of the family and good fucking riddance.

  I push open the door, catch a whiff of beer and urine, stale sweat. Under it all, the smell of yeast, throwing me back to the odour in the air when I stepped out of Strangeways. Thought I was free then. I couldn't have been more wrong.

  The landlord glances at me as I step into the pub. He's an ex-bare-knuckle bruiser in the old school tradition, had his face mangled this way and that, but his features still clin
g stubbornly to his skull. That same mule instinct applied to the décor of the place. The landlord keeps most of the windows boarded up, reckons what's the point in replacing the glass? Bastards in here'd just put it through again.

  If I hadn't done time, didn't wear it like a fucking badge, I'd be out on my ear right now, makes me wonder how Mo's managed to stay here so long. Probably his old family ties. News doesn't travel that fast when you're pissed out of your face. Not that maintaining a drunk in here would be easy: the pints are so dirty, you'll shit through the eye of a needle for a week straight, end up with an arse like a chewed orange.

  It doesn't matter. I'm not here to sup.

  Mo Tiernan's sitting with his back to the corner, just like his dad does. The difference is, Morris does it to keep an eye on the place; Mo's just shit scared someone'll stick a knife in his back. But he's trying to throw a don't-fuck-with-me attitude at the rest of the pub, flanked by Baz and Rossie. Two mates, don't have a brain between them. Baz has put on more weight, sitting further back from the table to accommodate his gut. Rossie's wearing a cracked and battered leather jacket. Last time I saw him, that jacket was brand new.

  It's still quiet in here. Things won't hot up until last orders, the desperation for another drink pushing grudges to the foreground, fucking people up for good. I make my way over to Mo's table, wishing I had a gun so I could end this thing right now. My hands still in my pockets, I stand in front of him, say: “Mo.”

  Mo looks up, his face streaked brown with dried blood, his eyes hooded and the left beginning to swell. He sighs. “Been a while.”

  Rossie straightens up in his seat. Baz tries to look intimidating by lighting a cigarette.

  “Not that long,” I say. “Saw you a couple hours ago.”

  “Yeah.” Shakes his head. “Forgot you was there.”

  “I need a word.”

  “Nah, I got nowt to talk to you about.”

  “What're you doing hanging around Paulo's?”

  “You heard us, mate? I got nowt to say to you.”

  “What about Paulo?”

  “What shit's between me and Paulo, it's between me and Paulo, know what I mean?”