The Longest Fight (20 page)

J
ack didn’t get lost in Soho any more. The puddles were alive with sparkling reds and greens, gold-edged; it was just a matter of being careful where to tread. He saluted Newcastle Pete and stepped into the basement light. The door closed behind him, a metallic clang, but he was used to it now. He went down the narrow stairs, sidestepping the loose board on the left, and pushed through the thick red drapes; first-timers trying to pull them ended up getting caught in the velvet layers. The tables were lined with brilliant white cloths, gold lamps, gold watches, gold bracelets. He strode through them all, straight up to the bar.

‘Jack. Good to see you. Have a drink with us.’ Vincent raised his glass. ‘Why haven’t you brought that girl of yours?’

The Thin Suit and Vincent both had starched handkerchiefs poking out from their top pockets.

‘A bloke’s got to keep something for himself.’

Jack pulled out his clean handkerchief and rearranged it, disturbing the smell of peppery stews and fluffed sponges. He was getting fat with all the food being made in that house. Jack reached for the whisky and sniffed, bringing himself back into the world of the club.

‘Really smart, aren’t you?’ The Thin Suit nodded at Jack. ‘Know your whiskies too, do you?’

‘I know if it’s been watered down.’

‘There’s no rationing at Bobbie’s.’ Vincent rocked the ice against the sides.

The band were setting up: adjusting drums, rubbing a shine into their instruments. But the room was so full of low,
rumbling voices, high-pitched laughing and the clinking of glass against teeth that Jack didn’t know how anyone would be able to hear the music. Vincent hooked his index finger in the air and Stella crossed the room as if she were attached by a silver thread; he put a hand on her shoulder, pressed his mouth to her ear. Her pale eyes looked cloudier than the ice in Jack’s glass, and under the coats of white face-powder blue bruises were imprinted around her eyes like a willow pattern plate; small scratches along her arm as if a cat had been toying with her. She readjusted her sleeves. Vincent obviously enjoyed driving himself home on that puffy face. It seemed a waste to Jack; he stuck his finger inside the glass, licking it clean. Georgie had a purple outfit like the one Stella wore – cheaper, thinner, but she filled every inch of the nylon material. Stella seemed to be shrinking into pockets of air under her dress, every curve dispersing with the lightest touch. Vincent kept a grip around her wrist. She probably wasn’t much older than Pearl, thin-limbed, and the new short cut gave her a boyish look.

Vincent touched his palm against Jack’s elbow.

‘Jack, come and join us. You stay here.’ He pointed at the Thin Suit, whose slightly too close-together eyes narrowed even further.

Jack grinned at him, and followed Vincent as he led Stella into the centre of the room. Men in tight-fitting suits, women with shoulders showing, the back of their necks shining with hair lacquer. Black gloves clutched at sparkling purses; cigarette smoke spiralled up from fingers locked around glasses. They stopped what they were doing to watch Vincent, and walking just behind him they would see Jack – he was somebody. They moved towards the band, leaving the marooned tables behind.

‘Hit the notes tonight, sweetpea. Consider it fair warning.’ Vincent patted Stella’s cheek.

She nodded, putting a hand down to steady herself as she wobbled up the steps to the stage. Vincent shook his head as
he held aside the red velvet curtain. Jack passed under his arm, his first time backstage.

The wall lights dimmed; the electricity seemed to thin and make the bulbs flicker. They went deeper, the corridor sloping down; ahead of them another door, he could just make it out around the sides of Vincent’s Savile Row pinstripe. Pipes and wires snaked their way above Jack. Somewhere a tap dripped. But every inch of the corridor had been swept and bleached; the dry-cleanness of the place tickled inside his nose.

Vincent opened a door. A cloud hung below the ceiling, like steam, as if the Chinese laundry next door were leaking through the bricks. Jack held up his hand, fending off the bright light. Someone angled the lamp downwards. Two men were already seated: the black man with his back to them didn’t turn around, but Jack recognised the other one from the exhibition night at Manor Place Baths: hair so oiled that the skin around his scalp looked like a thick drawn-on line, a dog’s head walking stick leaning against his leg.

‘Evening, Harry.’ Vincent pulled up a seat beside him.

The large desk seemed to be growing out into the small space, pushing the chairs back against the walls, leaving no room to stand.

