Sucker Punch (13 page)

“Is that a yes?”

“He'll be a barmpot, Cal. Paulo told us about it.”

“Yeah, and if you think he's a barmpot, then you tell me. I'll get rid of the guy, no harm done. I'm the one that talked to him in the first place. I'll just tell him you're not interested, make some excuse that makes me out to be the dickhead I am and that'll be it.”

“Nah, I don't think so,” says Liam.

“You're not even going to chance it, are you?”

“I'll stick to the original plan.”

“Fine,” I say. “That's fine. But I'll be fucked if you're getting a cab back to the hotel. I'm parked up the street and I'll be waiting outside. You let me know when you're finished, alright?”

“I'll be a while.”

“You be as long as you want, son. I'll be outside.”

I turn on my heel, let him get on with his precious bloody training. And I almost light a cigarette before I'm out the door.

So I
was
having a healthy day. Six cigarettes, and try bumping it up another ten because there's nothing else to do apart from sit on the wall outside the gym and smoke. Takes me back to my school days.

Light starts to creep from the sky, leaving it dark blue turning to black. Cloud or smog or smoke knits a blanket over the stars and I get to thinking about what Nelson said. This place with its smog and halogen, where you could watch the planes head out across the ocean to fight some war you'd read about in the papers or heard on the radio. Days long gone. Now every part of LA looks like every other part of LA. The kind of shabby you see in an aging beauty queen who thought a pageant would change her life. Down the street there's a liquor store with bars on the window. I feel like getting up, rubbing the ache out of my lower back, taking a stroll down there and buying whatever brand of vodka I recognise. But that would mean deserting my post, and that can't happen. I know Liam'll be out the moment I'm gone. The way he's been, I wouldn't put it past him to walk rather than take a lift from me.

Lad's got a cob on about something. Same as Paulo, like everyone I know's gone mental. Not surprising, considering the tension. The idea of Mo Tiernan sniffing about the club back home doesn't exactly fill me with calm, I have to say. I thought Mo and I had gone through what we needed to go through. Back in the toilets, back in Newcastle, even before that when I headbutted him in front of a pub full of people because he was trying to put the fucking screws on my brother.

Mo's a nuisance. He's thick-headed. And like I said to Paulo, he's got no protection. I just hope the big man doesn't do anything stupid.

There's movement behind me. I turn, thinking it's going to be Liam, but Reuben steps out, light reflecting from his head. He's supposed to be helping Liam out with his training. I want to ask him what the fuck he's playing at, but I keep my mouth shut. What the hell, the way I see it going, Reuben's not going to be Liam's trainer much longer. Not if I can persuade Liam to sit down with Nelson.

“Y'alright?” I say with a nod.

Reuben pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one. The flame catches, illuminating his sagging features. “I'm okay.”

“Phil doesn't let you smoke in there, eh?”

“No.”

“Same with my guy,” I say. “I'm stuck in the back office with the window open. They're making martyrs out of us.”

“Huh.”

Silence. I take a drag from my cigarette, blow smoke. “Hell of a fight today.”

“Today?” Reuben comes over and takes a seat on the wall. Not too close. “Yeah, hell of a fight. Your boy's got some technique. Still rough, though.”

“You think?”

Reuben lets his left arm hang, points to it. “He keeps his left at his waist. Bad habit to get into. The boy's on the offensive, that's his strength. He likes to get in there hard and fast, but that left, man. That'll get him into a whole lot of trouble.”

“I'm sure he'll be fine.” Thinking, I'll pass that on to Nelson, see what he makes of it.

“No, he needs to tighten his defence,” says Reuben. “That low left, even pros shouldn't do it. It's a showboat move. He can't be giving away fifty percent of his defence like that. He
really
wants to keep his left down, he's gotta learn to roll his body or block with the right, else his opponent's gonna sneak in there like Puentes did.”

“He'll learn.”

“I got him working on it.” He shows me. “Keep it up. Keep a tight guard, play peek-a-boo, you get me?”

“I taught him everything he knows,” I say.

Reuben drops his hands and smiles. “Yeah, I'm sure you did.”

“Cal,” I say.

“Reuben,” he says, like I don't already know. “Call me Rube and I'll cut your throat.”

“Good to meet you, Reuben. You work here long?”

“A while.”

“Enjoy your work?”

“Hell is this, an interview? You gonna offer me a job?”

