by Ray Banks
“You Liam?” he says. Shapiro's voice is too soft for his face.
Liam nods.
Shapiro closes one eye and cocks his head. “You're the warrior?”
“Suppose so,” says Liam.
“I don't see it.” Shapiro has a lisp. It's slight, but it's there. I get the feeling he wasn't born with it, either. “Paulo speaks highly of you. Says you've got the talent to turn pro if you want to.”
“I hope so, sir.”
Sir? The fuck did that come from?
Shapiro nods at me. “Who's your friend?”
Liam's about to say something when I interrupt. “I'm his driver.”
“You ever fight?”
“I've fought, yeah.”
“Ever win?”
“Not once.”
“I didn't think so. Okay, Liam, let's get you weighed in.” Shapiro jerks his head towards the end of the gym and Liam follows, bag in hand. For a moment there, I'd put the lad's age ten years younger. A kid in awe, and more than a little frightened. I watch Liam go, scan the rest of the room. A gang of lads takes up one corner of the gym, all about Liam's age and watching the newcomer intently. One lad in particular. He's tall, blonde, well-groomed. He'd probably be handsome if it wasn't for that foul look on his face.
I gesture at the fat guy, then at the kid. “Who's the Arian?”
The fat guy glances behind him. He turns round and scratches his balding head as he looks at the sheet in front of him. “Josh Callahan. You think your kid's hot shit, Callahan's the real McCoy.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
“Because he looks like a ponce with a pet lip to me. Look, you see Liam after he weighs in and gets all the shit out the way, can you tell him his driver's outside?”
“Sure.”
I step out into the sun, blink against the light. I look around for some shade to sneak into. Reach into my pocket for my cigarettes and spark one up, drawing hard to make up for the one I had to flush. That first drag makes my chest tight, so I force myself to cough up whatever's clogged my lungs. I spit something grey at the pavement, stick the Marlboro back in my mouth.
Something about this Josh Callahan makes my knee jerk. He has a rich, pampered look to him I've seen on countless American TV programmes, didn't think actually existed. One of those party hearty lads who fuck other people's lives and buy their way out of trouble. Maybe that's why I wanted to go over there and slap him. Or maybe it's because he reminds me of a younger Liam, all posture and piss and vinegar. Or could be it's just last night's drink coming back thick and fast, hangover following like a six-berth caravan.
Whatever it is, it's not going to stop me enjoying this cigarette.
I blow smoke into the sunshine, thinking Los Angeles is a real shithole when you're away from the city centre. And I thought Manchester was bad. I look down at my shirt, notice a big yellow stain near my belt. Thinking, well, at least I don't look like a tourist.
And that's when the shouting starts.
13
As soon as I push into the gym, I'm deafened by the heavy blood-letting threats flying back and forth. Mostly American voices, some of them angry, some trying to calm the situation, but one voice rings out loud and clear: Liam.
“You wanna fuckin' start something, posh lad, you come ahead.”
Liam's held back by a couple of lads, Josh out in the open. If anything, I think it should be the other way round, but Liam's cheeks are scarlet and now I'm like everyone else in here. Not sure what this Brit lad's going to do. The old Liam's back, and so's his rage.
What the fuck happened? He was supposed to be weighing in. I stride across to Liam as Shapiro comes bombing out of his office. Shapiro's presence pull everyone's emotions down a notch.
“What's going on?” he says.
Josh lets his mouth go. “What's he doing weighing in, Phil? There's lads tailed back in here and this kid goes first? He's not from around here, he's not one of us—”
“That's none of your business, Josh.”
“Course it's my business.”
“Go fuck yourself,” says Liam.
“You a tough guy, man? You wanna see a real tough guy, you cocksucker?” Josh makes a move, hands tense, but Shapiro's quick to step in front of him. He sees me and raises his hand: don't get involved, driver, or I'll take you down too. No Chihuahua in sight, but I can hear it yapping in the office. Shapiro moves his raised hand round to Josh, extends one finger. The lad backs right off. So do the lads holding onto Liam.
“Liam, bring your driver into the office,” says Shapiro. “I want a word with the pair of you.”
Liam has lost his rage somewhere. Like it was a finger snap and back to normal. I move to him, put a hand on his back, but he shrugs me off. We traipse through to the back office. I glance at Josh, but the fat guy moves in front of him before I get a decent look.
In the office, the Chihuahua is sitting on the desk, its tongue hanging out.
“You want to explain that to me?” says Shapiro.
Liam doesn't say anything. Neither do I; I can't explain it. Christ knows how it happened so quickly. The best explanation I can come up with is that Josh Callahan's a fuckin' mentalist.
“I thought this kid was supposed to be focussed,” says Shapiro. “This is what Paulo told me. The lad's ready, he said.”
“He is ready,” I say.
“You sure?” Shapiro closes the door behind us.
“Paulo wouldn't lie to you. He paid to get us over here, he's not going to send us if Liam's not focussed.”
Shapiro walks to his desk, scoops up the dog. He brings the Chihuahua to his face, then holds it like a baby in one arm. “You saw him out there. Didn't look very focussed to me. You've got a way with first impressions, Liam.”