‘Take a seat, Jack.’ Vincent indicated the chair in front of the desk. ‘You remember Harry?’

Jack raised an eyebrow, but Harry didn’t offer his hand; he lit a cigarette and blew out more smoke. If Georgie had been there they would have laughed at the heavy-set, loose-skinned old man. Jack sat in the empty chair; the coloured bloke tipped his rabbit-felt trilby, and he gave a nod in return.

‘Thought we should get some of the details of the fight set down.’ Vincent smiled. ‘See if we can’t spread some early Christmas cheer for the punters.’

‘Venue’s set. The Rose and Crown on Mile End Road, and I’ve got old Danny Bunter acting as matchmaker.’ Harry let the ash from his cigarette drop to the floor.

‘I thought we had this sorted. I don’t want to be giving any of my cut to a matchmaker.’ Jack tilted forward in the chair.

The coloured bloke next to him laughed, removed his hat, and rubbed a thumb along his off-centre razor parting.

‘It’s just for show. Muddies the link between us. We don’t need people putting two and two together when we want them to come up with five.’ Vincent tapped a metal ashtray against the desktop. ‘There’ll be plenty to go round.’

‘People getting greedy could cause all sorts of problems here, Vincent. I need to know his fighter is set. I need to know none of this is coming back on me. I’ve got big bets in already.’ Harry turned to Jack, smoke spiralling from his nose. He jabbed his cigarette. ‘You need to know what you’re fucking –’

‘Harry, keep it clean, there’s ash going everywhere. This ain’t the East End here.’ Vincent banged the ashtray on the desk. ‘I said I vouched for Jack. Since when was my say not enough?’ He signalled the final word by slicing his hand through the air.

Jack felt the room shrink a little tighter. Harry held his cigarette vertical, stack of ash wobbling, as he reached for the metal dish. The man next to Jack tapped a cigarette packet on the chair, shaking out a fag.

‘He might be dark but he don’t exactly blend in with the furniture. Who is this bloke?’ Jack pointed with his thumb. ‘Does he speak the Queen’s or is he fresh off the boat?’

‘What’s it sound like, fella? I’m from Fulham – born there, weren’t I?’ The man’s eyes popped a little wider as he screwed up his nose.

‘Never liked that lot.’ Jack straightened his cuff.

The bloke squashed the packet in his hand, cigarettes spewing out. ‘Got a problem with blacks?’

‘That West London lot. Wouldn’t trust them far as I could throw them.’ Jack picked up a cigarette balanced on the arm of the chair.

‘It’s as well no one’s asking you to throw me anywhere, sunshine. Vincent, I don’t think I can work with this fella.’ He waved his hand under his chin.

‘Vincent, I can’t do this. Vincent, I can’t hit the notes, can’t pay you back, can’t take the pain.’ Vincent lowered his voice, raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Do I look like a nursemaid? Do I?’

They shook their heads.

Vincent took a deep breath. ‘I see the issue’s that you’ve not been formally introduced. Rich, this is your new manager. Jack, your new fighter.’

Jack lit the cigarette; eyeing the fighter as he shook out the match: neck knotted, knuckles protruding; hands that had landed some blows. Jack offered him a loose cigarette off the floor; the bloke punched his hand away. Jack smiled as a tingling sensation spread up his arm: a real slugger.

‘My manager? Hold on a minute, Vincent. I didn’t agree –’

‘Maybe you didn’t hear me, Rich. This is your new manager and you’re his new fighter.’

Jack held out his hand. Rich sniffed, rubbed a knuckle under his nose. They shook. Jack inhaled dampness and furniture polish with the smoke.

‘I’ll need to see Rich train, tell my fighter how to make it look good.’

‘It better look bloody magnificent.’ Harry stubbed out his cigarette, carefully sweeping up the ash.

‘He thinks I’m a walkover. I’d wipe the floor with your boy any day, sonny.’ Rich shrugged. ‘I know a trick or two.’

Jack nodded. ‘That’s why we’re fixing this fight, is it – because you’re a sure bet?’

‘Jack, we’ve been keeping Rich quiet for a reason. This is going to be his breakthrough. He’s lost five, drawn two, so far… on my instructions. It’s a little like the club, all about stage management. But don’t doubt he can deliver on the goods. I only have to say the word.’

