Davo's Little Something (25 page)

‘Hey that was alright, Lee. Tell Vegemite, or what ever his name is, I'll be down again tomorrow for another spar. I reckon I might've learnt something here this arvo.' He started down the stairs then stopped about four steps down and grinned back up at Lee. ‘I'll fix you up with that thirty bucks when I come in too. See ya—me old China.'

Within ten minutes he was sitting behind the wheel of his car heading back towards Bondi; thirty minutes later his adrenalin had settled down and he was sitting in his loungeroom, sipping a cup of coffee and thinking about what he'd just done. Again he couldn't quite believe it; and although he had a smile on his face as he looked down into his coffee he was at the same time apprehensive: frightened almost.

He'd just knocked out, battered, a black belt martial arts instructor. A man with years of training and experience who had himself knocked out his last fifteen opponents. It wasn't as if he'd taken him by surprise during a friendly spar either—he'd deliberately goaded Vittor into going flat out and using every skill and trick he knew to put Davo away; even to the extent of ripping off his gloves in frustration. And Davo had put him away easily—just as easily as Ken. The only difference between the two was that he felt a little remorse for Ken—he wasn't a bad bloke—but Vittor was just an arrogant bullying prick, he'd enjoyed belting him; especially when his face burst open. That was the other thing that worried Davo, or at least made him ponder. He honestly got a kick now out of watching the suffering of others and it was new, completely alien to
him. In fact he not only got a kick out of it, he relished it. He pondered heavily on it. Shit! Was he turning into a sadist? He thought on it for a few more moments then shrugged his shoulders and resumed smiling into his coffee. Well, if he was—they ain't seen nothin' yet.

Which brought him round to the reason he'd started all this in the first place; it was now time to make a move. He'd just about reached the peak of his training and he doubted if he could get much fitter. He took the empty cup into the kitchen then went into his bedroom, stripped to the waist and stood in front of the mirror. The Bob Davis of months ago was lost and gone forever. His arms, especially his forearms, were thick and sinewy and bulging with veins like whipcord. His chest looked like it was carved out of marble and the muscles in his neck and shoulders were bursting out of all his shirts. His stomach was hard and flat and rippled with muscles and looked like you could have scrubbed his butcher's aprons on it. He shaped up to the mirror and threw a couple of quick punches, even his fists looked bigger. Then on top of that there was his phenomenal, even freakish, reflexes.

So now it was time and the time had come round quicker than he'd thought. But although he felt great after those two victories and his confidence was soaring, something else still nagged at him. Fighting and beating those two men in the ring was in itself no mean accomplishment, however taking on several at a time in a back alley or a darkened street was going to be a different thing altogether. He was still going to need that edge, that little something in his favour, and it concerned him.

He put his clothes back on then went into the bathroom, got a pair of scissors and an electric razor and removed his moustache. There was probably no real need to have grown it but without it he'd be a lot harder for those two to recognise—if it ever came to that. He rubbed a little Vaseline over the pinky, slightly raw skin, then combed his hair forward and put the part back in the side. Only the bare remnants of his rat's tail were still there—they'd certainly given that and the rest of his hair a serve at the hospital when they'd stitched his head—but it had grown back and looked okay now. He
gave a grunt of satisfaction, turned out the light then went back into the loungeroom and turned on the TV, staring absently at it with the volume down low. He sat there thinking till 10.30 then went to bed; although he should have been elated, he found he was still troubled.

Davo trained harder than usual—if it was possible—the rest of the week and through the weekend. By Sunday he was literally jumping out of his skin and shuffling around on the walking stick was almost getting to be an impossibility. He was having a bite to eat after training on the Saturday when the phone rang. He sat there in the kitchen staring resentfully at it for a few moments, then reluctantly reached over and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?'

‘G'day, mate—how are you? It's Colin.'

Davo paused for a moment. ‘Ohh hello Colin. How's things?'

‘Alright. Jesus, mate, I've been trying to ring you for ages. I was gonna call over but after that message I didn't know whether to or not. Shit, you've had me worried.'

