Sucker Punch (20 page)

“You don't catch on too quick, do you?”

“And I've been instructed not to leave until you've accepted.”

“Well, it's going to be a long fuckin'—”

He reaches forward, stuffs the envelope into my jacket. I pull my hands out of my pockets, ready to take the bloke on if need be, my arse clenching like an epileptic. Before I know it, he's back in the car. And the engine makes a slight revving sound. My reactions fucked — not as sober as I need to be — I stand there with the weight of the cash on my chest.

I should pull the envelope out, throw it to the ground, spit at it. Make a show of turning him down. But by the time my brain gets to that thought, all I see is a pair of retreating brake lights as the car disappears at the top of the street.

“For fuck's sake …”

I didn't just accept a bribe. I didn't do that. No, what happened was I had a bribe
forced
on me. That's not an acceptance, there's no culpability in that.

“Because Liam's not going to throw the fuckin' fight,” I say to nobody in particular.

The balls of the man. Callahan thinking, what the fuck, if he's
given
the money he'll just take it and do what I say regardless.

No, no way.

I checked the contents of the envelope before I chucked it onto the desk. The skinny bloke hadn't been lying: seven grand in a hefty wedge of used notes sitting there. I have to deal with it, but I don't want to right now. Been carrying that around with me all the way back to the hotel. And now I'm carrying the Smirnoff like a rosary, twisting the cap on and off. Alternate chewing the inside of my mouth to ribbons and burning it with vodka. My back's started to hurt and I really should sit down, take a pill, but I'm in the middle of a whirling drunk. The time for passing out and letting the world drift is long gone now. I've surfed over that hump into a mess of bad thoughts and worse outcomes.

I took the money.

I'm fucked.

Liam's fucked.

But, the way it seems, we're fucked anyway. Because for all of Shapiro's “I found God” shite, he's still dodgy. Nelson wouldn't steer me wrong on that. What would he have to prove?

Last time I had money like this, I was thankful to be out of jail. And that kind of cash — the kind sitting right there, Benjamin fucking Franklin giving me the evil eye — could put me right back. Except it wouldn't be none of your Strangeways bullshit. Talking American penitentiary now. The harsh Eddie Bunker stuff. Animal factories.

I drop to the bed, kick off my shoes. Set the bottle on the bedside table and look at the phone. That message light is still blinking.

“Fuck off,” I say.

But I pick up the phone anyway, check the message.

It's not Callahan.

“Cal, it's me. Just wanted to see how you and Liam were getting on,” says Paulo. He pauses, sounds like he's struggling with something. “Uhh, what we talked about, about Mo? He's been back, thought you should know. Wanted to know where you were.”

Please tell me you called the police, Paulo.

“I sorted it.”

He sounds drunk. But when you're drunk, everyone sounds drunk except you.

“Just thought you should know,” he says again. “I told him he wasn't welcome. That I knew he didn't have any protection from his dad. And, well…” He clears his throat.

And a long pause this time.

“It doesn't matter, mate. Look, give us a ring back, let us know how Liam's getting on. Don't worry about the cost, alright? I know it's stupid money, but it's good to know, eh? Sorry.”

Then the disconnection click.

Sorry? Fuck does sorry mean?

I check my watch, try to do the maths. Adding eight to one shouldn't be difficult, but the answer's doing its best to remain elusive. Then I try calling Paulo's place, get four digits in and realise I'm punching the wrong number.

Fuck, Cal. Think.

That old smiling comment: “Well, I never call myself, do I?”

I tug my wallet out of my jacket. I know I've got some business cards in here somewhere, back when I used to be something other than a caretaker. Find one, alternate concentrating on the card and the phone keypad.

Listen.

“The number you have dialled is out of service.”

I disconnect the call. Try again.

Same result. Blah-blah-blah, out of service.

Maybe it's a misprint on the card.

Maybe my fingers don't work.

Or maybe something's happened.

I push the thought from my mind, dump the wallet on the bed and reach for the bottle again. No point in worrying about someone six thousand miles away. Concentrate on the here and now.

The here: a progressively shitty-looking hotel room in Los Angeles.

The now: getting drunk. Again. The drunk-hangover wheel pelting around like the old days. Falling back into old habits.

