King of the Outback (Fight Card Book 6)

by Jack Tunney

  “Yeah, but you're not in Victoria now, mate. We breed 'em tough around here!”

  The crowd agreed. I knew the loud-mouth wag at the bar. His name was Jaffa Teasdale and he was one of our troupe. Jaffa was from West Australia, but his parents were Scottish, and sometimes when he spoke there was a wee trace of a Scottish brogue. He was as skinny as a rake, and he had a long face, high cheek bones, and sandy colored hair. From spending too much time under the Australian sun, his skin was like tanned leather. The only thing that may have given him away as a part of our troupe was his nose. It was bent, where it had been busted a few times from a few tough fights over the years. But generally, he looked like your average working man.

  And he was a down to earth fella too, which made him perfect for his job. He blended in everywhere. He was what we called a “Gee-man.” That was because he had to gee up the local crowds. His job was to wander through the crowd and get them excited. If nobody in the crowd wanted to fight one of our boys, he would even throw down a challenge and step into the ring himself. If that happened, it was all a bit of pantomime really. The boys didn't go hard at it. But the crowd still got its money’s worth. Here, Jaffa was geein' up the boys in the pub.

  “Hey Licorice,” Jaffa called, directing his comments at Tommy. “Licorice” was another of the derogatory terms hurled at blacks in Australia. “I don't think you could beat me on your best day.”

  “Come along tonight and we'll find out, mister,” Tommy responded.

  With that the flood gates opened and a string of abuse flew from the mouth of the punters, all aimed exclusively at Tommy. They questioned his parentage, his sexual preferences and everything in between. The taunts had to be eating away at him, but he didn't show it. Good lad. I guess he'd heard it all before.

  But to business. So far, so good. These boys were workin' themselves up into a right lather. And that's how it always started. There was good money to be made in Barter Town tonight.

  * * * * *

  I had sold the crowd as much as I could and started walking back to the tent with Tommy at my side. Now it was up to the locals. Had I worked them up enough? I could never be sure, but I had a good feeling tonight. There were a few loudmouths at the pub, apart from Jaffa, but there were quite a few strong silent types too, which was what I was counting on.

  The loudmouths never fought. They were all piss and vinegar. But they stirred up the big guns. The fighters never said much, especially if they were any good. A real fighter didn't have to brag and prove it to the world. They knew what they could do. Hopefully some of these fighters felt like they could make a few easy pounds by picking Tommy apart. Never happened, of course. Because Tommy was better than good. But I still had to look out for him.

  Tommy was kinda like a son to me. He wasn't one for a chat, but that was okay 'cos I did enough talkin' for both of us. Quiet as he was, he was trustworthy and reliable, and a hard worker to boot. This life wasn't easy, movin' from town to town, setting up and taking down the tent. Then there was the training. A fighter had to keep it up, or some bumpkin would take him apart. Plus there were the fights, of course. Believe me, when we came across a hard man, Tommy earned every penny that Old Man Wheeler threw his way.

  Wheeler was not the most generous fella alive, but he made sure we had what we needed. After all, there was ten of us in the troupe, and things were tight. Money was hard to come by, and Wheeler stretched what came in pretty far.

  As we approached the tent, Wheeler was out front bellowing instructions to some of the other members of the troupe. He wasn't happy with the placement of the lighting around the stage at the front of the tent, and let his thoughts on the matter be known. When he saw us walking up, he stopped and turned to see how we had prospered.

  “So how does it look?” he asked nervously. He was always nervous when we hit a new town.

  “There were a few who I think will have a go,” I responded optimistically.

  “And what about you, Tommy? Was there anyone there who has you worried?” Wheeler asked.

  “Not a one,” Tommy answered, flashing that smile of his.

  “That's the boy,” Wheeler said patting Tommy on the back. “There's no-one who is a match for you.”

  Wheeler didn't look like much. Age had caught up with him, and his shoulders were hunched. He had kept his hair, which was snowy white and contrasted with his ruddy complexion. You'd always find a rolled cigarette danglin' from his lips. I didn't know where he got his tobacco from, if it was some weird European blend or what, but those things smelt something fierce. But he still had his businessman's brain. He spent every second of the day working out ways to make more money for the troupe, and especially himself.

