Authors: Ray Banks
“Did I say that?”
“We come all this way and you're knocking him down before he gets a chance to prove himself?”
“I didn't say that. But I'm not running a fight club, either. The boys who come to my gym, they're expected to act like professionals—”
“Then tell it to Josh—”
“They're expected to follow rules. We went through those rules just now, didn't we, Liam? So you stick to those rules. Josh starts coming on at you like he did —
if
he did — then you back off, you let it alone. You keep the fights in the ring.”
“That's what he just said.”
“Did I ask you anything?” says Shapiro. “I don't recall asking you anything. I'm talking to Liam.”
I look at Liam; he's shaking. Just a little, but if I notice it, so does Shapiro.
“You keep the fights in the ring, Liam. Because if you take it outside, you'll be outnumbered.”
Liam nods.
“Okay, then we're done here.”
“Actually,” I say, “you want to wait in the car, Liam? I think I need a chat with Mr Shapiro.”
Liam looks at me like:
don't.
“It'll be okay. Just wait for me in the car.”
He grabs his bag from the floor and pushes open the office door, heads out across the gym. I stand in the doorway, watch him leave, looking for Josh. The little bastard's nowhere to be seen. I hope to God he's not waiting outside for Liam. I give it a few seconds after Liam leaves, listening out. Then I close the door. Shapiro hasn't moved from the desk.
“You're too young to be his father,” he says.
“I'm a concerned acquaintance. What's the deal with Josh Callahan?”
“There's no deal.”
“He's a prick.”
“He has issues.”
“That what you're calling them now? Issues? 'Cause where I come from, a prick's a prick. He an ex-offender?”
“No. Josh wants to learn the sport. He wants to learn a few moves for his self-defence.”
“Moves are going to do them much good around here, are they? Christ, most of the kids are carrying guns, aren't they?”
Shapiro bristles. He puts the dog on the floor. The Chihuahua scurries over to a water bowl in the corner of the office, makes snorting noises as it drinks. Shapiro straightens up, says, “You watch too many bad gangster movies, Mr …?”
“Innes.”
“Mr Innes. These kids aren't all punks. They're not all fighting their way out of the ghetto. They're decent kids and it's a sport to them. But I wanted to help Paulo out. He had some trouble with the law, didn't he?”
“Paulo or Liam?”
“Either. Or.”
“Both. And they both did their time.”
“And it's managed to spread around here. I let the boys know there was going to be a new face. Josh is probably just jumpy. He's been the top dog for so long, he's just growling a little bit.”
“He's a rich kid,” I say.
Shapiro nods. “His parents have money. A lot of parents do. There's a lot of money in this city. Why, you got something against rich people, Mr Innes?”
“I don't have anything against rich people. Just makes me wonder why Josh is interested in boxing.”
“Because boxing's a working-class sport, is that what you're saying? You think he should be a fencer or something?”
“No. I don't know. Maybe.”
“This isn't a
game
to these boys, Mr Innes.” Shapiro folds his arms. “I make 'em do fifty laps of the gym right from the get-go or they can get gone. Then there's the push-ups, the leg-lifts, the jump-rope. And then there's six weeks of cardiovascular conditioning. You see, Mr Innes, the boys who come in here thinking it's a game, they leave after the first week, because I'm not playing. As it turns out, you're asking why boxing, Josh's dad has a keen interest and that interest has been passed to his son. Just because his parents are rich, it doesn't mean he's a spoiled brat. Happens that he doesn't do too well at school, doesn't make friends easily—”
“What a fuckin' surprise—”
“—so he needs a something else, a little discipline in his life. This place gives him that.”
“You going to have a word with him?” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “I'll have a word with him.”
“And Liam's still alright to fight?”
“If he keeps his nose clean. You met Reuben before? He'll oversee Liam's training. He'll also be his second in the ring.”
“That fat guy? He any good?”
“He's a good cut man, knows his stuff.”
“Good.” I move to the door. As I do, someone knocks. “I don't want this to fuck up his chances.”
“It won't as long as he doesn't let it,” says Shapiro.
I open the door and there's Josh, standing proud with his chin up and out. I rein in the urge to elbow the wee fucker in the throat as I push past him. It wouldn't do any good.
