Sucker Punch

by Ray Banks

  “Sure. Where is it?”

  “Shapiro's place.”

  Nelson pauses again. Thinks I haven't noticed it.

  “What?” I say.

  “Phil Shapiro? Big guy, face like it's been through a meat grinder?”

  “You know him then.”

  “I knew him.” Nelson swallows some beer. “I didn't know he was still on the circuit.”

  I frown. My thinking's not straight, but there's a part of me that reckons Nelson should know where the comp's being held if he's so connected. I put it down to crossed wires and alcohol. But the gym thing …

  “He's got his own gym, Nelson,” I say. “His name's above the door. I'd say that was on the circuit.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he says. “I just didn't know he still ran it.” Nelson puts down his bottle and looks at what's left of the label. “I'm not sure about this, Cal …”

  “What's up?”

  “I may be wrong, y'know? I knew Phil a long time ago. He may have changed since I last saw him. That's possible. I wouldn't count on it, but it's possible.”

  “How d'you mean, changed? From what to what?”

  Nelson smiles, but it doesn't look comfortable. His eyes light up full beam when he turns to me. “He was a fighter. You must've guessed that, looking at him. But he was a real good fighter, had a record that put mine in the damn doghouse.”

  “Good?”

  “That face, I don't know what happened to that face. He's always been like that. But whatever caused that face made him a strong sonofabitch, I'll tell you that. He went down twice.” Nelson holds up two fingers in a peace sign. “Twice. That's all. In God knows how many fights. And he was mismatched in those two. Real badly mismatched, someone should've done something about it. The last two fights he had, he went down because of that mismatch. And that was it; he didn't want to get knocked down again. But, Christ, he was mid-forties then, y'know? It was probably time to quit. Else he'd end up like Holyfield or worse.”

  “Why do I get the feeling this is going to get dark, Nelson?” I try to match his smile, but I fail.

  “Aw, hell, I don't know, Cal.” Nelson gestures to the bartender, orders us both a couple more drinks, this time the hard stuff. “Just rumours is all I heard. And you bite on them, you're biting on thin air.”

  “Yeah, but you're concerned. C'mon, man, you know this place better than I do. I don't know the first thing about boxing, do I? And I know fuck-all about LA. So chuck me a line here. If I'm putting Liam into something unsavoury, I want to know about it.”

  Nelson shakes his head, finishes his beer. “I'm not going any further. For your own sake, okay? Phil Shapiro's got all the heart in the world, just made a few mistakes, and for all I know he's a changed man. All I got to offer is rumour and speculation, and I been drinking far too heavy to make any sense of it. Just forget I said anything and let’s change the subject, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say with a shrug. Drink some more beer to stifle the questions flying around my brain. “Read any good books lately?”

  Nelson laughs, a real bark of relief. “I've been catching up on my Louis L'Amour.”

  “Who?”

  “He wrote westerns.”

  “Sounds like he should be writing porn.”

  “You don't know him.”

  “I don't read westerns. Sorry, mate.”

  “You should,” he says. “Build up your moral fibre.”

  “I bet.” I sip my Absolut.

  “I'm serious, Cal.” Nelson adjusts his seat. “You know what I miss?”

  “What do you miss, Nelson?”

  “I miss heroes.” He nods to himself. “I miss real heroes. Used to be, you knew who the heroes were just by looking at them. Good guy in the white hat, bad guy in the black hat. You knew where you stood. Good guy rides into town, gets caught up in some strife with the townsfolk — there's a bad guy about — good guy goes and finds the bad guy — blam, blam — bye bye black hat. The hero's a deadshot, the women are righteous, tough and pretty, the black hat's a snarling murdering rapist or rustler or something. Anyway, after the shoot-out, peace is restored, the townsfolk are all over our guy in the white hat, and the hero rides off into the sunset.”

  “Like Shane.”

  “Yeah, except alive.”

  I stare at him. “You what?”

  “You saw the movie. Shane's dying at the end.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “No.”

  “Fuck.”

