Sucker Punch (12 page)

“Puentes was taking the piss—”

“I want him to win because he's a good boxer, not because he's an animal. We worked it out, him and me.”

“C'mon, he's just had to spend all that time with me. Stands to reason he's got some frustration to work out, doesn't it?”

“Then he should be working it out in training, not in the ring.”

“You know what, you could be fuckin' proud of him. And how's
your
temper, by the way?”

A pause, Paulo thinking it over. “I'm good.”

“You're good. You managed to calm down.”

“Mo's been about.”

“You called the police?”

“No.”

“Then call the police.”

“I'm not calling the police.”

I shift the phone to my other ear, sit down at the desk. I want a cigarette. Half think about taking the phone into the bathroom so I can light one, then decide against it. “Call the police, Paulo. I mean it. If Mo's acting like a twat, let the coppers sort it out and get him locked up. He's got no protection now, man. He basically told me that. So get him locked up for the first time in his life, see how he likes it.”

“He told you that?”

“What?”

“When'd you speak to Mo?”

Fuck.
Fuck.
Hoping I could keep that under wraps, and look at it come spilling out.

“I talked to him,” I say.

“Before or after I caught him dealing?” says Paulo. “Actually, no, don't answer that — it doesn't matter. What're you doing talking to Mo Tiernan?”

“I went to see him.”

“After,” he says.

“Yeah, after. I had a word with him.”

“What was the word?”

“I just told him to stay away from the club.” I
need
a cigarette now. “Let him know what kind of situation he was in, y'know, with his dad and that. Reminded him that he didn't have a leg to stand on if he wanted to play funny buggers.”

“And you don't think the beating I doled out told him that already?”

“Paulo—”

“You don't think I can handle this by myself, Cal?”

I sigh. I have to choose my words carefully, can feel the rage on the other end of the phone. “I know you can, mate.”

“Good.”

“I just don't think you'll handle it the way you want to.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“It means I'm not the only one whose head's been in the shed recently, alright?”

“You let me handle this, Cal.”

“What else am I going to do? Not like I can hop a fuckin' bus and get home now, is it?”

“Yeah, that's a good thing.”

I bite a hangnail from my thumb. “Just be careful, alright?”

“Yeah, right,” he says. “I'll be careful. You just make sure Liam doesn't do anything bloody stupid. I want that lad to be winning on points, okay? He shouldn't be knocking heads. He can knock heads in Manchester all he likes, but it's a different game over there, especially at that level. He's supposed to have some control. That's what I told Phil.”

“He does have control, man. All I'm saying, he was probably a bit wound up.”

“Then unwind him.” Paulo breathes out heavily. “I'm starting to think you were right, y'know. Maybe I should've gone over there with him.”

Because I can't handle it? I have to pause before I talk to him.

“I'm working on something,” I say.

“Yeah, the guy you met in a bar. Water's full of sharks, Cal.”

“This guy seems alright.” Wanting to add that Shapiro's the one he should be worried about. But there's no point in getting Paulo worked up over something he can't change. I've yet to feel my way with Shapiro, don't want to jump to any conclusions, even though it's not a long way to jump. “But I'll be careful.”

“Okay then. Keep an eye on Liam, let me know what happens.”

“I will. And Paulo, look, if Mo turns up, just call the fuckin' police, eh?”

Paulo hangs up, leaving me with silence, then a purr.

Which I hope is a yes, Cal, of course I'll call the police, Cal.

The place calls itself a ristorante, but it's about as Italian as an Aldi pizza. If the waitress who staggered up to our table is anything to go by, the staff are either genetically retarded or high as kites. I found myself checking for tracks on her arms, looking for her pupils. From the look she gave me, I put her down as retarded and bitter. It was safer that way.

But I still don't trust the food in here. If the waitress is the public face of the place, then I dread to think what the cook looks like. Probably a one-eyed, crack-addicted yeti.

Yeah, I'm in a bad mood. My blood's too thick for the kind of heat they have in this country. It's reptile climate and I'm all mammal. Been sweating since we touched down and it's not from lack of medication, either. Since I called Nelson, see if he wanted to meet up for lunch, I've been trying to ration out my prescription. Knowing full well I'll have an awful time of it once I get back to Manchester, but also knowing that if I don't keep necking the pills, I won't be able to move.

