Sucker Punch

by Ray Banks

  I'm still on the bench, Liam's bag open by my feet. I can see that notebook lying on top of his kit and I'm tempted to reach down and have a skim through, find out what's so bloody fascinating about it. But then, say Liam sees me nosing. He'll go apeshit, lose his focus. I zip the bag. Look up as Shapiro appears from his office, dog in hand. The Chihuahua doesn't seem bothered by all the people in here, its head lolling, tongue out. And there are a lot of people in here. Got the elderly guys sitting ringside who I'm guessing are the judges. Other fighters shaking out their nerves for later bouts. A crowd of spectators, but I can't see Nelson anywhere. A couple of blokes wearing suits in this heat, they must be scouts. That, or they're mental.

  Shapiro looks my way; I nod at him. He doesn't acknowledge me, looks back to the fighters. The ref is in place, Liam and the Latino in their separate corners. The ref announces them both, Liam's opponent as Lorenzo Puentes. It's a boxer's name, but that's as far as this kid's ever going to get. The boxers come to the middle, knock gloves.

  And there's the bell.

  Liam and Puentes come out slow and circle each other. Not much going on, the two of them sizing each other up. Liam keeps his head low, his hands up.

  I stand to get a better view as a guy in a sports jacket walks in front of me. He's got a bottle of water in one hand. For a second, I think it's Nelson, but that quickly disappears. This guy is taller, blonde hair turning to grey. Powerfully built and well-dressed, this guy has to be a scout.

  “You know the Latino kid?” I say.

  He takes a gulp of water, says, “Lorenzo Puentes. And he's Mexican.”

  Like that makes a lick of difference to me. Unless Mexicans are known for being a race of killers. So I ask, “He any good?”

  “Yeah, he's good.” He gestures towards the ring. “Be even better if he could keep his damn feet on the ground.”

  I look across at the fight. Puentes has stopped with the circling, losing patience. Busy now dancing around the ring, throwing moves. Showboating. Liam's still hunched up, biding his time. Or it looks like he's biding his time. He could just be petrified.

  In the middle of the dance, Puentes lunges. He backs up quick as Liam bobs out of the way and counters with a swift, darting jab. Then Liam ducks in, taps Puentes in the ribs. Shifts fast as Puentes covers, knocks another jab with his glove, then Liam hooks a left across his opponent's nose. Puentes weathers it, but keeps his distance. Just at a glance, it's easy to see the Mexican has a bigger reach and he's now looking forward to using it. They part, Puentes breathing heavily. Liam doesn't look like he's broken a sweat.

  “That's the thing with these bouts,” says the water guy. “No stamina.”

  Liam pushes forward to Puentes, the Mexican trying to get some boxing room. Puentes throws a right hand lead and Liam's under it, lays a one-two that devastates Puentes. The Mexican kid drops back three staggered steps — tha-thump-thump — as Liam digs in. A wild punch under the ribs and Liam's gloves come up. Puentes' face is twisted behind his gloves, his body twisting too, dropping to one side as Liam forces him into the ropes.

  “Jesus,” says the water guy.

  The ref lets the infighting go for a few seconds, both fighters scoring weak punches. Puentes wraps his arms around Liam.

  And then it's “Break! Break!” from the ref.

  Puentes pushes Liam in the shoulders. Liam backs up a few considered steps. He knocks his gloves together, lets his left drop to one side. Puentes finds his feet, but he's stopped dancing. That was a lesson learned. If this kid had been told the bout would be a piece of piss, he's found out different now. Because Puentes can dance all he wants but it won't last long. Liam's cutting the ring, backing the Mexican into the ropes.

  It takes a second for Puentes to switch tactics. He paws at his singlet, chews on his gum shield and slows down. His head bobs, like he knows the moves, he's been here before and he wants Liam to know it. But he's not ready to throw anything at the moment. Puentes looks a lot heavier now, his feet more assured.

  Circling again.

  I expected more, having seen the lads sparring at Paulo's, but then this bout isn't about knocking the other guy down. This is about scoring points, landing blows clean and square. It's boxing, not fighting. That's what I was told.