  “But he's still a hero. He's a pussy hero, but he's still a hero.” Nelson swallows some of his Jim Beam — the ice clinks in the glass. “Now you can't rely on anyone. Can't tell the good guys and the bad guys apart — everyone's wearing grey, talking like they're Jesus.”

  “I think we should slow down.”

  “I want my fucking heroes back, Cal.” He prods the bar top. “Used to be, you could rely on people. You could at least rely on the authorities. Over here, we can't even trust the fucking cops anymore.”

  “Same in Britain, Nelson.”

  “They didn't catch it on videotape, though, did they?”

  “The guy in the Underground, they did.”

  “We got fucking Rodney King, we got that — did you hear about this? — that guy in Washington? Cops shot him forty-one times, guy wasn't even carrying.”

  “I didn't hear about that.” I don't say any more. Looking at Nelson now, he's got the raving drunk face on and that early night my body wants me to take is looking sweeter by the second.

  “We're all so fucking scared.” He pushes his glasses up to his eyes and looks at me. “But we react to it like, 'Ah, fuck you and your family …' It's sickening, Cal. It sickens me. Government's scared, cops are scared, civilians are scared …”

  Yeah, and now I'm getting scared.

  “We should start over,” says Nelson. “Sometimes I think that'd be the best thing. Sometimes I wish for something big to happen, something to shake the shit out of this city.”

  “I watched the news, Nelson. You've got plenty of stuff happening over here. More natural disasters than you know what to do with. You just had—”

  “Natural?” Nelson looks like he's caught a whiff of something foul. “Most of these disasters, the ones in California, they're not natural. Yeah, brush fires, they used to be natural. It's nature's way of purging the vegetation. But recently? No, those fires are started by cigarettes or construction firms levelling the fucking land. Spark catches there, those nice, new and cheap-material condos are burning like kindling. And if the fire doesn't get 'em, the landscaped surroundings will. Because when the rains come, the dirt's got no roots to keep it together. You got landslides and floods, Cal. So we do it to ourselves. And then you get the real ones. You got Katrina and here you're waiting on the Big One. That's something to wait on, Cal. Because that's what I want. Something big to clean the shit off the land, give us something to be really scared about. We need that relief when it does happen, like 'Fuck, okay, it happened, some of us made it, some of us didn't, now we can re-evaluate our lives and move on'. And we need to be forced to pull together. Look at New York—”

  “Nelson …”

  He raises his head, takes a deep breath. Lets it out and smiles wide. The clouds pass. “I went off, didn't I? Jesus, I'm sorry, man. Guess I'm just sick of being scared.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “And I let the beer do the talking.” He finishes his Jim Beam, looks at the bartender. “What do I owe you?”

  “I'll get it,” I say.

  “No, I got the tab, I'll pay the tab. Offer me any cash and I'll knock you down.”

  He's too serious for me to argue.

  Once he's paid the tab, Nelson swivels round on his stool. His feet take a few seconds to find the floor and stay flat. “Yeah, that's me. Look, you give me a call on the cell first thing tomorrow morning, make sure I'm up. I'll swing by, check out the kid if you still want me to.”

  “That'd be great.”

  He stead
ies himself against the bar, gets in close. “I'm sorry, Cal. I don't mean to keep on.”

  “No problem.”

  “Just drunk talk, y'know.”

  “I know. Get yourself some sleep, Nelson.”

  “I will.”

  Nelson sways as he walks to the door. Once he's gone, the bartender appears. “Another?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, y'alright. I've got an early start in the morning.”

  A full day too. Nelson's got me worried about all sorts of shite. And Phil Shapiro's right at the top of the heap.

  15

  Shapiro's not about. Or if he is, I can't see him. He's supposed to be running this thing, the least he can do is show his mangled face. Because the place is just starting to warm up, ready for Liam's first big fight.

  Sorry, bout.

  It's early in the morning and I'm still half-cut. The stink in here reminds me of Paulo's, a smell that seeps into the walls, becomes part of the building. In Paulo's club, I think the sweat's about the only thing keeping the place upright. They ever clean it, the roof'll come down.