“It's that Callahan lad you want to watch out for, Mr Shapiro,” I say.
“You telling me how to run my business?”
“I'm telling you that kid's all kinds of fucked up. Soon as we get in here, he's giving Liam the fuckin' dead-eye. You think Liam's going to start something in the first five minutes? Nah, he was provoked. That Callahan kid's looking for a smack.”
Shapiro leans against his desk. The dog is shaking, panting. “What happened, Liam?”
Liam shakes his head. “Nowt.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was nothing.”
“It was something, Liam.”
“He was calling us is all. He's all mouth. We'll sort it out in the ring.”
“If you get into the ring,” says Shapiro.
“You can't keep him out,” I say.
“Did I say that?”
“We come all this way and you're knocking him down before he gets a chance to prove himself?”
“I didn't say that. But I'm not running a fight club, either. The boys who come to my gym, they're expected to act like professionals—”
“Then tell it to Josh—”
“They're expected to follow rules. We went through those rules just now, didn't we, Liam? So you stick to those rules. Josh starts coming on at you like he did — if he did — then you back off, you let it alone. You keep the fights in the ring.”
“That's what he just said.”
“Did I ask you anything?” says Shapiro. “I don't recall asking you anything. I'm talking to Liam.”
I look at Liam; he's shaking. Just a little, but if I notice it, so does Shapiro.
“You keep the fights in the ring, Liam. Because if you take it outside, you'll be outnumbered.”
Liam nods.
“Okay, then we're done here.”
“Actually,” I say, “you want to wait in the car, Liam? I think I need a chat with Mr Shapiro.”
Liam looks at me like: don't.
“It'll be okay. Just wait for me in the car.”
He grabs his bag from the floor and pushes open the office door, heads out across the gym. I stand in the doorway, watch him leave, looking for Josh. The little bastard's nowhere to
be seen. I hope to God he's not waiting outside for Liam. I give it a few seconds after Liam leaves, listening out. Then I close the door. Shapiro hasn't moved from the desk.
“You're too young to be his father,” he says.
“I'm a concerned acquaintance. What's the deal with Josh Callahan?”
“There's no deal.”
“He's a prick.”
“He has issues.”
“That what you're calling them now? Issues? 'Cause where I come from, a prick's a prick. He an ex-offender?”
“No. Josh wants to learn the sport. He wants to learn a few moves for his self-defence.”
“Moves are going to do them much good around here, are they? Christ, most of the kids are carrying guns, aren't they?”
Shapiro bristles. He puts the dog on the floor. The Chihuahua scurries over to a water bowl in the corner of the office, makes snorting noises as it drinks. Shapiro straightens up, says, “You watch too many bad gangster movies, Mr …?”
“Innes.”
“Mr Innes. These kids aren't all punks. They're not all fighting their way out of the ghetto. They're decent kids and it's a sport to them. But I wanted to help Paulo out. He had some trouble with the law, didn't he?”
“Paulo or Liam?”
“Either. Or.”
“Both. And they both did their time.”
“And it's managed to spread around here. I let the boys know there was going to be a new face. Josh is probably just jumpy. He's been the top dog for so long, he's just growling a little bit.”
“He's a rich kid,” I say.
Shapiro nods. “His parents have money. A lot of parents do. There's a lot of money in this city. Why, you got something against rich people, Mr Innes?”
“I don't have anything against rich people. Just makes me wonder why Josh is interested in boxing.”
“Because boxing's a working-class sport, is that what you're saying? You think he should be a fencer or something?”
“No. I don't know. Maybe.”
“This isn't a game to these boys, Mr Innes.” Shapiro folds his arms. “I make 'em do fifty laps of the gym right from the get-go or they can get gone. Then there's the push-ups, the leg-lifts, the jump-rope. And then there's six weeks of cardiovascular conditioning. You see, Mr Innes, the boys who come in here thinking it's a game, they leave after the first week, because I'm not playing. As it turns out, you're asking why boxing, Josh's dad has a keen interest and that interest has been passed to his son. Just because his parents are rich, it doesn't mean he's a spoiled brat. Happens that he doesn't do too well at school, doesn't make friends easily—”
“What a fuckin' surprise—”
“—so he needs a something else, a little discipline in his life. This place gives him that.”
“You going to have a word with him?” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “I'll have a word with him.”
“And Liam's still alright to fight?”
“If he keeps his nose clean. You met Reuben before? He'll oversee Liam's training. He'll also be his second in the ring.”
“That fat guy? He any good?”
“He's a good cut man, knows his stuff.”
“Good.” I move to the door. As I do, someone knocks. “I don't want this to fuck up his chances.”
“It won't as long as he doesn't let it,” says Shapiro.
I open the door and there's Josh, standing proud with his chin up and out. I rein in the urge to elbow the wee fucker in the throat as I push past him. It wouldn't do any good.
And besides, I think, if anyone's going to screw this up, it better not be me.
