by Ray Banks
“I can't do that, Cal. Straight and narrow.”
“Yeah, I forgot. Straight and narrow. Then beat him like that. You do that, you know who you're up against?”
“That arsehole from the other day,” he says.
“I didn't tell you, but I met his dad at your bout.”
“He was there?”
“Checking out the competition, must've been. I didn't see Josh turn up until you'd already pasted Puentes. And you know what? He looked worried as fuck. Watching you smack that kid around, he got a bit scared for his son's future well-being.”
Liam regards me, doesn't say anything. He keeps walking.
“And who's going to know his son but his father?”
“Uh-huh.”
When I look at him, Liam's staring at something in the distance. I follow his line of sight. Up by the car park, there's three lads and a girl standing round a couple of expensive-looking motors. After a moment's lapse in Liam's pace, he speeds up. I have to stride to keep up with him. Liam's face has dropped into that scally stone I've seen too many times.
As we draw nearer, it's obvious why he's putting on the attitude. Josh Callahan, standing around with his buddies. One of the lads is big, wide, looks like a quarterback. The other's weedy. The girl looks like she's had her fair share of frat-boy fingers. She's blonde, barely-dressed, sitting on the bonnet of an Audi. In her fist is a pint of Wild Turkey. The quarterback takes the bottle from her as we approach. It's the American version of a bus shelter posse turned rich and proud.
And mouthy.
“Jesus Christ, if it isn't the Brit,” says Josh at the top of his lungs.
“How are you, old bean?” says the weedy lad, sticking his top teeth out in some drunken fucking parody. “By Jove, sir—”
“Keep walking,” I say to Liam.
But the flame's already caught, made his cheeks rise red. He's burning.
“Liam, Liam, I hear you fucked up the Mexican, man.” Josh peels away from his mates. A swagger in his walk.
“Dios mio, Josh, motherfucker's a taco-banger,” says the weedy lad.
The quarterback takes a long pull on the Wild Turkey, almost chokes on his laughter. Yeah, the weedy lad's definitely the joker in the group.
“No, man, he didn't kiss him first. You didn't kiss him, did you, Liam?”
Liam stops in his tracks. I nudge him to move; he doesn't.
“I hear you fucked Puentes good, man.” Josh moves forward now he's got Liam's attention, his voice dropping a notch below a yell. He busts a few combos that look inebriated. “I hear you slaughtered him in the old one-two-three — wop, wop, wop …”
“… or spic, spic, spic,” says the joker. That twat's getting on my last nerve. Doesn't help that the blonde girl's giggling. I get the feeling she'd giggle if someone set her on fire. Wouldn't mind giving it a try, either.
“That the way they teach you in England, man?” Josh screws his face up. “They just tell you, 'hit the bloke, mate'? That's no fuckin' technique.”
The joker flaps his hand for the bottle of whiskey. The quarterback takes another drink and passes it over.
Josh runs his tongue inside his bottom lip. “You try that shit on me, I'm gonna be dancing you to your fuckin' death, man.” He feints a left. “Down in one — bang.”
“He won't get past Charlie, man,” says the quarterback.
“Yeah, man, you got Charlie. Charlie's a wop gonna fuck you up. And if he doesn't, then you came over here for three fights and you'll be going home in a wheelchair.”
“How's about you stow the WWF shite, son?” I say.
“Liam, your boyfriend talks a lot of shit. You want to step in for the baby, my man?”
Liam pushes in front of me.
“C'mon,” he says.
Just that. Soft. Deliberate.
“Liam,” I say.
“Nah, Cal. The cunt's been wanting a slap since the moment I saw him. Now's his chance.”
The joker swigs whiskey and grips the bottle that little bit harder. This isn't going to end well. Everyone squaring up like it's West Side fucking Story. This is going to end with the pair of us in hospital and no medical insurance. This is going to end with me explaining to Paulo how his star pupil ended up with a bunch of expensive stitches in his head and chucked out of a competition when I had the opportunity to nip it in the bud.
