'They aren't that desperate.'
I had nowhere to put my hands. In awkward situations I like to put my hands in my pockets. Someone had stolen my pockets. I bit at a thumbnail that wasn't there.
'I have a lot to thank you for.'
She shrugged, which was normally my speciality.
'A hooker with a heart of gold,' I said.
Her eyes blazed. She reared up out of the bed, blue slip falling about her breasts, and aimed a stiletto at my head. It clattered off the door, which had more to do with her aim than my powers of evasion. 'I'm no whore!' she thundered.
I shot out a placatory hand, and kept the other defensively about my crotch. 'I'm sorry! know! Jesus. Sorry. I must be in shock.'
'I know what I do isn't very respectable. But I'm no whore.'
'I know. I'm sorry. And I can't thank you enough.'
The angry hurricane subsided, leaving her face serene again. She sat back on the bed. She snorted, looked up at me. 'I'm sorry too. I've a bit of a temper. I forgot you were on vacation. You weren't to know whether I was a hooker or not. I suppose it's a fine difference in most people's eyes.'
I sat on the edge of the bed. 'It's a big difference. Of course it is. I'm just happy you looked out for me. You took a big chance. What possessed you to bring me back here at all?'
'I don't know. It's not something I would normally dream of doing.'
'Maybe you have some Irish blood in you.'
She shook her head.
'Would you like some?' Furrowed brow. 'Sorry. It's an old joke. A nervous joke. I must thank you. I always get myself in these awful situations and people pull me out of them out of the goodness of their hearts. I suppose I'm blessed that way.'
'I tried to get you back to your hotel, but you wouldn't tell me its name.'
'I probably thought I could seduce you. I have these sexual delusions when I'm drunk. My wife said when we were courting - there's an old-fashioned word for you - that my idea of a romantic four-course dinner was a bowl of soup, "of course, of course, of course I love you" and straight into bed. Sober, I'm really quite responsible. Did I try anything I shouldn't have?'
'You didn't get the chance.'
'But you trusted a stranger to sleep beside you?'
'Not really. I only brought you back long enough to sober up so that you'd be able to find your way home, but you were unconscious virtually by the time you hit the bed. And besides, I keep a gun under the pillow that could blow your balls off.'
Lauren wasn't called Lauren and she wasn't twenty-one. Lauren was nineteen, and Lauren was Paula. By day she was a student at New York University, by night she paid for it by dropping her shorts for sad people. She wasn't a hooker, but, like she said, it was a fine line, particularly to a Presbyterian. Her studio flat, her bedsit, was part of a large apartment block in Greenwich Village.
Paula got dressed and went out to get us some coffee. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I was a Coke man, or worse, that I was now a Diet Coke man, a small but significant tugging of the forelock to the new health sensibilities of my generation. She brought back two paper cups and a couple of chocolate doughnuts from her friend Duncan. .
We supped in silence for a while, then, wiping a crumb from her mouth - beautiful mouth - she said, 'You talked about your wife a lot last night.'
'In the booth.'
'On the way home. And back here. You must love her a lot.'
'I keep trying to tell her.'
'But she won't listen.'
'She listens. I just say the wrong things. Do the wrong things.'
'You say you're a journalist.'
'Do I?'
'You did last night. Are you? Or was it a line?'
'Who would ever use that as a line? It's like saying, hey, I'm a leper, take my arm for this dance.'
'So you are a journalist?'
'Mmmm. Sort of. I was for a long time. I'm trying to be a writer. Of the old school. Big, epic works. My wife calls me a literary dinosaur, a thesaurus. I keep the money coming in with the odd bit of journalism. Right now I'm writing a book about a boxer. It's hardly literature, but it keeps the wolves from the door.'
She smiled kindly. 'You're very sweet, y'know?'
'Thank you. That's an awful thing to say to a man sitting on your bed with two-day-old underpants on.'
'Have you ever written to your wife?'
'Written? No. My solicitor has, will that do?'
'Of course not. Have you never sat down and written her a proper letter?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'I've never thought of it. You phone your wife. You don't write to her. '
'But you can say so much more in a letter.'
