by Ray Banks
I stick a bunch of quarters into the phone. Follow it with the rest of my change — balls to it. This is an international call, after all.
Stab in Paulo's number. I've looked it up now, double checked, and the number I had on my business card was right. Definitely the Lad's Club.
But every time I call: “The number you have dialled is not in service …”
“Fuck's sake.”
I put the phone down, wait for the change to come clattering back to me. It doesn't. Then I go outside for a smoke.
****
The hospital has a cafeteria, one of those places that's supposed to feel light and airy, but it just takes me back to the airport in North Carolina. I get a wilted ham salad sandwich, a bottle of water and a cream cheese muffin, retire to a table at the back and stare at my food. No appetite, but I should eat.
“Anyone sitting here?”
I look up. Shapiro towers over me. I'm surprised I didn't see him coming, but then my mind's been elsewhere. I look back at my meal. “Help yourself.”
He sits opposite, places his hands on the table.
“How'd you know he was here?” I say.
“I didn't. I just kept phoning around the hospitals when I heard you'd been taken in. Had to hit the right one eventually.”
I nod. That'll do it. I tap the muffin. “You want a muffin?”
“No thanks.”
“I don't blame you.” Tap some more. It sounds hollow and stale. “I should've squeezed it first. Seen better muffins in service stations. Cheaper, too.”
“You're a captive consumer here,” he says, looking around the cafeteria. “Where else are you gonna go?”
I sniff. “Thought I saw a Starbucks up the street.”
“You want me to get you something?”
When I look at him, Shapiro's deadly serious. “Nah, y'alright. I'll be fine with water. Don't have much of an appetite. Don't think coffee would do me much good, either.”
“How is he?”
I take the top off the bottle of water and drink; it's warm. Wipe my mouth and say, “He's stable. At first they thought there might be some respiratory trouble, he was breathing that shallow. They kept talking to me about brain damage. I don't know. They want to keep him for observation.”
“He awake?”
I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”
“You been in to see him?”
I angle the bottle toward Shapiro. He holds a hand up, shakes his head. Waits for my answer.
“No,” I say.
“Why not?”
“I've been through the mill already. Been asked questions all over the shop. I don't need it from you as well.”
“I'm just interested,” he says.
“You're interested.” Take another swig of water and gaze at the café counter. A fat man is loading up his tray. “I didn't see him. Didn't think he was up to it yet.”
“Uh-huh.” Shapiro doesn't believe me any more than I believe myself.
“What the fuck am I going to say to him?” I keep my voice low, but I want to shout. “Sorry I got you hooked up with a psycho?”
“That'd be a start. And you know, Cal, you could've come to me in the first place.”
“Yeah, you,” I say. “You with your record and Callahan chucking bribes at me. Put yourself in my shoes, Phil. What would you have done?”
“I would've talked to me.”
“Yeah, well, hindsight's a shitter, isn't it?” I take a swig. “Definitely twenty-twenty.”
“Liam had Reuben and me looking out for him. You didn't need to bring Byrne into it. The guy never coached in his life.”
“Oh, you know him?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I knew him on sight. When a guy comes round my place talking to the kids and telling them he'll get them in the pro circuit, I tend to take an interest. Do a little fact-checking. Byrne's a fan, but that's all he's ever been. Tried amateur once, as far as I know, and got beaten to a pulp because he thought he didn't need a coach, thought he could do it himself.”
“I don't know,” I say. “He seemed pretty quick when he put that fuckin' gun in my face.”
“You think a real slugger would use a gun? Someone like you, he'd throw a cross that'd put you out cold.”
“He wanted to kill me.”
Shapiro thinks about it, says, “He didn't, though, did he? If you'd come to me, I could've set you straight. Because I see guys like Byrne all the time. They had a shot, or thought they had a shot, many years ago. And they still think they've got the know-how to play at the big time, but they're deluded.”
“Well, Nelson's dead.”
He cocks his head at me. “How?”
“I didn't kill him.” I pause. “No, I didn't kill him. I pushed him out of the car. He went off walking in the desert. Heat got to him. Or concussion. Or something. I don't know. I don't fuckin' care.”
“I see.” Shapiro looks at the table.
“Ranting on about me being the bad guy,” I say. “That I was the corrupt one.”
“You took the bribe.”
“And Callahan must've thought it'd do something, right? Which puts the ball in your court.”
“Mr Callahan's seen too many bad movies,” says Shapiro. “Truth is, there's corruption, but I'd be surprised if anything was going on at an amateur level. Even if there was, I wouldn't be a part of it. I can't afford to be a part of it. I got a bad past and I'm doing my best to make up for that.” He taps the table. “Most fighters don't make it. I know that. I didn't make it and I was good. They either get cut down by better fighters or they lose their mind with the glitz of it all.”
“Which was it for you?”
“Both. I couldn't fall hard or fast enough, Cal. And the best thing I can do with my life now is try to get these kids right in the head before they think about turning pro. So they're connected. So they don't fall as hard or fast as me, so they're prepared.”
“How very fuckin' noble of you,” I say.
“Why'd you call me?”
I don't say anything.
