by Ray Banks
“Right…”
“You know what happens to fish out of water? They drown.”
I keep walking, shake off the fear and spit the taste of iron out of my mouth.
25
When I get back to the hotel, Nelson's waiting in the lobby. He sees me coming through the doors and surprise flickers across his face. Checks his watch and the surprise turns into a smile. I don’t have the energy or the inclination to match it. My back killing me, pissed off and tired, the last thing I want to do is be courteous.
“I called your room,” he says.
“I'm not there.” Nelson's another morning person. It wears me out even more. “What're you doing here? I thought I was going to drop Liam off at yours.”
“I was in the neighbourhood,” he says with a shrug. “Thought I'd swing by, see if you guys wanted some breakfast.”
“You know what time it is?”
“Seven?” He shakes his watch. “It's an old winder. I don't know.”
“Only truckers and security guards have breakfast this early, Nelson. Let the lad sleep.” I walk to the lift, press the button.
“How did it go last night?”
I run a hand over my face. Of course, he wasn't there; he wouldn't know. I turn to Nelson and summon up a half-smile. “Liam won.”
“That's great.”
“Yeah, you did a good job.”
“Hope you don't mind me saying this, but you look like shit, Cal.”
I press the lift call button again. “Then I look how I feel.”
“You been out all night celebrating?” he says.
“Just an early morning.”
“Anything exciting?”
I look at him. He's here now, he might as well know the score. And maybe he can point me in the right direction. “Tell you what, let me pop to my room and we'll go somewhere, I'll tell you all about it.”
“Cool.”
“But we'll leave Liam in his pit. Let him catch up.”
****
Free refills on the coffee. What a wonderful thing. I take my pills, let my body settle into a dazed slump. Let the coffee keep the brain going. Our waitress is a hawk. I haven't finished one cup yet — she swoops in, tops me up and is gone before I get a chance to say thank you. We're at a smoking table, at least. Nelson's taken pity on me.
“You're sure you don't want anything to eat?” says Nelson. “A muffin or something?”
“I gave up early morning muffins a while back. Besides, I don't think my stomach's up to it.”
I told Nelson about my meeting with Callahan and he raised his eyebrows, but that was it.
“If you had any doubts about this smoker being on the level, there's your proof. At least from Callahan's point of view. And now I've thought about it, Nelson, I could swear something was up last night.”
“How so?”
I shake my head. “Caught the end of Josh's bout. The kid he was fighting, he didn't have much of an offence, even less of a defence. Like he was just standing there to stand there.”
“Like he'd been paid off?”
“Maybe him, maybe his coach. I don't know. Maybe the kid was defeated because Josh is a hell of a fighter. Like I said, I caught the end of the bout. Could be that Josh just made him that way.”
“But you don't believe that, do you?” says Nelson.
“I'm not sure.” I sip coffee, then: “No, I don't believe it.”
Nelson lets out a long breath. “I thought it was me, Cal. Letting my experience colour the situation. And I thought that having Alvarez's name attached to the competition might lend the thing some integrity, but then there's no guarantee about anything these days.”
I take the plastic off a fresh pack of Marlboros, light one.
“When I was talking to Liam about mismatching, I wasn't bullshitting him,” says Nelson. “They've tried to clean up the sport, but there's still that thick stain of corruption they can't scrub out. It's a real pity. This used to be a sport, it used to mean something. See these kids from the Dominican Republic coming up now, just like the Latinos and the black kids, they're looking for a way out and boxing's the only way for some of them. As long as there's an underclass, Cal, there's boxing.”
“And as long as there's an underclass, there's someone looking to buy it out.” I tap ash.
“What did you tell him?”
“Callahan? I told him to fuck off.”
Nelson rubs his mouth, looks at the table. “Good.”
“And I'm going to see Shapiro this afternoon, put it out in the open.”
“I don't think that's a good idea,” he says.
“You don't think he'll believe me?”
