Sucker Punch (8 page)

“It looks like the Santa Anas are going to be bringing all that smoke and ash south right over the city.”

“Should citizens be worried, Dave?” says another voice.

“I've been assured that the fire will
not
spread, Bob. It's—”

I click off the television as I come back into the bedroom. Wander over to the window and if there’s hell on earth out there, I can’t see it because of the Hollywood Hills. I return to the bathroom and light a cigarette, blow smoke at the fan. Christ, what with the riots, the gangs, the earthquakes, the phoney fucking religious cults and brush fires, it makes me wonder why people actually choose to live here. But then there's Hollywood, I suppose. Enough promises there to keep people dreaming, even though nobody was ever really discovered at Schwab's drug store.

I told Paulo all this last night. Must've been about nine in the morning over in Manchester, and for that time of the morning the conversation went on longer than I would've expected. I was pissed, told Paulo that a couple of times. Liam was fine, but he was a shitty traveller — not like me, I was great — and then I went into what Nelson told me. Must've repeated myself before Paulo told me to sleep it off.

We're supposed to go to the gym this morning, get Liam registered and weighed in. No doubt the lad'll be battering my door down in a minute. Maybe I'll get a chance to ask him what he meant yesterday, but then a part of me reckons it's probably best I let it lie. It's Liam's time right now. He thinks he's got the rest of his life sorted, that's great. I'm not about to step on that. Fuck it, I even scored him a coach if he shows promise in the ring. Nelson seemed to know his stuff. And there's nobody better than an ex-boxer to show the new kid the ropes, so to speak.

I flick ash into the toilet bowl, sit back.

I should check if they've got a smoking room sorted for me yet. In the meantime, this'll have to do. Lock myself in the bathroom where there's no fabric to trap the smell of smoke and sneak a puff like I'm a fucking teenager.

Check my watch and bang on cue, there's a knock at the door.

I douse the end of the Marlboro in toilet water with a hiss, wrap the filter in bog roll and flush the lot. Then wave my hands in the air to dispel some of the smoke, hoping the fan'll take care of the rest.

By the time I get to the door, Liam's furious. There's a vein sticking out in his neck.

“Fuck's sake, Cal,” he says. “We're supposed to be there in like half an hour.”

“It's okay.”

“You're not even
dressed
.”

“Stop your fuckin' pecking, Liam. Don't worry about it.”

“We're going to be late.”

I pull on some jeans, grab my jacket. “See? Dressed. C'mon, let's go. I've got some news that might stick a smile on that puss of yours.”

Liam sniffs the air, narrows his eyes. “You been smoking in here?”

“Yeah, Liam. Don't tell on me, eh?”

Outside it's pure lizard weather, a dry heat that scorches the inside of your mouth if you breathe too hard. The radio says 105 degrees, but that's fahrenheit so I haven't the foggiest what it translates to apart from fucking hot. So I've got the air conditioning ramped right up which, along with the radio, has kicked the Metro in the bollocks. Lucky if I can get the heap past fifty. But air conditioning is a necessity with the weather. I wonder if it's got anything to do with the brush fire, then check out of the window for falling ash.

“What's this news then?” says Liam.

“I got talking to a bloke last night.”

Liam squints at me. “If you ended up fucking him, I don't want to hear it.”

“You think I'm gay?”

“I don't care.”

“'Cause I work with Paulo, that means I'm his boyfriend?”

“I didn't say that.”

“It's what you were thinking, you wee bastard.”

“You're close, is all I'm saying. Doesn't matter to me which hole you stick it in. Behind closed doors and all that. Just keep it away from me.”

“Liam, you're a fuckin' idiot. Shut your yap and listen to me. I got talking to this bloke last night, turns out he's an ex-fighter, does some scouting on the side.”

Liam gazes out of the window. “And?”

“And he wants to see you fight.”

“It's open to the public, Cal. You can bring your bloke.”

“With a view to coaching you,” I say.

“He got any credentials, this bloke?”

“I don't know.”

“Then he's a fuckin' leech.” He turns in his seat. “And what's this shite playing?”

“It's Johnny Cash, and didn't I already tell you you were a fuckin' idiot?”

