by Ray Banks
Which I hope is a yes, Cal, of course I'll call the police, Cal.
18
The place calls itself a ristorante, but it's about as Italian as an Aldi pizza. If the waitress who staggered up to our table is anything to go by, the staff are either genetically retarded or high as kites. I found myself checking for tracks on her arms, looking for her pupils. From the look she gave me, I put her down as retarded and bitter. It was safer that way.
But I still don't trust the food in here. If the waitress is the public face of the place, then I dread to think what the cook looks like. Probably a one-eyed, crack-addicted yeti.
Yeah, I'm in a bad mood. My blood's too thick for the kind of heat they have in this country. It's reptile climate and I'm all mammal. Been sweating since we touched down and it's not from lack of medication, either. Since I called Nelson, see if he wanted to meet up for lunch, I've been trying to ration out my prescription. Knowing full well I'll have an awful time of it once I get back to Manchester, but also knowing that if I don't keep necking the pills, I won't be able to move.
But I was good. I didn't neck anything. Rationing. I did well and I'm still walking. So I'm celebrating with a beer or two. Nelson's opposite me. He's scarfed down a pizza that looked like it had been used as a dartboard at one point in its long and miserable life, and now he's bent over a pot of tiramisu.
“Hangover cure to end all hangover cures,” he says, pointing at the brown mess with his spoon. “You got sugar, coffee, eggs, cheese and the hair of the dog that bit me.”
“Literally in this place, Nelson.”
He looks around the restaurant and smiles. “Ah, well, it used to be a great place. Owned by an Italian guy for a start. You'd think that was the prerequisite for an Italian restaurant, wouldn't you? Guy called Stella. Big guy, great sense of humour. Real Italian, like super-Italian, played opera and Dino, liked his sports. Great place.” He taps the bowl with his spoon. “Great tiramasu, too. Used to be right up there with California Pizza Kitchen and Macaroni Grill.”
“Can't say I've tried them.” I sip my beer.
“I'll take you to the pizza place. There's a guy there, Oscar, he owes me a favour.”
“Okay.” I put the beer bottle on the table. “So what'd you think about the fight?”
Nelson told me he was there. Turns out I was too busy talking to Josh's dad and watching Liam knock the shit out of Puentes to pay much attention to the rest of the crowd. But Nelson was there.
“I'm still hungover,” he says, mushing up his tiramisu. “So my judgement may be off.”
“Judgement's judgement.”
Nelson sets the spoon to one side. “I think he's got it in him. Definitely. He's pro material. But I was under the impression he was controlled. Didn't look that way to me.”
I shake my head. “His first bout, Nelson. The lad's got a lot on his mind.”
“Then he needs to get it off his mind.” Nelson waves the thought away. “Okay, no, he's got a lot on his mind. Throw in the flight, kid hasn't got time to adjust, you got jet-lag, he's not going to be on top form. That's fine, I'll accept that. Way I see it, your boy Liam's got enough raw talent in him, he can go into a bout with the wrong strategy and he'll still probably win.”
I hold the bottle of beer to my forehead to curb sweat, then take a drink.
“I say that — he'll probably win — but he'll take more hits than he should. And I don't need to tell you, if he keeps doing that, his career'll be shorter than most.”
“He doesn't have a career,” I say.
“He will, given the right counselling.” Nelson goes back to his tiramisu.
“You up for it?”
He smiles, chews. “I've got nothing better to do, Cal. And it sounds like you need all the help you can get.”
“You could say that.” Another swig from the beer. “I can't talk to the lad, Nelson. I ask him what's wrong, he doesn't answer me or he tells me to go fuck myself. I feel like a parent and I didn't even get the fun of conception. This trip was supposed to be a holiday for me, y'know?”
“You look like you still need one.”
“I do, mate. But I don't know what I'm going to do.” I lean back in my seat. “You want to talk to him?”
“I don't know, Cal…”
“He's more likely to listen to you than he is me. You've been in the game, you're carrying the experience. He might listen to that.”