'My solicitor told me not to put anything in writing.'
'I don't mean that kind of a letter. You say you always say the wrong thing to her. But why say it? You say what you do best is write. A thesaurus, whatever. Why don't you write to her and tell her how much you love her? Spell it all out to her.'
'You think?'
'Any woman would appreciate it.'
'She's not any woman.'
'Have you tried everything else?'
'I've tried everything else.'
'So do it.'
'I haven't got a pen.'
She shook her head. 'You're scared, aren't you?' I nodded.
'It takes a lot of guts for a man to expose himself on a page.'
'But not very many to expose himself in a sex club.'
'You were scared of that too, weren't you?' I nodded.
'What are you?'
'A pathetic little man scared of life.'
'And what are you going to do?'
'Learn to expose myself in sex clubs.'
'No.'
'Write to my wife and tell her how much I love her and beg her to come back so that we can have the happiest marriage in the world and forget all our past mistakes.'
'Yup.'
'Okay.'
'I'll even furnish a pen.'
'Deal.'
I've walked the streets in some crazy-looking things before, but it has most always been to do with fashion. This time I got to walk up Broadway in a pair of yellow ski pants and a pink T-shirt. It wasn't Paula's fault that she was a fair bit smaller than me and those were about the only things that would fit. She wanted to lend me the money, but I wouldn't have it. She had done enough. More than enough. I was alive, and I had a mission. Patricia wouldn't know what had hit her. She'd fall for me hook, line and sinker once I'd reminded her what we were all about. There was optimism in the air and a crazy-looking nut on Broadway, but that's what New York is all about.
13
'Incredible, eh?'
Bobby McMaster's awe-filled face looked out over the Madison Square Garden arena, five floors up on Seventh Avenue. From where we stood, in a$210,000-a-year suite, the arena looked deceptively small, but our guide assured us that it would hold twenty thousand fans.
'Should accommodate both of your followers too, eh, Bobby?' Stanley Matchitt said, smiling across at his friend.
'Yeah, Stanley. Looks good though, doesn't it?'
We all nodded - Geordie McClean, the contender himself, me and the guide, a rotund chap with a glint in his eye which suggested he was a sport's fan who had landed his dream job. It was a beautiful morning and most everything was well with the world. I had fresh clothes on, I'd made arrangements to get replacement traveller's cheques, a new Visa card, and I'd already recovered some of my dignity and composed half my letter to Patricia, albeit in my head. Putting pen to paper was never an easy task, even if it was my chosen profession. Bobby McMaster had put in sixteen rounds of sparring in a luxurious gym on Central Park West and didn't look too bad, considering his talent. My swollen mouth gave a curl to my lip that made me look more like Humphrey Bogart than James Stewart, which was no bad thing in a tough-guy business like boxing.
'Yes, sir,' continued the guide, 'they've all been here - Muhammad Ali, of course, Smokin' Joe Fraz
ier, Joe Louis ... and soon we'll be adding your name to the list, sir. Bobby McMaster fighting for the world title at Madison Square Garden. We don't get that much boxing at the Garden any more, sir, so we're more than glad to be hosting your fight. Already looks like a sell-out too, you'll be pleased to know.'
McMaster had a faraway look in his eye. 'Say that again, that stuff about me fighting for the title.'
The guide smiled. He upped the voice a bit, like he was announcing to the entire arena, threw out his arms. 'Bobby McMaster fighting for the world heavyweight title at Madison Square Garden!'
We all smiled. McMaster glowed with pride. 'This is what it's all about,' he said, his voice near breaking. 'Jesus, Muhammad Ali fought here. Muhammad Ali. Jesus.'
'Why's there no ring?' Matchitt asked.
'Early days yet, Stanley,' said McClean.
'We have several events going on here daily, sir,' said the guide. 'Basketball, rock concerts, conventions - we've a highly efficient team which ensures all events run smoothly. The boxing ring itself won't go up until the evening of the fight.' He pointed out over the arena. 'Those guys down there are putting up a stage for Bruce Springsteen. He's playing here tonight.'
Matchitt nodded.
'Can we get some tickets?' McMaster asked. 'Mary would love to see him.'