“Sounds like he needs to blow his nose and cheer up. Look, Cal, I appreciate you talking to total strangers and trying to help me out an' that, but you can stop it now, alright? I need to concentrate on the comp. Paulo already briefed us on what it'd be like out here, said I needed to keep my brain on the bouts, nothing else.”

“He just meant stay off the booze, Liam.”

“Nah, he meant anything. Booze, birds, strange blokes you decide to pick up in bars …”

“What'd I tell you about that?” I wave my hand. “Fuck it, forget it. I was just trying to help out.”

“And I said thanks, but no thanks. You're supposed to be taking a break, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So take a break, man. Let me take care of my stuff. You don't need to come to the bouts, you just need to drop us off. You're not my chaperone, you're my driver. How's that?”

I should've brushed my teeth. Got a sticky feeling in my mouth. “Fine. That's cool. I'll be your driver.”

Little prick.

And we sit in silence until we get to Shapiro's Boxing Center. Which just looks like a posh way of saying slum-looking gym. I find a parking space, Liam pulls his bag from the back seat, and we go inside.

The gym is chocka with kids, all different ages and all of them registering. At the far end of the gym, I can make out a huge set of scales. On them is a black lad, his coach beside him, watching the weight like a hawk. Then the black lad steps off the scales, a look of relief on his face. On my right, a small, round Latino guy sits on a stool that shakes whenever he shifts position. He's behind a table, looking at a type-written list. His mouth moves when he reads. Looks up at Liam and says, “What's your name?”

“Liam Wooley,” says Liam.

“Which gym?”

Liam looks at me; I shrug.

“He's here to register,” I say. “He's flown all the way from Manchester and boy, are his arms tired.”

“England?”

“Yeah.” I pull out the letter. “We're supposed to see Phil Shapiro.”

“Phil?” says the fat guy. “Lemme have a look at that.”

I hand him the letter. The fat guy's lips go into overdrive as he reads. When he's finished, he folds the letter in two.

“Lemme check this out,” he says.

“Go for it.”

The fat guy gets off the stool with a grunt and he's away, pushing through the crowd of lads. I watch him head towards an office at the back of the gym, windows in a partition wall looking out on the registration.

“Y'alright?” I say to Liam.

He glances at me, then surveys the crowd. His eyes are clear, but his jaw is set. “Yeah, I'm good.”

The fat guy emerges from the office with another bloke. I'm guessing this is Phil Shapiro. Bloke's built like a brick shithouse. As he gets closer, I can make out his face, but his features are still blurred. Looks like something made mincemeat out of him at one point and a plastic surgeon had the job of his life putting the guy's boat back together. Shapiro wears a wifebeater, his gut straining at the fabric. A shamrock tattoo on his left arm, Chinese writing on his shoulder. Yeah, he's a hard bastard and international with it. I'd shit myself if it wasn't for the Chihuahua he's carrying.

“You Liam?” he says. Shapiro's voice is too soft for his face.

Liam nods.

Shapiro closes one eye and cocks his head. “You're the warrior?”

“Suppose so,” says Liam.

“I don't see it.” Shapiro has a lisp. It's slight, but it's there. I get the feeling he wasn't born with it, either. “Paulo speaks highly of you. Says you've got the talent to turn pro if you want to.”

“I hope so, sir.”

Sir? The fuck did that come from?

Shapiro nods at me. “Who's your friend?”

Liam's about to say something when I interrupt. “I'm his driver.”

“You ever fight?”

“I've fought, yeah.”

“Ever win?”

“Not once.”

“I didn't think so. Okay, Liam, let's get you weighed in.” Shapiro jerks his head towards the end of the gym and Liam follows, bag in hand. For a moment there, I'd put the lad's age ten years younger. A kid in awe, and more than a little frightened. I watch Liam go, scan the rest of the room. A gang of lads takes up one corner of the gym, all about Liam's age and watching the newcomer intently. One lad in particular. He's tall, blonde, well-groomed. He'd probably be handsome if it wasn't for that foul look on his face.

I gesture at the fat guy, then at the kid. “Who's the Arian?”

The fat guy glances behind him. He turns round and scratches his balding head as he looks at the sheet in front of him. “Josh Callahan. You think your kid's hot shit, Callahan's the real McCoy.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“Because he looks like a ponce with a pet lip to me. Look, you see Liam after he weighs in and gets all the shit out the way, can you tell him his driver's outside?”

