Sucker Punch (19 page)

I wipe away a fake tear. “That's very sweet, Mr Shapiro.”

“You think this is a sob story?” Shapiro sucks his teeth. He shows me his hands. “What do you want from me? I tell you this is a
kosher
tournament and you get sarcastic. You got your own ideas about this and about me, so I want to hear them. Because it doesn't seem to matter to you that the Alvarez name is synonymous with fair play, integrity and downright honesty in this city. It doesn't matter to you that I wouldn't be involved — wouldn't be
allowed
to be involved — if I wasn't one hundred percent down with that. There are gym owners who would've killed to host this competition, but they weren't legit enough to handle it. I take great pride in having it here.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“And if you think I'm going to let one man with a chip on his shoulder ruin this for a bunch of kids who want to do something with their lives, you've got another think coming.”

“You threatening me?”

“I'm stating a fact. If you make me choose between having you call my every move — because obviously you feel qualified to judge how I'm running things here — and dumping you and Liam out of the comp, you know how I'm going to lean.”

“So you are threatening me.”

“No.” He pauses. “But I'm not going to tow the line for you, either. You look out there.” He points at the main gym. Outside, another crowd is beginning to develop. Amateur fight fans, other boxers. “This isn't just about you and your boy, Mr Innes. Liam wins, that'll be great, you'll have my congratulations. He doesn't, then he's still got the potential to go far. No matter what you might think, though, there are boys out there who need this thing more than Liam does.”

Shapiro scoops up the dog as he gets to his feet.

“So if you haven't got any more insults, you'll excuse me,” he says. “I've got a competition to run.”

“You're British,” she says.

Half-cocked Brit. What's it? Half in my cups, soused, stinking, however many sheets to the fucking wind, yeah.

“I'm Scottish,” I say. “
Scottish.
There's a difference. Romans built a wall to
maintain
that difference. And Britain's not a country.”

“Sure it is.”

“Doesn't have a patron saint.” And I start singing, “It's just an economic union, that's past its sell-by date.”

She smiles. She's pretty enough. Very American. Good teeth, blonde hair that looks natural, decent skin. Certainly not the usual type who talk to me in bars. But it's a whole different class over here.

I don't go looking for female company if I can help it. Call it having a gay bloke for a best mate, whatever you want. Whatever keeps me from digging too deep. Truth is, the situation doesn't arise.

Yeah, you can say that again.

Celibate by circumstance. I could've stayed in my room, had a nap, woke up to my duty free booze and see if I could find a porn flick. But those are the actions of a non-functioning member of society. And besides, I could do that at home. Here, this is my tourist time. Getting shitfaced is about the closest I can manage to a proper holiday.

I just wish people would leave me the fuck alone.

“I'm Sherry,” she says.

“Like the drink or the fruit?” I try to draw myself up straight on my stool.

“The drink.”

“Good. I'm Callum. Cal.”

“Unusual name.”

I want to tell her it's not that bloody unusual. Probably was when my mam named me, but now you can't meet five people in Britain without hearing Celtic or Gaelic names, people so fucking ashamed of being English they have to plunder Scotland and Ireland for their children. My dad would've said it was par for the course; the English were always trying to steal the good shite for themselves.

“You know what it means?” says Sherry.

“Didn't know it meant anything.”

“It means 'dove'.”

I squint at her. “You're not kidding, are you?”

She shakes her head once. “It's a hobby of mine.”

“So what does your name mean?”

“It's Hebrew. It means 'beloved'.”

“And are you?”

“I have my moments.” Sherry gets off her stool, moves to the one next to me. I catch a whiff of something sweet. Could be her perfume or the alcohol on her breath. Either way, it's better than my own smell. I've taken enough showers since I got to this country, but I always find a way to sweat. Up close, Sherry's older than I thought, a lot more make-up, the kind of woman I'd describe as a stealthmoose if I was being unkind. But I'm not in the mood to be unkind. She still looks okay, a little frayed around the edges, smells better than she looks, and she's obviously interested in me.

Which means if she's not already drunk, she should be. I point to her half-empty glass. “Get you another?”

Another smile. Something about her perfect teeth tugs at my chest.

