Sucker Punch (18 page)

I reach into my pocket for my cigarettes. Then the other pocket. Nothing in either. And I realise I went and left them back in the hotel bathroom.

Shit.

Got loads left in the carton, but the carton's in my room and far too far away to nip back and retrieve. But I'll be buggered if I'm going to sit here smokeless. I get out of the car as a couple pass on the other side of the street. A blonde bloke and his blonder girl — hair almost white. They're both tanned, young, and probably describe themselves as “financially comfortable”. There's a black bloke heading towards them. He's built like a length of rope, a record bag slung loose over one shoulder, his other hand swaying by his side.

“Hey,” he says. “You with a fine-looking woman, man.”

The blonde bloke smiles. So does the girl. She is fine-looking. Nothing the matter with the black guy's eyes. But the couple don't seem keen on conversation.

“I'm just lucky, I guess,” says the blonde bloke, his grip visibly tightening on his girlfriend's arm. They keep walking, the bloke looking like he'd use force if the black guy gets in his way.

“Lucky? Hell, no. Ain't no luck about it.”

The couple get past the black guy, keep walking. They don't turn around.

“Ain't no luck. Ain't no luck at all. Luck's when you hit the right numbers on the lotto. I see a man with a fine-looking woman, I think that man's
blessed
. That woman there is a work of our Creator, man. Can't think nothing else.”

“Thank you,” says the woman over her shoulder. Her boyfriend tugs at her arm. “Goddamn it, Scott.”

“Work of the Creator,” says the black guy, more to himself now.

I know there's a Shell round here somewhere; I passed it in the car. So I start following the couple.

“Where you going?” says the black guy.

I stop. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm going to buy some cigarettes.”

“Cigarettes? They'll kill you.” He walks towards me, has his hands up. “I don't mean any harm, okay? I ain't gonna mug you. And I'll even stay downwind. I know I got a funk coming off of me.”

“You're alright, mate.”

“Where you gonna get smokes?”

“There's a Shell up—”

“Hey, none of my business, but if you're gonna kill yourself, you may as well do it cheap. Don't go to the Shell. They charge you a dollar, two-dollar extra on the cigarettes. I dunno, they got high rent or something. So you want a smoke, you go further up, you hang a right and walk for a block, okay? Then you'll see a 7-11. Probably a couple of fat old misery-asses sitting out front playing checkers, that's when you know you at the right place.”

“Cheers.”

“Now I don't smoke — I don't got that addiction hanging on me, man. I had plenty. The good Lord knows I had plenty. You know how it is. A man can't live in this world clean. But I do now. I got me a room at St Paul's. You know St Paul's?”

“No.”

“Bless 'em for what they're trying to do there, man, but it's a flea hotel. I got myself clean and I'm living in a dirty hole, you pardon my language. I'm forty-five tomorrow, can you beat that? I got my kids coming to see me, kinda like to get dressed up for it. I know they're gonna take me someplace nice.”

“How much d'you want?” I say.

The guy takes a step back, his hands still in the air. “Didn't I tell you I wasn't gonna mug you? And when did I ask you for money, man?”

“You're building up to it.”

“You think I'm scamming you.”

I shake my head and smile. “You're not scamming me. Way I see it, you saved me a couple dollars on my cigarettes, you deserve the difference.”

“I ain't panhandling you.”

“I know. You want to walk and talk, show me where this 7-11 is?”

His large eyes become smaller as he regards me. “Now you scamming me. I told you I ain't panhandling. You got nothing on me for that.”

“I'm not a cop. C'mon.”

We walk, the bloke hanging back a step or two as if he doesn't want to be seen with me. Hang that right and I can see the 7-11 up the street.

“Yeah, and you thought I was scamming you,” he says.

“Nah.” I look at him. “Okay, maybe. I'm new around here.”

“You don't got the accent, that's for damn straight, forgive my language. You British or something?”

“Something. I don't know the city very well. Don't really want to do the tourist shit if I can help it.”

“I don't blame you. This city'll skin a tourist. But you, man, you're a
traveller
.”

“Something like that, yeah. Listen, you know that gym I was just at?”

“Shapiro's?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Him? Shapiro's a dude? All I see is the sign when I walk past.”

