Peter Corris - Man In The Shadows

‘Be on the other side of the street in twenty minutes,’ I said.

‘I don’t like you. You’re a smart Aussie shuht.’ Lofty had an accent like Johnson’s; he got into the driver’s seat and spoke through the open window.

‘That’s a puhty,’ I said. ‘I was looking forward to us being great mates. Like fuhsh an’ chuhps.’

Lofty started the motor and drove off with a squeal of tyres. I eased the pressure on Johnson’s arms slowly, watching his feet for any sneaky moves. He rubbed his elbows and massaged his wrists. ‘Now I see what your job is,’ he said. ‘Sorta like mine.’

‘I doubt it. You wanted to talk?’

‘Is Belfast showing off or what?’

‘You’re talking, I’m listening.’

‘He hasn’t got any crazy idea about beating Tikopia, has he?’ Johnson flexed his fingers and reached into his coat pocket for his cigarettes. He lit up and blew smoke away from me.

‘He’s in it to win it as far as I know.’

‘That’s crazy. He hasn’t got a chance.’

‘So, what’s your problem?’

‘I should’ve said not much of a chance.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t say anything. Maybe you should just piss off.’

‘Yeah. But you might give Belfast a bit of advice, a message like.’ He took a drag on his cigarette and picked his words carefully. ‘We want a good fight. Just tell ‘um that. We want a good fight.’ He turned and walked across the street.

Later, back at the flat, I got a chance to talk to Belfast alone. He was doing something you rarely see a fighter do-reading a book. ‘Tim Johnson left you a message,’ I said.

‘Oh, what’s that?’

‘Said to tell you they want a good fight.’

‘Don’t we all.’

‘Come on, Roy.’ He kept his big, plain face impassive and looked at me. It was a strange moment; a lot of my time is spent in getting people to talk. Sometimes they want to, sometimes they don’t. When they don’t you have to charm them or intimidate them. I didn’t think either technique would work with Roy Belfast. ‘Don’t bullshit me, Roy. I’m not the White Knight, I’m not going to ask for a Royal Commission. Is it a fix?’

‘Keep y’voice down, d’you want Jack to hear? He won’t even use the word fix to talk about mending something. D’you really think I’d train like this just to go into the tank?’

I shook my head. Roy punched me on the shoulder; maybe just to be friendly, maybe not. The shape of the bruise might tell me. ‘Trust your instincts, Cliff,’ he said. ‘Ever study accountancy?’

‘Christ, no.’

He picked up his textbook and turned a page. ‘It’s interesting. More interesting than boxing.’

A few days later Spargo announced that he was going to town to watch Tikopia train. Neither Roy nor Rhys was interested but Roy insisted that I accompany Jack.

‘What should I watch out for?’ I said. ‘Propositions or pick handles?’

‘Hospitality,’ Roy said. ‘You noticed there was no grog up here?’

I had noticed, in fact I’d formed the habit of going to the pub for a couple of quiet glasses in the evening. ‘I thought that was standard.’

‘It’s not for my benefit, I never touch it. Keep an eye on Jack; if he starts drinking he’s likely to do something foolish. Keep Johnson away from him.’

‘How am I going to do that? It’s a free country.’

Roy’s face became super-serious. ‘Have you got a gun?’

‘Yes.’

‘Take it with you-Johnson might need reminding it’s a free country.’

Tikopia was training at Billy Groom’s in Chippendale. I drove down with Jack and parked the Falcon outside the gym. I glanced up and down the street in case Lofty was hiding behind a cement truck.

‘You look edgy, Cliff,’ Spargo said as we got out of the car. ‘What’s the matter? We’re bloody invited.’

I thought about questioning Spargo on a few points of detail about the fight but I decided against it. I realised that I had confidence in Roy Belfast which is an unusual thing to be able to say of a boxer except about the few specific things he can do in the ring. We went up two flights to the gym which was a first class set-up: the equipment was new; the ropes to the ring were white and taut, not the grey sagging things they become when men’s sweaty backs have rubbed along them for a while.

Tikopia was in the ring sparring with a light-coloured Aborigine who did nothing aggressive. Spargo stood off and watched for a minute before going over to join three men by the ring. One was Johnson; one was Col Marriott, the promoter; the other I didn’t know. Marriott made the introductions; the third man was Reg Warner, Tikopia’s trainer. He and Spargo shook hands.

‘Should be a good night,’ Warner said.

‘Good gate, considering we’ve got the TV.’ Marriott looked warily at me and Johnson. We stood by, strong and silent. I wondered where Lofty was.

Tikopia and his sparring partner circled the ring. The Aborigine jabbed, back-pedalled and weaved; Tikopia stalked him, trying to catch him in a corner or against the ropes. He succeeded enough for Warner to nod happily. When he had the range Tikopia got in some head and body punches. Smart stuff. Johnson sidled up beside me. ‘Feelin’ tough today, Hardy?’

I opened my denim jacket enough to let him see the Smith amp; Wesson in its holster. ‘No, bit fragile as a matter of fact.’

‘Give Belfast the message?’

‘Yeah. I’m wondering if I should mention it to Warner and Marriott.’

‘Mention what? They wouldn’t know what you was talkin’ about.’ He moved away. I sat down next to Spargo who was gazing at the spar intently.

‘He’s quick,’ he said. ‘Thirteen and a half stone, d’y’reckon?’

I shrugged. ‘Not more. The other bloke’s not trying.’ Just then Tikopia brushed aside a left lead, moved in close and thumped the Aborigine in the ribs. He grunted and tried to cover up; Tikopia hit him with a right. The Aborigine tried a flurry of punches which Tikopia walked through. He banged in a solid rip to the mid-section which brought his opponent’s glove down, then Tikopia let go a sharp left hook which he halted just a centimetre from the unprotected jaw. He gripped the Aborigine’s head between his gloves and laughed.

‘Had you then, brother,’ he said thickly through the mouthguard.

Warner grinned and threw the towel into the ring. Everyone laughed except Jack Spargo.

Spargo, who was never loquacious, was quieter than ever on the drive north. We were near Woy Woy when he snapped his fingers. ‘Knew I’d seen that bloke before,’ he said. ‘He was riding in Sydney in 1980 and got rubbed out for ten years. Don’t think his name was Johnson though.’

I grunted and moved out around a semi. ‘What’s the betting on the fight, Jack?’

‘Varies. I got threes.’

‘Who on?’

He almost dislocated his neck turning it to look at me. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What I said.’

‘I never bet against one a me own fighters in me life. Well, only once.’

‘How was that?’

‘Clever bastard, thought he was. I knew he was gonna dive and he didn’t know I knew. I did it to teach him a lesson.’

‘Did he learn it?’

‘No, he didn’t. Roy’s straight, Cliff. You know that.’

‘Yeah. So where does this Johnson fit in?’

‘Search me. All I know is, Roy’ll be trying like he always has.’

‘I’ll worry about Johnson then,’ I said. ‘You can tell Roy what to do about those rips when he’s on the ropes.’

Spargo didn’t say anything but his face set into lines of concentration like a chess master’s.

Roy had three more days to train, then he’d ease up and just keep loose for twenty-four hours before the fight. In the closing days he took care to run on flat surfaces, avoiding the cambered beach or anything else that might injure his ankles; Spargo was specially careful with the hand bandages and the adjustment of the headgear. The caution irritated the risk-taker in Belfast, but the accountant in him saw the necessity.