Colin didn't add that he was completely shitted off having to live at home. His sex life had diminished horribly since he'd lost his number one running partner with his unit and anything he did happen to get his hands on had to be thrown up in the air either in his car or back at their place and invariably the girlfriends or whatever were home and cruelled him. He was that desperate he'd even booked into a motel one night with some soapy brunette from Engadine. It cost him $60 and just as he was about to get into some much-needed fornication she started to have her period—he could've strangled her. It just about made Colin weep every time he thought of Davo's well appointed home unit with the stereo, the liquor supply and the spare bedroom not even a kilometre from all the action in Bondi Junction. Shit, it'd been almost two months, surely Davo was up and about by now. He crossed his fingers on the end of the line.

‘So how are you anyway mate?' he said, sounding all concerned.

Davo paused again for a moment before answering. ‘I'm still pretty laid up to tell you the truth Colin. I'm still not the best.'

Colin uncrossed his fingers as his hopes suddenly took a nosedive. ‘Oh, shit, that's no good. I was hoping you might be getting better. I was gonna call over and maybe we could go out for a bit of a drink or something one night . . . Just a quiet drink and a mag, that's all,' he added.

Davo smiled into the phone. He could read Colin's mind like a twenty-cent comic. ‘I'm still getting physiotherapy every day Colin—and I'm still taking a lot of medication for the brain damage. The doctor told me to get a lot of rest. I've still got these unbelievable headaches.'

‘Fair dinkum? Shit, that's no good, mate.'

‘Yeah. It'll be a while yet before I can start going out again. Maybe in another four or five weeks.'

Colin sucked his breath in through his teeth. ‘That long eh.'

Davo smiled again. ‘Ohh yeah. At least.'

They chatted away for a few more minutes, about nothing much in particular, till Davo finally said he'd have to hang up as even talking on the telephone gave him a headache and he'd just taken some painkillers which made him awfully drowsy and he needed to lie down; he said goodbye, adding that he'd ring Colin back in a couple of weeks.

As he replaced the receiver the cynical smile on his face almost turned into a grin. For all his chicanery and subterfuge you couldn't help but like Colin, he was a good mate, and Davo would almost be glad when he'd sorted this thing out within himself and they could get out on the run together somewhere and have a few drinks again. Then just as quickly the smile disappeared as Davo found himself thinking once more about his elusive edge.

On the other end of the line Colin was staring morosely at the receiver. Another six bloody weeks. Christ, I'll finish up in the rathouse if things don't improve. His brooding train of thought was suddenly interrupted by his mother's nasally voice whining down the corridor.

‘Honestly, Colin, this bedroom is a bloody disgrace. You've got it like a pigsty. Jesus, thirty years of bloody age and you're still carrying on like a bloody teenager. It's about time you woke up to yourself and started to show a bit of maturity. No wonder Jo-Anne left you.' There was silence for a second
or two followed by a muttered curse. ‘And stop blowing your nose on the sheets too—you filthy bastard.'

Davo trained like a man possessed on Monday morning then at lunchtime did his best to limp down to Bondi Junction on his walking stick to cash his social security cheque and have a bit of a look around. He was sitting in the Plaza, not far from the escalators, having his usual coffee and donuts when he recognised a familiar bearded figure in overalls, carrying a small stepladder, come ambling towards him. It was Ray Roberts, the electrician.

Ray—or ‘Robbo' as just about everybody called him—was the foreman in charge of all the electrical maintenance for the Plaza and had been there since the place opened about six years previous. Davo had got to know Ray when he'd worked in one of the butcher shops in the Plaza and often joined him for a few beers and a mag after they'd finished work. Robbo had worked himself into a nice easy little number in his six years at the Plaza and it showed; he was at least thirty kilos overweight and had a stomach like a walrus. His hair and eyes were pretty much like Davo's with a constantly smiling, always stirring people face, ringed by one of those bushy Quakertype beards tinged with grey. As his physique suggested, Robbo shunned any type of physical work at all so Davo was a little surprised to see him carrying a ladder; even if it was a small one and he wasn't walking very fast.

‘G'day, Davo,' grinned the beefy electrician, as he stood in front of him. ‘What are you doing down here? I thought you were half dead.'

‘I was for a while,' replied Davo, looking up as he sipped his coffee. ‘I'm still pretty crook, but I'm better than I was. How are you going?'

‘Alright.'

Robbo rested the step ladder on its end and sort of leant against it for support while he stood there. He gave Davo's walking stick a nudge with his foot.

