by Ray Banks
“C'mon, your kid in this thing or not?” He checks his watch. “Y'know, I said morning, and we're running out of that. He can't get in the ring if he's not trained. I won't allow it. Phil won't allow it.”
“I already secured him another coach, Reuben.”
“When? Just now?”
“Yesterday. Thought it'd be easier on him. Don't worry, you're doing a great job as his second. Phil about?”
“Who?”
“Phil Shapiro,” I say. “You know the guy.”
“No, who's the coach?”
“Doesn't matter. Is he in? I need to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“The fuck are you, Reuben, his secretary?” I push past him, head for Shapiro's office. I can see the big guy in there. He's on the phone, staring into the middle distance. As I cross the floor, I catch his eye. He doesn't look pleased. But what the hell, I'm getting used to that reaction.
“I find out he's done nothing, I'll throw it in,” shouts Reuben. “I'm not here to see kids get hurt.”
I have to laugh at that one. I do the polite thing and knock on Shapiro's door before I push it open. He's still talking and looks at me like I just took a shit in the middle of the floor. The Chihuahua yaps at me. I crouch and hold out a hand. The dog trots up to me, shaking. Sniffs my fingers, then retreats. I stand up and sniff my fingers. I can't smell anything awful, so I just put it down to me not being a dog person either.
Shapiro makes conversation-ending noises, like he's clammed up. When he puts the phone down, the dog skitters across the floor to him.
“You're not very polite,” he says.
“I knocked, didn't I?”
“You're supposed to wait.”
“I still knocked.”
He remains standing. I can hear the dog behind the desk, sounds like it's scratching at something. Shapiro says, “What do you want?”
“I want to know if this thing's kosher.”
He blinks at me. “Kosher?”
“On the level. This competition.”
Shapiro's face doesn't crack. He stares at me. “Why wouldn't it be?”
“I don't know,” I say. “I heard some things, that's all. Thought rather than sneaking about, I'd come to you with it, ask you straight out.”
“That's not what I hear from Reuben.”
“Ah, well…”
“Reuben says you were trying to pump him for information the other night. And that doesn't sound very 'straight out' to me, Mr Innes. Sounds like you're digging.”
“You got anything to dig?”
Shapiro smiles. Shakes his head as he sits down. The dog jumps up onto his lap as he pushes his chair away from the desk. If I'm trying to read his eyes, I won't get much. Not only are they stone, but they're obscured by scar tissue and shadow. He puts his hand on the dog, another on the desk. Light from the office window slices across his face.
There's a flash on Uncle Morris and his grandson. Those same huge scarred hands. The quiet threat. Yeah, this bloke's got a past, and it's not pretty.
“So what did you hear?” he says.
“That's not the way it works,” I say.
Shapiro cocks his head, strokes the dog. “What do you do for a living, Mr Innes?”
“Nothing much.”
“Because you're not police. You're definitely not the board. So what are you?”
“An interested party. I don't want Liam involved with a rigged comp. It's not fair on him.”
“And what makes you think this competition's rigged?”
“Like I said, I heard things.”
Shapiro lets out a sigh. “So it's not just a hunch. You heard things, which you're taking as gospel. I hear things too, you know. I hear Liam's a troublemaker. I hear there was an incident in the parking lot the other night…”
“Liam didn't—”
“I know he didn't. You did. But you see about people hearing things.”
“Liam didn't start that. You want to keep an eye on some of the lads you've got coming here.”
“And you want to keep an eye on your fists.” Shapiro shifts in his seat. “I know your type, Mr Innes. Been dealing with that type for a long time. You breeze in through these doors and you expect the world to stop what its doing and listen to what you have to say. Then you demand answers to whatever's currently bugging you. Am I right?”
I don't answer him. Looks like he's spoiling for a fight. His fingers flex on the desk, then fall still.
“That bump on your head,” he says. “How'd you get it?”
“An argument.”
“You argue with people who like to use their fists?”