And besides, I think, if anyone's going to screw this up, it better not be me.
We needed to talk, me and Liam, so I made him break bread with me. I got us a table at a restaurant about a block from the hotel, thought we'd have some bonding time. I've got a burger and chips on the go, just so I can check it off the American Food I Need To Eat list. Liam hasn't eaten his chicken salad thing, seems content enough just moving it about the bowl. I take a bite out of my burger and feel relish drop out the sides. I hear it splatter against the plate. About the only thing I have heard since we got here, apart from our order and the buzz of a restaurant at low ebb.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin, ball up the paper and drop it by the side of my plate. “So, you going to tell me what happened?”
Liam shakes his head. “Nowt happened.”
“He call you names or something? Make fun of your hair? If it was me, I'd make fun of your hair.”
He looks up at me, a sneer in his smile. “Oh, you're fuckin' hysterical, you.”
“I try. So what was it?”
“I told you, nowt. He was just being an arsehole.”
“You said I was an arsehole, you didn't try to leather me.”
Liam's eyes narrow. “I'm biding my time.”
“I bet you are. Going to kick me in the bollocks when I'm sleeping, that it?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
I pick up the burger again, take another bite, set it down. Pick up a chip and wave it at Liam as I speak. “You're going to have start trusting me, y'know.”
“No, I don't.”
“We're in this thing together—”
“No, we're not.” Liam pushes his salad around. “Not in this together, Cal. It's me. I'm in it.”
“I forgot. It's all about you, isn't it?”
“Yeah. You got nowt to do but get drunk.”
I sniff. “When's your first fight?”
“Bout. It's called a bout.” Liam's mouth is tight.
“Alright then, smartarse. When's your first
bout
?”
He takes a deep breath as if it's something he's already explained to me countless times. “Tomorrow.”
“Afternoon?”
“Morning.” And you better be up.” He lays down his fork. “I don't want to be late for this, okay? I need to be there like two hours beforehand, at least. I need to get weighed in.”
“You already got weighed in,” I say.
“You don't know the first fuckin' thing about this, do you?”
“Can't learn if you won't talk, Liam.”
“Why'd Paulo tell you to come with us?” He sits back in his chair. “Honestly. Why'd he tell you to come? What, he thought you'd be able to help us out when it came to comp?”
“I don't know.”
“'Cause that's not likely to happen, is it? Look at you, you never done a tournament in your life. Fuck's sake, you ever even been in a gym?”
“Paulo's.”
“Not counting Paulo's.”
“A couple of times.”
“Where?”
“Strangeways.”
“Uh-huh,” he says.
“I went in there twice, then I didn't bother,” I say. My appetite's fading fast. Too much rich food. “Think they've got enough rules in that place, they've got even more in the gym. Trouble is, you don't know what they are until you've broken them. Took me two visits and a fuckin' beating to call it a day.”
“Gonna give us a sob story, Cal?”
I stare at Liam. Sitting back in his seat like the cocky wee fucker he is. I want to get out of my seat and plant my foot in his chest, but I stay put. Can't fault the stupidity of youth, even though if he's putting it on like he's older, he should get a kicking like he's older.
“Forget it,” I say. I catch our waitress' attention. She comes over, all smiles, and I ask for the bill.
As soon as she leaves, Liam says, “You not eating that?”
“You want it?”
“No fuckin' way. You know how long that's going to be in your stomach?”
“A long time, I hope. I want my money's worth.”
The waitress returns as Liam leans across the table. “Every time you get wind after you mix your starch and protein like that, that's because you're digesting the two at different rates. That wind coming up, that's because you've got rotting meat in your gut.”
I don't pretend to look interested. Fish out cash from my wallet and leave a decent tip. The waitress walks away. Then I force out a belch.
“Rotting meat,” says Liam.
“Fuck yourself,” I say.
****
Nelson swallows the last of his beer, but waves at the bartender to keep them coming. I'm guessing he's a regular here, because a tab is on the go. I haven't tried to talk him out of it yet. I'll settle at the end of the night.
“You tried talking to the boy?” he says as the bartender plonks down another bottle.