“No, I know he'll believe you. I just don't think he'll do anything about it except get mad at you. No reason to think Shapiro isn't involved, Cal. Especially with his record.”
“He dirty?”
“He went to prison. That's pretty dirty.”
“Depends on what he did.” The waitress tops up my coffee and I smile at her. “He throw a fight or something?”
“No, but he broke a guy's hands because he wouldn't. Forced the situation.” Nelson moves his cup to one side and leans forward. “He was a great fighter. I wasn't lying about that. But you know the deal, Cal. A guy makes his living with his fists, it gets so that's the only thing he knows how to do. And when you're pro, you learn things you don't want to learn. You can get like me and get out, do something else, scrub yourself and try not to look back. Or you can go the way Shapiro went and fall into line. Either way, this business has a way of throwing your mind out of whack.”
“Huh.” I stare at the end of my cigarette, tap stray ash.
“Jesus, man, you get hit in the head that many times, you hear one thing, you see something else, find out the people you respected and loved are setting you up because you're getting older and slower? You'd be a fucking saint not to let that affect you.”
“I see.”
“Sometimes the things that can push you out are the same things that keep you in. That's the only difference between me and Shapiro.”
“And he did time.”
“Aggravated assault, I think it was.” Nelson sits back, picks up his coffee and takes a drink. “I don't know the legal jargon. It was a minor charge and nobody dug any deeper. Why should they? There's enough cash floating around to shout louder than anyone's conscience. It's free enterprise, Cal. There's no free enterprise without casualties, but that's the way of the world.”
“So there's nothing I can do about it.”
“Talk to Shapiro by all means. I'm just preparing you for what you might get.”
“Why didn't you tell me this before, Nelson?”
“Because nobody tried to bribe you, Cal. I didn't think it was important. I thought, hell, get the kid trained up, forget winning the smoker, Liam'll be good enough to beat anyone who crosses his path. And we'll deal with the other stuff when it happens.”
I stare at my coffee; there's a tide mark around the inside of the cup. I rub at it with one finger, wipe away the brown scum with a paper napkin. “And you still believe in heroes, eh?”
“Yeah, I still believe in heroes. There's good guys in the business. But I believe in villains, too.”
“Well, you've got to have something,” I say. I finish my coffee, get the waitress' attention. “You alright taking Liam yourself? I've got some business to take care of.”
“You gonna see Shapiro?”
“I'm going to have a nap first if the coffee lets me.”
“Then?”
“Then, we'll see. I don't know yet.”
I pay, we get out of there. Back at the hotel, I give Liam's door a knock. The lad's already up and about, changed and eager to get going. Wasn't so long ago, this kid was a fighting dog; now he's the Andrex puppy. He still doesn't really acknowledge me, though. Like Nelson's his golden ticket. It's good, keep Liam occupied while I try to find out exactly what kind of shite he's been thrown into.
I w
atch Nelson drive away in his people-carrier, Liam talking ten-to-the-dozen. Head back up to my room. The message waiting light blinks on the phone, but I walk past it into the bathroom, smoke a cigarette.
Callahan has my answer, for what it's worth. But he's a businessman in the Plummer vein. He doesn't take no for an answer, doesn't take any answer that isn't what he wants to hear. So he'll keep pecking my head until I give in. That's negotiation. But it's difficult to negotiate with a deaf man and that's what I intend to be until the bout. He can leave his offer out in the open until it grows fucking moss as far as I'm concerned.
I wrap the filter in bog roll and drop it into the toilet bowl, press on the flush. I should get some sleep, but the caffeine's kicked in. If I bed down now, I'll be staring at the ceiling with my skin twitching.
Pick up the phone, start punching in Paulo's number. Then I stop, put the phone down. Fuck it, what am I supposed to tell him? Better I get this sorted out on my own without the added pressure of Paulo going nuts in Manchester. Or else gather enough information so I can pass it on without feeling that I'm making all this up.