He saw Rich’s eye twitch at Vincent’s words, his fist clench, and Jack liked him a little more for that sign of irritation.

Harry stroked the top of the bronze-handled walking stick. ‘My numbers say that your fighter goes down against Rich in the fifth. I want to make sure he knows it’s your word on this, Vincent.’

‘Jack knows.’ Vincent turned to him. ‘We’ve decided. First three rounds your fighter does what he likes, long as he doesn’t dole out too many hits. The fourth round he starts to slip. Then out in the fifth. We’re talking straight out here, no getting up, no hitting back. He stays down.’ He was all teeth but no smile now.

‘Out in the fifth. I’ll make sure he keeps count.’ Jack wanted to run his fingers through his hair to clear the slack strands from his eyes but he didn’t move.

The lamp boiled up the air in the room, the varnish on the desk cracking. Vincent pushed back his chair. ‘Why don’t you boys get a drink in? Me and Harry got housekeeping to sort.’

Jack had to stand up to let Rich out. At the bottom of his grey suit, Rich was sporting training pumps, scraped and tattered around the toe. Jack took a deep breath of cool air as the office door swung shut behind them. Rich kept beside him, taking quick, short, shuffling steps as if he were practising for the ring.

‘Can’t stay, the wife’s waiting up.’ Rich held open the thick curtain.

Stella was hanging on to the edge of a table as she sang, the words out of time to the music like a badly loaded film reel.

‘I’ve got places to be myself. But Vincent said we should get a drink.’

‘Quick snifter, then. I need a good manager, Jack, but I’m not so sure you’re it. I’ve had a rotten run of luck in the past… Everyone’s got a sob story, suppose.’

Jack ordered the drinks by raising two fingers. It sent a little shiver down his neck when the barman got straight to
his order, ignoring a couple perched on the stools. Jack shook his head as Stella tripped and staggered to another table.

‘If you’re as good as you think you are then I’ll take you all the way as my fighter.’

‘That what you said to your last fighter, was it?’ Rich propped himself against the bar. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not looking to cause trouble. I’ve got mouths need feeding. Only the ring puts enough food in their bellies. Come by my training, I’ll show you something good.’

Jack raised his glass towards Rich. The woman at the bar tutted and clutched her gold bag to her ribs. ‘I would have thought that they would be more select about members.’ She made herself heard above the music, accent sharpened for effect.

The man with her coughed into his hand and tried to draw her away. She swayed slightly on the stool, heels clicking against the metal rung, but didn’t get down. The man hovered at her elbow, eyes fixed on his wristwatch.

‘We’re wearing ties.’ Jack flicked the end out from under his belt.

‘I think she means this dress code.’ Rich pinched the skin on his cheek.

‘Well, would you believe it, it don’t come off, Rich.’

The man knocked his hip against the stool and the woman dropped to her feet, her head half-twisting off her neck, but he prodded her towards a table at the edge of the room, close to the draught from the door: cheap seats. Rich crunched an ice cube between his teeth. ‘Can tell a lot about someone from the company they keep… Know that fella, Jack?’ The Thin Suit was getting up from a centre table.

‘I’ve had the misfortune.’

‘He’s a walking cock, one-eyed and dangerous. Only sees half of what’s going on and no brain controlling it.’ Rich spat shards of ice into the glass. ‘Leaves a bad taste.’

Jack laughed. The Thin Suit stared at them, head swaying to get a better look as he crossed the room.

‘Be seeing you, Jack.’

Rich fitted his hat into place, nodded at the Thin Suit, and went up the stairs.

‘Suppose it is pretty funny, seeing a darkie in a place like this.’ The Thin Suit put his empty glass down next to Jack’s elbow.

‘Blow your nose some time, see how much black comes out.’

‘What you saying? There’s nothing fucking black about me.’ The Thin Suit fingered the handkerchief in his top pocket.

‘I’m off. Got to see a man about some paint.’ Jack buttoned up his jacket.

‘Got a deal going down? Vincent gets a cut of the action,
all
action, now you’re working for him.’ The Thin Suit tapped the glass against his off-centre front teeth. ‘Or has the wife got you painting the house up?’

Jack called over his shoulder as he walked out, ‘I ain’t the marrying type.’