Authors: Ray Banks
Josh bends over, picks up the Wild Turkey. He swills what's left in the bottom of the bottle. “You don't want to fuck with me, mister.”
“Is that so, Richie Rich? You going to buy an army to wipe me out?”
“I'm telling you,” he says. “I'm warning you.”
I smile, push past him. “I been told and warned by people who could shit you without grunting. So get yourself home and sleep it off. You'll need all the energy you can get when my boy Liam kicks your fuckin' arse.”
Liam follows me to the car, leaving the Josh Posse behind. I slip behind the wheel as Liam gets in the passenger side. He has to slam the door three times before it stays closed.
“That bloody door,” I say. “Remind me on, Liam. I need to talk to the rental place.”
I start the engine, pull out of the car park, wave at Josh as we pass. He's leaning against the Audi, his joker mate dabbing at his bottom lip with his fingers. Once we're on the road, I turn on the radio. A whispering, gravel-voiced DJ is playing “white hot blues till the orange dawn”, which is just fine with me. I turn it up. I try to ignore my shaking hands, the agony in my back. I shouldn't have been so fucking physical, but it was the only way. I couldn't touch Josh, not without a whole hurricane of shite heading my way. And that lippy fucker got what he deserved. So hopefully I proved my point and I wouldn't have to slip a disc proving it again.
John Lee Hooker comes on the radio and I have to turn it off. He reminds me of someone I don't want to think about.
“Cal.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
I look at Liam; he's staring out the side window.
“No problem,” I say. “You might want to think about staying away from the gym until tomorrow night, though.”
He nods. “I've been having trouble focussing.”
“I'm not surprised, mate.” I glance at the road. “You want to reconsider on what we talked about?”
Liam sighs. It turns into a low laugh.
“I'm just saying, Liam. If you're having trouble focussing, maybe this coach is what you need.” I look across at him. “You can't do this on your own. Nobody's expecting you to. And I'm no good to you, am I? So we need some help, and Nelson's the bloke who can maybe deliver that help. You want to stay on the straight, that's what he'll be there for — keep you focussed. Then I get to have my holiday, you get to have your career and everybody's happy.”
Liam smiles with one side of his mouth. “I don't know, Cal.”
“Just, for me, just talk to him, okay? We'll have breakfast. My shout.”
He doesn't say anything, stares out of the window. I think he's a dead loss. There's nothing I can do to change his mind.
Then he says, “If he's nuts, I walk.”
I set an alarm call for six, drag myself into the bathroom to get ready for the day. A quick glance at the television, and there's no more brush fires, no riots. Everything is hunky dory in the City of Angels and the sun is burning high in the blue. I wonder why people don't pray for rain, but then it's probably only the likes of me that misses Manchester rain, the kind that makes you think you're drowning as you walk. All this sun isn't good for my mental health, though it seems to be working on the parade of tanned, coiffeured presenters on the television. I close the door to the bathroom, sit on the toilet, smoke a Marlboro to the filter, drop the butt in the bowl, flush and hop into the shower. Hawk up a nasty greyish-green lump and spit it straight into the plug hole. Life is good.
I called Nelson as soon as Liam and I got back to the hotel. When he answered, he sounded like he was dug in for the night at a bar. He assured me he was at home, and I didn't question him. Tried not to get worried, thinking that Nelson was no longer a boxer because he was a full-time alkie. I had room to talk, of course. And Paulo used to be a souse, so it wasn't a slur on the man's character. I just would've preferred Nelson clean and sober when he talked to Liam.
Which he is. After I've knocked on Liam, we meet Nelson down in the lobby and if the bloke's been on a bender, he's scrubbed himself beyond sober. It all feels like clockwork. Liam takes one look at the ginger guy and something clicks with him. I don't know how he pictured Nelson — probably some cheroot-chewing guy like Reuben — but looking like a clean ex-boxer obviously hadn't figured in his imagination.
“Liam,” says Nelson, sticking out a paw. “I'm Nelson Byrne. I saw your bout yesterday.”
“You were there?” says Liam.
“Yeah.” He smiles full wattage. “Cal asked me to pop by. Hope you don't mind.”
“Nah, I don't mind.”
“You hungry? I'm buying. Know a great place we can start the day off slow and easy.”