No. Think.

Use the money to bribe Shapiro.

Why?

“Because he can be bought,” I say.

I don't know that, though. I
think
that. But I can't be sure.

Forget the cash. Leave it. Give it to that homeless guy next time you see him. Probably be tomorrow, tell him, “Happy birthday, mate. Get yourself a nice suit. Put a deposit on a flat or something. Live your fuckin' life.”

The bottom line, and say it with me:

“Liam's not going to throw the fuckin' fight.”

Spot on. Callahan just paid me to… what? Keep my mouth shut about the original bribe?

Throw the bout. Keep the money. Give the money away. Tell Shapiro. Keep my mouth shut. Don't do anything. Let nature run its course. Don't get involved. Take the money, I need it. Tell Nelson. Ask him what I should do.

Don't think so much
.

I look at my wallet, see a small piece of paper sticking out from one of the billfolds. I should've screwed that paper up ages ago. Should've binned the fucking thing. Left in the back pocket of my jeans and set the machine to a boil wash, pulp it.

I pluck the paper out now. A mobile number written down.

I call it.

A familiar ring tone brings me back to Britain, a crackle on the line that reminds me where I am.

And then she picks up.

“Hello?”

It hurts. I didn't expect the sound of her voice to hurt. What's that they say? Whatever it is, it's probably bullshit. Christ, I've got Jim Croce playing in my head now. I cover the mouthpiece with my hand, take a deep breath, try to steady the shakes, like some fucking twelve-year-old and his first girlfriend.

“Hello?”

That's all I'm going to hear unless I say something. And say something quick before she hangs up. But I can't think of anything.

My mind's a blank.

I've stopped thinking so much.

There's an irritated sigh at the other end.

And I say, “Thank you.”

But Donna's already hung up. Money well spent.

I sleep like a dead man. None of the usual drifts in and out of consciousness. No pained and panicked visits to the bathroom for water and pills. No, I'm sparked out. And nothing can wake me up except shock.

I open my eyes. Looking at the door to my hotel room, standing open. I blink, look at my watch and the time swims into focus. Ah fuck, I'm late. Which means Liam's late and he didn’t have the balls to wake me up. It doesn't surprise me, the way him and Nelson are all best friends and that. The lad probably just caught a cab. But I peel myself from the bed and knock on his door just in case.

Nothing.

That's fine. I left my door open. I must've passed out with it open. Liam came in, saw me well out of it, made his own way. That's okay. That's great. I did want to see him slaughter Josh, mind. But Liam's probably had enough of me. Let's face it, we were never on the best of terms.

So I wash my face, brush my teeth, realise I don't have time for a shower and head down to reception. Before I leave, I ask the guy behind the desk if Liam's taken a cab to the gym again. I get a shrug in reply.

Don't mean nothing, drive on.

My stomach growls, and not through lack of food. In fact, the whole idea of food is enough to make me a little sick. Maybe later, after Liam wins. Treat the lad to a slap-up. I've got plenty of cash to drop on him and he'll probably get off on the idea of a bloody steak after all those carrot sticks. I get in the Metro and sack the no-smoking rule by dragging the nicotine out of two cigarettes on the way to Shapiro's. When I get there, I park up and hurry through the doors. Looking for Liam, knocking into people, pushing further and I can't see him anywhere. I do see Reuben, heading my way with a face like thunder.

“Reuben, you seen Liam?” I say.

“The hell you talking about?” he says. “You're supposed to be his driver.”

Not good. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “The fight is today, isn't it?”

“You got fucked up, huh?”

“Is it today?”

“Yeah, it's today. When'd you think it was?”

“And you haven't seen Liam.”

“No.”

I shake my head. “Where's Shapiro?”

“Hang on there, man. You don't need to talk to Phil, you need to find your fighter.”

“Like fuck I don't need to talk to Phil.”

Reuben makes a grab for me as I head for Shapiro's office. His hand touches sleeve, but I shrug him free. Small fingers don't grip that well.

I push open the office door, hear it slam against the wall. Shapiro turns to me, glaring. “You didn't even knock this time.”

“Where's Liam?”

“You're asking me?”

“He's not here,” I say. Stating the bleeding obvious. And trying not to panic but I have the feeling I should.