  And then Liam proves me wrong. Vicious and shoddy, a jab to Puentes' headgear, throwing him off-balance. Liam steams in, gets a couple of half-hearted jabs to the body for his troubles. Liam twists out of the way, planting an angry punch against the side of the Mexican's neck.

  The bell rings and they break.

  Puentes hangs his head, shaking. Liam retreats to his corner, slumps to his stool and Reuben gets busy with the water. From what I can see, apart from a few red marks on his torso, Liam's clean.

  “Longest two minutes of that kid's life,” says the water guy.

  “He doesn't know who he's dealing with.”

  “Three more rounds to stand upright.”

  “They'll give him an eight count,” I say.

  “Not this kid. He's warming up.”

  “Take all the time he wants warming up, mate. He'll be down before he hits his peak.”

  The water guy looks at me. “You know something I don't?”

  “I've seen this lad fight before.”

  “Wooley?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “And this Puentes kid's going to have his arse handed to him on a platter.”

  The water guy smiles and looks back at the ring. “You think so.”

  “I know so.”

  “Where you from?” he says. “Britain?”

  I watch Liam and Puentes pull themselves out of their respective corners as the bell goes again. “Britain's not a country.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “Scotland's got its own parliament; Wales is on the way.”

  “Right,” he says and swigs water. “I guess it's like the difference between Latino and Mexican, isn't it?”

  Liam and Puentes stalk each other. Puentes looks like he's soiled himself. His nose is red, might be bleeding.

  “You got a fighter?” I say, getting into it now.

  He nods. “Kind of. My son's competing.”

  “Really?”

  Puentes throws a couple of weak punches, his face solid with determination. Liam takes them, rolls with them, doesn't fight back. Waits for a singular opportunity, just like Paulo taught him.

  “Yeah, I think he's got a good chance,” says the water guy.

  Liam shifts his weight, feints a right, scores with a left. Then a scalding right. Thick, wet slaps of the ten-ounce gloves. Then Liam drops his left, turns his body and keeps his right hand up.

  “What's his name?” I say. “I'll watch out for him.”

  Puentes sees an opening on Liam's dropped left…

  “Josh Callahan,” says the water guy.

  … and lets loose with a cannonball right. It's a loud, nasty blow that cuts through the crowd's babbling, draws breath from spectators. Liam catches it right in the nose, a dirty exhalation as he stumbles, his guard all over the shop. Puentes fires forward, jackhammers uppercuts into Liam's ribcage. He's caught Liam without feet, wants to get as much pain in there as possible before the lad can shake off the blur. Liam doubles up, his elbows tucked into his midriff. Trying to ride it out but not knowing how. Puentes has lost the bounce, his energy battering Liam's gut. Liam backs into the ropes, plants his feet firm.

  Puentes curls a left at Liam's head.

  And there's that opportunity.

  As the ref moves towards them, Liam responds to Puentes with a swift rib shot that hits like a stiletto blade. Makes the Mexican back the fuck up. Liam pulls himself out of the line of fire, bearing down on his opponent. He catches a gulp of air and slams a glove hard in Puentes' gut.

  Breathing's key, I heard. Breathing's what keeps your game going. Tear the breath from your opponent and dig in.

  “He your son?” says Callahan Senior.

  �
�No.” Wishing he'd shut the fuck up.

  “Brother?”

  “What?”

  Liam alternates head and gut, sets the Mexican lad up to batter him raw. Knowing he'll score more nasty with the gut and chest, ripping the oxygen from the kid's lungs. Puentes can't seem to pull himself away, can't defend himself. And they're not hugged, so there's no break. Puentes starts to curl like plastic in a flame.

  “It's over,” says Callahan.

  “He's just getting warmed up, you said.”

  Josh's dad shakes his head. “They're going to call it.”

  Puentes' cornerman is hanging over the ropes. The ref steps into the breach. Liam staggers away, head still going. He wants more. He wants to finish the fucking job.

  But that's it. The fat lady sings long and loud. Reuben's shouting at Liam to get the fuck back to his corner. Puentes slumps onto his stool, Liam still standing there, glaring at him. His right glove is up, his left down again. Like, I can take you with one fuckin' hand, come ahead, man.

