Sucker Punch (2 page)

I just smile at him. “Fuck am I gonna do about it? Ewan, let me tell you something. You're in enough shite already without picking a fight with me. You got caught buying from Mo Tiernan, that means you're a shit-for-brains—”

“I didn't buy.”

“You want to turn out your pockets? You want me to search you, son?”

He backs up a step. “You don't search me, you fuckin' ponce. You keep your fuckin' hands off us.”

“You don't want to do that, you're out.”

“I don't have to do nowt,” he says, a step forward and leering. “Fuck are you, anyway? I seen you knocking back the pills, man. Everyone knows you're a fuckin' junkie.”

“Those are prescription.”

“So's mine.”

“That's why you're buying from Mo?”

“I lost me script.”

“Get out, Ewan.”

“Fuck off, you know what it's like, man. You're a fuckin' pillhead, eh?” He looks around for support, gets nothing. But that doesn't stop him. “Least your fuckin' smackhead brother knew what he was.”

“You what?”

“You heard. Your fuckin—”

I hit him hard in the middle of the forehead with the heel of my hand. I wanted to punch the wee scrote, but I had to pull it at the last minute. My hand connects sharply, Ewan takes a couple of faltering steps back, water in his eyes. I rub my palm, then scoop him up before he hits the floor, shove him towards the door. He's dizzy, flailing. I keep shoving. He skitters on the tile in the hall, then holds his hands out to get his balance.

“Out, Ewan.”

He walks a few steps to the street. Mo's still out there, but he's on his feet now, dabbing at his nose. He stares at me, then Ewan. He holds up one hand to the lad and I feel sick. Haven't seen Mo Tiernan since Newcastle, haven't wanted to. And if I expected any change in the bloke, I'd be disappointed. The only thing shifted about Mo Tiernan is that his eyes are glassier than ever. And that doesn't bode well.

Ewan raises his hand to Mo, gives me a filthy look, and heads up towards Regent Road. Mo goes in the opposite direction, doesn't acknowledge me. Six months, and I'm a ghost to him.

I hope it stays that way.

As I cross back to the office, I tell the lads to get back to what they're doing, show's over, fuck are they looking at. Some of the skinnier, smaller lads go back to it slowly. The rest will follow when I've disappeared. Get this place smelling of sweat and leather again.

Paulo's returned to his natural colour. He's sitting in my chair, his hands loose on his knees.

“You want to tell me what all that was about?” I say.

Paulo shakes his head. “Ewan's a tough kid, but he's not stupid. Thought I wouldn't have to tell him twice.”

“You know what he was buying?”

“I dunno. Could be anything. Mo's a fuckin' chemist.”

“I didn't know he'd been around,” I say.

Paulo wipes his nose. “I told him to keep away. I can't be doing with that. Y'know, regardless of the fact that he's a dealer, I can't be doing with him hanging around the lads, can I? All it takes is one nosy bastard with an axe to grind and I'm in the middle of a full investigation.” He leans his head back. “
Evening News
'd have a field day: 'PROBE INTO GAY DRUG CLUB'.”

“Probe?”

Paulo smiles, but his eyes don't match it. “They always use probe when it's something gay, Cal. Bunch of giggling fuckin' schoolboys, man. Sense of humour in the toilet.”

I fold my arms, look out at the club. Some of the lads are getting back into the swing of things. Sparring's started up again. “You thought about getting more help?”

“I got no one I can trust right now. Serves me right surrounding myself with young offenders, eh?”

“You got me. You could've told me.”

“Yeah, and look at the state of you recently. Least your medication's prescribed by a doctor and not a dealer.” He frowns. “It is, isn't it?”

“Course it fuckin' is.”

“Good.”

“You know Mo's not going to take that beating for an answer,” I say. “You know that's not the end of it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You want me to have a word for you?”

“You in with the Tiernans now?” he says.

I'm not. I was at one point — in up to my earlobes — but that was a while back. And I don’t want to be back in, not if I can help it. But a mate's a mate. You put yourself on the line every now and then if you think it'll do good. Paulo's done it often enough for me, about time I repay the favour.

“Nah,” I say. “Not in with the Tiernans. Then, way I hear it, neither's Mo.”

“Right enough.”

“Just thought if you wanted, I could have a word is all.”