That place turns out to be a Denny's. I've heard of them, but never been in one. It's about the closest a lad from Leith is ever likely to get to a full American diner experience. We grab a tidy booth in the corner of the restaurant. I bury my nose in the menu while Nelson orders coffee for him and me, a herbal tea and orange juice for Liam. I'm leafing through the specials — food photos shot like hazy pornography — and my appetite comes roaring back.
“Let me ask you something, Liam,” says Nelson. His eyes haven't left Liam since we settled, like he's trying to size the lad up. “Where d'you see yourself in five years' time?”
“Manchester,” says Liam, leaning back in his seat. Giving Nelson the same look he's getting. Or at least trying to.
“You still going to be fighting?”
“Dunno. Depends on how the comp goes.”
“Forget the competition for a second—”
“Can I smoke in here?” I say.
“No,” says Nelson. “Not this table.”
“Shit.”
“I want you to forget the competition, Liam.”
“It's why I'm over here.”
“Yeah, but put it out of your mind for the time being. The competition's a way to get in there, but if it doesn't happen, there are other options.”
“Paulo said there's scouts at these things.”
“Doesn't mean they're going to pick you.”
“If I win—”
“If you win, they could pick the runner-up. See him as someone they can mould better. See, the competition, it isn't the be-all and end-all. So if you don't kick pro while you're here, what're you going to be doing in five years' time?”
“I'll still fight.”
“That's good. That's the answer I was after. You want to go pro?”
“Course I want to go pro. Kind of question's that, man?”
“It's a damn good question. Why?”
“Because of the money. And I want to be the best, Mr Byrne.”
“Call me Nelson.”
The waitress brings our coffee and Liam's tea and orange. Nelson sits back in his seat and smiles at the waitress until she leaves. Liam sips his orange juice.
“Did he answer right?” I say.
“He answered fine, Cal. You answered fine, Liam. Especially that second part. Any kid says he's not interested in the cash, he's lying through his damn teeth. A lot more think that's the only way to make the big bucks. And they're deluded. They're the kind of kids, they turn pro and get their asses beaten and the rest of them fleeced. They don't see dollar one. It's really only the managers who make money.”
“You ever manage?” says Liam.
The waitress returns. “Can I take your order?”
Nelson orders, then me. Liam opts for an egg-white omelette that flusters the waitress for a second.
When the waitress leaves, Liam plays it like he's in control. “I asked you a question.”
“I know you did.” Nelson smiles. “No, I never managed. I coached. Not a lot. But I coached and I did my time as a cut man.”
“I'm asking because you don't seem to have many credentials.”
The smile wavers on Nelson's face. “I boxed for ten years, kid. I don't need any credentials.”
Ah Christ, Liam, don't fuck this up. “He's asking—”
“Nelson knows what I'm asking,” says Liam. “Look, I'm sorry, Nelson. I got to ask you, know what I mean? All I know is you met Cal in a bar. And what does that tell us apart from you like a drink?”
“No, that's fine.” The smile's gone. “I appreciate that. Cal just asked me if I could lend a hand.”
“And I'm not saying that's not welcome,” says Liam. “I'm really not. I just have to be sure you're going to lend a
helping
hand.”
“You're suspicious still. That's okay.”
“I'm not suspicious.” Liam laughs. “But, y'know, I've got to wonder about the type of bloke who offers his services in bars.”
“Liam, don't be a twat.” He said he'd talk to Nelson; he didn't say he'd talk to him like that.
“I'm not being a twat, Cal. Nelson, you see my fuckin' point, don't you?”
There's a long pause as Nelson looks at Liam. He reaches forward for a pack of Sweet 'N' Lo, shakes it, then tears it open and adds the contents to his coffee. He sips from the cup, sets it down.
“You need to stop being such a fighter, Liam,” he says. “Battling all the time, you'll have no energy for the big ones.”
Our food arrives. Massive plates piled high. I get stuck into my Denver Scramble thinking, fuck it, I'm not going to get involved. If this goes tits up, it's Liam's fault. No one to blame but himself. I'm helping the lad out, but he's acting like he's the one doing
me
a favour. Bollocks to that. Dig your own grave, son.
“My next bout's—”
“Tonight,” says Nelson. “So this could be academic, this talk.”