“Because I was the only one you had left,” he says. “That's why. Because somewhere in there you trust me to do the right thing. And I come in here and you give me a kid's face when I try to talk to you like a man. That's a right hand lead, Cal. It's an amateur jab. You show no respect with something like that.”
“Right, I've got to show you respect now?”
“You have to show yourself some respect. Pull yourself together, look at the world with a clean pair of eyes and realise it doesn't revolve around you, that not everyone is out to get you. You shake yourself off, you battle on. I swear, you could learn a thing or two from Liam, if you ever get the guts to talk to him. He's got his brain wired right.” Shapiro gets up. “You want to sit here moping, you go right ahead. But there's got to be a time when you get off your butt and go talk to the kid. He can't stay here the rest of his life, and neither can you.”
I suck my teeth as Shapiro brushes the crease back into his khakis.
“There's no point in getting another rental car. So when you need a lift to the airport, give me a call. I'll be glad to drop you.”
And he walks away from the table. I stare at my sandwich, push it to one side. I'm not hungry.
38
I pass by Liam's room so many times, I start to look like I've slipped off the mental ward. Each time I go by, I can't get my fingers on the handle. Hand shaking, I still haven't figured out what I'm supposed to say to him. Been through speeches in my head, none of them sound right. And anyway, I don't even know if he's awake yet. Opening the door might disturb him.
I should wait.
But then he's had enough sleep, hasn't he? Been dozing for the last day and a bit. About time someone woke him up.
I stop in front of the door, turn the handle and step inside.
There's a lamp turned on by the side of his bed. Liam's eyes are closed. I watch him for a moment, then look around the room for somewhere to sit. A chair b
y the window. I walk over and ease myself into it, stretch my legs out. He doesn't look too bad. Pale, dark circles under his eyes, but really nothing more than the kind of pallor anyone gets in a hospital. He'll be fine, I tell myself. Then practise telling Liam that.
He moves a little. Exhales through his mouth, like someone letting air out of a balloon. Takes another deep breath, sighs it out. He sniffs. Something catches, turns the sniff into a cough and he wakes up. Smacks his lips, that thick sound of dehydration. His eyes open to slits and his arm moves to the water cup by the side of the bed. His fingers don't close at the right time, the cup slipping out of reach, tottering before it drops to the floor.
I get out of the chair. Pick up the cup and the straw that was in it. Water pools on the floor.
“Cal,” says Liam, his voice cracked.
I pour water into his cup, plop the straw back in. “How you doing?”
“Headache,” he says. He tries to pull himself up on the bed as I hand him the cup. He starts sucking on the straw right away. Gulping so fast, I get worried he's going to choke.
“Ease up on that.”
He takes a breath. “You didn't know he was nuts, did you?”
“No, Liam. I knew he was mental as. That's why I thought he'd be a good influence on you. Christ knows you need more insanity in your life.”
Liam swallows. Smiles. But only for a moment. He blinks as his eyes adjust to the light, then stares at the end of the bed.
“You want to tell me what happened?” I say.
“I dunno. My head's all mashed up.” He drinks some more water, clears his throat. “He came to pick us up at the hotel, took us down to the car. Then he said he was going to knock on your door, get you up and about. You were drunk. And when he came down, he said that you were dead to the world.” He pauses. “You took the cash.”
I don't know if that's a statement or a question.
“He told you I was bribed?” I say.
“He told us you took the cash. Were you going to tell me about it?”
“I didn't take the bribe. They forced the bribe on me.”
“So you weren't going to do anything about it.”
“I had ideas,” I say. “I just didn't get to follow through with them.”
“Right.”
“I wasn't going to force you to take a dive, Liam. You know me better than that. And it's not like I could've persuaded you for seven grand, is it?”
“Seven?” He shakes his head.
I reach into my pocket, pull out the bottle of water. Swill the last bit before I swallow it down. “He's dead, y'know.”
Liam stays quiet. For a second, I'm not sure if he heard me at all. Then he moves his head.
“You kill him?” he says.
“No.”
“He give you that?” Liam points to the side of my face.
I touch where my earlobe used to be. “Yeah. He tried to shoot me.”
“Looks like he did more than try.”
“It's been a rough day.”
“Inch to the left …”
“I know. I thought about it. Been thinking about it non-stop, you want to know the truth. But I'm alive. And so are you.”
“Doesn't feel like it.” Liam shifts in bed. He seems stiff. “Feels like I've been out for a while.”
“You have.” I jerk my thumb at the wall. “They were worried about you. Said you weren't getting enough oxygen to the brain.”
“Huh.”
“I said it'd probably make you smarter.”
Liam gives me a sick smile. “I'm not the one who got in the car with a fuckin' nutter, Cal.”
“Right enough.” I look at my shoes; they're scuffed and dirty. “Should've known better. But you live and learn, eh?”
“You'll know better for the next time.”
“Suppose.”
The room falls into silence. I nod, because I can't think of anything else to do. Don't know what I can say to him. Sorry, maybe. But I think we're past that now. Liam keeps staring at the foot of the bed, his eyes at half-mast. I look around the room for a bin, find one by the chair and drop my empty bottle in it.