“Forget it. Mo comes back, I'll deal with the bastard again. Might not take a beating for an answer, but the point'll get through with enough kicking, eh?” Paulo runs a hand across the back of his neck. “I need a pint.”

“No, you don't.”

“Nah, I need a
shot
.”

“You need a brew.”

“That'll do in the meantime.” He gets up. “Ewan gone?”

“Yeah. Took some persuading, mind.” My hand still aches, but I'm not about to rub it in front of Paulo. Not supposed to hit the lads. Not that hard, anyway.

“Daft lad. I thought I knew him better than that.”

“Can't save 'em all, mate.”

“Rate I'm going, it's not even half,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “You want a brew?”

“I could murder one.”

Paulo nods, leaves. I go over to my desk, grind out the smoking filter I'm holding and take a pill. Mo Tiernan's still a problem I'll have to deal with.

Maybe later, I think. When I'm not shaking so much. And besides, it's time I got back to work.

“No, Don. Listen to me. No.”

But some people can't take no for an answer. Don Plummer's one of those people. He's spent so long schmoozing his way out of court appearances, he's somehow got it into his head that he's the Cary Grant of the slum landlord world. Which is why he's now giving me proper earache on the phone. I lean back in my chair, stare at a signed photo of Henry Cooper and Paulo. Cooper's signature, not Paulo's. And it reminds me that this room is now Paulo's office. Not that I've ever given it much of a makeover, but Paulo's stuff is everywhere, his boxing glory days captured in clippings and newspaper photographs dotted along the walls. A filing cabinet with the club's accounts and memberships, the lads' records dating back years. I'm sure I'm in there somewhere. And a photograph on the desk of Keith. I don't know much about the guy; just know that he warranted inclusion on Paulo's tattoo with his Mam and Dad.

“I'm closed for business, Don,” I say. “I sacked that shite a long time back.”

“Hey, c'mon, Cal. I know you, a couple of jobs—”

“
Bad
jobs.”

“Bad jobs, they'll put the wind up anyone.”

“I mean it, Don. I'm working for Paulo now.”

“You can't live off that.”

“I do okay.”

“Look, Cal, if it's a question of trust—”

“Yeah, Don, because otherwise I trust you about as far as I can sneeze you.” I have to wedge the phone under my chin as I reach for my Embassys. “And anyway, it's not just the nature of the job—”

“Here, this is legit, Cal. It's completely bona fide, alright?”

“Only Arthur fuckin' Daley uses words like bona fide, Don.”

“I never steered you wrong in the past, mate.”

“And that's another one.” I light my cigarette, grab the phone. “Don, I go into Moss Side with an eviction notice, I'm liable to get my fuckin' head kicked in. And I'll tell you something, I'm sick of getting my fuckin' head kicked in. Doesn't hold the romantic mystery it once did.”

Plummer sighs into the phone so hard, I have to hold the receiver away from my ear. When I put it back, he's talking again.

That's what Plummer does best: talk. Talks himself into business, talks himself out of jail. He owns a string of properties across Manchester, most of which aren't fit to house a dying dog. But with flat prices being what they are, he still manages to find tenants desperate enough. Asylum seekers, students, down-on-their-luck-and-high-on-their-own-supply dealers. So it's no surprise that some of his tenants don't pay up on time, if at all. And when they don't, it's normally up to muggins here to deliver that piece of paper. At least, it used to be up to me. Too many times, people take offence at the sight of a pealy-wally lad handing them an official eviction notice. They have an allergic reaction, brings them out in vindictive arsehole, makes them reach for the bloodstained baseball bat they keep by the front door.

“Y'know what, you're that worried?” says Plummer. “You bring along one of Paulo's lads, I'll pay him too.”

“I tried that before, remember? They slammed the door on his fuckin' hand.”

“I don't remember that.”

I flick ash. “You were on the Costa.”

“It's an easy job this time, though. No threat.”

“Asylum seekers, Don?”

“Uh, immigrants, yeah.”

“So what is it? They didn't pay their rent, or do you still have their benefit books?”

“I don't work like that, Cal. You know I don't. I'm one of the good guys.”

“Then why d'you want them out?”

He pauses. “Well, you know how it is.”

“You found someone who'll pay more.”

“No, it's the
situation
. With our asylum-seeking friends. I'm not a racist, you know that. I'm like fourth generation Irish, so talk about getting pissed on … But I can't take any chances right now, know what I mean? There's pressure on.”