“No, he's not here.” Shapiro looks at his watch. “And you've got two hours before he forfeits.”

“You're fuckin' joking.”

“I'm not joking, Mr Innes. Boxers need to be here three hours before the bout for weigh in. And I thought we discussed this yesterday. Your boy isn't the only boxer. I make concessions for him, I make them for everyone. I'm not running a charity here. There are rules and those rules have to be followed.”

“I don't know where he is.”

“Then he forfeits. The bout goes to Josh.”

“You can't reschedule?”

Shaprio sucks his teeth. “No.”

I cross to his desk. Shapiro's a big guy, but a broken nose is a broken nose and I'll dish it out. “How much did he pay you?”

His eyes become slits. “Excuse me?”

“I saw Josh Callahan's father yesterday. He offered me five grand to throw the bout. I told him no. Then a bloke comes up to me in the street last night like he's been
following
me and he offers me seven,
gives
me seven, and I tell him no. So what I want to know is, what's your fuckin' price, Phil?”

“You took a bribe,” says Shapiro. “That what you're telling me?”

“I didn't take a bribe. The guy shoved a bribe in my jacket and fucked off.”

“You took the money. Why would this man give you money if he didn't think you were going to do something about it?”

“I was drunk and that's not the fuckin' issue.”

“I don't have much use for people who turn to drink under pressure, Mr Innes.”

“How much did he pay you?”

“I don't take bribes.”

“You took plenty in your time, Phil. You were a fuckin' legbreaker.”

Shapiro draws himself up to his full height, his shoulders back. Trying to put the wind up me, but it's not going to work. I'm too scared and I'm too angry and I couldn't give a shit.

“How much?” I say.

“Nothing. I don't take bribes. Or have them forced on me when I'm drunk. Now I'm going to be the good guy here, Mr Innes. The way you're acting, you're probably still half-drunk and you smell like you slept in your clothes. You're confused, you're not with it mentally, so I'll make this slow and clear for you. I don't know where Liam is. I don't know where he's been for the last couple of days, considering he's supposed to be training here. And I don't want to see him forfeit this bout because he's followed your lead and gotten drunk somewhere.”

“Liam doesn't drink. He's a good lad.”

“Yeah, he's a good lad who isn't here. Look, I'll try to hold off on the weigh-in as long as possible. He doesn't get back here in three hours, that's it. He's forfeited. That's all I can do.”

I resist the temptation to slam the door on the way out. But I know I'm being played here. If Liam had been at Nelson's, he'd be at the gym right now. Or there'd be a message waiting for me. Something. Nelson's not the kind of guy to leave me hanging like this. Which only makes me think the worst.

Why would Callahan insist on giving me the money if he didn't think I'd do something?

That's a good fucking point. I hadn't thought of that.

Callahan made sure I had the money because it implicated me. It set the blame at my door. Because he already had a back-up plan. And kidnap's an ugly word, but it's the only one that springs to mind.

I get to the parking lot as a Lincoln pulls up. I stop by the Metro, and I can make out Josh in the passenger seat.

Callahan gets out, a bag in his hand. His son gets out the other side. Josh looks startled as I approach. His father regards me, tightens his grip on the handle.

“Where is he?” I say.

“Who?” he says.

I slam both hands into Callahan's chest. He drops the bag, bounces off the side of the car. His face turns red, his arms trying to fend me off, but I push him back, harder this time. “Who the fuck d'you think I'm talking about?”

“Get your hands off my dad,” says Josh, his voice hitting a whine.

“Josh, don't make me knock you out, son. You might be a nippy wee fucker in the ring, but I'll put my boot in your arse if you fuck around with me.” I keep a hold on Callahan. “Where's Liam?”

Callahan's eyes are wide and blue. I can see my reflection in there, leering close.

“You're crazy,” he says.

“I think I've got to be,” I say. “Because I seem to be asking the same fuckin' question over and over and I don't hear an answer. Where is he?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You don't know what I'm talking about. You tried bribing me, you fuckin' twat.”

Callahan shakes his head: deny, deny, deny.

“Yeah, you did. I got seven grand sitting in my hotel room that says you did. And I turned it down. Where's Liam?”