  It's over. Liam seems to hear Reuben and the fight drains out of him. His right glove drops as he backs to his corner. Reuben's in his face now, doesn't look too happy even though his boy just won.

  No, it was Paulo's boy that just won. My boy.

  “Mismatch,” says Callahan.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  He swigs his water, screws the cap onto the bottle. “It won't be a mismatch with Josh.”

  Callahan strides away across the club. I watch him go. Josh is in the crowd. I didn't see him before, but he's staring at the ring. Looks nervous.

  Good.

  I grab Liam's bag and head over to congratulate him.

  17

  “How'd it go then?”

  The slight delay on the line is enough to grate, especially when I forget about it and end up having to repeat myself to Paulo. It didn't matter so much the other night when I was drunk. Courtesy goes out of the window then. But now Paulo sounds excited and far away, which is exactly what he is. And he's just as frustrated as I am when we speak over each other, that hiss on the line, an echo somewhere.

  “I told you,” I say. “He won. They called it.”

  A pause, then: “They called it?”

  “Yeah, they had to.”

  Another pause. “He didn't go nuts, did he?”

  “Nothing to worry on that score.”

  I look across at Liam. He's sitting on the bed, his hands in his lap, staring at something out of the window. When he came out of the ring, he had a sweat on and a lot of snot in his nose. But no victory dance. The lad had always been cocky in the past, but once the bout was over, it was a complete U turn of emotion. You'd have thought Liam lost. Me, I don't know what the fuck is up with him. I'd be doing cartwheels right now.

  “How many rounds?” says Paulo.

  “Two.”

  “They called it after two?”

  “They had to.”

  The hiss on the line. Sounds like Paulo sniffs. “I thought you said he didn't go nuts.”

  “This other kid, he thought it'd be an easy bout, I'm telling you. He didn't have his head on right, thought he could score for his pasa-fuckin'-doble. Liam took him apart.”

  “He there?”

  “Liam?”

  “No, the other kid. Yes, Liam. He's there, I want to speak to him.”

  “Okay.”

  I hold the phone out to Liam, who shakes his head. I keep the receiver held out, give him a look. Fuck's up with this kid? He should be on that phone like a fly on shit, bragging about his first big win. But he's just sitting there, eyes wide and blue. Too calm, too slow for my liking. I start thinking he got hit one too many times in the head.

  “Paulo wants to speak to you,” I say, loud enough for Paulo to hear.

  Liam frowns, pulls himself from the bed and snatches the phone from my hand. Petulant little bastard. I move over to the window, feel an ache throb its way up my back. Check my watch: if it's time in Manchester, it's time here. I fumble out a couple of pills as Liam holds the phone to his ear.

  “Y'alright, Paulo?” he says.

  A pause as Paulo talks.

  Then: “Yeah. They called it.”

  I dry-swallow the painkillers.

  “Nah,” says Liam. “I didn't.”

  I wonder why I didn't see Nelson, wonder if he actually turned up at all. Yeah, I left him a message on his mobile, but that's no guarantee he made it to the gym. The way he was last night, it's entirely possible he's still nursing a killer hangover. I'm surprised I don't have one. A year ago, I'd be in the bathroom praying to a Lord I didn't believe in.

  “Okay,” says Liam. “I know, Paulo. No, I know.”

  The more I think about it, the more I think we need someone else on our side here. Might just be that uneasy feeling of being in another country, but Nelson was picking at something last night. And that something was probably true, not some rumour. The hard and nasty truth is something most people don't want to spill. Rumours have their own method of transport, and it's normally fast. So if Shapiro isn't straight, then this comp is going to mean fuck-all when it comes down to it. And then there's Josh's dad. Taking an active interest as a parent is one thing, but Josh wasn't about until the fight was finished. No, that guy likes the sport.

  “Okay, alright, fine,” says Liam. “I'll see you later.”

  Liam holds out the phone to me. His face is blazing red. I think it could be the first hit of sun burn. There's no respite in Los Angeles.

  “Y'alright?” I say.