“Just chit-chat, Reuben.” I drop my filter, grind it out. Light another. “Small talk.”

“Sure.”

“You see a lot of these competitions?” I say.

“We do some here, yeah.”

“Shaprio have a hand in all of them?”

Reuben stares at me. “You want to ask something, pal, you just come right out and ask it, okay?”

I smile, do my best innocent expression. “Sorry, mate, I was just—”

“Making small talk, I know. Seems to me the talk ain't small enough, though.”

“Hey, I didn't mean anything.”

“You want to talk about bigger things.”

“There's nothing you can tell me about Phil Shapiro I don't already know.”

“That so.”

“Yup.” I blow some more smoke, watch it drift. “I know he was a hell of a fighter in his day.”

“His day ain't over. And he ain't a guy who takes ball-busting well.”

“I noticed that.”

“That's good. Because all these questions, you're sounding like a cop. And you ain't a fuckin' cop, are you?”

“No, I'm not a cop.”

“Then quit it with the first degree. You sound like you’re trying to dig dirt.”

“Is there dirt to dig, then?”

Reuben takes a few puffs from his cigarette and drops it to the ground, half-smoked. “Yeah, good to meet you too, Cal. Let's do this again sometime.”

He grunts as he gets off the wall, waddles back to the gym.

“Yeah, let's,” I say.

I grind out Reuben's still smoking cigarette.

Liam comes out of the gym with his bag slung over his shoulder. He looks relaxed, smug even. He should be, too — the bugger's kept me waiting three hours. Lucky for me I lost track of time. I get to my feet.

“You done?” I say.

Liam flinches. And now I know why he was looking smug. He thought I'd gone. “Yeah, I'm finished.”

“Good.” I jerk my thumb up the street. “Parked up a way. Hope you've got enough energy left for a walk.”

He nods. I don't offer to take his bag. He wants to keep me waiting, he can carry his own shit. As we walk, I keep my distance. Don't want to crowd him into another one of his moods. The street's deserted.

“You up for tomorrow then?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“You know the kid?”

“I seen him about.”

“What's he like?”

“Streak of piss.”

“That's the spirit. Hope you beat him to a pulp.”

“I can't do that, Cal. Straight and narrow.”

“Yeah, I forgot. Straight and narrow. Then beat him like that. You do that, you know who you're up against?”

“That arsehole from the other day,” he says.

“I didn't tell you, but I met his dad at your bout.”

“He was there?”

“Checking out the competition, must've been. I didn't see Josh turn up until you'd already pasted Puentes. And you know what? He looked worried as fuck. Watching you smack that kid around, he got a bit scared for his son's future well-being.”

Liam regards me, doesn't say anything. He keeps walking.

“And who's going to know his son but his father?”

“Uh-huh.”

When I look at him, Liam's staring at something in the distance. I follow his line of sight. Up by the car park, there's three lads and a girl standing round a couple of expensive-looking motors. After a moment's lapse in Liam's pace, he speeds up. I have to stride to keep up with him. Liam's face has dropped into that scally stone I've seen too many times.

As we draw nearer, it's obvious why he's putting on the attitude. Josh Callahan, standing around with his buddies. One of the lads is big, wide, looks like a quarterback. The other's weedy. The girl looks like she's had her fair share of frat-boy fingers. She's blonde, barely-dressed, sitting on the bonnet of an Audi. In her fist is a pint of Wild Turkey. The quarterback takes the bottle from her as we approach. It's the American version of a bus shelter posse turned rich and proud.

And mouthy.

“Jesus Christ, if it isn't the Brit,” says Josh at the top of his lungs.

“How
are
you, old bean?” says the weedy lad, sticking his top teeth out in some drunken fucking parody. “By Jove, sir—”

“Keep walking,” I say to Liam.

But the flame's already caught, made his cheeks rise red. He's burning.

“Liam, Liam, I hear you fucked up the Mexican, man.” Josh peels away from his mates. A swagger in his walk.

“
Dios mio
, Josh, motherfucker's a taco-banger,” says the weedy lad.

The quarterback takes a long pull on the Wild Turkey, almost chokes on his laughter. Yeah, the weedy lad's definitely the joker in the group.

“No, man, he didn't kiss him first. You didn't kiss him, did you, Liam?”

Liam stops in his tracks. I nudge him to move; he doesn't.