  I called Nelson's mobile from the hotel, but I had to leave a message. The guy's probably in the middle of a killer hangover by now. I just hope he manages to get himself over here, because Liam's psyched. The lad hasn't said anything to me, he's that concentrated. When we came into the gym, Liam was straight across the floor and getting changed. If it'd been me, I'd have kept my eyes peeled for Jumpin' Josh Callahan, or whatever the fuck his ring name is. A kid like that, he's got to have a ring name. But if Jumpin' Josh is due in, he's taking his sweet time about it. Maybe Shapiro's told him to stay home this morning, give Liam some breathing space.

  I hope that's the score, anyway.

  Liam warms up, stretches. He saunters over to a speed bag and gives it a few hard punches, then settles into the duggida-duggida-duggida rhythm of an old pro. His feet move slightly, the weight shifting with each change of hand. He'll keep the bag flying for a few minutes, then stop, take a step to the right, and continue. As he comes round, he glances at me, but that's all it is: a glance. His eyes flit and then back, the speed building, a harder beat.

  Paulo was right about the kid's discipline. What he didn't mention was that there's a borderline psycho lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to pop out and knock some heads. Remembering the way Liam used to be, that's not much of a stretch. He had what his social worker would call “anger management issues”. They always called it that, said I'd had some myself. But in Liam's case, it meant he was a fucking barmpot and shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a ring. I'd seen the lad spar a few times. He swung so wild, it looked like his fist was about to come flying off the end of his arm. And his forehead made a nasty appearance when the spar didn't go his way.

  Some gangly ginger kid with a bloody face, black eyes swelling and a broken nose. Trying not to cry, but the tears coming anyway. Paulo stepping into the ring, one hand clamped tight on Liam's shoulder.

  Saying, “You keep this shit up, you're going back.”

  “Yeah—”

  “I mean it, Liam. You want to act like a prick, you act the prick with me, see how far it gets you.”

  Liam spluttering,”Big fuckin—”

  And Paulo's voice, always low and calm. “Try that headbutt shite on me, son. We’ll step in the ring and you try the headbutt shite, we'll see who comes out on top. 'Cause I will fuck you up all over and knock you on your arse while I'm doing it. I'll do it in front of everyone and they'll think you're a proper poof for taking it. And you know what else? You'll be gone, out of it. I'll file a report with your social worker. She's got enough on her books that want to make a difference to their lives. You honestly think she cares that much? You'll be out in the cold and you'll screw it up again because of that head of yours and you'll end up in prison.”

  “You—”

  “Proper big prison for proper big pricks. You'll be in the 'Ways, son.” The grip on Liam's shoulder loosened. “Here, look, I'm not kidding you about. You know me, I don't have a sense of humour — I'm talking to you, look at me when I'm talking to you. You keep this up, you'll go to prison and you'll end up a fuck-puppet like your father.”

  Liam didn't expect that. It was a low blow, but Paulo wasn't above the odd foul to get his point across.

  “You want to be like your dad?” he said.

  Liam didn't say anything. He was still processing. Working his mouth, chewing on his gum shield. Probably had a bunch of one-liners to throw at Paulo, but he didn't have the balls to deliver them in anythng other than a mumble.

  “You want to be like your old man, Liam?”

  “Nah.”

  “I can't hear you.”

  “No.”

  “Then buck your ideas up.” Paulo slapped Liam on the back.

  Liam spat out his gum shield, worked his mouth some more. He wiped his nose with one glove, looked around. The ginger kid had his head back, blood drying on his lip. Liam didn't look at him.

  There'd been part of Liam Wooley that didn't give a shit about boxing. That part died quick enough once Liam picked up a few moves. The way Paulo told it, you could see the lad change in front of your eyes. He became a boxer who thought he was Amir Khan or Kevin Mitchell, a lad with speed, fire and a big punch. And while it was true that Liam had the ability to put other lads to the canvas quickly, he was an animal with it. His early amateur fights were won by stoppage, but that didn't make him a credible fighter.