  He nods, but his bottom lip moves a little.

  “You should be proud of yourself, mate. You took the Puentes kid down.”

  He looks at me, his eyes narrowing. “Fuck do you know?”

  “You what?”

  “Fuckin' forget it.” He stalks out of the room, leaves me with the phone.

  “What's up?” I say to Paulo. “What'd you say to him? Lad's got a strop on.”

  “Doesn't matter,” he says.

  “Matters to me, man. I've got to spend time with him.”

  “I just told him what he was there for, Cal.”

  “And he's doing it.”

  “A two-round stoppage? That's not boxing, Cal. That's fighting—”

  “Puentes was taking the piss—”

  “I want him to win because he's a good boxer, not because he's an animal. We worked it out, him and me.”

  “C'mon, he's just had to spend all that time with me. Stands to reason he's got some frustration to work out, doesn't it?”

  “Then he should be working it out in training, not in the ring.”

  “You know what, you could be fuckin' proud of him. And how's your temper, by the way?”

  A pause, Paulo thinking it over. “I'm good.”

  “You're good. You managed to calm down.”

  “Mo's been about.”

  “You called the police?”

  “No.”

  “Then call the police.”

  “I'm not calling the police.”

  I shift the phone to my other ear, sit down at the desk. I want a cigarette. Half think about taking the phone into the bathroom so I can light one, then decide against it. “Call the police, Paulo. I mean it. If Mo's acting like a twat, let the coppers sort it out and get him locked up. He's got no protection now, man. He basically told me that. So get him locked up for the first time in his life, see how he likes it.”

  “He told you that?”

  “What?”

  “When'd you speak to Mo?”

  Fuck. Fuck. Hoping I could keep that under wraps, and look at it come spilling out.

  “I talked to him,” I say.

  “Before or after I caught him dealing?” says Paulo. “Actually, no, don't answer that — it doesn't matter. What're you doing talking to Mo Tiernan?”

  “I went to see him.”

  “After,” he says.

  “Yeah, after. I had a word with him.”

  “What was the word?”

&n
bsp; “I just told him to stay away from the club.” I need a cigarette now. “Let him know what kind of situation he was in, y'know, with his dad and that. Reminded him that he didn't have a leg to stand on if he wanted to play funny buggers.”

  “And you don't think the beating I doled out told him that already?”

  “Paulo—”

  “You don't think I can handle this by myself, Cal?”

  I sigh. I have to choose my words carefully, can feel the rage on the other end of the phone. “I know you can, mate.”

  “Good.”

  “I just don't think you'll handle it the way you want to.”

  “The fuck does that mean?”

  “It means I'm not the only one whose head's been in the shed recently, alright?”

  “You let me handle this, Cal.”

  “What else am I going to do? Not like I can hop a fuckin' bus and get home now, is it?”

  “Yeah, that's a good thing.”

  I bite a hangnail from my thumb. “Just be careful, alright?”

  “Yeah, right,” he says. “I'll be careful. You just make sure Liam doesn't do anything bloody stupid. I want that lad to be winning on points, okay? He shouldn't be knocking heads. He can knock heads in Manchester all he likes, but it's a different game over there, especially at that level. He's supposed to have some control. That's what I told Phil.”

  “He does have control, man. All I'm saying, he was probably a bit wound up.”

  “Then unwind him.” Paulo breathes out heavily. “I'm starting to think you were right, y'know. Maybe I should've gone over there with him.”

  Because I can't handle it? I have to pause before I talk to him.

  “I'm working on something,” I say.

  “Yeah, the guy you met in a bar. Water's full of sharks, Cal.”

  “This guy seems alright.” Wanting to add that Shapiro's the one he should be worried about. But there's no point in getting Paulo worked up over something he can't change. I've yet to feel my way with Shapiro, don't want to jump to any conclusions, even though it's not a long way to jump. “But I'll be careful.”

  “Okay then. Keep an eye on Liam, let me know what happens.”

  “I will. And Paulo, look, if Mo turns up, just call the fuckin' police, eh?”

  Paulo hangs up, leaving me with silence, then a purr.