'I'll see what I can do,' said McClean.
'Ah! Gentlemen!'
We all turned. The voice was distinctive. Marvin 'Poodle' Clay stood at the suite door, flanked by a couple of heavies.
'Impressed, are we?'
McClean shrugged. 'It'll do,' he said, not very convincingly.
Clay advanced regally down the steps. Beautiful silk suit, not the trashy backstreet Thai job you'd expect. Despite the fact that he was a hustling ex-con, he looked well. The nearest I'd ever come to something that expensive was a libel suit. He put a bejewelled hand out to McClean, shook, then grasped McMaster's hand and held it. 'Your boy here certainly has a flair for publicity/ he said, smiling expansively and staring intently at Bobby. 'Have you seen this yet?'
He turned back and accepted a neatly folded newspaper from one of his heavies. He unfolded it carefully and held it up for us all to see. The paper was the Amsterdam Review. The headline took up most of the front page:
SONS OF MUHAMMAD THREAT TO WHITE BOXER.
McClean grabbed the paper. McMaster snatched it from him. He pulled it close to his face. He shook his head a couple of times, then looked up, then down, and read aloud:
'The Sons of Muhammad, the military arm of the Brothers of Muhammad, the militant AfroAmerican organization, today issued a death threat against the white boxer Robert McMaster, alleging that he had made anti-Afro-American comments during a press conference in New York. The Sons of Muhammad, who are believed to have been behind the bombing of the New York Times building in July and the fatal stabbing of the television star Rabbi Lionel Black in October, allege that the boxer, from Crossmaheart, Ireland, insulted the entire AfroAmerican population by comparing them to snakes and vipers at a press conference for his world title fight with African-American hero Mike Tyson.'
McMaster shook his head. 'Snakes are vipers,' he said quietly.
McClean grabbed the paper back. 'What is this shite?' He read down the story, then looked up at Clay. 'Is this worth worrying about?'
'I never ignore a threat,' Clay said, putting his arm about McClean's shoulders, 'but I wouldn't worry unduly. I have a certain influence with the Afro-American community, as you night imagine.'
'But if they bombed the New York Times...'
'They claim to have bombed the New York Times. Certainly somebody bombed it, but whether it was the Sons of Muhammad. . .'
'And this rabbi...'
'More likely a Palestinian...'
McClean passed the paper along to me. It was tabloid. At first glance it looked badly designed, which was hardly relevant, but one likes to keep a professional hand in. 'Does this have much of a circulation?'
Clay shook his head. 'It's free, so there are plenty of copies about. No real way of knowing if anyone reads them. It's bankrolled by the same people who bankroll the Brothers and Sons of Muhammad, so it's hardly an objective piece of reporting. They like to whip up a bit of fear in Harlem. Paranoia. It's good for the collection plate. They're viciously anti-white, but I don't think they're a real menace. Amateurs, really. Don't worry. I have it under control. Besides, it's good publicity. I'll put on a couple of guards, get them to pose with some artillery and the contender here. The TV news teams will love it.'
'Shouldn't you just play it down?' I suggested. 'Deny the accusations of racism and leave it at that. I mean, maybe the Sons of Muhammad aren't a real threat, but there's the off-chance that the publicity might inspire someone to really have a go at Bobby.' I nodded at McClean. 'You know what it's like in Belfast, all organizations have splinter groups they farm out their nuttier members to. The UDA has the UFF, the IRA has the INLA, the Presbyterians have the Boys' Brigade. The Sons of Muhammad might have the same.'
Matchitt touched my shoulder. He nodded at McClean. 'He's right.'
McMaster rubbed at his chin. 'You mean like the Sons of the Sons of Muhammad? Wouldn't that make them the Grandsons of Muhammad?'
McClean snorted. 'I don't think this is a time for levity, Bobby.'
McMaster shook his head. 'Why not? I can't change what they think about me. I'll issue a statement and go about my business as normal. It's up to you and Poodle here to protect me. Right now the thought of getting my head knocked off by Tyson is a bigger worry. I wouldn't tell Mary about this either, she'll only fret.'