  Unexpectedly behind us, there was a squeal, as one of the ladders, setting up the lights behind us slid down the pole it was leaning against.

  “Ginny!” Tommy exclaimed as he rushed forward. Ginny – short for Virginia – was the only girl in our troupe, and she was dangling from the signage running along the top of our boxing tent. She was an aborigine too, but mixed-blood, so to look at her, you'd never know. Which was good for her, because she didn't have to put up with all the racist guff that got hurled at Tommy. She was a good lookin' sort. Around five-foot-two, slim and athletic. Her eyes were brown, and her long dark hair dark hung in curled bangs over her shoulders.

  “Hold on,” Tommy added as he moved beneath her.

  But Ginny couldn't hold any longer, her fingers gave way and she began to fall. Tommy moved back one step and held out his arms. Ginny fell in to them so easily, that if I didn't know better, I would have suggested that it was a practiced routine.

  But that didn't surprise me. Tommy and Ginny were sort of like brother and sister, but they weren't related. As kids, they were dragged from their homes, and dumped on a farm, sorta like a commune, just south of Kimberley. From what they told me, the lady of the house had been good to them, trying to teach 'em to read and write and such. But the bloke, whatever the hell he was, was a complete bastard. I couldn't tell you some of the crap that went on there. It was bad. I mean, real bad.

  So, one night, Tommy and Ginny got out of there. Tommy was barely a teenager, and Ginny was a couple years younger. They were little more than kids really, but they hit the road, and moved from town to town. They picked up whatever work they could, which for blacks wasn't much, but they survived. Wheeler found them about five or six years ago, when one of his fighters had just packed up and left. Tommy said he'd give it a shot. And he’d been with us ever since. Ginny too. But clearly, setting up lighting rigs was not her specialty.

  Wheeler looked confused. He didn't know whether to be angry that the lights weren't in position, or happy that Ginny wasn't injured. Tommy lowered Ginny to the ground, and turned with a grin on his face, pleased with his catch.

  “If you two have finished clowning around, can we get that light moved?” Wheeler said, pointing to the light hanging limply overhead. “The show will be starting in an hour,” he added gruffly, turning on his heel. He may have sounded angry, but I could tell he wasn't. He was just doing what he had to do to keep the show on the road.

  Tommy and I knuckled down and lent a hand.

  ROUND TWO

  Night had fallen and the crowd was milling around the front of the tent. We had the place lit up like a Christmas tree, with lights blinkin' and flashin'. We also had music piped through speakers to cover the noise of the petrol generator out the back which powered everything. But over the loud wall of noise from the punters, you couldn't hear the music away.

  The boxers, all five of 'em, were on a stage in front of the tent shadow boxing and enduring taunts from the crowd. Ginny had taken up a position at the entrance of the tent as a cashier, collecting the money as the locals flooded in to watch. Sixpence would get you inside the tent, and you could almost be guaranteed a great show.

  By now, enough of a crowd had gathered. I limped out onto the stage – it was a bit cold that night – and walked to a microp
hone stand set up centrally. The noise hit me. It was loud because a big section of the good folk of Barter Town had come out tonight.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” I started, “I'd like to welcome you all to Walter Wheeler's Boxing Sideshow.” I paused for effect. There were a few muted cheers. “We will be starting in about twenty minutes, but firstly, do we have anybody out there who fancies himself in the ring tonight?”

  I was bombarded with shouting from the crowd. Some genuine, and others just dobbing in a mate for fun. But it was the same everywhere. The crowd was always playful to begin with. A big guy with forearms like footballs worked his way to the front of the crowd. I knew he was up for the challenge. He had that look in his eyes.

  “It seems we have a few contenders this evening,” I announced. The crowd cheered once again. I turned to the boxers, still punching at their shadows cast against the tent canvas. I started on the left.

