by Ray Banks
The silence is thick. They sit there, staring at each other.
“These are good eggs,” I say.
Liam shoves a forkful of omelette into his mouth, starts chewing. Drops his gaze again.
“I don't know,” says Nelson. He's still leaning back in his seat. Apart from the bite out of the toast, he hasn't touched his food. He reaches forward for his coffee. “Seems to me like I'm having a job interview, Cal. Haven't had one of those in a long time, and I didn't like the bullshit then, either.”
I blink at Nelson. There's anger in his eyes, a new kind I haven't seen before. And then I realise why: he thinks the same as me, that Liam's trying to fuck this up on purpose, that he's being a stroppy bastard because he wants to be the one controlling the situation. A wee power struggle that Nelson's not about to lose.
“Liam, something you're going to understand one day is that when you're offered help — and you need help — you take it without question.” Nelson sips his coffee. “I came here in good faith, thought I'd do my duty and help out a kid with all the talent but none of the technique.”
“I got the technique.”
“If you want to spend the rest of your life brawling for pennies outside a fucking bar, yeah. But if you want to be a sportsman, Liam, you want to be an athelete, you're going to have to learn a little about discipline.”
“I got discipline.”
“That bout with the Mexican kid says different. You let Puentes in with far too many free shots because your temper got the better of you. Don't get me wrong — temper's a solid thing to have and use. But don't let it use you. You learn to control that temper or you'll come up against someone who can.”
“I heard this before, Nelson,” says Liam. He takes another bite of his omelette, talks through his chews. “Paulo told us that story before.”
“Nice to know I'm not the only one who knows what he's talking about.” Nelson reaches for the syrup and pours a long zig-zag stream across his pancakes. “Okay, you heard that story. I got another one for you. True story, too. Back when I fought, my manager, he was like my best buddy, okay? Great guy. Do anything for you. And he did. Trouble is, the great guys are a step away from the shitty guys.” He cuts the pancakes with the side of his fork. “This sport, it's a business more than ever now. The rankings don't mean anything. Those rankings were fixed when I was in the circuit, no reason to believe they're any different now. Talent talks, but it's the money that keeps you running. You got promoters paying off boards so their fighters can square off against each other and keep the dollars rolling through the gate. Doesn't matter who knocks down who, the promoter's the only one that really wins.
“I didn't know that back then. I thought it was all on the level. I honestly thought I was getting these shots because I'd earned it. And it turned out my manager — that great guy — and the promoter, they'd been paying people off.”
He jams his fork into a hunk of pancake, pops it into his mouth.
“It didn't matter because I could take those motherfuckers down with a harsh look, y'know? Lot like you are now. But the thing is, I was mismatched to my advantage. I was a big fish in a small pond. My promoter kept pushing me to put on weight because the bigger you were, the bigger you were. More bucks. Always more bucks. Nobody gives a shit about the light-middleweights, they want to see a couple of heavyweights clash like fucking Godzillas in Las Vegas.”
Nelson plucks a napkin from the table and wipes his mouth.
“The trouble was,” he says. “I put on the weight and suddenly I was the same kind of guy I'd been fighting a year before. The mismatch tipped the other way. I was the lamb. I thought I was doing great, zipping up the ranks, and then I realised I was being positioned for a fantastic finale. I had Enrique Alvarez — yeah, that Enrique Alvarez — pound me into the canvas to preserve his precious winning streak. I'd been hyped, primed and slaughtered in six months.”
Liam stops chewing, puts his fork down. He reaches for his orange juice.
“So.” Nelson swallows his food, shrugs. “You want to go down the same route I did, you be my guest. I'm telling you you'll be able to go pro with or without this competition and that's not an empty compliment. But I'll also tell you that without your head in the right place and a guy who knows the business from the inside, you'll end up in the cold by the time you're twenty.”
“You think so,” says Liam, but there's no real defiance in it. The fight's drained from him.