Nelson looks at me for a long time, says, “You don't want him to screw this up.”
“Course I don’t. I got things I need to sort out. I don't want to be worried about him, do I?”
“Of course you don't.”
“I help this lad, give him a break and it works out, it'll be great for all of us. We go back to Manchester local heroes and we get the ticker tape parade, pictures in the rag, the whole lot. And we might not get on, him and me, but that doesn't mean I need to piss on his chips and tell him it's vinegar, know what I mean?” I stare at the bottle in my hand. “I don't know, Nelson. I just don't see this working out well without you.”
Nelson pushes his tiramisu to one side, puts his elbows on the table. “It'll be fine. And I think you care a lot more about that kid than you let on.”
“Right, Nelson.”
“Once all this is over with, I'm sure he'll pick up on that.”
“Yeah, well,” I say. “He can send me a card or something.”
****
Back at the hotel, I take Nelson up to Liam's room, but the lad isn't there. If he is, he's not answering my knock. I step back from the door.
“He should be here,” I say.
“Look, if it's a bad time, we can arrange it for tomorrow.”
“Nah, he really should be here.”
Nelson follows me into my room and I tell him to make himself comfortable. He sits on the bed and looks around. “Nice.”
I pick up the phone, call Liam's room. No answer. Then I call reception. “This is Mr Innes. I don't suppose you've seen the lad I checked in with, have you? His name's Liam Wooley.”
“Mr Wooley left a message for you.”
“He left me a message,” I say to Nelson. He nods.
“Mr Innes? Mr Wooley said he's gone to train.”
“Train? Where?”
“Uh, he didn't say.”
“Okay, thanks.” I'm about to put the phone down when I say, “Actually, sorry, no. I'm his driver. He's supposed to tell me if he needs to go somewhere.”
“Well, we called a cab for him.”
“Where was it going?”
“I don't know,” says the receptionist.
“It's okay,” I say. “I think I know anyway. Thanks a lot.”
I hang up. Stand there, Nelson watching me.
“What?” he says.
“He's gone to the bloody gym. He's gone back to Shapiro's to train. You want to come along?”
Nelson checks his watch and pulls a pained face. “Ah hell, I can't, Cal. I've got to be somewhere. Sorry.”
“Not a problem,” I say.
“Can we reschedule? Tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah, he's got another bout tomorrow night, I think. I'll have to check. But yeah, I'll do that, give you a ring on your mobile, maybe we can go out for breakfast or something.”
Nelson stands up, offers his hand. “Deal.”
19
By the time I get to Shapiro's place, the air has cooled off. I get out of the Metro, walk from the parking lot to the gym. Light a cigarette on the way, counting them off. This is the sixth Marlboro I've had today and it's, what, getting on for five o'clock? That's a good day for my health. Paulo would be proud.
I grind the cigarette into the concrete as I approach the gym. The lights are permanently burning here, but as I step inside it's apparent that there can't be more than half a dozen people about. It makes Liam easier to spot. He's working the heavy bag. As I head towards him, he glances at me and slows the workout. When I reach the bag, he moves away.
“Th
at's it, keep it up, son,” I say. “How long are you going to keep the spoilt kid act up, Liam?”
He doesn't answer me, takes a gulp of water and swills it around his mouth before he swallows. Cricks his neck, then eyes the bag like he's ready to knock a hole through it.
“I asked you a question.”
“I'm training,” he says.
“If you're training, where's Reuben?”
“He doesn't have to be here all the time. You go off, get drunk, whatever you have to do. I'm training.”
“You had a bout today. You don't need to train. You need to rest. Got another one tomorrow, you're going to be sparked out.”
“That's not the way it works, Cal. You knew the first thing about this, you'd know that.” Liam shifts his weight, plants two in the heavy bag, then another two. “Fuck do you care, anyway?”
“I care because I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you, son. And you fuck off at the first opportunity.”
“You weren't there.” Building up a rhythm now, hammering the bag so hard it would break a weaker lad's wrists. “I don't need a babysitter, anyway.”