“Yeah, I've tried talking to him. It doesn't work.” I suck my teeth, peel the label from my Budweiser. “And the lad's got a point, Nelson. I don't know why Paulo wanted me to come over here with him. I said I'm not good with the lads, got nothing in common with them. What am I going to talk to him about, eh? How was stir, Liam? Yeah, pretty shitty, wasn't it? How was the food?”
Nelson pauses with his bottle, then he takes a drink, swallows. “You were in prison?”
I nod. “Dim and distant, mate. Ancient history.” My head's started to feel heavy. When the drinks are free, you lose track. “He's got a
bout
tomorrow morning.”
The world grows furry at the edges. It's no wonder. I've been sitting in this bar pretty much since I left the restaurant. Saw Liam go up to his room, no doubt to sit on his bed and read that fucking notebook that doesn't leave his sight.
Dear Diary, today some rich lad said horrible things to me …
What's worse is I haven't been able to get Liam's shit about my digestion out of my mind. The burger's taking an age to break down, giving me a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. Probably doesn't help that I've been drowning the rotting meat with vodka and beer. I should get an early night, but I'm too pissed off to care that much.
“Here,” I say. “You want to swing by tomorrow morning and see if he's worth taking on?”
“Sure. Where is it?”
“Shapiro's place.”
Nelson pauses again. Thinks I haven't noticed it.
“What?” I say.
“Phil Shapiro? Big guy, face like it's been through a meat grinder?”
“You know him then.”
“I knew him.” Nelson swallows some beer. “I didn't know he was still on the circuit.”
I frown. My thinking's not straight, but there's a part of me that reckons Nelson should know where the comp's being held if he's so connected. I put it down to crossed wires and alcohol. But the gym thing …
“He's got his own gym, Nelson,” I say. “His name's above the door. I'd say that was on the circuit.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I just didn't know he still ran it.” Nelson puts down his bottle and looks at what's left of the label. “I'm not sure about this, Cal …”
“What's up?”
“I may be wrong, y'know? I knew Phil a
long
time ago. He may have changed since I last saw him. That's possible. I wouldn't count on it, but it's possible.”
“How d'you mean, changed? From what to what?”
Nelson smiles, but it doesn't look comfortable. His eyes light up full beam when he turns to me. “He was a fighter. You must've guessed that, looking at him. But he was a real good fighter, had a record that put mine in the damn doghouse.”
“Good?”
“That face, I don't know what happened to that face. He's always been like that. But whatever caused that face made him a strong sonofabitch, I'll tell you that. He went down
twice
.” Nelson holds up two fingers in a peace sign. “Twice. That's all. In God knows how many fights. And he was mismatched in those two. Real badly mismatched, someone should've done something about it. The last two fights he had, he went down because of that mismatch. And that was it; he didn't want to get knocked down again. But, Christ, he was mid-forties then, y'know? It was probably time to quit. Else he'd end up like Holyfield or worse.”
“Why do I get the feeling this is going to get dark, Nelson?” I try to match his smile, but I fail.
“Aw, hell, I don't know, Cal.” Nelson gestures to the bartender, orders us both a couple more drinks, this time the hard stuff. “Just rumours is all I heard. And you bite on them, you're biting on thin air.”
“Yeah, but you're concerned. C'mon, man, you know this place better than I do. I don't know the first thing about boxing, do I? And I know fuck-all about LA. So chuck me a line here. If I'm putting Liam into something unsavoury, I want to know about it.”
Nelson shakes his head, finishes his beer. “I'm not going any further. For your own sake, okay? Phil Shapiro's got all the heart in the world, just made a few mistakes, and for all I know he's a changed man. All I got to offer is rumour and speculation, and I been drinking far too heavy to make any sense of it. Just forget I said anything and let’s change the subject, okay?”
“Okay,” I say with a shrug. Drink some more beer to stifle the questions flying around my brain. “Read any good books lately?”
Nelson laughs, a real bark of relief. “I've been catching up on my Louis L'Amour.”
“Who?”
“He wrote westerns.”
“Sounds like he should be writing porn.”
“You don't know him.”
“I don't read westerns. Sorry, mate.”
“You should,” he says. “Build up your moral fibre.”
“I bet.” I sip my Absolut.
“I'm serious, Cal.” Nelson adjusts his seat. “You know what I miss?”