And I need to get out of this room. Feels like I've been locking myself away when this trip's supposed to be a holiday. That's what I'm used to, though. Hole myself up in my flat in Manchester or the office at Paulo's. Or in my tiny car, watching the world grow drunk and insane. I'm used to it. I crave four walls and confinement, isolation. And this room might be a gilded cage compared to normal, but it's still a cage. Better than a prison cell, certainly: a telly, a mini bar. Housekeeping for whom “Do Not Disturb” translates into Spanish as “Come On In”. A bathroom that doesn't stink of prison food farts.
Course, they let me smoke in my prison cell.
I don't want to think about it. So I head for the door before I get a chance to reminisce.
26
A transfer of cells to the Metro outside Shapiro's gym. I'm watching the entrance. It's still early and the place looks like it's getting the first influx of boxers for the day. I keep forgetting that there are other bouts taking place; I'm so wrapped up in Liam's future that it's difficult to maintain focus. I've seen Reuben out for a couple of smoke breaks. He hasn't seen me.
I don't know what I expect to see. Sometimes I wish surveillance was as simple as it's made out to be. Wait there long enough and something's bound to happen. Someone's bound to come out onto the street to do something illegal.
I reach into my pocket for my cigarettes. Then the other pocket. Nothing in either. And I realise I went and left them back in the hotel bathroom.
Shit.
Got loads left in the carton, but the carton's in my room and far too far away to nip back and retrieve. But I'll be buggered if I'm going to sit here smokeless. I get out of the car as a couple pass on the other side of the street. A blonde bloke and his blonder girl — hair almost white. They're both tanned, young, and probably describe themselves as “financially comfortable”. There's a black bloke heading towards them. He's built like a length of rope, a record bag slung loose over one shoulder, his other hand swaying by his side.
“Hey,” he says. “You with a fine-looking woman, man.”
The blonde bloke smiles. So does the girl. She is fine-looking. Nothing the matter with the black guy's eyes. But the couple don't seem keen on conversation.
“I'm just lucky, I guess,” says the blonde bloke, his grip visibly tightening on his girlfriend's arm. They keep walking, the bloke looking like he'd use force if the black guy gets in his way.
“Lucky? Hell, no. Ain't no luck about it.”
The couple get past the black guy, keep walking. They don't turn around.
“Ain't no luck. Ain't no luck at all. Luck's when you hit the right numbers on the lotto. I see a man with a fine-looking woman, I think that man's blessed. That woman there is a work of our Creator, man. Can't think nothing else.”
“Thank you,” says the woman over her shoulder. Her boyfriend tugs at her arm. “Goddamn it, Scott.”
“Work of the Creator,” says the black guy, more to himself now.
I know there's a Shell round here somewhere; I passed it in the car. So I start following the couple.
“Where you going?” says the black guy.
I stop. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
“I'm going to buy some cigarettes.”
“Cigarettes? They'll kill you.” He walks towards me, has his hands up. “I don't mean any harm, okay? I ain't gonna mug you. And I'll even stay downwind. I know I got a funk coming off of me.”
“You're alright, mate.”
“Where you gonna get smokes?”
“There's a Shell up—”
“Hey, none of my business, but if you're gonna kill yourself, you may as well do it cheap. Don't go to the Shell. They charge you a dollar, two-dollar extra on the cigarettes. I dunno, they got high rent or something. So you want a smoke, you go further up, you hang a right and walk for a block, okay? Then you'll see a 7-11. Probably a couple of fat old misery-asses sitting out front playing checkers, that's when you know you at the right place.”
“Cheers.”
“Now I don't smoke — I don't got that addiction hanging on me, man. I had plenty. The good Lord knows I had plenty. You know how it is. A man can't live in this world clean. But I do now. I got me a room at St Paul's. You know St Paul's?”
“No.”
“Bless 'em for what they're trying to do there, man, but it's a flea hotel. I got myself clean and I'm living in a dirty hole, you pardon my language. I'm forty-five tomorrow, can you beat that? I got my kids coming to see me, kinda like to get dressed up for it. I know they're gonna take me someplace nice.”
