Man in the Shadows (15 page)

Jack got into the ring with Roy after laying out his equipment. All he wanted me to do was hand him things and not knock over the water bottle. Roy and Tikopia bounced and pounded the air, shrugging their shoulders and loosening their necks. The announcer put a little Chicago into his voice as he proclaimed Tikopia ‘the champeen of the South Pacific Commonwealth' which was scrambling it a bit. The crowd as a whole cheered loudest for Roy but some Maoris grouped together in a couple of rows at ringside helped to even things up. A two-metre blonde in spike heels and a flesh-coloured
body stocking walked around the ring holding up a board with ‘1' printed on it. I helped her out through the ropes and she kissed me. Roy and Tikopia touched gloves and then Roy hit the spread brown nose with a sharp left and the cheers for sex turned into cheers for blood.

They felt each other out in the early rounds but, like old pros, they managed to put a good bit of work into it—jabs from Roy, rushes from Tikopia and ducking and weaving from both. In the corner Spargo kept up a constant stream of advice:
Don't drop your right, you're dropping your right. Watch his head in close, he's looking to butt you. Keep outa his corner; try 'im downstairs . . .

The crowd was happy with what it was getting; yells went up when Roy took a hard punch on his gloves or when the referee bullocked the fighters apart and when the blonde walked around in her body stocking. I located Lofty at ringside, behind Tikopia's corner and a few rows back. Johnson sat immediately behind the corner and leaned forward occasionally to talk to one of the Maori's handlers. Warner was like Spargo—transported to that place where only wounds and water and towels and the pummelling of muscles mattered.

By the middle of the fight the pattern was clear; Tikopia was the organiser. He dictated the pace and movement around the ring. To the uninitiated he would have looked a winner, but Roy took many of his punches on his arms and gloves and his counter-punching was effective. He scored cleanly several times and I had it all even going after the seventh which was a good round for Roy.

Johnson was looking worried. He turned around to speak to Lofty and he continued his conversations with the cornerman. The betting fluctuated around me and I had to assume it did the same around Johnson.

In the eighth Belfast took a hard right to the head and sagged. He covered up but he was negative and it was Tikopia's round. In the ninth Tikopia tried a rush, bullocking Roy across to the ropes. As soon as he hit them Roy performed the manoeuvre he'd worked on with Dixon. He performed it perfectly from instinct and with impeccable timing. He side-stepped away from the rip and put all his weight into the punch he landed under Tikopia's armpit. I thought I heard the ribs crack. Roy hit him there again and followed with a straight right that caused Tikopia to drop his hands. The crowd saw the opening and screamed. Roy scored with some classic punches before Tikopia retreated, covering up. He was tough and weathered the round but it was clearly Roy's stanza.

I forgot about the brain sacks and the threatened retinas and roared encouragement to Roy. The blonde was wide-eyed and screaming. She waved her clenched fists and looked as if she wanted to mix it with them in the ring instead of strutting around with her number ‘10' board.

Most of the crowd watched the last round standing on its feet. Tikopia rushed and swung; Roy back-pedalled and picked him off with jabs. Then Roy stood his ground and slugged. Tikopia landed some good punches in close and Roy retreated. In the last thirty seconds he rallied, moved the Maori around the ring and had him covering up in his, Roy's, corner which always makes a good impression, when the bell sounded.

The ring filled with people; the TV commentator waved his mike and tried to break through the wall of bodies to the fighters. I was hoarse with yelling. I couldn't get into the ring but I worked my way around and was close to Roy's back, with the gun under my towel. I kept my eye on Johnson who stood with Lofty staring up into the crowded ring and rolling an unlit cigarette around in his mouth.

The first judge gave it to Tikopia by two points, the second to Roy by the same margin. The third judge called it a draw and that's what it was. The fighters embraced and the referee held up both right arms. The blonde kissed them both and Spargo and Warner shook hands. Tikopia's wide face was swollen and Roy's upper body was covered with angry red blotches. All bets were off of course and money changed hands only to move back to where it had come from.

Eventually the hugging stopped and the loud buzz of animated conversation died down. Roy left the ring and I stuck close to him and Spargo all the way through the back-slappers and ‘champ-sayers' to the dressing room. Spargo chattered excitedly. I lost sight of Johnson and Lofty. Belfast was nervous in the dressing room; he snapped at Spargo as Jack unbandaged his hands and he wouldn't go into the shower.

