'Hey, Starkey,' he grinned, 'you should see this place. Nothing but fucking poofs everywhere.'
'Really.'
Sissy appeared at my shoulder. Matchitt looked surprised. Then embarrassed. 'Hello,' he said, and put his hand out. Sissy shook it. 'You won't remember me,' he said.
'Of course I do. You're Stanley. I never forget a handsome face.'
'Aw, shucks,' said Matchitt. He bent and picked up her bag.
'Why, Stanley,' I said, 'you've become a gentleman.'
Turning, his mouth contorted Popeye style, he whispered, 'Fuck up, Starkey,' and then led us to a large red car. Matchitt said it was an S-class Mercedes Benz. I took his word for it. It was certainly plush. Sissy and I got in the back. It was a bit of a squeeze.
'So,' I asked, as we cruised gently through the town, 'what's new?'
This time it was a more sombre, thoughtful Stanley Matchitt. Once or twice in the mirror I saw his eyes flit to Sissy. She didn't notice. Her eyes were fluttering. Mine weren't far behind. It had been a long old trip.
'Not much,' said Matchitt.
'Nice car,' I said. 'Whatcha do, nick it?'
A little smile. 'Poodle's. He has a certain style.' I nodded. 'How's the contender?'
'He's okay. Sleeping like a baby when I left him.'
'You mean he'll wake every four hours screaming to be fed.'
'Something like that.'
'What about the kidnappers?'
'No word.'
I'd told Geordie McClean about Marcus McLiam and his vacation in Princetown. I'd held back about the lingerie. It didn't seem especially relevant. Maybe he wore it himself. I wasn't sure if he'd relayed the information to Matchitt. It wasn't my place to keep him informed.
'I'm sorry about your husband, Mrs Smith,' said Matchitt. Sissy shuddered awake. 'Uuuuuuh, yes. What?'
'I'm sorry about Mr Smith. How he died.'
'Thank you.'
'There's not much I can say.'
'I understand.'
'But if I can be of any help. ..'
'Thank you. I appreciate your concern. I'm coping fine.'
'Stanley is famous back home for the depth of his compassion,'
I said.
'Starkey . . .'
'There are many widows who can testify...'
'I'm sure you've grown accustomed to Starkey's sarcasm, Mrs
Smith.'
Sissy smiled kindly at me. 'It has a certain charm, Stanley.'
'Charm wasn't the word I was thinking of, Mrs Smith...'
'Sissy, please...'
'Sissy, yes, of course.'
We were only three or four minutes out of town when Matchitt turned the car into a wide driveway. He pulled up well short of an impressively large log cabin as two figures in black held up their hands to the car. Matchitt zipped his window down and stuck his head out. 'Only me,' he said.
One of the guys, big, bald, I recognized from the board meeting back in the Mirage with Poodle Clay. He nodded and waved us on. Matchitt rolled the car down until it rested just in front of a small verandah. A man was rocking gently in a chair, his shaggy hair silhouetted against the interior light, his face dark but for the red point of a cigarette. As we got out, the security guard approached Stanley and nodded his head towards the verandah. 'Reporter arrived. Says he's from the Daily Mirror in London.'
'What did Geordie say?'
'He's gone out.'
Matchitt nodded. He turned to me. 'You handle the press still, Starkey?'
I shrugged.
'You handle the press then. I'll get Sissy organized.' He opened the boot and yanked out her bag. He left mine. Then he put a guiding hand on Sissy's arm and piloted her into the cabin. I lifted my own bag and stepped onto the verandah. The man stood up and extended a hand. I shook it. It was a sign of maturity that I was becoming depressingly familiar with.
'Richard Curtis, Daily Mirror,' he said. He spoke around his cigarette.
'News or sport?'
'Sport,' he said, a little too quickly.
I nodded cynically. It wasn't much different from nodding normally. It was the slight narrowing of the eyes that made all the difference. Maybe he missed it in the half-light, or maybe he missed it because his eyes were slightly narrowed as well. 'You're Starkey,' he said. I nodded. 'I've heard the name in Belfast. Am I the first?'
'Here?' I shrugged. 'Far as I know. You have your scoop. What're you after?'
'A word with Bobby.'
'I'm given to understand he's asleep.'
'You could wake him.'
'I could. I won't.'