“Why not?” she says. “Rum and Coke.”

I order two. It's been a while and I remind myself that rum's a good drunk, a lazy, mellow headfuck. And I'm sick of bottled beer. About time I kicked it up a notch, feel like a poetic tramp. Isn't that what LA's all about? Tom Waits, Charles Bukowski country.

“So where are you going after this, Sherry?”

“You're right in there with the lines, aren't you?” she says, turning that smile on the bartender as he sets down our drinks.

“I didn't mean it like that. Just, I look around this place, I don't see many people dressed up. I thought maybe you had a party or something later on.”

“That's very sweet, Cal.” She sips her drink. Very ladylike. I see tiny wrinkles around her mouth. “But no, I've got nowhere to go. I'm all yours.”

“Well, isn't this my lucky night.”

“What do you do, Cal? For a living.”

I think about it. What I'm going to tell her, whether it's worth telling the truth, exaggerating and embellishing, or just tell an outright lie.

“I'm a security guard,” I say.

“Really.”

“Yeah, I used to be a brain surgeon, but then I got my hand caught in a revolving door trying to save a small dog. Kind of put an end to my career.”

“Aw, that's sad.”

“Tell me about it. The dog was okay, though.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, you looked worried.” I pluck the straw from my glass, drop it on the bar, and drain half my run and Coke. “What do you do?”

“I'm a writer.”

I look at her.

“What?” she says. “That so difficult to believe?”

“No. I just wasn't expecting writer. I was thinking, actress, singer, something like that. What do you write?”

“I have a screenplay I'm shopping around.”

“What's it about?”

“You don't want to know.” She looks at her drink, half-smiling now.

“You're right,” I say. “I don't.” My brain's tired. Done way too much thinking today to fake an interest, and the beer and rum are slowing me down. When I glance at Sherry, she almost looks relieved. Look up at the bartender and he's watching, but pretending not to.

I get it.

“What do you really do?” I say.

“Sorry?”

“I'm just wondering. You don't have anywhere to go and you get dressed up for it?”

The smile on her face becomes mouth-only. “A girl can't get dressed up for no reason?”

You're not a girl, love. Haven't been a girl for a long time.

“Maybe it's different over here,” I say. “Maybe people dress formally for fuck-all.”

“Yeah, maybe it is.” There's an edge to her voice.

“But in Britain, you see a woman on her own and she's all dressed up and chatty, you start thinking maybe she's not the lady she's trying to be.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in. Another moment for her to make her decision. And one last quick moment for her to throw that six-dollar drink I just bought her in my face.

“The fuck you get off talking to people that way?” she says. She gets much angrier, she'll crack her foundation.

“I'm just thinking out loud.”

“You need to watch your fucking manners, pal.”

“Okay.”

As I'm wiping the rum from my eyes — and by Christ, it stings — I think if she's any kind of lady, if she's truly been insulted and not just fucking rumbled, she'll walk out now. That's what happens. I've been here before. The shock, maybe some tears, but it ends with a slammed door. Call a woman a whore, or as good as, expect them to want nothing to do with you. Sometimes it's the easiest way to cut short a relationship that'll go nowhere.

But Sherry's a piece of work. She slips from her stool, starts shouting at me like I'm the worst shitheel on the face of the planet. Like nobody'd ever mentioned to her that all that slap she's wearing might push her status from looker to hooker. That's all I said, meant it as a joke. I think. And if it was, well, it's plain that Sherry, for all her smiling, hasn't got a sense of humour.

Ach, it wouldn't have lasted anyway.

“Sherry,” says the bartender. “How about you go cool off?”

“You heard what he called me?”

“He didn't call you anything, Sherry. You heard him wrong.”

“He called me a fucking hooker, Jim.”

“Sherry.” Jim the bartender stands firm.

She stares at me.

“Don't make me come around there,” says Jim.

“Fuck you,” she says. Storms to the door. “You stay here, Callum, you fucking
fag
.”

“Oh, that's nice.”

And she's gone, heel-clicking into the night. The door hisses closed on its bracket. When I turn back, the bartender's in front of me. Big forearms folded across a bigger chest.

“I think you better hit the road, Jack,” he says.