Just like he said, there are two fat blokes playing checkers outside the 7-11. Sitting on boxes, an upturned fruit crate providing them with a makeshift table. I stop as we get near the store, turn to my guide. “You sure you don't know the guy who owns the place?”

“I look like I need to lose weight, man?” He rolls his shoulders. “Or wait, what this is, you think I'm Huggy Bear, think I know the word on the street 'cause I'm a black man.”

“Okay,” I say. “I'm sorry. How much d'you need?”

“I told you, I don't got no information on whatever guy own Shapiro's. It's a name on a sign above a door of a building that I pass. You want to dig, you find yourself another spade.”

I pull out my wallet, pluck a ten dollar bill from the fold. “It's me, mate. My head's up my arse. Sorry if I offended you.”

“Don't give that guy any money,” says one of the checker players, a man with rheumy eyes and a three-day white growth on his jowls.

“What the hell you know about it, Kelvin?”

“I'm saying, don't give this guy any money.” Kelvin narrows his eyes at the board. “He's rolling in cash.” He moves a piece, sits back and points at his opponent. “And fuck you, too.”

I push the bill into my guide's hand. “Take it, man.”

“Bless you,” he says. He pockets the cash and walks backwards away from me, a big grin on his face. As he passes Kelvin, he leans close and shouts, “You a nasty piece of work, you know that?”

“Yeah, and I ain't deaf, neither.”

“I know that, man.” He smiles, twists and starts walking further up the street. That same loping stride, head swivelling, looking for people to talk to.

“Son of a bitch,” says Kelvin. “You shouldn't have given him nothing.”

I get my cigarettes from a guy who looks like he's seen better days and even they had sucked. He charges me tax on top of the price, which throws me for a second. I grab a bottle of Pepsi, too. Bigger than the British bottles and about half the price. I manage to guzzle half of it by the time I get back to Shapiro's.

Sometimes, there's only so much beating around the bush you can do. I've asked Reuben, I've asked Nelson, even asked a homeless guy — but hell, no, he's at St Paul's — and only Nelson's given me something to go on. And to tell the truth, it's taken me all this time to work out what I'm going to do next. I can't just hang around waiting for something to happen, don't have that kind of time to waste. I'd just get a little older, no wiser and the bribe hangs over the situation like a bad smell.

So I push into Shapiro's Boxing Center, fully intent on hearing from the big bastard himself. Reuben's straight across when he sees me.

“Where's Liam?” he says. Sweat running into his eyes, though it could just be the burrito he's shoving into his mouth as he talks.

“Eh?”

“C'mon, your kid in this thing or not?” He checks his watch. “Y'know, I said morning, and we're running out of that. He can't get in the ring if he's not trained. I won't allow it. Phil won't allow it.”

“I already secured him another coach, Reuben.”

“When? Just now?”

“Yesterday. Thought it'd be easier on him. Don't worry, you're doing a great job as his second. Phil about?”

“Who?”

“Phil Shapiro,” I say. “You know the guy.”

“No, who's the coach?”

“Doesn't matter. Is he in? I need to talk to him.”

“Why?”

“The fuck are you, Reuben, his secretary?” I push past him, head for Shapiro's office. I can see the big guy in there. He's on the phone, staring into the middle distance. As I cross the floor, I catch his eye. He doesn't look pleased. But what the hell, I'm getting used to that reaction.

“I find out he's done nothing, I'll throw it in,” shouts Reuben. “I'm not here to see kids get hurt.”

I have to laugh at that one. I do the polite thing and knock on Shapiro's door before I push it open. He's still talking and looks at me like I just took a shit in the middle of the floor. The Chihuahua yaps at me. I crouch and hold out a hand. The dog trots up to me, shaking. Sniffs my fingers, then retreats. I stand up and sniff my fingers. I can't smell anything awful, so I just put it down to me not being a dog person either.

Shapiro makes conversation-ending noises, like he's clammed up. When he puts the phone down, the dog skitters across the floor to him.

“You're not very polite,” he says.

“I knocked, didn't I?”

“You're supposed to wait.”

“I still knocked.”

He remains standing. I can hear the dog behind the desk, sounds like it's scratching at something. Shapiro says, “What do you want?”

“I want to know if this thing's kosher.”

He blinks at me. “Kosher?”

“On the level. This competition.”