14
We needed to talk, me and Liam, so I made him break bread with me. I got us a table at a restaurant about a block from the hotel, thought we'd have some bonding time. I've got a burger and chips on the go, just so I can check it off the American Food I Need To Eat list. Liam hasn't eaten his chicken salad thing, seems content enough just moving it about the bowl. I take a bite out of my burger and feel relish drop out the sides. I hear it splatter against the plate. About the only thing I have heard since we got here, apart from our order and the buzz of a restaurant at low ebb.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin, ball up the paper and drop it by the side of my plate. “So, you going to tell me what happened?”
Liam shakes his head. “Nowt happened.”
“He call you names or something? Make fun of your hair? If it was me, I'd make fun of your hair.”
He looks up at me, a sneer in his smile. “Oh, you're fuckin' hysterical, you.”
“I try. So what was it?”
“I told you, nowt. He was just being an arsehole.”
“You said I was an arsehole, you didn't try to leather me.”
Liam's eyes narrow. “I'm biding my time.”
“I bet you are. Going to kick me in the bollocks when I'm sleeping, that it?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
I pick up the burger again, take another bite, set it down. Pick up a chip and wave it at Liam as I speak. “You're going to have start trusting me, y'know.”
“No, I don't.”
“We're in this thing together—”
“No, we're not.” Liam pushes his salad around. “Not in this together, Cal. It's me. I'm in it.”
“I forgot. It's all about you, isn't it?”
“Yeah. You got nowt to do but get drunk.”
I sniff. “When's your first fight?”
“Bout. It's called a bout.” Liam's mouth is tight.
“Alright then, smartarse. When's your first bout?”
He takes a deep breath as if it's something he's already explained to me countless times. “Tomorrow.”
“Afternoon?”
“Morning.” And you better be up.” He lays down his fork. “I don't want to be late for this, okay? I need to be there like two hours beforehand, at least. I need to get weighed in.”
“You already got weighed in,” I say.
“You don't know the first fuckin' thing about this, do you?”
“Can't learn if you won't talk, Liam.”
“Why'd Paulo tell you to come with us?” He sits back in his chair. “Honestly. Why'd he tell you to come? What, he thought you'd be able to help us out when it came to comp?”
“I don't know.”
“'Cause that's not likely to happen, is it? Look at you, you never done a tournament in your life. Fuck's sake, you ever even been in a gym?”
“Paulo's.”
“Not counting Paulo's.”
“A couple of times.”
“Where?”
“Strangeways.”
“Uh-huh,” he says.
“I went in there twice, then I didn't bother,” I say. My appetite's fading fast. Too much rich food. “Think they've got enough rules in that place, they've got even more in the gym. Trouble is, you don't know what they are until you've broken them. Took me two visits and a fuckin' beating to call it a day.”
“Gonna give us a sob story, Cal?”
I stare at Liam. Sitting back in his seat like the cocky wee fucker he is. I want to get out of my seat and plant my foot in his chest, but I stay put. Can't fault the stupidity of youth, even though if he's putting it on like he's older, he should get a kicking like he's older.
“Forget it,” I say. I catch our waitress' attention. She comes over, all smiles, and I ask for the bill.
As soon as she leaves, Liam says, “You not eating that?”
“You want it?”
“No fuckin' way. You know how long that's going to be in your stomach?”
“A long time, I hope. I want my money's worth.”
The waitress returns as Liam leans across the table. “Every time you get wind after you mix your starch and protein like that, that's because you're digesting the two at different rates. That wind coming up, that's because you've got rotting meat in your gut.”
I don't pretend to look interested. Fish out cash from my wallet and leav
e a decent tip. The waitress walks away. Then I force out a belch.
“Rotting meat,” says Liam.
“Fuck yourself,” I say.
****
Nelson swallows the last of his beer, but waves at the bartender to keep them coming. I'm guessing he's a regular here, because a tab is on the go. I haven't tried to talk him out of it yet. I'll settle at the end of the night.
“You tried talking to the boy?” he says as the bartender plonks down another bottle.
“Yeah, I've tried talking to him. It doesn't work.” I suck my teeth, peel the label from my Budweiser. “And the lad's got a point, Nelson. I don't know why Paulo wanted me to come over here with him. I said I'm not good with the lads, got nothing in common with them. What am I going to talk to him about, eh? How was stir, Liam? Yeah, pretty shitty, wasn't it? How was the food?”
Nelson pauses with his bottle, then he takes a drink, swallows. “You were in prison?”
I nod. “Dim and distant, mate. Ancient history.” My head's started to feel heavy. When the drinks are free, you lose track. “He's got a bout tomorrow morning.”
The world grows furry at the edges. It's no wonder. I've been sitting in this bar pretty much since I left the restaurant. Saw Liam go up to his room, no doubt to sit on his bed and read that fucking notebook that doesn't leave his sight.
Dear Diary, today some rich lad said horrible things to me …
What's worse is I haven't been able to get Liam's shit about my digestion out of my mind. The burger's taking an age to break down, giving me a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. Probably doesn't help that I've been drowning the rotting meat with vodka and beer. I should get an early night, but I'm too pissed off to care that much.
“Here,” I say. “You want to swing by tomorrow morning and see if he's worth taking on?”