“Oh, I get it.” I sniff. “They've been handing out literature, buying rucksacks, that sort of thing.”

“No need for that, mate. I'm in a precarious position. Local community's been pretty bloody vocal about the whole thing, let me tell you. I mean, you know me, I'd keep 'em in if they paid, right? Money's money. But there's the big picture to look at, y'know?”

“You been reading those Jeffrey Briggs pamphlets again? 'The Big Picture'. Jesus … Are they even fuckin' Muslim, Don?”

“Here, you don't do it, I'll find someone who will.”

“Yeah, go sniffing on the National Socialist circuit, I'm sure you'll find a couple skins who don't mind getting their boots bloody.”

“What's your problem?”

“I told you. I'm out of it. You opened your lugs every now and then, you'd know that.”

“It's
legit
. I wouldn't come to you if it wasn't.”

“Don, the Virgin Mary herself could tell me to hand over that eviction notice and I wouldn't do it. You know why?
Because I'm working for Paulo now
. You get that? I am working for Paulo.”

“Look, just keep it in mind, Cal. I'll call you—”

I slam the phone down on him. As I move to tap ash from my cigarette, my back flares from ache to full-blown agony. Reach across and struggle with the child-proof cap on my prescription bottle.

“And I thought I was in bother.”

Paulo's standing in the doorway.

“You been there long?” I say.

“Long enough to know you need a holiday.” I thought the club was empty, but somewhere behind him I can hear the thump of glove against bag. “'Bout time you and me had a talk.”

I try to lean back in my chair, but just manage to look uncomfortable. I fiddle with the cap. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You're a state.” Paulo folds his arms.

“You blame me? After what happened …”

“Yeah, I know. I thought, well, Cal's been through the bloody wringer, I'll let him wallow about until he can get his head from shed. Course, now you're getting on my tits.”

“Yeah, me and everyone else. You're a fine one to talk about being fucked up, Paulo. I saw you today.” The cap doesn't budge. “
Fuck
in' thing.”

“Push down and twist,” he says. “I know. Tell you the truth, mate, there's been some stress. Not just Mo, either. I need you to do something for me.”

I push the cap, twist. It comes off easily. Dry-swallow a couple of pills and reach for another cigarette. Nicotine should kick in faster than codeine.

“I already swept the floors,” I say. “I'll wait until your slugger out there's done before I pick up.”

Paulo closes the office door, shutting off the sound of the club. He clears his throat, then hits me straight with it: “I need you to go to Los Angeles.”

That hangs in the air for a bit. I feel like laughing. Or asking, Los Angeles as in America? But that's a stupid question. Far as I know, there isn't a Los Angeles in Salford. We're not that exotic.

“You're joking,” I say.

Paulo grabs a chair, pulls it over to the desk and sits down. “There's a kid been coming in for a while, he's a good fighter.”

“Which kid?”

“Liam Wooley.”

I think about it. “Isn't he the fuckin' head case?”

“He had some trouble.”

“He did an old lady over.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Took her bingo money with menaces, as I recall. She was in hospital for a week.”

“And he served his time.”

“He's a fuckin' scally, Paulo.”

“Here, did I ask for the lad's CV?” Paulo glares at me. “He's done his time, just like you did yours. And he got himself straight, got himself focussed. Which is more than I can say for some people.”

“I'm straight.”

“And I'm glad, Cal. But mentally, you're all over the bloody shop. You got back from Newcastle and, yeah, things went pear-shaped. But a bloke moves on with his life. You sitting round here, popping pills like they're sweets, it's doing my brain in.”

I shake my head. “What's this got to do with Los Angeles?”

“I been talking to a guy, he runs this amateur gym over there. Tells me there's this smoker he's been organising on behalf of the Enrique Alvarez foundation. It's not Golden Gloves or nowt, just a comp for a bunch of kids to come together and fight for trophies. But thing is, these smokers, they're a magnet for scouts. Couple of previous winners, they showed enough promise, they turned pro.”

“And Liam can turn pro?”

Paulo shrugs. “I think he's got it in him, yeah. He's the best I've seen in a long time. But he's not going to make it over here, not with the baggage he's carrying. And normally I'd say, fuck it, that's something he has to work through, but I don't have the time to invest and he doesn't have it to waste.”