“I try not to. Sometimes it happens. And it wasn't his fist, it was his elbow.”
“Dirty fighter.” He smiles. “I know all about that.”
“Did time for it is what I hear.”
The smile evaporates. “So that's what this is about.”
“Part of it.”
“You heard I was in prison. You don't believe in rehabilitation.”
“I believe it in some people.”
“Let me tell you something, Mr Innes.” Shapiro pushes the dog from his lap. It lands awkwardly on the floor. “Something you might be able to appreciate, coming from where you do. I did some stupid things in my life. I knew they were stupid at the time, but I still did them because I was a different guy back then. Then I paid the price. And it was a long time ago, despite what you've heard. I came out and had to work hard against the kind of predjudice you're wearing right now. People think, you've done time, you're beyond help even if you're taken your punishment like a man. You must get that. You did time.”
“Paulo told you,” I say.
“Paulo and I, we've become pretty good friends the last year or so. I respect what he's trying to do in Manchester. It's thankless work. He's a better man than me.”
“I'm sure he'll be glad to hear it.”
“And I told him my past, and he told me his. There's a moment when you have to stop hanging onto your history with both hands and start looking to something else. Drunks call it a moment of clarity.”
“Can't say I've had that.”
“With me, I found God in prison.”
“What was He in for?”
Shapiro's eyes spark for a second. He looks ready to lunge across the desk and make a torn arsehole out of my face. I plant my feet, make sure I've got a good head start if I have to bolt and pray that my back doesn't lock.
“This competition has Enrique Alvarez attached to it,” he says. “You know who Enrique Alvarez is?”
“No.”
“You're not a boxing fan at all. Then I can't expect you to understand. Enrique Alvarez, Mr Innes, was a legend in the ring, a real gentleman warrior. He's a hero to a lot of these kids, showed you can get somewhere with a little determination and a lot of hard work. He came here one time, told them about his grandparents, they used to live out in Chavez Ravine in the fifties before they tore it down. Now he's out of the game, he's investing in low-cost, high-quality houses. Some of the kids in here live in Alvarez real estate, and it's a major step up from where they were before.”
I wipe away a fake tear. “That's very sweet, Mr Shapiro.”
“You think this is a sob story?” Shapiro sucks his teeth. He shows me his hands. “What do you want from me? I tell you this is a kosher tournament and you get sarcastic. You got your own ideas about this and about me, so I want to hear them. Because it doesn't seem to matter to you that the Alvarez name is synonymous with fair play, integrity and downright honesty in this city. It doesn't matter to you that I wouldn't be involved — wouldn't be allowed to be involved — if I wasn't one hundred percent down with that. There are gym owners who would've killed to host this competition, but they weren't legit enough to handle it. I take great pride in having it here.”
“I'm sure you do.”
“And if you think I'm going to let one man with a chip on his shoulder ruin this for a bunch of kids who want
to do something with their lives, you've got another think coming.”
“You threatening me?”
“I'm stating a fact. If you make me choose between having you call my every move — because obviously you feel qualified to judge how I'm running things here — and dumping you and Liam out of the comp, you know how I'm going to lean.”
“So you are threatening me.”
“No.” He pauses. “But I'm not going to tow the line for you, either. You look out there.” He points at the main gym. Outside, another crowd is beginning to develop. Amateur fight fans, other boxers. “This isn't just about you and your boy, Mr Innes. Liam wins, that'll be great, you'll have my congratulations. He doesn't, then he's still got the potential to go far. No matter what you might think, though, there are boys out there who need this thing more than Liam does.”
Shapiro scoops up the dog as he gets to his feet.
“So if you haven't got any more insults, you'll excuse me,” he says. “I've got a competition to run.”
27
“You're British,” she says.
Half-cocked Brit. What's it? Half in my cups, soused, stinking, however many sheets to the fucking wind, yeah.
“I'm Scottish,” I say. “Scottish. There's a difference. Romans built a wall to maintain that difference. And Britain's not a country.”