Josh rolls his shoulders. The blonde girl giggles again, starts clapping. I want to snap her fingers off and stick them in Josh's eyes. Because the blonde rich lad has the same glazed expression of every violent drunk I've ever met.
“You want me to tell your father where you've been, Josh?” I say.
He doesn't look at me — too busy glaring at Liam — and says, “You don't know my father.”
“Yeah, I do. I met him at Liam's bout. You take after him. He looks like a fuckin' lightweight, too.”
Josh snaps his attention to me. “The fuck you know about my father, man? Look at you. My father wouldn't talk to you. You look like a fuckin' hobo.”
“Let me handle this,” says Liam.
“You lads need to calm down,” I say. “Otherwise you're both out the comp, you know that.”
“He shouldn't be in the comp in the first place,” says Josh. “We've already been through that.”
“Then you prove it in a couple of days.”
“I'll prove it now. I don't give a shit.”
More clapping from the girl.
“Why? So you can wake up tomorrow with your face on the pillow next to you? Don't be a prat, son.”
“Prat,” says the joker. “Fuckin' asshole.”
I can't help myself. I grab the joker by the neck of his T shirt, pull him round and push him hard up against the side of the Audi. Grind his face into the roof. The girl shrieks and jumps off the car — violence too up close and personal for her. I keep an eye on the quarterback in my peripheral. He's standing, arms heavy by his sides. I wish I had a knife or something I could show them, scare the bollocks off them.
“What'd you call me?” I pull on the weedy lad's hair, slam his head against the roof. He drops the Wild Turkey, bottle clinking and rolling onto the street.
“Jesus, man.” Blood is welling up in his bottom lip.
“You're a hard lad, are you?” I stare at the quarterback. “You a hard lad, too?”
“Jesus fuckin' Christ, let go of me.”
“Let go of him,” says Josh.
“You're a hard lad, the man-child over there's a hard lad, Josh is a hard lad and Liam's a hard lad. And guess what? I'm a fuckin' hard lad, too. Except I don't have Phil Shapiro to worry about. So how about you and Josh calm it down and knock the 'limey' shite on the head, alright? Else I'll put your fuckin' heads together.”
“Let him go,” says Josh. His voice shakes.
“You sobered up now, son?”
“Just let him go, okay?”
I raise my hands empty. Josh's mate stays leaning against the roof of the car, too scared to move. I turn to Josh. “You want to sort this out, you do it like Shapiro said. You do it in the ring. You can't do that, you'll have me to deal with. And I might look like a streak of piss, but I'm a streak of piss you don't want in your life. 'Cause I'll buy a cricket bat and take it to your fuckin' knees.”
Josh bends over, picks up the Wild Turkey. He swills what's left in the bottom of the bottle. “You don't want to fuck with me, mister.”
“Is that so, Richie Rich? You going to buy an army to wipe me out?”
“I'm telling you,” he says. “I'm warning you.”
I smile, push past him. “I been told and warned by people who could shit you without grunting. So get yourself home and sleep it off. You'll need all the energy you can get when my boy Liam kicks your fuckin' arse.”
Liam follows me to the car, leaving the Josh Posse behind. I slip behind the wheel as Liam gets in the passenger side. He has to slam the door three times before it stays closed.
“That bloody door,” I say. �
�Remind me on, Liam. I need to talk to the rental place.”
I start the engine, pull out of the car park, wave at Josh as we pass. He's leaning against the Audi, his joker mate dabbing at his bottom lip with his fingers. Once we're on the road, I turn on the radio. A whispering, gravel-voiced DJ is playing “white hot blues till the orange dawn”, which is just fine with me. I turn it up. I try to ignore my shaking hands, the agony in my back. I shouldn't have been so fucking physical, but it was the only way. I couldn't touch Josh, not without a whole hurricane of shite heading my way. And that lippy fucker got what he deserved. So hopefully I proved my point and I wouldn't have to slip a disc proving it again.
John Lee Hooker comes on the radio and I have to turn it off. He reminds me of someone I don't want to think about.
“Cal.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
I look at Liam; he's staring out the side window.
“No problem,” I say. “You might want to think about staying away from the gym until tomorrow night, though.”