“I know so. I've been there. Now, you want to be a baby about this, you can. Go ahead, take your chances. You'll probably prove me wrong, do very well for yourself. All I'm saying now is if you want to stow the bullshit and take some well-meaning advice, then I'll have you trained to the next level.”
“I'll beat Polito.”
“Yeah, and you'll beat him on your own terms,” says Nelson.
Liam looks into his tea, sniffs.
“You don't want to go back to Shapiro's,” I say.
“I know.”
“So?”
“So,” says Liam, looking up. “We'll give it a try.”
22
Nelson lives about two hours away from Los Angeles. We drive through the blazing sunshine with the air conditioning ramped right up. Down through the Coachella Valley, Nelson telling us various points of interest along the way. There aren't many. As we leave the city behind, the scenery falls into dusty desolation.
“Out here, you have to be careful,” he says. “Especially this time of year. This kind of heat'll put you down quicker than God.”
I drink bottled water, swallow codeine, try to rest my back. Spend most of the drive adjusting my seat. I can see Liam in the back seat, staring out of the window with wide eyes. This is the most space he's seen in his life. Come to think of it, it's the most space I've seen too. But I'm an adult about it.
Because, to be honest, all this wide open space does is scare the living shit out of me. Especially with all Nelson's talk about those “stupid hitchhikers two years back, they thought they'd go through the Valley — man, talk about chargrilled …”
Nelson's car is a real monster, a people-carrier. I didn't think he was the type, what with all that smog talk he'd given me. But according to him, he got it cheap: “Nobody buys people-carriers anymore. Used to be soccer moms, but they traded up to SUVs. The real rich ones went for the Hummers. I ask you, man, why the hell would you need a Hummer in the city unless it's under martial law?”
Not the first question that popped into my mind, it has to be said. I was wondering why they named a car after a specialist blow job. Shows what I know.
When we finally pull up to a sprawling white house complete with double garage and tree out front, I must pull a face. It's easy to see where Nelson's boxing money went.
Nelson catches my look, says, “We don't build up in this country, Cal. It's cheaper to build out.”
“Obviously.”
And it's obviously cheaper to have a massive telly, too. We're shown into a living room and that monolithic television's the first thing I see. Must be all of seventy inches.
“Shit,” I say. “That's a monster.”
Nelson smiles. “I don't watch much anymore. Mostly just use it for tapes and DVDs. TIVO the fights. You want to flip it on, check what's showing, go for it.” He hands me a remote as big as my head. “Mi casa es tu casa.”
I squint at the remote. “Maybe later.”
“Cool. You want to check out the gym, Liam?”
Liam nods and they head off. I'm left behind for a second before I dump the remote on the couch and tag along behind. I see Liam following Nelson down an enclosed staircase that must lead to the basement. The lad's like a bloody puppy. Amazing what a show of cash will do to a kid's frame of mind.
The basement is chilly. Lightbulbs and pullcords hang from the ceiling. As Nelson walks around, he yanks light into the room, illuminating equipment like prizes on a game show. The kind of stuff Paulo would probably kill for. Dated, yeah, but certainly not ob
solete, the equipment down here is used a lot, but it defies wear and tear.
“Better stuff than Shapiro,” says Nelson. “And you got all the privacy you need. No distractions.”
Liam looks around the basement. It's obvious he's never seen this kind of equipment before in his life.
“What d'you think?” says Nelson.
Liam nods.
“Then you're in?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Nelson grins. “Okay then, let's get you started.”
As he details Liam's training, I make my silent excuses and leave the basement unnoticed. Best to let them get on with it; my work here is done. I head back upstairs, check out the kitchen. One of those gargantuan refrigerators you could lose yourself in. I open it up, see TV dinners and fresh fruit, a couple of six packs. The single man in charge of his diet. Back out into the hallway, and I realise I need a piss, all that bottled water thumping at my bladder now. I try a door; end up in Nelson's bedroom. It's neat, but I don't notice much else apart from the grey uniform shirt and black trousers that are laid out on the queen-sized bed. I don’t cross the threshold. Something about snooping around another man's bedroom makes me uneasy. Call it a respect of boundaries. And that holster complete with gun lying by the uniform is enough to make me turn back, closing the door as quietly as I can.