Shapiro's face doesn't crack. He stares at me. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“I don't know,” I say. “I heard some things, that's all. Thought rather than sneaking about, I'd come to you with it, ask you straight out.”

“That's not what I hear from Reuben.”

“Ah, well…”

“Reuben says you were trying to pump him for information the other night. And that doesn't sound very 'straight out' to me, Mr Innes. Sounds like you're digging.”

“You got anything to dig?”

Shapiro smiles. Shakes his head as he sits down. The dog jumps up onto his lap as he pushes his chair away from the desk. If I'm trying to read his eyes, I won't get much. Not only are they stone, but they're obscured by scar tissue and shadow. He puts his hand on the dog, another on the desk. Light from the office window slices across his face.

There's a flash on Uncle Morris and his grandson. Those same huge scarred hands. The quiet threat. Yeah, this bloke's got a past, and it's not pretty.

“So what did you hear?” he says.

“That's not the way it works,” I say.

Shapiro cocks his head, strokes the dog. “What do you do for a living, Mr Innes?”

“Nothing much.”

“Because you're not police. You're definitely not the board. So what are you?”

“An interested party. I don't want Liam involved with a rigged comp. It's not fair on him.”

“And what makes you think this competition's rigged?”

“Like I said, I heard things.”

Shapiro lets out a sigh. “So it's not just a hunch. You heard things, which you're taking as gospel. I hear things too, you know. I hear Liam's a troublemaker. I hear there was an incident in the parking lot the other night…”

“Liam didn't—”

“I know he didn't. You did. But you see about people
hearing
things.”

“Liam didn't start that. You want to keep an eye on some of the lads you've got coming here.”

“And you want to keep an eye on your fists.” Shapiro shifts in his seat. “I know your type, Mr Innes. Been dealing with that type for a long time. You breeze in through these doors and you expect the world to stop what its doing and listen to what you have to say. Then you demand answers to whatever's currently bugging you. Am I right?”

I don't answer him. Looks like he's spoiling for a fight. His fingers flex on the desk, then fall still.

“That bump on your head,” he says. “How'd you get it?”

“An argument.”

“You argue with people who like to use their fists?”

“I try not to. Sometimes it happens. And it wasn't his fist, it was his elbow.”

“Dirty fighter.” He smiles. “I know all about that.”

“Did time for it is what I hear.”

The smile evaporates. “So that's what this is about.”

“Part of it.”

“You heard I was in prison. You don't believe in rehabilitation.”

“I believe it in some people.”

“Let me tell you something, Mr Innes.” Shapiro pushes the dog from his lap. It lands awkwardly on the floor. “Something you might be able to appreciate, coming from where you do. I did some stupid things in my life. I knew they were stupid at the time, but I still did them because I was a different guy back then. Then I paid the price. And it was a long time ago, despite what you've heard. I came out and had to work hard against the kind of predjudice you're wearing right now. People think, you've done time, you're beyond help even if you're taken your punishment like a man. You must get that. You did time.”

“Paulo told you,” I say.

“Paulo and I, we've become pretty good friends the last year or so. I respect what he's trying to do in Manchester. It's thankless work. He's a better man than me.”

“I'm sure he'll be glad to hear it.”

“And I told him my past, and he told me his. There's a moment when you have to stop hanging onto your history with both hands and start looking to something else. Drunks call it a moment of clarity.”

“Can't say I've had that.”

“With me, I found God in prison.”

“What was He in for?”

Shapiro's eyes spark for a second. He looks ready to lunge across the desk and make a torn arsehole out of my face. I plant my feet, make sure I've got a good head start if I have to bolt and pray that my back doesn't lock.

“This competition has Enrique Alvarez attached to it,” he says. “You know who Enrique Alvarez is?”

“No.”

“You're not a boxing fan at all. Then I can't expect you to understand. Enrique Alvarez, Mr Innes, was a legend in the ring, a real gentleman warrior. He's a hero to a lot of these kids, showed you can get somewhere with a little determination and a lot of hard work. He came here one time, told them about his grandparents, they used to live out in Chavez Ravine in the fifties before they tore it down. Now he's out of the game, he's investing in low-cost, high-quality houses. Some of the kids in here live in Alvarez real estate, and it's a major step up from where they were before.”