Sucker Punch

by Ray Banks

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Well, say hello to George Clooney for me,” she said.

  “Yeah, course I will.”

  I left them to it. The nurse with her Hollywood wet dreams of chocolate-box geriatrics, Choudrey glaring at me. He knew something was up. No way could my change of heart be that fucking sudden. When I got back, I'd have to find myself another GP.

  At the chemists, Barbara didn't bat an eyelid. And why should she? It was a repeat and I'd had Choudrey's signature to practise on the way over. I made small talk with her, kept her smiling, and I got my usual.

  As I stepped out onto the street, this wild-eyed lad accosted me. Obviously been waiting outside, thought I was an easy target.

  “Here y'are, mate,” he said. “I'll buy it off you.”

  “No jellies here, mate.”

  “Nah, I know. You got pills.”

  “Yeah. Sudafed. I got a cold.”

  “Fuck off, that's never over the fuckin' counter, that.”

  “Doesn't matter anyway, does it? I'm not selling.”

  I started walking. He followed.

  “Fuck off,” he said. “Course y'are, mate. Fifty pence a pop, right?”

  “You what?”

  “Fifty fuckin' pence. That's what. Fifty a pop.”

  “Nah.”

  “That's the going. Y'ain't making us go higher, man. That's the going.”

  I stopped, looked at him. “That right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know these things? You're up on the going rate?”

  “Yeah. Can't put nowt past us, mate.”

  “Then you'll know a proper fuckin' dealer. So fuck off and find one. Mate.”

  I got in my Micra, made sure the door was locked as I got settled. The lad moved back, a foul expression on his face. Choudrey might have been right. I might have been a junkie.

  But I wasn't that bad.

  11

  “D'you think I could get one of those?”

  “I thought you gave up,” I say.

  Nelson nods, looking at my pack of cigarettes. “I did. But alcohol makes me crave 'em.”

  I give him a Marlboro, light one for myself. Takes a few clicks of the Bic to get a flame, my hands are that numb with the drink. Nelson stands there sucking on the filter until I hand him my lighter.

  “Pink suits you,” he says.

  I smile. “Where's this hot dog place?”

  “Walking distance.” Nelson sucks on the Marlboro, holds smoke in his lungs until his eyes begin to tear, then blows it out in a long stream. “Jesus, it's a nice night for it.”

  Above us, a clear sky. “I suppose so.”

  “You can see the stars,” says Nelson as we start walking. “Rare for this place. My father told me there was this time, him and my uncle, they went up to the Hollywood Freeway. They were just starting to build it back then. And my uncle and my dad, they'd go up there and look at the stars. Sometimes he said you could watch the planes flying out from California to the Pacific. Now you go up there and it's all smog and halogen.”

  I grunt in agreement. At least I hope it sounds like agreement.

  “That's why I don't drive unless I have to. I get behind the wheel, I think about those kids up on the Freeway.”

  “You didn't make the place smoggy.”

  “No,” says Nelson, cigarette in his mouth. “But I sure as hell contributed to it.”

  “These the only stars we're likely to see?”

  “I hope so. You wouldn't like the other kind, Callum. They're all fucking fake.”

  “I don't know.” I point at the pavement. “They look real enough.”

  “Keep following them, then.”

  I do. It means I don't see the place we're going until we're almost there. When I hit Errol Flynn and Debbie Reynolds, Nelson stops me.

  “Here we are.”

  Skooby's boasts the best hot dogs in Hollywood, the best fries in Los Angeles and the best lemonade in California. Part restaurant, part outside diner, the place looks as strangely American as anything I've seen. Doesn't mean that the food's going to be great, but at least I'm taking in the city's culture.

  “You want to try a Big German?”

  According to a sign on the outside of the restaurant, The Big German is The Dog Of The Month, some gargantuan-looking thing heaped with sauerkraut. It already looks partly digested, and it's affecting my appetite.

  “Nah,” I say. “Sauerkraut gives me wind.”

  We take seats at the counter. Nelson's quick to order: a Skooby's Original, bucket of fries and an Arnold Palmer. I don’t know any different, so I order the same. And with jetlag creeping in, a coffee too.