“How much d'you want?” I say.
The guy takes a step back, his hands still in the air. “Didn't I tell you I wasn't gonna mug you? And when did I ask you for money, man?”
“You're building up to it.”
“You think I'm scamming you.”
I shake my head and smile. “You're not scamming me. Way I see it, you saved me a couple dollars on my cigarettes, you deserve the difference.”
“I ain't panhandling you.”
“I know. You want to walk and talk, show me where this 7-11 is?”
His large eyes become smaller as he regards me. “Now you scamming me. I told you I ain't panhandling. You got nothing on me for that.”
“I'm not a cop. C'mon.”
We walk, the bloke hanging back a step or two as if he doesn't want to be seen with me. Hang that right and I can see the 7-11 up the street.
“Yeah, and you thought I was scamming you,” he says.
“Nah.” I look at him. “Okay, maybe. I'm new around here.”
“You don't got the accent, that's for damn straight, forgive my language. You British or something?”
“Something. I don't know the city very well. Don't really want to do the tourist shit if I can help it.”
“I don't blame you. This city'll skin a tourist. But you, man, you're a traveller.”
“Something like that, yeah. Listen, you know that gym I was just at?”
“Shapiro's?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
“Him? Shapiro's a dude? All I see is the sign when I walk past.”
Just like he said, there are two fat blokes playing checkers outside the 7-11. Sitting on boxes, an upturned fruit crate providing them with a makeshift table. I stop as we get near the store, turn to my guide. “You sure you don't know the guy who owns the place?”
“I look like I need to lose weight, man?” He rolls his shoulders. “Or wait, what this is, you think I'm Huggy Bear, think I know the word on the street 'cause I'm a black man.”
“Okay,” I say. “I'm sorry. How much d'you need?”
“I told you, I don't got no information on whatever guy own Shapiro's. It's a name on a sign above a door of a building that I pass. You want to dig, you find yourself another spade.”
I pull out my wallet, pluck a ten dollar bill fro
m the fold. “It's me, mate. My head's up my arse. Sorry if I offended you.”
“Don't give that guy any money,” says one of the checker players, a man with rheumy eyes and a three-day white growth on his jowls.
“What the hell you know about it, Kelvin?”
“I'm saying, don't give this guy any money.” Kelvin narrows his eyes at the board. “He's rolling in cash.” He moves a piece, sits back and points at his opponent. “And fuck you, too.”
I push the bill into my guide's hand. “Take it, man.”
“Bless you,” he says. He pockets the cash and walks backwards away from me, a big grin on his face. As he passes Kelvin, he leans close and shouts, “You a nasty piece of work, you know that?”
“Yeah, and I ain't deaf, neither.”
“I know that, man.” He smiles, twists and starts walking further up the street. That same loping stride, head swivelling, looking for people to talk to.
“Son of a bitch,” says Kelvin. “You shouldn't have given him nothing.”
I get my cigarettes from a guy who looks like he's seen better days and even they had sucked. He charges me tax on top of the price, which throws me for a second. I grab a bottle of Pepsi, too. Bigger than the British bottles and about half the price. I manage to guzzle half of it by the time I get back to Shapiro's.
Sometimes, there's only so much beating around the bush you can do. I've asked Reuben, I've asked Nelson, even asked a homeless guy — but hell, no, he's at St Paul's — and only Nelson's given me something to go on. And to tell the truth, it's taken me all this time to work out what I'm going to do next. I can't just hang around waiting for something to happen, don't have that kind of time to waste. I'd just get a little older, no wiser and the bribe hangs over the situation like a bad smell.
So I push into Shapiro's Boxing Center, fully intent on hearing from the big bastard himself. Reuben's straight across when he sees me.
“Where's Liam?” he says. Sweat running into his eyes, though it could just be the burrito he's shoving into his mouth as he talks.
“Eh?”