‘Take a look outside, Cliff,' he said. ‘See what's happening.'

Before I could move, Marriott breezed in with congratulations and talk of a re-match. Belfast barely spoke to him. When he left I looked out into the corridor. ‘Nothing. Getting quieter.'

‘Go and get Tikopia. Invite him to a party or somethin'.'

‘What is this?' Spargo said.

I went around the slight bend in the passage and knocked at Tikopia's door. Warner stuck his head out.

‘Yeah?'

‘Roy wants to see your boy.'

I heard the Maori say, ‘Tell him I'm comin',' over Warner's protest.

I went back to Roy's room and found Johnson and Lofty there. Johnson's wizened monkey face was screwed up in anger; Lofty was impassive but a look of pleased anticipation showed when he saw me. I
thought he was going to crack his knuckles but he didn't. I wasn't too worried, I had the .38 in my back pocket. Then I saw that Johnson was holding a small bottle in his hands. Roy Belfast's eyes were fixed on the bottle.

‘You didn't come through,' Johnson said.

‘It was a draw,' Belfast said quickly. ‘All bets're off. Your people didn't lose anything.'

‘Roy?' Spargo's tone was incredulous.

‘You don't think a bloody has-been like him could've got this match without arrangements, do you?' Johnson said. ‘He was supposed to fold in the seventh. That was a good round for you, the seventh.'

Spargo looked at Roy. ‘You did a deal?'

Roy nodded.

Johnson moved closer to him and raised the bottle. Roy was braced, ready to move either way.

‘Put it down, Johnson!' I had the gun out and levelled. Johnson's arm tensed and he gave me no choice. I shot him in the right leg. He yelled and the bottle dropped. Belfast dodged. The bottle hit the wall, shattered and sprayed steaming liquid. Spargo yelled as some of it touched his arm. Belfast rushed towards him as he groaned and swore. Lofty growled and came at me with his big arms swinging.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Johnson reach into his pocket and pull out another bottle. He was lying on the floor only a metre from Roy and Spargo. Lofty lashed at me, caught my shoulder and I dropped the gun. I ducked under the next swing and tried to kick his knee out. I connected with his shin which only slowed him down a fraction. He bullocked me towards the wall and got set to spread me across it when Tikopia appeared in the room. He hammered Lofty in the kidneys. Lofty turned and Tikopia dropped him with a left hook.

Tikopia kept moving; he stepped past Lofty and
gripped Johnson's wrist. The bottle fell from his grasp and Tikopia caught it. Marriott poked his head through the door. ‘What's going on?'

‘Bad publicity,' Belfast said. ‘Keep everyone away.'

The promoter gaped at the two men on the floor and the third, Spargo, nursing his arm and swearing. ‘Sounded like a shot.'

‘Maori war dance,' I said. ‘Plus champagne corks. Go and get a doctor who can keep his mouth shut.'

The door closed. Johnson dragged himself to the wall and whimpered; there was a lot of blood on his leg but it wasn't spraying.

‘Shut up!' Tikopia said. He looked down at the unconscious Lofty and nodded approvingly. Spargo pulled himself away from Belfast who was applying a wet towel to his arm. ‘Get off,' he said. ‘It's all right, burnt meself worse on the stove. What the hell's going on here?'

Tikopia and Belfast looked at each other. The Maori nodded. ‘Tikopia's been hooked up with some bad people,' Roy said. ‘He wanted to get clear of them. I got the fight by agreeing to throw it but him and me did our own deal.'

Tikopia nodded. He picked up my gun from the floor and handed it to me. ‘We thought they'd pull something like this after the fight. Now we've got some evidence and witnesses.'

Tikopia held up the bottle of acid. ‘Bad news this,' he said.

‘What about the fight?' Spargo said.

Roy dabbed with the wet towel. ‘We agreed to a straight fight. If he absolutely had to, Tikopia was going to pay off any losing bets out of his end if I won.'

The Maori grinned. ‘Don' have to now.'

‘Why?' Spargo said.

‘Don't you see it, Jack?' I looked at the
fighters—Tikopia's right eye was almost closed but he was grinning, showing big white teeth. Belfast's jaw was swollen from the right he'd copped in the eighth. ‘They both wanted to see if they were any good. Tikopia needed to know if he could take a heavyweight's punch and Roy needed to know if he could still do it at all. This game's full of bullshit. They could only trust each other.'