McMaster turned for the steps that led back up out of the suite. McClean stepped after him and Clay and his heavies followed.
'Did I tell you you've been invited to take part in the St Patrick's Day parade?' Clay called.
'Brilliant,' said McMaster, sarkily.
Matchitt spat over the side of the suite, watched as the spittle hit a purple plastic seat below.
'Charming,' I said.
'Are you really worried?'
'Constantly,' I said.
I turned to follow the rest of the team. Matchitt snagged my arm. 'Did you see this yet?' he said, and from inside his jacket he produced a pistol. He brandished it with the pride of an eightyear-old.
'Jesus,' I said. I've no idea what kind of a pistol. A black one. One that kills. The make doesn't matter much. 'That's all we need.'
There was an annoying smirk on his face. 'To protect, one must have the means of protection,' he said.
'Jesus,' I said, and pulled away from him. 'What is wrong with you, Starkey?'
'I just don't fancy the idea of you with a gun, Stanley. You've never exactly been reluctant about using violence.'
'Ach, stop coming over the fucking saint, Starkey. This is New York. Everyone has guns.'
'You're not everyone. You're a nut.'
'Ex-nut, if you please.'
'Aye, sure.'
'Wait and see, Starkey. Don't prejudge.'
'Aye, they prejudged Hitler too. Lovely man.'
'Starkey, just because I have a gun doesn't mean I'm going to kill anyone. I have a job to do and I'm going to do it.' He slipped the gun back into his pocket and zipped up his jacket. 'Still,' he added, with a malicious gleam in his eyes, 'I couldn't believe how easy it was to get. Just walked into the shop, signed a piece of paper, and Bob's your uncle. If it had been that easy in Belfast in the old days there wouldn't have been so many Fenians running about, I'll tell you that.'
'Ah, the voice of reason again.' Matchitt tutted. 'I've changed, Starkey.'
'Yeah. Sure. The proof is in the pudding, Stanley.'
'The proof of the pudding is in the eating.'
'The proof is in the pudding.'
'The proof of the pudding is in the eating.'
'The proof is in the pudding, Stanley, that's the saying.'
'It's not. The saying is, the proof of the pudding is in the eating.'
'It's
fucking not.'
'It fuckin' is.'
'It fucking well isn't.’
'Does it fucking matter?'
'No, it doesn't fucking matter.'
'Okay.'
'I was just worried you might shoot me if I didn't agree with you.'
'I tell you, Starkey, I'm a changed man.'
'Aye, the proof is in the pudding.'
'The proof of the fucking pudding is in the fucking eating, Starkey.'
'You're wrong.'
'I'm not wrong.'
He had a light grip on my jacket. I pulled sharply away and mounted the steps. I heard him curse behind me. I tensed, just slightly. There was always the possibility of a bullet. It would, at the very least, prove my point, although it probably wouldn't be
worth it.
The rest of the team was just disappearing down an escalator beside the Play by Play Bar, and I debated very quickly whether to catch them up or go in for a drink. It wasn't much of a debate, seeing as how I'd sworn off alcohol, but it was made undeniably easier by the fact that when I reached it the bar was closed.
Stanley came up behind me as I stepped onto the escalator. I kept my back to him.
'We'll see,' he said quietly over my shoulder. I continued to ignore him and increased my speed to rejoin the group as a couple of security men ushered them out of the locked gate at the top of the foyer. As we emerged onto Seventh Avenue, three camera crews converged on us from different directions.
Clay didn't look unduly surprised. He turned to McClean. 'I'll do the talking, shall I?'
McClean nodded, but didn't appear to be too happy about it. I'd once thought of McMaster as a big fish in a small pond, but less than plankton in the world ocean of boxing. Now I could see that McClean was much the same, a hustler and an organizer par excellence within the headline-weary but defiantly tiny confines of Northern Ireland; in the wider world, and especially in the centre of all hustles, New York, he really wasn't up to much. Clay was calling the shots and McClean knew his place.
Clay pulled McMaster forward and together they faced the cameras. An earnest young woman, short black hair, beige trouser suit, thrust a microphone in the contender's face.
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