“Sure.”

I step out into the sun, blink against the light. I look around for some shade to sneak into. Reach into my pocket for my cigarettes and spark one up, drawing hard to make up for the one I had to flush. That first drag makes my chest tight, so I force myself to cough up whatever's clogged my lungs. I spit something grey at the pavement, stick the Marlboro back in my mouth.

Something about this Josh Callahan makes my knee jerk. He has a rich, pampered look to him I've seen on countless American TV programmes, didn't think actually existed. One of those party hearty lads who fuck other people's lives and buy their way out of trouble. Maybe that's why I wanted to go over there and slap him. Or maybe it's because he reminds me of a younger Liam, all posture and piss and vinegar. Or could be it's just last night's drink coming back thick and fast, hangover following like a six-berth caravan.

Whatever it is, it's not going to stop me enjoying this cigarette.

I blow smoke into the sunshine, thinking Los Angeles is a real shithole when you're away from the city centre. And I thought Manchester was bad. I look down at my shirt, notice a big yellow stain near my belt. Thinking, well, at least I don't look like a tourist.

And that's when the shouting starts.

As soon as I push into the gym, I'm deafened by the heavy blood-letting threats flying back and forth. Mostly American voices, some of them angry, some trying to calm the situation, but one voice rings out loud and clear: Liam.

“You wanna fuckin' start something, posh lad, you come ahead.”

Liam's held back by a couple of lads, Josh out in the open. If anything, I think it should be the other way round, but Liam's cheeks are scarlet and now I'm like everyone else in here. Not sure what this Brit lad's going to do. The old Liam's back, and so's his rage.

What the fuck happened? He was supposed to be weighing in. I stride across to Liam as Shapiro comes bombing out of his office. Shapiro's presence pull everyone's emotions down a notch.

“What's going on?” he says.

Josh lets his mouth go. “What's he doing weighing in, Phil? There's lads tailed back in here and this kid goes first? He's not from around here, he's not one of us—”

“That's none of your business, Josh.”

“Course it's my business.”

“Go fuck yourself,” says Liam.

“You a tough guy, man? You wanna see a real tough guy, you cocksucker?” Josh makes a move, hands tense, but Shapiro's quick to step in front of him. He sees me and raises his hand:
don't get involved, driver, or I'll take you down too
. No Chihuahua in sight, but I can hear it yapping in the office. Shapiro moves his raised hand round to Josh, extends one finger. The lad backs right off. So do the lads holding onto Liam.

“Liam, bring your driver into the office,” says Shapiro. “I want a word with the pair of you.”

Liam has lost his rage somewhere. Like it was a finger snap and back to normal. I move to him, put a hand on his back, but he shrugs me off. We traipse through to the back office. I glance at Josh, but the fat guy moves in front of him before I get a decent look.

In the office, the Chihuahua is sitting on the desk, its tongue hanging out.

“You want to explain that to me?” says Shapiro.

Liam doesn't say anything. Neither do I; I can't explain it. Christ knows how it happened so quickly. The best explanation I can come up with is that Josh Callahan's a fuckin' mentalist.

“I thought this kid was supposed to be focussed,” says Shapiro. “This is what Paulo told me. The lad's ready, he said.”

“He is ready,” I say.

“You sure?” Shapiro closes the door behind us.

“Paulo wouldn't lie to you. He paid to get us over here, he's not going to send us if Liam's not focussed.”

Shapiro walks to his desk, scoops up the dog. He brings the Chihuahua to his face, then holds it like a baby in one arm. “You saw him out there. Didn't look very focussed to me. You've got a way with first impressions, Liam.”

“It's that Callahan lad you want to watch out for, Mr Shapiro,” I say.

“You telling me how to run my business?”

“I'm telling you that kid's all kinds of fucked up. Soon as we get in here, he's giving Liam the fuckin' dead-eye. You think Liam's going to start something in the first five minutes? Nah, he was provoked. That Callahan kid's looking for a smack.”

Shapiro leans against his desk. The dog is shaking, panting. “What happened, Liam?”

Liam shakes his head. “Nowt.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was nothing.”

“It was something, Liam.”

“He was calling us is all. He's all mouth. We'll sort it out in the ring.”

“If you get into the ring,” says Shapiro.

“You can't keep him out,” I say.