'I've a deadline.'
'So has Bobby. He needs his sleep.'
'Just a quick word.'
I shook my head. 'I'm sorry. Come back in the morning. I'm sure he'll oblige.'
'The others will have caught up by then.'
'Maybe. Maybe not. You'll have to take your chances.'
'Aw, come on. I've travelled a long way. Give me something.
Some background. Anything.'
There was a hint of desperation in his voice. He had a scraggy, unkempt look about him, a paleness that spoke of worry and debt. I'd seen his kind before, the ageing journalist battling to keep his place on the tabloid front line, resisting to the last the inevitable move to the sub's desk. It was a young man's game, and sometimes it wasn't a game at all. I felt a bit sorry for him.
'Listen,' I said, 'I'll see if I can get you a word with Jackie Campbell. He'll fill you in on how the training's going, okay? It's better than nothing. Then come and see me tomorrow and I'll sort something out with Bobby, okay?'
'Great. Yeah. Sure. Appreciate it, Dan.'
I told him to wait where he was and went inside to look for the elderly trainer.
Davy Crockett wouldn't have known what to make of the log cabin. Six bedrooms. TV/cable. Jacuzzi. Imaginary log fire. Everything over the top of the range. Sissy was already plonked on a massive settee. She smiled over. 'Where's Stanley?' I asked.
'He's fixing me some coffee,' she said and pointed across the room.
I followed her finger to the kitchen. He was pouring two cups. 'Domesticated as well,' I said.
He smiled.
'What is it, Stan, guilt or infatuation?'
He stopped smiling. 'You open your mouth again, Starkey, you're a dead man.'
I slapped him playfully on the shoulder. 'Och, Stanley, I'm only raking.'
'And you're a sarky cunt too.' He lifted the cups and headed for the lounge.
'You seen Jackie?'
He nodded backwards. 'Outside.'
A large marquee had been erected in the backyard. It billowed gently in the sea breeze. I made a mental note not to let Sissy into the yard in case she snagged it for a dress.
Jackie was inside, tightening the ropes on the ring. He was alone. 'Hey, Jackie,' I said.
He turned. The eyes tightened.
'It's me. Dan. Starkey.'
As he ventured closer, recognition dawned.
'How's it going?' I asked.
'Could be better. A hundred per cent better.'
'I heard you weren't too fussed on the training facilities.'
'The training. The town. The people. This place ain't normal. You know I saw two men holding hands down the street today? And they were both wearing high heels.' He shook his head sadly. 'In my day...'
'I hear you had some new sparring partners flown in.'
'Had to. The others were useless. Or dead. Dead useless. The new ones'll not last the pace either. Not the mood the big man's in.'
'That's a good sign, isn't it?'
'I suppose. We'll see.'
'Jackie, would you do me a favour?'
'Within reason.'
'There's a reporter outside. Interested in your career, and how things are going for the fight, would you have a word with him? Just quickly. He's from London, made a long trip.'
He tutted, but said he'd do it. I walked him out to the verandah. 'One thing, Jackie,' I said, before letting
him loose, 'keep it brief, and stick to the boxing.'
'That's two things,' he said.
30
Lack of alcohol. Sea air. Extreme weariness. A huge feathery bed. They all combined. I slept like a drugged baby.
The clatter of a team breakfast brought me round, but it took a while to claw my way out of a satisfied slumber and by the time I made it as far as the kitchen there was only a scattering of messed dishes left, plus Stanley and Sissy chatting over coffee. Stanley and Sissy. It had a bit of a ring to it. Like an old music hall duo. One of those knife-throwing acts perhaps. Stanley knew a thing or two about knives.
I wished them good morning and we exchanged pleasantries for a while. No one had been thoughtful enough to furnish the fridge with Coke. There was some Gatorade, and it tasted like it. Matchitt was in a tracksuit. He'd breakfasted early and gone out on a run with McMaster. The big bloke was already back in the ring. I walked on through to the marquee.
Bobby McMaster was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, but he wasn't blowing too hard. He was punishing a blubbery-looking white guy. Jackie Campbell shouted encouragement, slapping his hand down on the ropes for added emphasis. Then he called time and the hired help lumbered across to his corner and slumped down on the stool. McMaster leant on the ropes and waved over. He manoeuvred his gumshield out of his mouth and held it awkwardly between his gloves. 'How goes it in the city?' he asked. Jovial almost, like he knew the wife was alive and all he had to do was hang on in there and she'd be returned.