But I was good. I didn't neck anything. Rationing. I did well and I'm still walking. So I'm celebrating with a beer or two. Nelson's opposite me. He's scarfed down a pizza that looked like it had been used as a dartboard at one point in its long and miserable life, and now he's bent over a pot of tiramisu.

“Hangover cure to end all hangover cures,” he says, pointing at the brown mess with his spoon. “You got sugar, coffee, eggs, cheese and the hair of the dog that bit me.”

“Literally in this place, Nelson.”

He looks around the restaurant and smiles. “Ah, well, it used to be a great place. Owned by an Italian guy for a start. You'd think that was the prerequisite for an Italian restaurant, wouldn't you? Guy called Stella. Big guy, great sense of humour. Real Italian, like super-Italian, played opera and Dino, liked his sports. Great place.” He taps the bowl with his spoon. “Great tiramasu, too. Used to be right up there with California Pizza Kitchen and Macaroni Grill.”

“Can't say I've tried them.” I sip my beer.

“I'll take you to the pizza place. There's a guy there, Oscar, he owes me a favour.”

“Okay.” I put the beer bottle on the table. “So what'd you think about the fight?”

Nelson told me he was there. Turns out I was too busy talking to Josh's dad and watching Liam knock the shit out of Puentes to pay much attention to the rest of the crowd. But Nelson was there.

“I'm still hungover,” he says, mushing up his tiramisu. “So my judgement may be off.”

“Judgement's judgement.”

Nelson sets the spoon to one side. “I think he's got it in him. Definitely. He's pro material. But I was under the impression he was controlled. Didn't look that way to me.”

I shake my head. “His first bout, Nelson. The lad's got a lot on his mind.”

“Then he needs to get it off his mind.” Nelson waves the thought away. “Okay, no, he's got a lot on his mind. Throw in the flight, kid hasn't got time to adjust, you got jet-lag, he's not going to be on top form. That's fine, I'll accept that. Way I see it, your boy Liam's got enough raw talent in him, he can go into a bout with the wrong strategy and he'll still probably win.”

I hold the bottle of beer to my forehead to curb sweat, then take a drink.

“I say that — he'll probably win — but he'll take more hits than he should. And I don't need to tell you, if he keeps doing that, his career'll be shorter than most.”

“He doesn't have a career,” I say.

“He will, given the right counselling.” Nelson goes back to his tiramisu.

“You up for it?”

He smiles, chews. “I've got nothing better to do, Cal. And it sounds like you need all the help you can get.”

“You could say that.” Another swig from the beer. “I can't talk to the lad, Nelson. I ask him what's wrong, he doesn't answer me or he tells me to go fuck myself. I feel like a parent and I didn't even get the fun of conception. This trip was supposed to be a holiday for me, y'know?”

“You look like you still need one.”

“I do, mate. But I don't know what I'm going to do.” I lean back in my seat. “You want to talk to him?”

“I don't know, Cal…”

“He's more likely to listen to you than he is me. You've been in the game, you're carrying the experience. He might listen to that.”

Nelson looks at me for a long time, says, “You don't want him to screw this up.”

“Course I don’t. I got things I need to sort out. I don't want to be worried about him, do I?”

“Of course you don't.”

“I help this lad, give him a break and it works out, it'll be great for all of us. We go back to Manchester local heroes and we get the ticker tape parade, pictures in the rag, the whole lot. And we might not get on, him and me, but that doesn't mean I need to piss on his chips and tell him it's vinegar, know what I mean?” I stare at the bottle in my hand. “I don't know, Nelson. I just don't see this working out well without you.”

Nelson pushes his tiramisu to one side, puts his elbows on the table. “It'll be fine. And I think you care a lot more about that kid than you let on.”

“Right, Nelson.”

“Once all this is over with, I'm sure he'll pick up on that.”

“Yeah, well,” I say. “He can send me a card or something.”

Back at the hotel, I take Nelson up to Liam's room, but the lad isn't there. If he is, he's not answering my knock. I step back from the door.

“He should be here,” I say.

“Look, if it's a bad time, we can arrange it for tomorrow.”

“Nah, he really should be here.”