  I once asked Paulo if teaching these kids boxing was a good idea. Fuck it, it seemed like a pertinent question at the time. Because if these lads were violent criminals — and there wasn't one of them in there that hadn't been remanded for something that didn't involve blood on their hands — then what was Paulo doing teaching them new moves? They'd take those new moves onto the street and be more efficient violent criminals.

  “You think this is about beating the shit out of someone, Cal?” he said.

  “Looks like it.”

  “I'm not teaching them that. I'm teaching them discipline. The beating the shit out of someone, that's just a way to get their minds focussed. Most of them, they'll knock seven shades out of each other, but they'll do it in a safe environment. And in the meantime, they'll get some respect for themselves. Get themselves a routine. That's all they need, y'know …”

  It was Shapiro's way of thinking too, I could tell. Get the lads so tired, the last thing they have the energy for is causing trouble. I just wish it'd worked on Josh. Having that boy about, it's making me tense. Because if there's any way Liam's going to lose that discipline he's worked hard at, it'll be down to Jumpin' Josh.

  Talent's one thing. There's no doubt, the way Liam's working that speed bag, that he's light on his feet, knows where his centre of gravity is at all times. He's a quick jabber, too. Unfazed by the other lads in the gym, tuned the buzz of conversation and other sounds out of his head, concentrating on his one goal. Liam's talented, but talent's not the least of it.

  Something Paulo told the lads: “You can be talented all you want. Talent's key. You don't have talent, you'll struggle. But you can be the most talented, spit-in-yer-eye destroyer of men you can think of. If you don't put in the graft, you don't put in the time and the effort, one night you're going to get your head caved in by someone who has put in the work and someone who's a damn sight less fuckin' talented than you. Put it this way, you don't want to cruise on talent, end up in Las Vegas staring down some hardened Latino lad who's going to make sure you're shitting in a bag by the time the first bell goes.”

  The lads laughed at that, but it was nervous laughter. I didn't crack a smile. Most of the lads there didn't have what it took to be amateur, let alone pro. They'd never get to Vegas. But that wasn't the point. Don't get ahead of yourself, Paulo was saying. Don't go walking down the road thinking you can kill someone just by looking at them funny. The one thing you'll learn in this life is that there's always someone faster, stronger and harder than you are. Even if you never mee
t that person, you have to accept that as a fact. You live with that knowledge, and that's what makes you a man.

  I'd learned that, but if I was a man, I didn't know it.

  Looking at Liam now, though, I hope he picked up on what Paulo was talking about. He's light years from the kid he used to be. That's a good thing. But knowing that this is something like his final chance … well. I almost feel sorry for the lad.

  And then I remember what a prick he can be.

  “Wooley!”

  It's the fat guy, Reuben. He's waddling over to Liam. I move towards them both. Reuben notices me, frowns.

  “You fighting?” he says.

  “No.”

  “Then step back.”

  I grab Liam's bag. “Just thought I'd keep a hold of this.”

  “You don't think it's safe here, man?”

  “I'll keep a hold of it,” I say.

  “Let him,” says Liam. “He's got to do something to make himself feel important.”

  I let that slide. “You have a good one, Liam.”

  He nods.

  And I move to the back of the gym, sit on a bench and wait for the bout to begin.

  TWO

  A BIBLE AND A GUN

  16

  The way the tournament works, the boxers don't get much time to wind down. That's the way Paulo told it to me. Liam wins this one, he'll have another tomorrow. And he wins that, there's another looming. On until the finals.

  It wears me out just thinking about it.

  Somewhere between the warm up and the bout, a crowd manages to develop. I hardly notice it at first. Too busy watching Liam's every move, thinking that it'll kill the kid if he breaks now, worrying in spite of myself. I shouldn't care, the way he's been playing the fucking diva, but I do. If only for Paulo's sake.

  Now Liam's ready to step into the ring with a stringy Latino kid who bounces on the balls of his feet, shaking his head like a gelding. Liam is breathing hard through his nose, chewing on his gum shield, but that's about it. Looks like the only nerves in him are from anticipation of a solid win.