  “I thought you guys drank tea.”

  “We do,” I say. “All the time. But when in Rome …”

  “I appreciate it.” He turns on his seat, points up the street at a church with a Spanish sign outside. “You see that? Used to be a movie theatre.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You know what movies they showed there?”

  “Something about God.”

  “Well, one of them was Deep Throat.”

  “That so?”

  “I'm telling you, Callum. This whole place used to be a meat market. You couldn't move for porno and hookers down here.” He shakes his head as our food arrives. Then he takes a large bite out of his hot dog, manages to get most of it on the counter. “That's a damn good dog.”

  “You come here a lot?”

  “Sometimes. Enough. Not too much. It's good, huh?”

  “It's quiet.”

  “I don't cook so much. My wife used to.” He takes another bite, chews. “We're not together.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don't be,” he says. “Really, don't be. Not one of those tragic tales.”

  I nod, bite into the hot dog and try not to look like a complete gimp by getting it all over myself. I fail miserably. I grab a handful of napkins and start dabbing at myself.

  “Don't bother. Wait until the end or you'll spend more time cleaning than eating.”

  I drop the napkins, eat some more, then set the hot dog down. Big gouts of mustard spot the counter. “I never asked you before, what's your line of work?”

  “You really interested?”

  “I'm asking.”

  Nelson wipes his face, takes another bite. Chews and smiles at the same time. “I used to fight.”

  “No kidding. Fight, like what? Boxing or brawling?”

  “Some said both.” Digs something out of his tooth with one finger. “I turned pro for a while.”

  “Don't get me wrong, but you don't look much like a boxer.”

  Nelson pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and regards me. “You don't look much like a private investigator.”

  “I'm not.”

  “And I'm not a fighter. Not anymore. Made some money, nothing fantastic. I do some coaching now and then. Scout on a freelance basis. I like to stay in the circuit.”

  I grab a handful of fries. They're bloody good. I don't know if they're the best in Los Angeles, but they're still bloody good. “You going to this smoker?”

  Nelson smiles, and I wonder what's so funny. “The Alvarez thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I'll probably drop in. Why?”

  “That's why I'm over here,” I say. “Babysitting a kid who's entering.”

  “He British?”

  “Yup.”

  “I knew it was open, but I didn't think it was that open. He on a scholarship or something?”

  “I doubt it. He got a letter.”

  “Right.” Nelson eats the rest of his hot dog, drops the wedge of his bun on a napkin and wipes his hands. “You're sure he's in?”

  “I don't know how it's been worked out, mate. But he's definitely in. Bloke I know pulled a few strings for him. Thinks he's got a good chance of turning pro.”

  “That right?” Nelson stares at something I can't see. “Well, I hope he does well. I
t's a good way to get spotted, fighting in the amateur tournaments. They're not supposed to recruit there, but if a kid's got good hands, he can be taken on. What do you think about him?”

  I shrug. “Last time I saw him fight, it was a while ago.”

  “And?”

  “And he used his head.”

  “I don't get you.”

  “Take it literally, Nelson.”

  “Shit.” Nelson sips his Arnold Palmer. “What's he like now?”

  “He's ambitious, seems to have his head together. He wants to turn pro. He's got drive. Doesn't stop him being a huge pain in the arse, though.”

  “Comes with the drive, Callum. I was a pain in the ass when I fought. You want something that much, you think you can do it, that's all that matters. People, they're a waste of breath. Can't talk to people, because they're never gonna see the world like you see it. You get so wrapped up in yourself and your goals you can't see beyond the ring.”

  “Right.” I finish my hot dog, wash it down with a drink of coffee. “That's the way this lad operates. He's away with the fuckin' fairies.”

  “And you think he might be okay?”

  “I trust my mate's judgement on this. He's a cheapskate, wouldn't spend the cash if he didn't think the lad had a chance.”

  “I'd have to see him in action.”

  “Well, give me your number. Soon as he's got a fight lined up, I'll give you a bell.”

  “Okay, great.”

  Nelson writes his number on a napkin, hands it to me. I tuck the napkin in my pocket.