  “On my far left, we have all the way from Arnhem Land, the pride of the Pitenjarra, 'Killer' Ken Koballa.” There were more cheers, and more than a few boos and hisses. “Do we have any takers? Does anyone fancy their chances in the ring with 'Killer' Ken?”

  A wiry fella, with a full beard and a nose that looked like it had been broken on numerous occasions stepped forward. His mates cheered, and slapped him on the back. I guessed he was around fifty years old. I called him to the stage.

  “What's your name, sir?” I asked.

  “Just Bill will do,” he answered.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have our first contender for the evening. Let's hear it for Bill.”

  I held up his arm, as if he had already won, and all the locals cheered. Putting down the mic, I directed Bill to Old Man Wheeler, who was standing just off stage with one of his interminable rolled cigarettes hanging from his lips.

  Wheeler explained the deal to Bill.

  “The minimum is two shilling,” Wheeler said. Twenty-four pence.

  “Two shilling?” It was more than the old man expected.

  “Yeah, but look at it this way, if you win, you'll clean up six shilling.”

  That swayed him. He needed the money. Everybody did. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. There weren't too many notes in it. But these days, nobody was carrying much cash. He pulled out a two silver coins and placed them in Wheeler's hand. It was a done deal. Next!

  I went through the same routine, presenting the next three fighters and pairing them up with locals all keen to punch their way into local history. Nobody wanted a shot with 'Tiny' Johnson though. I guess that was because Tiny was not that tiny. He was the biggest of our boys, and he looked like a hard-punchin' side of beef. Truth was, he was slow and the worst fighter in our troupe. But the locals did not know that. They wanted to make an easy quid. They didn't want to stand toe to toe with a giant. But Jaffa Teasdale came through for us. Our “Gee Man” was moving through the crowd, and when he could see no one wanted to fight Tiny, he stepped up and challenged him.

  Last up was Tommy. As I introduced him as the King of the Ring, Tommy stepped forward and presented himself to the crowd, throwing a flurry of punches at an invisible opponent. This worked the crowd up some more. Especially the boys who were in the pub earlier that evening.

  I called for takers against Tommy, and the fella with the arms like footballs, who I had spotted at the start, stepped forward. He had been waiting for Tommy.

  “I want a shot,” he said matter-of-factly.

  I called him up to the stage.

  “What's your name, sir?” I inquired.

  “My name's Frank Stewart, and I am going to snap that bit of licorice in half.”

  The crowd responded appreciably to Frank's remark. Well at least Frank looked like he was up for the task. I'd guess he was around thirty years of age and built like the proverbial outhouse. Like the others, I steered him over to Wheeler to sort out the financial arrangements. Wheeler was still offering three to one, which Frank appeared happy about. The boys at the pub had passed around the hat and come up with a stake of six-quid-forty. If Frank was to win, he'd be takin', just under twenty quid back to the boys in the bar. They'd like that.

  ROUND THREE

  The crowd filtered inside, taking their positions around the ring. We weren't a real flush outfit, and we didn't have tiered seating. But we figured the locals didn't mind. The way things were, they could get up close to the ring and watch the action. Our ring was just a roped off square in the center of the tent. But it did the job.

  Wheeler was the referee for each of the bouts, which I guessed was a slight conflict of interest as far as the punters were concerned. He could count slower when his boys were down on the mat, or count faster when an opponent was down and looked like a threat. But since these things worked in our favor, far be it from me to question the ethics of my employer.

  The first three fights were over pretty quick. The locals, enthusiastic as they were, weren't particularly good glove men. Tiny and Jaffa Teasdale had to slow things down a bit and put on a show. The crowd got narky when they didn't get their money's worth.

  To encourage the locals, and to make them believe that a win was possible against a fighter from our troupe, Tiny graciously let Jaffa take the honors. The crowd genuinely thought a local boy had made good.

  Twenty minutes later, Tommy and Frank were standing opposite each other in the ring. Ginny had finished up outside and had come in to lend a hand, and was in Tommy's corner. She always was.