“Sure it is.”
“Doesn't have a patron saint.” And I start singing, “It's just an economic union, that's past its sell-by date.”
She smiles. She's pretty enough. Very American. Good teeth, blonde hair that looks natural, decent skin. Certainly not the usual type who talk to me in bars. But it's a whole different class over here.
I don't go looking for female company if I can help it. Call it having a gay bloke for a best mate, whatever you want. Whatever keeps me from digging too deep. Truth is, the situation doesn't arise.
Yeah, you can say that again.
Celibate by circumstance. I could've stayed in my room, had a nap, woke up to my duty free booze and see if I could find a porn flick. But those are the actions of a non-functioning member of society. And besides, I could do that at home. Here, this is my tourist time. Getting shitfaced is about the closest I can manage to a proper holiday.
I just wish people would leave me the fuck alone.
“I'm Sherry,” she says.
“Like the drink or the fruit?” I try to draw myself up straight on my stool.
“The drink.”
“Good. I'm Callum. Cal.”
“Unusual name.”
I want to tell her it's not that bloody unusual. Probably was when my mam named me, but now you can't meet five people in Britain without hearing Celtic or Gaelic names, people so fucking ashamed of being English they have to plunder Scotland and Ireland for their children. My dad would've said it was par for the course; the English were always trying to steal the good shite for themselves.
“You know what it means?” says Sherry.
“Didn't know it meant anything.”
“It means 'dove'.”
I squint at her. “You're not kidding, are you?”
She shakes her head once. “It's a hobby of mine.”
“So what does your name mean?”
“It's Hebrew. It means 'beloved'.”
“And are you?”
“I have my moments.” Sherry gets off her stool, moves to the one next to me. I catch a whiff of something sweet. Could be her perfume or the alcohol on her breath. Either way, it's better than my own smell. I've taken enough showers since I got to this country, but I always find a way to sweat. Up close, Sherry's older than I thought, a lot more make-up, the kind of woman I'd describe as a stealthmoose if I was being unkind. But I'm not in the mood to be unkind. She still looks okay, a little frayed around the edges, smells better than she looks, and she's obviously interested in me.
Which means if she's not already drunk, she should be. I point to her half-empty glass. “Get you another?”
Another smile. Something about her perfect teeth tugs at my chest.
“Why not?” she says. “Rum and Coke.”
I order two. It's been a while and I remind myself that rum's a good drunk, a lazy, mellow headfuck. And I'm sick of bottled beer. About time I kicked it up a notch, feel like a poetic tramp. Isn't that what LA's all about? Tom Waits, Charles Bukowski country.
“So where are you going after this, Sherry?”
“You're right in there with the lines, aren't you?” she says, turning that smile on the bartender as he sets down our drinks.
“I didn't mean it like that. Just, I look around this place, I don't see many people dressed up. I thought maybe you had a party or something later on.”
“That's very sweet, Cal.” She sips her drink. Very ladylike. I see tiny wrinkles around her mouth. “But no, I've got nowhere to go. I'm all yours.”
“Well, isn't this my lucky night.”
“What do you do, Cal? For a living.”
I think about it. What I'm going to tell her, whether it's worth telling the truth, exaggerating and embellishing, or just tell an outright lie.
“I'm a security guard,” I say.
“Really.”
“Yeah, I used to be a brain surgeon, but then I got my hand caught in a revolving door trying to save a small dog. Kind of put an end to my career.”
“Aw, that's sad.”
“Tell me about it. The dog was okay, though.”
“Good.”
“Yeah, you looked worried.” I pluck the straw from my glass, drop it on the bar, and drain half my run and Coke. “What do you do?”
“I'm a writer.”
I look at her.
“What?” she says. “That so difficult to believe?”
“No. I just wasn't expecting writer. I was thinking, actress, singer, something like that. What do you write?”
“I have a screenplay I'm shopping around.”
“What's it about?”
“You don't want to know.” She looks at her drink, half-smiling now.