'Fine,' I said.
He nodded across to the other side of the ring. Three overweight men in scruffy city suits sat on fold-down chairs, arms crossed, notebooks out. 'The baying horde has caught up,' he said.
I circled the ring and introduced myself. Two were from New York, one from Boston. There was no sign of the guy from the Mirror, or the rest of the British pack. They'd all arrived independently in the early hours of the morning and got lodgings in town. They'd been tipped off as to our location. I wasn't surprised. It was a difficult thing to keep quiet. There wasn't much point in denying them access either; it would be more of a distraction to have them camped outside. We chatted about boxing while they kept an eye on McMaster's movements in the ring. They seemed pleasantly surprised by him, not so much by his shape and condition, which still needed a little work, but by his enthusiasm.
Surprised, but not convinced. 'Keep that up,' said Larry Fortenz from the New York Times, 'he'll maybe make it into the third round. Now there's not many get that far. I saw Tyson yesterday. I've never seen him look meaner. Like someone's done a good psych job on him.'
Bernie Gold of Boxing World nodded in agreement. 'You won't be needing the undertaker so early. But you'll still be needing him.'
Buoyed by their enthusiasm, I went to find Geordie McClean. He was lying on his bed talking animatedly on the phone, trying to rescue some of the endorsement deals McMaster had signed prior to the allegations of racism. He gave me the five-minute sign. I returned to the makeshift gym. McMaster had despatched his white opponent within three rounds and was now pulverizing his second opponent of the morning. He had him pinned in the corner and was steadily, unspectacularly ploughing body shots into him. He tried covering up, crouching low, but he couldn't quite do it; McMaster's blows just pile-drove through him and eventually he sank to one knee. McMaster gave him a playful tap on the head and returned to his corner.
'That's ma boy!' shouted Jackie Campbell. 'Three more rounds, we'll call it a day, Bobby.'
The third and final boxer of the morning had been limbering up at the back of the marquee, facing away from the ring. As his fallen companion bent awkwardly under the ropes to exit, he turned, then stepped forward and, placing one gloved hand on the top rope, he propelled himself up and over with the agility of a featherweight. As he landed he fixed his feet firmly on the canvas and glared across the ring at McMaster. His head was shaved close, emphasizing the meanness of his eyes. Although he was a good six inches shorter than the contender he made up for it with a taut, compact body. Like Tyson, he had no neck. He had a thick body, a thick head, and all of it looked dangerous. He slapped his gloves together. Let's get it on. McMaster smiled at him.
Bernie Gold shouted across the ring, 'Hey, Jackie, where'd y'get the bull?'
Jackie shrugged and rang the bell. He stepped down from the canvas and lifted a clipboard, then ran his finger quickly down a list. 'Mo Barkley out of New Orleans,' he shouted across the ring.
McMaster moved forward. Barkley advanced to meet him. McMaster stuck out an exploratory left jab. Barkley moved left easily and slapped it away as he went. He circled. McMaster stuck out another. Then another. Then followed it with a right which bounced off Barkley's shoulder. Barkley bunched the shoulder up disdainfully and pushed out his own jab, McMaster shrugged it off, then moved forward again. Barkley stepped back - no, he appeared to step back, he rocked back on his heels, then pulled forward and crashed a left hook up through McMaster's defences. Bobby's head shot back and for a moment his eyes glazed and his legs wobbled. But for the headguard he would have gone down. He staggered back to the ropes. Barkley closed in. This time an overhead right. McMaster retained enough sense to move left and under and pulled a hook into Barkley's unprotected midriff. Barkley grunted, stepped back, then ducked low and moved in again, elbows out wide, and fired an uppercut to McMaster's jaw; Bobby moved slightly, just enough to commute the death sentence. I stepped up to the ring and held tight onto the top rope. The other reporters clambered after me. 'Gee,' said one. That was the sum of the press analysis. Jackie Campbell, sprightly beyond his years, moved around the ropes until he was behind Bobby, then slapped his shoulder. 'Move! Move! Move!' he screamed. McMaster didn't have time to worry about advice. The blows were raining in. Three or four landed. McMaster got one back. Three or four landed. McMaster got another in. 'Move! Move! Move!' Campbell shouted again. McMaster shuffled a little to his right. Barkley let go a fairground left that knocked him back to stage centre, and the blows started raining in again. 'Jesus Christ!' Campbell screamed. McMaster was wilting.