He nods. “I've been having trouble focussing.”
“I'm not surprised, mate.” I glance at the road. “You want to reconsider on what we talked about?”
Liam sighs. It turns into a low laugh.
“I'm just saying, Liam. If you're having trouble focussing, maybe this coach is what you need.” I look across at him. “You can't do this on your own. Nobody's expecting you to. And I'm no good to you, am I? So we need some help, and Nelson's the bloke who can maybe deliver that help. You want to stay on the straight, that's what he'll be there for — keep you focussed. Then I get to have my holiday, you get to have your career and everybody's happy.”
Liam smiles with one side of his mouth. “I don't know, Cal.”
“Just, for me, just talk to him, okay? We'll have breakfast. My shout.”
He doesn't say anything, stares out of the window. I think he's a dead loss. There's nothing I can do to change his mind.
Then he says, “If he's nuts, I walk.”
21
I set an alarm call for six, drag myself into the bathroom to get ready for the day. A quick glance at the television, and there's no more brush fires, no riots. Everything is hunky dory in the City of Angels and the sun is burning high in the blue. I wonder why people don't pray for rain, but then it's probably only the likes of me that misses Manchester rain, the kind that makes you think you're drowning as you walk. All this sun isn't good for my mental health, though it seems to be working on the parade of tanned, coiffeured presenters on the television. I close the door to the bathroom, sit on the toilet, smoke a Marlboro to the filter, drop the butt in the bowl, flush and hop into the shower. Hawk up a nasty greyish-green lump and spit it straight into the plug hole. Life is good.
I called Nelson as soon as Liam and I got back to the hotel. When he answered, he sounded like he was dug in for the night at a bar. He assured me he was at home, and I didn't question him. Tried not to get worried, thinking that Nelson was no longer a boxer because he was a full-time alkie. I had room to talk, of course. And Paulo used to be a souse, so it wasn't a slur on the man's character. I just would've preferred Nelson clean and sober when he talked to Liam.
Which he is. After I've knocked on Liam, we meet Nelson down in the lobby and if the bloke's been on a bender, he's scrubbed himself beyond sober. It all feels like clockwork. Liam takes one look at the ginger guy and something clicks with him. I don't know how he pictured Nelson — probably some cheroot-chewing guy like Reuben — but looking like a clean ex-boxer obviously hadn't figured in his imagination.
“Liam,” says Nelson, sticking out a paw. “I'm Nelson Byrne. I saw your bout yesterday.”
“You were there?” says Liam.
“Yeah.” He smiles full wattage. “Cal asked me to pop by. Hope you don't mind.”
“Nah, I don't mind.”
“You hungry? I'm buying. Know a great place we can start the day off slow and easy.”
That place turns out to be a Denny's. I've heard of them, but never been in one. It's about the closest a lad from Leith is ever likely to get to a full American diner experience. We grab a tidy booth in the corner of the restaurant. I bury my nose in the menu while Nelson orders coffee for him and me, a herbal tea and orange juice for Liam. I'm leafing through the specials — food photos shot like hazy pornography — and my appetite comes roaring back.
“Let me ask you something, Liam,” says Nelson. His eyes haven't left Liam since we settled, like he's trying to size the lad up. “Where d'you see yourself in five years' time?”
“Manchester,” says Liam, leaning back in his seat. Giving Nelson the same look he's getting. Or at least trying to.
“You still going to be fighting?”
“Dunno. Depends on how the comp goes.”
“Forget the competition for a second—”
“Can I smoke in here?” I say.
“No,” says Nelson. “Not this table.”
“Shit.”
“I want you to forget the competition, Liam.”
“It's why I'm over here.”
“Yeah, but put it out of your mind for the time being. The competition's a way to get in there, but if it doesn't happen, there are other options.”
“Paulo said there's scouts at these things.”
“Doesn't mean they're going to pick you.”
“If I win—”
“If you win, they could pick the runner-up. See him as someone they can mould better. See, the competition, it isn't the be-all and end-all. So if you don't kick pro while you're here, what're you going to be doing in five years' time?”
“I'll still fight.”