The boxers nodded and touched hands the way they do at the start and end of a fight. ‘That's right,' they said.

The Deserter

‘I
want you to find my son, Mr Hardy,' Ambrose Guyatt said to me. ‘He's a soldier.'

An image from
Rambo
flashed before my eyes—gaunt men in rags screaming inside a bamboo cage. I'd watched the movie on a flight from Honolulu to Sydney because I'd finished my book and couldn't sleep. I'm over forty and carry a few unhealed physical and emotional wounds which make me unfit for that kind of action.

‘I don't understand,' I said.

‘I should say he
was
a soldier. He went absent without leave.'

‘For how long?'

‘It's not clear. Some weeks.'

‘Then he's a deserter.'

Guyatt shifted his well-padded behind on the unpadded chair I have for clients in my office. What's the point in making them too comfortable? They might decide that everything's all right and go away. Guyatt didn't. ‘Technically, perhaps. You were in the army yourself, I believe. Malaya. You don't look old enough.'

‘It went on longer than people think. If your son's a deserter, Mr Guyatt, the military and the police'll be looking for him. I can't see . . . '

‘Julian didn't desert, or if he did he had a good reason. He's not some little guttersnipe; he's educated, he's got background.'

I held the smile in; I've seen backgrounds fade into the far distance and guttersnipes come up with the goods. I got out a fresh note pad and clicked my
ballpoint. ‘You'd better tell me all about it, Mr Guyatt.'

Like most people feeling their way into a subject, he found it easiest to start with himself. Ambrose Guyatt ran a very profitable business which had blossomed from paper and stationery into printing and copying. He told me that some years before he had worked twenty hours a day keeping abreast of things and making the right moves. ‘That was when Julian was growing up,' he said. ‘Naturally I didn't see much of him.'

I nodded and got ready to make my first note. ‘How old is he now?'

‘Twenty. He joined the army nearly two years ago. He was a champion athlete but he . . . didn't finish school.'

Guyatt was a short, stocky man with a balding head and a high colour. I'll swear he almost blushed when he admitted his offspring was a dropout.

I nodded again. ‘Didn't finish the army stint either. Is that his problem, Mr Guyatt? That he can't finish anything?'

‘I really don't know. It's a terrible thing to say but I can't claim to know him very well. We hardly spoke in the last years he was at home. Well, he wasn't really at home. He came in for clean shirts and money which his mother gave him.'

‘Would you have given them to him?'

‘He avoided me. Never came when I was going to be around.'

I sighed. Young Guyatt avoided old Guyatt; old Guyatt avoided questions; I wondered what Mrs Guyatt avoided. ‘Was he on good terms with his mother?'

Guyatt nodded.

‘What does she have to say about it?'

‘She's distraught. She says Julian loved the army and would never desert.'

I got a photograph of Julian, the licence number of his blue Laser, a few details on his pre-army life and the last date he had performed his duty at Waterloo Barracks. I also got the telephone number of one Captain Barry Renshaw.

‘Step by step, how did it happen?'

‘Julian didn't do anything about his mother's birthday. That had never happened before. She rang Waterloo Barracks and was told that he was on leave. That was a lie.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Julian had told his mother he was going to New Caledonia the next time he got leave, even if it was only for a week. He couldn't have gone. His passport's at home.'

‘What then?'

‘I rang and was told that my son had been posted as a deserter.'

I looked at my notes. ‘You spoke to this Captain Renshaw?'

‘No, someone else. I didn't get his name. Renshaw's been handling it since, but we've really heard nothing. Something has to be done.'

‘I charge a hundred and fifty dollars a day and expenses,' I said. ‘If I work on this for a month you'll be up for over four thousand dollars.'

‘Do it. Please.'

I accepted his cheque. After he left, I stared at the photograph until I would have recognised the owner of the strong features, low-growing dark hair and steady eyes anywhere there was enough light to see by. Lately I'd done more debugging and money-minding than I cared for. It was good to have something to do some leg work on. Julian Guyatt hadn't been in the army quite long enough to throw off civilian contacts. I checked at his last two jobs, hung around the pub he'd frequented and spoke to a girl he'd taken out for a few months. The response
was the same everywhere: ‘Like we told the man from the army, we don't know anything.'