Turn at the sound of Liam moving down the bed, getting himself comfortable on his pillow. I take the cup of water from him and put it back on the bedside table.
“The smoker's fucked then,” he says. A yawn fights its way out of him.
“For this year, yeah.”
“Think what Nelson said's right?”
“About what?”
“About me not needing to win.”
“Probably,” I say. “Always next year, mate.”
Another yawn. “I won't be eligible next year.”
“I wouldn't let it worry you. There'll be other comps.”
“Right.” Even with the fatigue, that was a sarcastic one.
“Get some sleep,” I say.
“Nah, I had enough already.”
But Liam's slipping fast. He keeps talking. Tells me about a weird dream he had when he was under. He was in the ring and the canvas turned to quicksand. Pretty obvious to Liam what it meant, but he thought he'd share it with me anyway. Have to admit, I'm clueless, don't know the first thing about dream intepretation. But it doesn't matter. His eyes are already closed, movement under the eyelids. He'll drop out of consciousness in a minute. I watch him for a while, make sure he's not going to do anything horrible like cough or scream or throw himself off the bed, then I see the notebook on the table. I pick it up, go back to my chair.
It's a work diary. Details his training. Complete with little diagrams, charts of footwork and motivational slogans. It's the last thing that gets me. I don't know where he's taken them from, but there are quotes in here from Sugar Ray Robinson, Jake La Motta, most of them from Muhammed Ali.
This from Rocky Marciano: “What would be better than walking down any street in any city and knowing you're a champion?”
And from Sugar Ray: “To be a champ you have to believe in yourself when no one else will.”
It's all stirring stuff. If you'd asked me a week ago why Liam needed this, I wouldn't have been able to give you an answer. I thought he was one of those kids who knew how good he was, didn't need nuggets from champs to keep his eye on the prize. And looking at him now, even with that hospital smell in the air and the atmosphere of intense sickness, Liam's a lad in charge of himself.
This one rings true, prefaced by the words “Muhammed Ali Statement after losing his first fight to Ken Norton, March 31, 1973”:
“I never thought of losing, but now that it's happened, the only thing is to do it right. That's my obligation to all the people who believe in me. We all have to take defeats in life.”
If it's good enough for The Greatest, it's good enough for me.
39
“You sure you don't want to stay the week?”
“Nah, Phil, I think we're better off just going home. I got the money for the tickets, I might as well use it.”
Standing outside the Ramada Inn, bags packed. I already checked the both of us out. Left the duty free behind, packed the cigarettes. I'll be paying over the odds for the flights, but it'll be worth it. I want the plane back to be as direct and as fast as possible. No more changes, no more foreign airports than we need. They discharged Liam yesterday, gave him a cleanish bill of health and sent the other one to our travel insurance place. He's still shaky on his feet, pale, has the puffy features of someone who's spent too long asleep, but he'll get better. I don't want him hanging around Shapiro's gym, though. Nothing against Shapiro — he's been a diamond the last two days — but the atmosphere of the place might bring back a few unpleasant memories for the lad. No sense in torturing him with what might have been. Let it stay here in Los Angeles.
Right now, Liam's sitting in the back seat of Shapiro's car. He's chewing gum and staring out of the window, in a world of his own. He's been like that since he got out of hospital. If I think about it too much, I'll get worried, so I attend to the job in hand. Pick up the
bags and put them in the boot of the car.
“He alright?” says Shapiro.
“Fine.”
“About Callahan …”
“We've been through it,” I say.
There wasn't a lot Shapiro could've done about the bribery thing because there wasn't a lot of proof — I'd already spent a hefty chunk of the money on cab fare and now plane tickets. Callahan tried to play the victim, swearing off his broken nose and threatening to sue me for the cash it'd take to have his beak reset by a professional. Shapiro had a quiet word in his ear. If Callahan didn't press charges, Josh was still welcome at the gym and it would go no further. Shapiro did tell me they were on their last warning.
“It's not what you would've done, I know,” he says.
“Well,” I say, slamming the boot closed. “You're a more tolerant sort than I am.”
“I want you to know, you're both welcome any time you're in Los Angeles. I mean it, you want to come over, you can always depend on my hospitality.”
“That's a nice thought, Phil, but I don't know how often we're going to do this trip.”
“Just keep it in mind. Liam's a good kid.”
“I know.” We walk to either side of the car. “I appreciate what you've done, mate.”
“Wish I could've done more.”
“Yeah, well, me too. But that's not the way it went, is it?”
He looks like he's about to say something, but keeps his mouth shut. We get into the car. I want to be in the back seat with Liam, but the lad still needs his space. It would be easier sitting back there, though. Then I could pretend Shapiro was a cab driver or something. Because I don't know, but there's still something about the man I can't get a handle on. Maybe it's that he's done time. No, that shouldn't bother me. Maybe it's the God stuff. Not that he rams it down your throat, but I've been around too many people who claim God saved them from booze, drugs et cetera, and they replace their vices with one virtue. Way I see it, even divine intervention can't change a leopard's spots. A leopard's born that way, has to see those spots every day at the watering hole and he's constantly reminded of his nature. There's no way around it.