“That's good. That's the answer I was after. You want to go pro?”
“Course I want to go pro. Kind of question's that, man?”
“It's a damn good question. Why?”
“Because of the money. And I want to be the best, Mr Byrne.”
“Call me Nelson.”
The waitress brings our coffee and Liam's tea and orange. Nelson sits back in his seat and smiles at the waitress until she leaves. Liam sips his orange juice.
“Did he answer right?” I say.
“He answered fine, Cal. You answered fine, Liam. Especially that second part. Any kid says he's not interested in the cash, he's lying through his damn teeth. A lot more think that's the only way to make the big bucks. And they're deluded. They're the kind of kids, they turn pro and get their asses beaten and the rest of them fleeced. They don't see dollar one. It's really only the managers who make money.”
“You ever manage?” says Liam.
The waitress returns. “Can I take your order?”
Nelson orders, then me. Liam opts for an egg-white omelette that flusters the waitress for a second.
When the waitress leaves, Liam plays it like he's in control. “I asked you a question.”
“I know you did.” Nelson smiles. “No, I never managed. I coached. Not a lot. But I coached and I did my time as a cut man.”
“I'm asking because you don't seem to have many credentials.”
The smile wavers on Nelson's face. “I boxed for ten years, kid. I don't need any credentials.”
Ah Christ, Liam, don't fuck this up. “He's asking—”
“Nelson knows what I'm asking,” says Liam. “Look, I'm sorry, Nelson. I got to ask you, know what I mean? All I know is you met Cal in a bar. And what does that tell us apart from you like a drink?”
“No, that's fine.” The smile's gone. “I appreciate that. Cal just asked me if I could lend a hand.”
“And I'm not saying that's not welcome,” says Liam. “I'm really not. I just have to be sure you're going to lend a helping hand.”
“You're suspicious still. That's okay.”
“I'm not suspicious.” Liam laughs. “But, y'know, I've got to wonder about the type of bloke who offers his services in bars.”
“Liam, don't be a twat.” He said he'd talk to Nelson;
he didn't say he'd talk to him like that.
“I'm not being a twat, Cal. Nelson, you see my fuckin' point, don't you?”
There's a long pause as Nelson looks at Liam. He reaches forward for a pack of Sweet 'N' Lo, shakes it, then tears it open and adds the contents to his coffee. He sips from the cup, sets it down.
“You need to stop being such a fighter, Liam,” he says. “Battling all the time, you'll have no energy for the big ones.”
Our food arrives. Massive plates piled high. I get stuck into my Denver Scramble thinking, fuck it, I'm not going to get involved. If this goes tits up, it's Liam's fault. No one to blame but himself. I'm helping the lad out, but he's acting like he's the one doing me a favour. Bollocks to that. Dig your own grave, son.
“My next bout's—”
“Tonight,” says Nelson. “So this could be academic, this talk.”
“You think it is, you can leave.”
“If I thought it was, I wouldn't be here.” Nelson studies his food, picks up a piece of toast and sinks his teeth into it. As he chews, he says,”But I think you'll win tonight. You got Charlie Polito tonight, don't you?”
“That's the name.”
“You don't know his style?”
Liam shakes his head, pokes at his omelette. It looks disgusting, but then that's what you get when you forsake the yolk.
“Well, I do,” says Nelson. He brushes the crumbs from his hands. “I'm not going to pretend I know all the kids taking part, but I know Charlie Polito. And if you're not prepared, you won't see much of the next bout.”
“I'll take him.”
“I'm sure you will. That's not what I said. You'll see the next bout, but Polito'll open up a whole new bruise pattern on you. You ripped the breath out of Puentes, that's great, but Polito will do the same to you. And you'll lose the next bout, you'll be hurting.”
“I need a place to train,” says Liam, as if he hadn't heard. He sips his tea and avoids Nelson's stare.
“I have a gym at my place.”
“You've got a gym?”
“Yeah. At home. It's all good equipment. I still work out.”
Liam looks at me, then pokes his omelette some more. “I don't know, Nelson.”
“Well, I'll tell you something, Liam. I don't know either.”