“And I don't need to wipe any arses, Liam. But the fact is, I had someone who wanted to meet you today and you weren't there. You want to keep tabs on your career, mate. You want to start using your brain instead of throwing a hissy fit because you don't like me.”
Liam loses the rhythm. Frustration creases his face. “Fuck off. Just leave us alone.”
“I'm supposed to drive you about. Let me do it.”
He holds up his gloves. “I'm trying to get some work done here, alright? You want to have this conversation, right, we'll have it some other time.”
“You should've called me.”
“I needed to train and—”
“You needed to work out some temper tantrum because Paulo gave you a rough ride,” I say. “And it looks like you haven't worked it out yet.”
“Here, Paulo was right,” he says, wiping his nose on his glove.
I look at the floor for a second and fold my arms. “Yeah, he's right. But Paulo's got his own shite on at the moment. He's always been a bit mental, you ask me. And you know that.”
“I know.”
“So what's the deal? You going to keep spitting at me or what? 'Cause if that's the case, then fine. I'll wipe the tears and try to live the rest of my life. But I still think you should meet this guy. I think it'd be helpful for you. The bloke used to be pro, coaches a little, definitely knows his stuff. It can't hurt for you to talk to him, at least. Make me out to be less of a Tagalong Timmy, eh?”
“Tagalong Timmy?” Liam's face cracks a little. Christ, almost a smile. Would you credit it.
“Is that a yes?”
“He'll be a barmpot, Cal. Paulo told us about it.”
“Yeah, and if you think he's a barmpot, then you tell me. I'll get rid of the guy, no harm done. I'm the one that talked to him in the first place. I'll just tell him you're not interested, make some excuse that makes me out to be the dickhead I am and that'll be it.”
“Nah, I don't think so,” says Liam.
“You're not even going to chance it, are you?”
“I'll stick to the original plan.”
“Fine,” I say. “That's fine. But I'll be fucked if you're getting a cab back to the hotel. I'm parked up the street and I'll be waiting outside. You let me know when you're finished, alright?”
“I'll be a while.”
“You be as long as you want, son. I'll be outside.”
I turn on my heel, let him get on with his precious bloody training. And I almost light a cigarette before I'm out the door.
****
So I was having a healthy day. Six cigarettes, and try bumping it up another ten because there's nothing else to do apart from sit on the wall outside the gym and smoke. Takes me back to my school days.
Light starts to creep from the sky, leaving it dark blue turning to black. Cloud or smog or smoke knits a blanket over the stars and I get to thinking about what Nelson said. This place with its smog and halogen, where you could watch the planes head out across the ocean to fight some war you'd read about in the papers or heard on the radio. Days long gone. Now every part of LA looks like every other part of LA. The kind of shabby you see in an aging beauty queen who thought a pageant would change her life. Down the street there's a liquor store with bars on the window. I feel like getting up, rubbing the ache out of my lower back, taking a stroll down there and buying whatever brand of vodka I recognise. But that would mean deserting my post, and that can't happen. I know Liam'll be out the moment I'm gone. The way he's been, I wouldn't put it past him to walk rather than take a lift from me.
Lad's got a cob on about something. Same as Paulo, like everyone I know's gone mental. Not surprising, considering the tension. The idea of Mo Tiernan sniffing about the club back home doesn't exactly fill me with calm, I have to say. I thought Mo and I had gone through what we needed to go through. Back in the toilets, back in Newcastle, even before that when I headbutted him in front of a pub full of people because he was trying to put the fucking screws on my brother.
Mo's a nuisance. He's thick-headed. And like I said to Paulo, he's got no protection. I just hope the big man doesn't do anything stupid.
There's movement behind me. I turn, thinking it's going to be Liam, but Reuben steps out, light reflecting from his head. He's supposed to be helping Liam out with his training. I want to ask him what the fuck he's playing at, but I keep my mouth shut. What the hell, the way I see it going, Reuben's not going to be Liam's trainer much longer. Not if I can persuade Liam to sit down with Nelson.