And then the bell rang. Campbell looked up. McMaster looked up, then leant back as another hook raced up towards his chin. Just in time. He bent forward and shoved Barkley hard in the chest with both gloves. His sparring partner, surprised, tumbled backwards.
'Quit at the fuckin' bell!' McMaster snarled.
'Whatcha ring it for?' Campbell demanded.
Geordie McClean stood in the corner by the bell. He looked tense. He lifted his hand to his ear. 'Call for you, Bobby,' he said.
'It's your wife.'
Barkley had raised himself to his feet. He slapped his gloves together again. The glare was still there. McMaster matched it for a moment, then shook his head and spat out his gumshield. He started to say something to McClean, but Geordie shushed him, nodding across at the reporters. McMaster ducked under the ropes and headed for the kitchen.
'Fortuitous call,' said Bernie Gold, laconically.
'Saved by the wife,' added Larry Fortenz. They looked pleased with themselves. They returned to their seats and started making notes.
McClean jumped down from the ring. His face was red. 'Everyone has an off day,' he spat and followed McMaster.
Mo Barkley ducked under the ropes. He picked up a towel and rubbed his face. Then he held out his gloves for Jackie Campbell to untie.
'Hey, Mo,' shouted Bernie Gold, 'where you been hiding?' Mo shrugged.
'Doing anything on St Patrick's Day?' shouted Larry Fortenz.
'I hear Tyson's looking for an opponent.'
Mo shrugged again.
Fortenz walked round to Barkley and ran an approving eye over his body. 'New Orleans, is it? Whose gym?'
Barkley barely opened his mouth. 'I don't talk to the press,' he said. The glare was still there. Maybe he was born with it. Born angry. Not a bad thing for a boxer.
'So? Talk to Bernie then, he barely qualifies.'
Bernie groaned. 'You crack me u
p, Larry, you really crack me up.'
Jackie Campbell pulled the gloves off, then handed them back to Barkley. 'Well done, son,' he said.
Barkley nodded and walked off. He disappeared through the marquee flaps. Campbell watched him go, nodded himself. I nudged his elbow. 'Good, wasn't he?' I said quietly. 'Good?' he snapped. 'Brilliant. Too brilliant.'
Stanley and Sissy had some fresh coffee. Nice.
I shook my head at her. 'Shouldn't you be out ... sleuthing, or something?'
Sissy looked lazily up. 'Sleuthing, Starkey?'
'Yeah, well, whatever the fuck you do.'
Matchitt said: 'Watch your tongue, Starkey.' But he didn't look up. He looked at Sissy. She smiled warmly.
Jesus, I thought. 'More sleuthing, less smooching, we might get something done around here,' I snapped.
Matchitt looked a tad embarrassed, just for a second, then his upper lip curled back in anger, but Sissy shushed him. 'While you been sleeping, Starkey, I've been working. Sleuthing since dawn, honey.'
'Yeah? You realize there are terrorists on the phone in there?' She nodded. 'I mean, shouldn't you be doing something about it?'
'I am doing something.'
'It looks like it.'
'I told you about the sarcasm,' said Matchitt.
'You're not getting paid . . .'
'I'm not getting paid full stop. Dimes and quarters, Starkey, dimes and quarters. If I turn her up, I turn her up, okay?'
'Yeah. Okay. Right.' I nodded. Classic Coke withdrawal symptoms. They knew all about withdrawing Classic Coke. Or was it Coke Classic? 'Sorry,' I added.
'For your information I've been to see the local police and they're not averse to helping out. There isn't much happens round here besides a couple of queens fighting it out on a Saturday night, so a heavyweight contender and a kidnapping kind of shook 'em up. So now every call coming in is being monitored and traced. Every hotel and guesthouse within a twenty-five-mile radius is being checked for McLiam.'
'Very good,' I said. Matchitt nodded at me.
'The problem is,' Sissy continued, 'they're mostly small, privately owned establishments, no one really seems to have a list of them all, and there aren't that many cops in town, so it might take a bit of time.' -
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