Nelson follows me into my room and I tell him to make himself comfortable. He sits on the bed and looks around. “Nice.”

I pick up the phone, call Liam's room. No answer. Then I call reception. “This is Mr Innes. I don't suppose you've seen the lad I checked in with, have you? His name's Liam Wooley.”

“Mr Wooley left a message for you.”

“He left me a message,” I say to Nelson. He nods.

“Mr Innes? Mr Wooley said he's gone to train.”

“Train? Where?”

“Uh, he didn't say.”

“Okay, thanks.” I'm about to put the phone down when I say, “Actually, sorry, no. I'm his driver. He's supposed to tell me if he needs to go somewhere.”

“Well, we called a cab for him.”

“Where was it going?”

“I don't know,” says the receptionist.

“It's okay,” I say. “I think I know anyway. Thanks a lot.”

I hang up. Stand there, Nelson watching me.

“What?” he says.

“He's gone to the bloody gym. He's gone back to Shapiro's to train. You want to come along?”

Nelson checks his watch and pulls a pained face. “Ah hell, I can't, Cal. I've got to be somewhere. Sorry.”

“Not a problem,” I say.

“Can we reschedule? Tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, he's got another bout tomorrow night, I think. I'll have to check. But yeah, I'll do that, give you a ring on your mobile, maybe we can go out for breakfast or something.”

Nelson stands up, offers his hand. “Deal.”

By the time I get to Shapiro's place, the air has cooled off. I get out of the Metro, walk from the parking lot to the gym. Light a cigarette on the way, counting them off. This is the sixth Marlboro I've had today and it's, what, getting on for five o'clock? That's a good day for my health. Paulo would be proud.

I grind the cigarette into the concrete as I approach the gym. The lights are permanently burning here, but as I step inside it's apparent that there can't be more than half a dozen people about. It makes Liam easier to spot. He's working the heavy bag. As I head towards him, he glances at me and slows the workout. When I reach the bag, he moves away.

“That's it, keep it up, son,” I say. “How long are you going to keep the spoilt kid act up, Liam?”

He doesn't answer me, takes a gulp of water and swills it around his mouth before he swallows. Cricks his neck, then eyes the bag like he's ready to knock a hole through it.

“I asked you a question.”

“I'm training,” he says.

“If you're training, where's Reuben?”

“He doesn't have to be here all the time. You go off, get drunk, whatever you have to do. I'm training.”

“You had a bout today. You don't need to train. You need to rest. Got another one tomorrow, you're going to be sparked out.”

“That's not the way it works, Cal. You knew the first thing about this, you'd know that.” Liam shifts his weight, plants two in the heavy bag, then another two. “Fuck do you care, anyway?”

“I care because I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you, son. And you fuck off at the first opportunity.”

“You weren't there.” Building up a rhythm now, hammering the bag so hard it would break a weaker lad's wrists. “I don't need a babysitter, anyway.”

“And I don't need to wipe any arses, Liam. But the fact is, I had someone who wanted to meet you today and you weren't there. You want to keep tabs on your career, mate. You want to start using your brain instead of throwing a hissy fit because you don't like me.”

Liam loses the rhythm. Frustration creases his face. “Fuck off. Just leave us alone.”

“I'm supposed to drive you about. Let me do it.”

He holds up his gloves. “I'm trying to get some work done here, alright? You want to have this conversation, right, we'll have it some other time.”

“You should've called me.”

“I needed to train and—”

“You needed to work out some temper tantrum because Paulo gave you a rough ride,” I say. “And it looks like you haven't worked it out yet.”

“Here, Paulo was right,” he says, wiping his nose on his glove.

I look at the floor for a second and fold my arms. “Yeah, he's right. But Paulo's got his own shite on at the moment. He's always been a bit mental, you ask me. And you know that.”

“I know.”

“So what's the deal? You going to keep spitting at me or what? 'Cause if that's the case, then fine. I'll wipe the tears and try to live the rest of my life. But I still think you should meet this guy. I think it'd be helpful for you. The bloke used to be pro, coaches a little, definitely knows his stuff. It can't hurt for you to talk to him, at least. Make me out to be less of a Tagalong Timmy, eh?”

“Tagalong Timmy?” Liam's face cracks a little. Christ, almost a smile. Would you credit it.