“I hear you fucked Puentes good, man.” Josh moves forward now he's got Liam's attention, his voice dropping a notch below a yell. He busts a few combos that look inebriated. “I hear you slaughtered him in the old one-two-three —
wop, wop, wop
…”

“… or
spic, spic, spic
,” says the joker. That twat's getting on my last nerve. Doesn't help that the blonde girl's giggling. I get the feeling she'd giggle if someone set her on fire. Wouldn't mind giving it a try, either.

“That the way they teach you in England, man?” Josh screws his face up. “They just tell you, 'hit the bloke, mate'? That's no fuckin' technique.”

The joker flaps his hand for the bottle of whiskey. The quarterback takes another drink and passes it over.

Josh runs his tongue inside his bottom lip. “You try that shit on me, I'm gonna be dancing you to your fuckin' death, man.” He feints a left. “Down in one —
bang
.”

“He won't get past Charlie, man,” says the quarterback.

“Yeah, man, you got
Charlie
. Charlie's a wop gonna fuck you up. And if he doesn't, then you came over here for three fights and you'll be going home in a wheelchair.”

“How's about you stow the WWF shite, son?” I say.

“Liam, your boyfriend talks a lot of shit. You want to step in for the baby, my man?”

Liam pushes in front of me.

“C'mon,” he says.

Just that. Soft. Deliberate.

“Liam,” I say.

“Nah, Cal. The cunt's been wanting a slap since the moment I saw him. Now's his chance.”

The joker swigs whiskey and grips the bottle that little bit harder. This isn't going to end well. Everyone squaring up like it's
West Side
fucking
Story
. This is going to end with the pair of us in hospital and no medical insurance. This is going to end with me explaining to Paulo how his star pupil ended up with a bunch of expensive stitches in his head and chucked out of a competition when I had the opportunity to nip it in the bud.

Josh rolls his shoulders. The blonde girl giggles again, starts clapping. I want to snap her fingers off and stick them in Josh's eyes. Because the blonde rich lad has the same glazed expression of every violent drunk I've ever met.

“You want me to tell your father where you've been, Josh?” I say.

He doesn't look at me — too busy glaring at Liam — and says, “You don't know my father.”

“Yeah, I do. I met him at Liam's bout. You take after him. He looks like a fuckin' lightweight, too.”

Josh snaps his attention to me. “The fuck you know about my father, man? Look at you. My father wouldn't talk to you. You look like a fuckin' hobo.”

“Let me handle this,” says Liam.

“You lads need to calm down,” I say. “Otherwise you're both out the comp, you know that.”

“He shouldn't be in the comp in the first place,” says Josh. “We've already been through that.”

“Then you prove it in a couple of days.”

“I'll prove it now. I don't give a shit.”

More clapping from the girl.

“Why? So you can wake up tomorrow with your face on the pillow next to you? Don't be a prat, son.”

“
Prat
,” says the joker. “Fuckin' asshole.”

I can't help myself. I grab the joker by the neck of his T shirt, pull him round and push him hard up against the side of the Audi. Grind his face into the roof. The girl shrieks and jumps off the car — violence too up close and personal for her. I keep an eye on the quarterback in my peripheral. He's standing, arms heavy by his sides. I wish I had a knife or something I could show them, scare the bollocks off them.

“What'd you call me?” I pull on the weedy lad's hair, slam his head against the roof. He drops the Wild Turkey, bottle clinking and rolling onto the street.

“
Jesus
, man.” Blood is welling up in his bottom lip.

“You're a hard lad, are you?” I stare at the quarterback. “You a hard lad, too?”

“Jesus fuckin' Christ, let go of me.”

“Let go of him,” says Josh.

“You're a hard lad, the man-child over there's a hard lad, Josh is a hard lad and Liam's a hard lad. And guess what? I'm a fuckin' hard lad, too. Except I don't have Phil Shapiro to worry about. So how about you and Josh calm it down and knock the 'limey' shite on the head, alright? Else I'll put your fuckin' heads together.”

“Let him go,” says Josh. His voice shakes.

“You sobered up now, son?”

“Just let him go, okay?”

I raise my hands empty. Josh's mate stays leaning against the roof of the car, too scared to move. I turn to Josh. “You want to sort this out, you do it like Shapiro said. You do it in the ring. You can't do that, you'll have me to deal with. And I might look like a streak of piss, but I'm a streak of piss you don't want in your life. 'Cause I'll buy a cricket bat and take it to your fuckin' knees.”