“You're right,” I say. “I don't.” My brain's tired. Done way too much thinking today to fake an interest, and the beer and rum are slowing me down. When I glance at Sherry, she almost looks relieved. Look up at the bartender and he's watching, but pretending not to.
I get it.
“What do you really do?” I say.
“Sorry?”
“I'm just wondering. You don't have anywhere to go and you get dressed up for it?”
The smile on her face becomes mouth-only. “A girl can't get dressed up for no reason?”
You're not a girl, love. Haven't been a girl for a long time.
“Maybe it's different over here,” I say. “Maybe people dress formally for fuck-all.”
“Yeah, maybe it is.” There's an edge to her voice.
“But in Britain, you see a woman on her own and she's all dressed up and chatty, you start thinking maybe she's not the lady she's trying to be.”
It takes a moment for that to sink in. Another moment for her to make her decision. And one last quick moment for her to throw that six-dollar drink I just bought her in my face.
“The fuck you get off talking to people that way?” she says. She gets much angrier, she'll crack her foundation.
“I'm just thinking out loud.”
“You need to watch your fucking manners, pal.”
“Okay.”
As I'm wiping the rum from my eyes — and by Christ, it stings — I think if she's any kind of lady, if she's truly been insulted and not just fucking rumbled, she'll walk out now. That's what happens. I've been here before. The shock, maybe some tears, but it ends with a slammed door. Call a woman a whore, or as good as, expect them to want nothing to do with you. Sometimes it's the easiest way to cut short a relationship that'll go nowhere.
But Sherry's a piece of work. She slips from her stool, starts shouting at me like I'm the worst shitheel on the face of the planet. Like nobody'd ever mentioned to her
that all that slap she's wearing might push her status from looker to hooker. That's all I said, meant it as a joke. I think. And if it was, well, it's plain that Sherry, for all her smiling, hasn't got a sense of humour.
Ach, it wouldn't have lasted anyway.
“Sherry,” says the bartender. “How about you go cool off?”
“You heard what he called me?”
“He didn't call you anything, Sherry. You heard him wrong.”
“He called me a fucking hooker, Jim.”
“Sherry.” Jim the bartender stands firm.
She stares at me.
“Don't make me come around there,” says Jim.
“Fuck you,” she says. Storms to the door. “You stay here, Callum, you fucking fag.”
“Oh, that's nice.”
And she's gone, heel-clicking into the night. The door hisses closed on its bracket. When I turn back, the bartender's in front of me. Big forearms folded across a bigger chest.
“I think you better hit the road, Jack,” he says.
I point to myself. “Callum, mate.”
“Then hit the road, Callum.”
“Yeah, I got you.” I dab my face with a napkin, a big patch down the front of my shirt. I'm glad she managed to get half her drink down her before she got it down me. I place my hands on the bar, push myself off the stool. My legs give way for a second until the blood returns. I hang onto the bar, raise one hand like I'm okay, I'm alright, just give me a moment. Then I down the rum and Coke. Hey, I paid for it. Waste not, want not. A couple of steps before I have to stop.
“Here, mate,” I say. “Was she really a hooker?”
“Sherry's a drunk,” he says, moving to mop the bar. “But she does extra work every now and then.”
I nod. “Yeah, like screenwriting.”
“Get some sleep, pal.”
I raise a hand, then turn and stumble out of the bar onto the street. Take a deep breath, let the night air clear out my lungs, wipe my mind. Then I light a cigarette. I knew it. I had my chance six months ago. The more that's happened to me since then, the more I know I had my chance and I fucked it up. And hindsight's a crystal-clear kick in the head. Keeps me awake most nights, or else caught between extremes, my own private purgatory.
I push my hands deep into my jacket, head down, trying to put one foot in front of the other. All I've got to do now is find the hotel. I've been lost sober, but never drunk. Alcohol kicks in the survival mechanism, almost unconscious. And I thank the Lord for it, I really do.