I point to myself. “Callum, mate.”

“Then hit the road, Callum.”

“Yeah, I got you.” I dab my face with a napkin, a big patch down the front of my shirt. I'm glad she managed to get half her drink down her before she got it down me. I place my hands on the bar, push myself off the stool. My legs give way for a second until the blood returns. I hang onto the bar, raise one hand like I'm okay, I'm alright, just give me a moment. Then I down the rum and Coke. Hey, I paid for it. Waste not, want not. A couple of steps before I have to stop.

“Here, mate,” I say. “Was she really a hooker?”

“Sherry's a drunk,” he says, moving to mop the bar. “But she does extra work every now and then.”

I nod. “Yeah, like screenwriting.”

“Get some sleep, pal.”

I raise a hand, then turn and stumble out of the bar onto the street. Take a deep breath, let the night air clear out my lungs, wipe my mind. Then I light a cigarette. I knew it. I had my chance six months ago. The more that's happened to me since then, the more I know I had my chance and I fucked it up. And hindsight's a crystal-clear kick in the head. Keeps me awake most nights, or else caught between extremes, my own private purgatory.

I push my hands deep into my jacket, head down, trying to put one foot in front of the other. All I've got to do now is find the hotel. I've been lost sober, but never drunk. Alcohol kicks in the survival mechanism, almost unconscious. And I thank the Lord for it, I really do.

Because it's that same survival mechanism that tells me I'm being followed.

It's a car, drawing close to the kerb, the engine purring.

I keep walking because I'm not sure. Try to concentrate on my feet, but it's not needed. There's nothing like paranoia to sober a bloke up. So I walk quicker. Look up the street, think about crossing over just to make sure. I cross, they cross, then I'm onto something. Probably a beating. It's darker on the other side of the road. Means I could slip into the shadows if I'm careful. Or it could mean they'll panic and leap in after me. If there's any bodily harm to be done, I want it out in the open where there are potential witnesses.

The car keeps coming. Crawling after me.

Wondering who it is. Thinking it'll be Shapiro. He wanted to do me damage, I know it. But if he's in this position of trust like he says he is, he won't get personally involved. Which means, what? Hired guys?

“Mr Innes.”

The bloke has a voice like a cartoon snake. I don't turn.

“Mr Innes.”

He won't leave it alone. I want to run, but they're in a fucking car. How far am I likely to get?

So I stop. The car eases up next to me. In the back seat, a skinny guy has the window buzzed down. He's the one with the vocal chords. I don't see the driver, hidden behind tinted glass.

“What?” I say. Take a few steps back, maintain some distance so if there's a gun in that car, I'll notice it before I notice the pain in my stomach.

“You're Mr Innes,” says the skinny guy.

“I answered to my name, mate. You want to see some ID?”

“You talked to Mr Callahan this morning.”

I smile. So it's not Shapiro. It's Callahan. Should've guessed. “Yeah, I got talked at.”

“He wants to know if you've had time to consider his offer.”

Look up and down the street — nobody. “Funny you should mention that, actually. I was mulling it over in the bar just now. Had a few cocktails, thought about corruption, you know how it is.” I take a better look at the guy, try to commit his face to memory, but his features are so bland it's hard to hook him into my brain. That voice, though. I'll remember that voice. Especially if I get him to say “inconceivable”.

“So you've thought about it,” he says.

“You a lawyer, mate? You look a bit like a lawyer. Nah, hang on, you're an
employee
, am I right?”

“Do you have an answer?”

“Whoa, you're a pushy fucker. You and Mr Callahan.” I sniff and spit at the pavement. Still can't see the driver, but I'm betting he's a skinny wee prick, too. “I'll tell you, like I said, I've had the chance to think about the offer. And I have to say, my mind hasn't changed. I'm afraid I'm still replying in the negative.”

And I turn my back and start walking. After six feet or so, I can hear the car door opening, the skinny guy stepping out. I turn around. He's got a hand inside his suit jacket.

“I'll warn you right off the bat, pal,” I say. “You shoot me, there's people who'll miss me.”

The skinny guy walks towards me. As he does so, his hand emerges with an envelope. “I've been instructed to push the price up to seven thousand.”