“Y'alright?” I say with a nod.
Reuben pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one. The flame catches, illuminating his sagging features. “I'm okay.”
“Phil doesn't let you smoke in there, eh?”
“No.”
“Same with my guy,” I say. “I'm stuck in the back office with the window open. They're making martyrs out of us.”
“Huh.”
Silence. I take a drag from my cigarette, blow smoke. “Hell of a fight today.”
“Today?” Reuben comes over and takes a seat on the wall. Not too close. “Yeah, hell of a fight. Your boy's got some technique. Still rough, though.”
“You think?”
Reuben lets his left arm hang, points to it. “He keeps his left at his waist. Bad habit to get into. The boy's on the offensive, that's his strength. He likes to get in there hard and fast, but that left, man. That'll get him into a whole lot of trouble.”
“I'm sure he'll be fine.” Thinking, I'll pass that on to Nelson, see what he makes of it.
“No, he needs to tighten his defence,” says Reuben. “That low left, even pros shouldn't do it. It's a showboat move. He can't be giving away fifty percent of his defence like that. He really wants to keep his left down, he's gotta learn to roll his body or block with the right, else his opponent's gonna sneak in there like Puentes did.”
“He'll learn.”
“I got him working on it.” He shows me. “Keep it up. Keep a tight guard, play peek-a-boo, you get me?”
“I taught him everything he knows,” I say.
Reuben drops his hands and smiles. “Yeah, I'm sure you did.”
“Cal,” I say.
“Reuben,” he says, like I don't already know. “Call me Rube and I'll cut your throat.”
“Good to meet you, Reuben. You work here long?”
“A while.”
“Enjoy your work?”
“Hell is this, an interview? You gonna offer me a job?”
“Just chit-chat, Reuben.” I drop my filter, grind it out. Light another. “Small talk.”
“Sure.”
“You see a lot of these competitions?” I say.
“We do some here, yeah.”
“Shaprio have a hand in all of them?”
Reuben stares at me. “You want to ask something, pal, you just come right out and ask it,
okay?”
I smile, do my best innocent expression. “Sorry, mate, I was just—”
“Making small talk, I know. Seems to me the talk ain't small enough, though.”
“Hey, I didn't mean anything.”
“You want to talk about bigger things.”
“There's nothing you can tell me about Phil Shapiro I don't already know.”
“That so.”
“Yup.” I blow some more smoke, watch it drift. “I know he was a hell of a fighter in his day.”
“His day ain't over. And he ain't a guy who takes ball-busting well.”
“I noticed that.”
“That's good. Because all these questions, you're sounding like a cop. And you ain't a fuckin' cop, are you?”
“No, I'm not a cop.”
“Then quit it with the first degree. You sound like you’re trying to dig dirt.”
“Is there dirt to dig, then?”
Reuben takes a few puffs from his cigarette and drops it to the ground, half-smoked. “Yeah, good to meet you too, Cal. Let's do this again sometime.”
He grunts as he gets off the wall, waddles back to the gym.
“Yeah, let's,” I say.
I grind out Reuben's still smoking cigarette.
20
Liam comes out of the gym with his bag slung over his shoulder. He looks relaxed, smug even. He should be, too — the bugger's kept me waiting three hours. Lucky for me I lost track of time. I get to my feet.
“You done?” I say.
Liam flinches. And now I know why he was looking smug. He thought I'd gone. “Yeah, I'm finished.”
“Good.” I jerk my thumb up the street. “Parked up a way. Hope you've got enough energy left for a walk.”
He nods. I don't offer to take his bag. He wants to keep me waiting, he can carry his own shit. As we walk, I keep my distance. Don't want to crowd him into another one of his moods. The street's deserted.
“You up for tomorrow then?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“You know the kid?”
“I seen him about.”
“What's he like?”
“Streak of piss.”
“That's the spirit. Hope you beat him to a pulp.”