‘What's this for,' he said, with a sly smile. ‘Don't try and tell me you're a cripple.' Robbo was awake-up to Davo's form over the years and his naturally cynical nature told him
it wouldn't be beyond him to pull a bit of a scam.

‘I'm still not the best, Ray—fair dinkum. I need it to get around.'

‘Ohh yeah!'

Robbo stood there having a few digs at Davo about whether he was faking or not with Davo casually doing his best to have a few digs back but he was squirming underneath at the same time. It was the first time anyone had challenged him about his injuries and he was finding it hard to look Ray in the eye as he spoke, and Robbo, being a champion stirrer, seemed to sense this. Finally Davo gave Robbo's step ladder a nudge with his foot in an effort to change the subject.

‘Anyway, what are you doing carrying a ladder around you fat heap? It's not like you to get your hands dirty.'

‘Yeah I know—it's awful. That's why I'm wearing me new gloves.'

Then Davo noticed the gloves Ray was wearing and stared at them for a moment. ‘Jesus, they're a grouse pair of gloves,' he said slowly. ‘Where did you get them?'

‘They're American.' Robbo extended his arm and opened and closed his hand a few times in front of Davo's face.

‘Alright if I have a look at one?'

‘Sure,' Ray put his arm through the step ladder while he took off his left glove and handed it to Davo who looked at it for a few seconds then put it on.

It was an unusual sort of glove. Black leather, not very thick but tough and flexible. It came up past his wrist with a small, neat zipper under the palm. A self-sticking, matching leather band, something like on a surfboard legrope, wrapped around the wrist giving support and a snug perfect fit. Davo opened and closed his fist a few times and the glove seemed to stick on his hand like a second skin.

‘Where'd you get them?'

‘That disposal store across the road from the carwash. They're fifty bucks a pair.'

‘They got any left?'

Ray shrugged his shoulders as Davo took the glove off and handed it back to him. ‘I dunno. They only had two pair left when I got these. They're grouse though.'

Davo stared at the gloves as Ray put the left one back on. Inside his head alarm bells were ringing and all sorts of crazy confused thoughts were swirling through his mind.

‘Yeah,' he said vaguely. ‘You can say that again.'

Davo finished his coffee while he talked to Ray but all the time his thoughts and eyes were focused on the unique gloves sitting snugly on Robbo's hands. Finally Ray looked at his watch.

‘Well, I s'pose I'd better get going. I was supposed to fix this wog's light an hour ago.'

‘Yeah. Me too. I . . . ah . . . got to see a specialist.'

Davo stood up and they said their goodbyes. Robbo strolled off carrying the ladder under his arm with all the speed of a camel train, while Davo had to forcibly restrain himself again on his walking stick, he was in that much of a hurry to get to the disposal store. At one stage he was that frustrated he felt like breaking it over his knee and stuffing it in the nearest garbage bin.

After what felt like the slowest 500 metres he'd ever walked in his life Davo finally got to the disposal store. As he stared into the window his stomach was churning slightly, almost in a panic that he might have missed out, but there they were, one pair left with the price-tag sitting on them: $49.95. Seconds later he was inside the shop.

‘That pair of black gloves in the window—$49.95. Can I have a look at them, mate?'

‘Certainly,' replied the sad-eyed balding owner. He went to the window, retrieved the gloves and handed them to Davo. ‘Fully imported from America. Excellent quality. That's the last pair.'

Davo carefully ran his hands over them; they were identical to the ones Robbo had had. ‘Okay, I'll take them.' He handed over the money, collected his change then left the store with the gloves in a plastic carry bag.

The Bondi Junction Hotel was just a short distance back the way he'd come. He walked down, ordered a lemon squash in the saloon bar then sat down at a quiet table in a corner and examined the gloves again before putting them both on. They were a quality pair of gloves alright, tough yet pliable and that self-sticking strap around the wrist gave your hand
amazing support. He made a fist and sat there staring at it while he sipped his lemon squash; already an idea had formulated in his mind. Like he'd just been shot in the forehead with a bullet of pure crystal everything suddenly fell into place, the Koreans on TV, the martial arts, the edge, everything, and he knew exactly what he had to do. He took the right glove off and put it back in the bag and sat there staring at the one on his left fist while he stroked his chin thoughtfully between sips of lemon squash. Finally, he put the other glove in the bag, finished his drink and at a calmer, more rational, pace began walking towards the city end of Bondi Junction.