The bathroom's across the hall, and the toilet looks like every other in this country: blocked. I have a moment of horror when the yellow-tinged water rises up with the flush, looks like it's going to overflow, then relief as the whole lot is sucked round the U bend.
And then I'm back out in the living room after cocking my head to make sure Nelson and Liam are still in the basement. Liam sounds like he's slamming a heavy bag. All the different things he could be doing, the kid likes that the most. Building up his punch, heating it until it scalds.
I slump onto the couch, fish around for the remote and turn on the telly. Flick past a Law And Order marathon, surf through adverts for car insurance with the President from 24, catch a bit of David Caruso trying his best not to peel in Miami. I reckon that was a sound piece of casting. Put a violently ginger guy in Florida heat and watch him struggle. Onto the news and the brush fire's history, therefore forgotten, the weather's hot-hot-hot with a high of 112 and a low of 74 (like that means anything to me) and the weatherman's still wearing a suit.
Nelson comes into the room as I'm watching a repeat of Columbo, the one where Patrick McGoohan's a spy with a bag of disguises and murder on his mind.
“No time like the present,” says Nelson.
“Sorry?”
“Liam's still training. He went nuts for the set-up.”
“Good. That's great.”
“You okay. Can I get you a drink or something?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I'm fine.”
Nelson looks at the television. “How does he know this time?”
“I can't remember,” I say. “I can never bloody remember. It's always something tiny.”
“They show the re-runs so you don't have to remember.”
“Actually, you know what? I'll have a beer if you've got one,” I say.
“Sure.”
I follow Nelson through to the kitchen. He hands me a Miller Lite from the fridge, takes one for himself. I wait for a bottle opener to appear. Realise I don't need one when Nelson twists off the cap on his bottle and takes a deep swig. The United States, always that one step ahead of Britain.
“How long's Liam staying?” I say.
“However long he wants.”
“You don't have anything else to do?”
Nelson looks at me as if I've just asked to kiss his cheek. “No, Cal, I don't have anything else to do.”
“Okay.” I swallow some beer. It's cold piss. “I just wondered, he's got his bout tonight. Wondered if you had to work or something or if you were coming along.”
“Work?”
“Yeah, like a job.”
A sheen comes over Nelson's eyes. “I don't work a job, Cal. Haven't worked a job for years.” He sets his beer on the counter. “I'll try to make it to the bout, but I can't promise anything. I think the guy at the gym is all Liam'll need when he's boxing. I'd prefer to take a back seat. Reuben's a good cornerman. And I'll tell you the truth, Cal, me and Phil Shapiro don't get on. I'd rather not be seen hanging around his place.”
“Okay. Look, it looks like he's got a day off tomorrow. I've got stuff I need to do, so is it alright if you two go at it all day?”
“My pleasure. You gonna see the sights?”
“Something like that. I'm supposed to be on holiday, aren't I?”
“Of course you are. I forgot.” He pulls open a drawer, grabs a pen and a notepad and starts writing. “You want to drop him off, that's cool. It's not that hard to get here, but I'll draw you a map too. Make it easier on you. Unless you want me to pick him up at the hotel?”
“Nah, I'll drop him off.”
“Okay, cool.” He hands me the map and directions, clicks the pen.
“Cheers,” I say. “What's Liam doing down there?”
“Nothing too strenuous. We'll get him warmed up for tonight, but I don't want him tired, so it's all low impact stuff, keep the muscles working, the heart up. He's good.”
“I know.”
“I'll run him for another couple of hours, then I'll drop you both off, how's that?”
“Sounds good.”
“In the meantime, help yourself to the refrigerator. Anything you need. Like I said …”
“Mi casa es tu casa.”
“Exactly.”
When he leaves, the beer he was drinking still sits on the counter, one swallow gone. I take it with me into the living room and get back to Columbo.