  It was time to start the bout. I made the announcements, introducing the fighters again. Of course, Frank got a big cheer. He was the town's last chance to retain some civic pride. I climbed out of the ring, and Old Man Wheeler took over the show.

  Tommy versus Frank was probably not one of the great boxing bouts, but it was something that the locals wanted to see. Ginny rang the bell, and the fight was on. As always, the local boy had to prove he was a man, so he came out swinging.

  There was an art to tent boxing that is hard to explain. Essentially, for us, it was about making money and was akin to a sweet con. Similarly, like a conman, our boxers could never allow the mark to know he had been taken. Therefore, the boxer had to pump the local challenger with enough confidence, and possibly mock heroic moments, to feel like a winner, even when he lost. So no matter how good of a fighter Tommy was, he couldn't go in there and absolutely beat the tar out of the guy. And heaven knew, the way Frank shaped up, he was a guy that needed the tar knocked out of him. But I had trained Tommy well. He knew the ropes, and he didn't come out hard.

  Tommy started throwing – well, throw wasn't the right word – more like telegraphing, a few lazy jabs at Frank. Frank countered them easily. Tommy threw a few more punches in slow motion, and Frank was able to fend them off. Now, Frank was starting to feel pretty good about himself. There he was in the ring, going toe to toe with a boxer who made his living fighting. And so far this so-called fighter hadn't laid a glove on him. It was time for Frank to go on the attack.

  Frank didn't seem to know if he was left-handed or right-handed. He started off in a classic right-handed stance, with the left-hand leading, and the right-hand cocked for the big blow. But now, he switched around, trying to pound away by jabbing with his right. Tommy took the blows on the gloves comfortably. So comfortably that he had trouble selling the fact Frank had any venom in his punches at all.

  Frank pumped two hard jabs into Tommy's gloves, and then tried to follow it up with a wild left haymaker. As he tried to throw the big punch with his left, Frank fell out of balance. He shuffled around, opening himself way up, but Tommy knew it was too early for a big score. Frank, having tired of trying to throw big punches fighting southpaw, reverted to a right-handed stance. To Tommy the difference was negligible.

  The full three minutes wasn't up, Ginny rang the bell anyway. Round one was over, and Frank figured he had fought through it easily, which he had. There was no vinegar in Tommy's punches. They were all for show.

  The next three rounds we
re more of the same, but the crowd was becoming restless. They were all behind their boy, but even they could see he didn't have the goods. It was time to end it, before people suggested the fix was in.

  Tommy didn't want to make it appear too easy. He opened himself up, hoping Frank would take the opportunity to move in and throw a few wild punches and make it look good. Frank obliged, throwing a few lusty blows with his right, and possibly two of the most awkward uppercuts ever with his left. Tommy feigned that one of the uppercuts had hurt him and crouched over. Frank moved in for what he thought was the kill.

  The crowd roared in anticipation. But Tommy stood up and started jabbing, favoring his left side as if he had been hurt – although he wasn't. Frank was able to deflect the first few punches, but as the onslaught grew in intensity, he found himself backpedaling. When he dropped his guard, Tommy let fly. The punch connected with Frank's chin, and he went down and stayed down.

  I didn’t feel too bad about Frank. Before the fight, he was just a guy. Now, he had a story, confidence, and a sense of self-worth. Tommy went over to Frank and helped him to his feet. It was a well-rehearsed routine. You never rubbed the local loser's nose in it. You made him feel proud he had the guts to get in the ring, and further imply that he had some raw talent. Frank didn't have any talent at all, but that wasn't the point. It's about the attitude.

  “You did good, mate. You can take a punch. There's the makins of a good fighter in you,” Tommy said.

  “Thanks, mate,” Frank said, his wounded pride dissipating with every second.

  Tommy held Frank's hand up beside his, saluting a fellow warrior. Frank returned to crowd to the cheers of all his mates. And that was one of the great things about tent boxing – even the loser won.

  On some nights, like tonight, it was hard watching from the corner. I still climbed in the ring now and again for practice with the boys, but I didn’t have what I once had and I knew it.