  “That's my cell.” Nelson pauses and looks at me. “You know something, Callum? I'm glad I met you.”

  I nod. “Might as well call me Cal, Nelson. Everyone else does.”

  12

  My throat's burning when I wake up and so's Los Angeles.

  I pull myself out of bed, my vision blurred and painful, wondering what the fuck all the commotion's about. Then I realise I must've drifted off with the television on. I look across at the bottle on the desk: there's a dent in the vodka the size of my fist. That would explain the throat, the headache, and the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  On the TV, a guy with a face that looks like he's permanently caught in a wind tunnel yells into a microphone. Under his voice, there's the steady beat of helicopter blades. They thrum in time with my head-throb. Now they're showing shaking pictures of what looks like a forest fire.

  “Sources say that the brush fire started sometime early this morning in the Verdugo Mountains, Bob. The fire department deployed fire bombers a couple of hours ago, but the inferno does not seem to have abated. This is the worst we've seen in a few years.”

  I move to the bathroom to guzzle some cold water straight from the tap. As I'm bending over, my back spikes, so I drop a couple of codeine into my mouth, swallow them down.

  “It looks like the Santa Anas are going to be bringing all that smoke and ash south right over the city.”

  “Should citizens be worried, Dave?” says another voice.

  “I've been assured that the fire will not spread, Bob. It's—”

  I click off the television as I come back into the bedroom. Wander over to the window and if there’s hell on earth out there, I can’t see it because of the Hollywood Hills. I return to the bathroom and light a cigarette, blow smoke at the fan. Christ, what with the riots, the gangs, the earthquakes, the phoney fucking religious cults and brush fires, it makes me wonder why people actually choose to live here. But then there's Hollywood, I suppose. Enough promises there to keep people dreaming, even though nobody was ever really discovered at Schwab's drug store.

  I told Paulo all this last night. Must've been about nine in the morning over in Manchester, and for that time of the morning the conversation went on longer than I would've expected. I was pissed, told Paulo that a couple of times. Liam was fine, but he was a shitty traveller — not like me, I was great — and then I went into what Nelson told me. Must've repeated myself before Paulo told me to sleep it off.

  We're supposed to go to the gym this morning, get Liam registered and weighed in. No doubt the lad'll be battering my door down in a minute. Maybe I'll get a chance to ask him what he meant yesterday, but then a part of me reckons it's probably best I let it lie. It's Liam's time right now. He thinks he's got the rest of his life sorted, that's great. I'm not about to step on that. Fuck it, I even scored him a coach if he shows promise in the ring. Nelson seemed to know his stuff. And there's nobody better than an ex-boxer to show the new kid the ropes, so to speak.

  I flick ash into the toilet bowl, sit back.

  I should check if they've got a smoking room sorted for me yet. In the meantime, this'll have to do. Lock myself in the bathroom where there's no fabric to trap the smell of smoke and sneak a puff like I'm a fucking teenager.

  Check my watch and bang on cue, there's a knock at the door.

  I douse the end of the Marlboro in toilet water with a hiss, wrap the filter in bog roll and flush the lot. Then wave my hands in the air to dispel some of the smoke, hoping the fan'll take care of the rest.

  By the time I get to the door, Liam's furious. There's a vein sticking out in his neck.

  “Fuck's sake, Cal,” he says. “We're supposed to be there in like half an hour.”

  “It's okay.”

  “You're not even dressed.”

  “Stop your fuckin' pecking, Liam. Don't worry about it.”

  “We're going to be late.”

  I pull on some jeans, grab my jacket. “See? Dressed. C'mon, let's go. I've got some news that might stick a smile on that puss of yours.”

  Liam sniffs the air, narrows his eyes. “You been smoking in here?”

  “Yeah, Liam. Don't tell on me, eh?”

  ****

  Outside it's pure lizard weather, a dry heat that scorches the inside of your mouth if you breathe too hard. The radio says 105 degrees, but that's fahrenheit so I haven't the foggiest what it translates to apart from fucking hot. So I've got the air conditioning ramped right up which, along with the radio, has kicked the Metro in the bollocks. Lucky if I can get the heap past fifty. But air conditioning is a necessity with the weather. I wonder if it's got anything to do with the brush fire, then check out of the window for falling ash.