****
I put the gnawing in my gut down to a Scottish temperament. When it's blue skies, we forecast three weeks of dreich. A pessimistic nation, which is why we've managed to take the hard times with a tight smile on our faces.
Liam is riding shotgun this time. I'm in the back seat, trying to stretch out, staring at the sky.
“You get many storms out here, Nelson?” I say.
“A couple. You should see them, Cal. They're really something.”
I bet they are. Sheet lightning sparking the sky, rolling thunder and a sick, creeping fear that you're out in the open and you're liable to be killed at any moment. We're not meant to be out in nature. That's why we invented houses, central heating, air conditioning, television. Keep us back in the womb. Safe.
That's the point of these people-carriers, too. More than being able to transport your screaming brood from school to football practice, it's like you're in your own wee capsule, shielded from the elements. I read that in times of political or economic strife, people in this country buy bigger, safer vehicles. They're scared, just like Nelson said. This thing I read suggested that, given time, people are going to be in the market for personal tanks.
With extra-large cup holders front and back, of course.
I try not to think about the uniform on Nelson's bed.
Or the gun.
Or that if he's not working a job-type job, then why was the kit laid out like that? Thinking that maybe, okay, it wasn't his room. But then it was clean. Knowing I'll need to take a pill soon and trying not to think about that, either.
Because I think too much, apparently. That's what Donna told me once and it's never left me. But then when I don't think — run on pure instinct and emotion — that's when people get hurt. Mostly me. It's a lose-lose situation.
Nelson drops us off at the hotel and Liam makes a beeline for his room. He hasn't talked to me since we left Palm Desert. Pissed off that he had to leave so soon, no doubt, and gearing up for the second bout.
Which we have to get to bloody soon.
23
If I didn't know better, I'd swear the kid fighting Josh Callahan was drunk. He stumbles, weaves like he's been topped with a bottle of vodka. Josh keeps it calm fo
r a moment, striking hard when the opportunity arises. Which it does. A lot. But for some reason, the bout manages to get to the third round before it's stopped, Josh's opponent battered and bleeding.
Liam and I arrived in the middle of the thing, Liam watching for a few seconds, then scribbling in his notebook.
“What is that?” I said.
“What?”
I pointed to the book.”That.”
“Nowt,” he says. “Just notes.”
I tried to get a look at what he's written, but it just looked like scrawl. Liam pinched the book shut, pushed it into his bag.
They've announced Josh the winner. I look at the ring and the blonde twat has one glove in the air. His opponent is being helped through the ropes. He doesn't look disappointed, more resigned. A bit more showboating, and Josh is gone too. His father turns up and starts packing Josh's bag for him. Hands him the bag and points to the door. Josh throws on a tracksuit jacket and swaggers to the exit.
Mr Callahan stays where he is as they announce the next bout.
****
Whatever Nelson's done to Liam, it's worked. The first round is a slow burner. Charlie Polito is a mover, but he's deliberate with it. No bounce in his step unless it's called for to sweep out from under a jab. Liam strikes, then Polito. They trade blows, neither of them very hard. When Polito scores a hefty uppercut, I think that's Liam gone. He's bound to lose it, turn nasty.
But he doesn't. He recovers, shakes his head back, and carries on.
The next time Polito tries the uppercut, Liam's got it blocked and returned. No more hanging lefts — his gloves are up. When I glance at Reuben, he's smiling. Like, finally, the kid's learned something. And he has, I just doubt it was from Reuben.
No, this is Nelson's work.
Liam moves with confidence. He sees an opening, he takes it. But he doesn't hammer it. Patience is now his prime virtue. That, and a keen eye for a weak defence.
Second round and Polito's getting hazy. He starts throwing amateur punches, easily seen and avoided. His feet keep working, but working too much now. He's heard about Liam, he's expecting the explosion. When Liam moves, I can see Polito almost flinch. Liam knows it, too. But he's not about to start playing up. When the bell rings, Polito looks borderline exhausted. Liam's scored enough decent punches to mark the round his.