“You think it is, you can leave.”
“If I thought it was, I wouldn't be here.” Nelson studies his food, picks up a piece of toast and sinks his teeth into it. As he chews, he says,”But I think you'll win tonight. You got Charlie Polito tonight, don't you?”
“That's the name.”
“You don't know his style?”
Liam shakes his head, pokes at his omelette. It looks disgusting, but then that's what you get when you forsake the yolk.
“Well, I do,” says Nelson. He brushes the crumbs from his hands. “I'm not going to pretend I know all the kids taking part, but I know Charlie Polito. And if you're not prepared, you won't see much of the next bout.”
“I'll take him.”
“I'm sure you will. That's not what I said. You'll see the next bout, but Polito'll open up a whole new bruise pattern on you. You ripped the breath out of Puentes, that's great, but Polito will do the same to you. And you'll lose the next bout, you'll be hurting.”
“I need a place to train,” says Liam, as if he hadn't heard. He sips his tea and avoids Nelson's stare.
“I have a gym at my place.”
“You've got a gym?”
“Yeah. At home. It's all good equipment. I still work out.”
Liam looks at me, then pokes his omelette some more. “I don't know, Nelson.”
“Well, I'll tell you something, Liam. I don't know either.”
The silence is thick. They sit there, staring at each other.
“These are good eggs,” I say.
Liam shoves a forkful of omelette into his mouth, starts chewing. Drops his gaze again.
“I don't know,” says Nelson. He's still leaning back in his seat. Apart from the bite out of the toast, he hasn't touched his food. He reaches forward for his coffee. “Seems to me like I'm having a job interview, Cal. Haven't had one of those in a long time, and I didn't like the bullshit then, either.”
I blink at Nelson. There's anger in his eyes, a new kind I haven't seen before. And then I realise why: he thinks the same as me, that Liam's trying to fuck this up on purpose, that he's being a stroppy bastard because he wants to be the one controlling the situation. A wee power struggle that Nelson's not about to lose.
“Liam, something you're going to understand one day is that when you're offered help — and you
need
help — you take it without question.” Nelson sips his coffee. “I came here in good faith, thought I'd do my duty and help out a kid with all the talent but none of the technique.”
“I got the technique.”
“If you want to spend the rest of your life brawling for pennies outside a fucking bar, yeah. But if you want to be a sportsman, Liam, you want to be an
athelete
, you're going to have to learn a little about discipline.”
“I got discipline.”
“That bout with the Mexican kid says different. You let Puentes in with far too many free shots because your temper got the better of you. Don't get me wrong — temper's a solid thing to have and use. But don't let it use you. You learn to control that temper or you'll come up against someone who can.”
“I heard this before, Nelson,” says Liam. He takes another bite of his omelette, talks through his chews. “Paulo told us that story before.”
“Nice to know I'm not the only one who knows what he's talking about.” Nelson reaches for the syrup and pours a long zig-zag stream across his pancakes. “Okay, you heard that story. I got another one for you. True story, too. Back when I fought, my manager, he was like my best buddy, okay? Great guy. Do anything for you. And he did. Trouble is, the great guys are a step away from the shitty guys.” He cuts the pancakes with the side of his fork. “This sport, it's a business more than ever now. The rankings don't mean anything. Those rankings were fixed when I was in the circuit, no reason to believe they're any different now. Talent talks, but it's the money that keeps you running. You got promoters paying off boards so their fighters can square off against each other and keep the dollars rolling through the gate. Doesn't matter who knocks down who, the promoter's the only one that really wins.
“I didn't know that back then. I thought it was all on the level. I honestly thought I was getting these shots because I'd earned it. And it turned out my manager — that great guy — and the promoter, they'd been paying people off.”
He jams his fork into a hunk of pancake, pops it into his mouth.
“It didn't matter because I could take those motherfuckers down with a harsh look, y'know? Lot like you are now. But the thing is, I was mismatched to my
advantage
. I was a big fish in a small pond. My promoter kept pushing me to put on weight because the bigger you were, the bigger you were. More bucks. Always more bucks. Nobody gives a shit about the light-middleweights, they want to see a couple of heavyweights clash like fucking Godzillas in Las Vegas.”
Nelson plucks a napkin from the table and wipes his mouth.