  “What's this news then?” says Liam.

  “I got talking to a bloke last night.”

  Liam squints at me. “If you ended up fucking him, I don't want to hear it.”

  “You think I'm gay?”

  “I don't care.”

  “'Cause I work with Paulo, that means I'm his boyfriend?”

  “I didn't say that.”

  “It's what you were thinking, you wee bastard.”

  “You're close, is all I'm saying. Doesn't matter to me which hole you stick it in. Behind closed doors and all that. Just keep it away from me.”

  “Liam, you're a fuckin' idiot. Shut your yap and listen to me. I got talking to this bloke last night, turns out he's an ex-fighter, does some scouting on the side.”

  Liam gazes out of the window. “And?”

  “And he wants to see you fight.”

  “It's open to the public, Cal. You can bring your bloke.”

  “With a view to coaching you,” I say.

  “He got any credentials, this bloke?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Then he's a fuckin' leech.” He turns in his seat. “And what's this shite playing?”

  “It's Johnny Cash, and didn't I already tell you you were a fuckin' idiot?”

  “Sounds like he needs to blow his nose and cheer up. Look, Cal, I appreciate you talking to total strangers and trying to help me out an' that, but you can stop it now, alright? I need to concentrate on the comp. Paulo already briefed us on what it'd be like out here, said I needed to keep my brain on the bouts, nothing else.”

  “He just meant stay off the booze, Liam.”

  “Nah, he meant anything. Booze, birds, strange blokes you decide to pick up in ba
rs …”

  “What'd I tell you about that?” I wave my hand. “Fuck it, forget it. I was just trying to help out.”

  “And I said thanks, but no thanks. You're supposed to be taking a break, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So take a break, man. Let me take care of my stuff. You don't need to come to the bouts, you just need to drop us off. You're not my chaperone, you're my driver. How's that?”

  I should've brushed my teeth. Got a sticky feeling in my mouth. “Fine. That's cool. I'll be your driver.”

  Little prick.

  And we sit in silence until we get to Shapiro's Boxing Center. Which just looks like a posh way of saying slum-looking gym. I find a parking space, Liam pulls his bag from the back seat, and we go inside.

  The gym is chocka with kids, all different ages and all of them registering. At the far end of the gym, I can make out a huge set of scales. On them is a black lad, his coach beside him, watching the weight like a hawk. Then the black lad steps off the scales, a look of relief on his face. On my right, a small, round Latino guy sits on a stool that shakes whenever he shifts position. He's behind a table, looking at a type-written list. His mouth moves when he reads. Looks up at Liam and says, “What's your name?”

  “Liam Wooley,” says Liam.

  “Which gym?”

  Liam looks at me; I shrug.

  “He's here to register,” I say. “He's flown all the way from Manchester and boy, are his arms tired.”

  “England?”

  “Yeah.” I pull out the letter. “We're supposed to see Phil Shapiro.”

  “Phil?” says the fat guy. “Lemme have a look at that.”

  I hand him the letter. The fat guy's lips go into overdrive as he reads. When he's finished, he folds the letter in two.

  “Lemme check this out,” he says.

  “Go for it.”

  The fat guy gets off the stool with a grunt and he's away, pushing through the crowd of lads. I watch him head towards an office at the back of the gym, windows in a partition wall looking out on the registration.

  “Y'alright?” I say to Liam.

  He glances at me, then surveys the crowd. His eyes are clear, but his jaw is set. “Yeah, I'm good.”

  The fat guy emerges from the office with another bloke. I'm guessing this is Phil Shapiro. Bloke's built like a brick shithouse. As he gets closer, I can make out his face, but his features are still blurred. Looks like something made mincemeat out of him at one point and a plastic surgeon had the job of his life putting the guy's boat back together. Shapiro wears a wifebeater, his gut straining at the fabric. A shamrock tattoo on his left arm, Chinese writing on his shoulder. Yeah, he's a hard bastard and international with it. I'd shit myself if it wasn't for the Chihuahua he's carrying.