Peter Corris - White Meat

The Moody-Rosso fight was being put on at a League’s club in the eastern suburbs, a great barn of a place designed to park as many cars as possible and accommodate as many bars and poker machines as possible. Living near it must be hell. The club had put on a good front for the fight; there was a big red banner with the fighters’ names on it draped over the main entrance and a few old-time pugs were on hand to lend colour. Still, nothing could disguise the fact that the place had been designed for a softer generation. This place smelled of money. The stadiums smelled of sweat and piss.

I parked the Falcon and went up the steps into a lobby furnished in what might have been Elizabeth Taylor’s taste when she was a girl. It was all scarlet and gold and the mirrors seemed to me to have a slimming effect. Most of the members thronging through to lose their money could use it. I scouted around for Tickener but he wasn’t there. I was, as usual, neurotically early. Passages led off from the lobby to bars and entertainment rooms which were off-limits to non-members.

There was a bank of poker machines standing by one wall and I shook out some change and started dropping it in and pulling the lever. The machine devoured the money like a Venus fly trap taking nourishment. I turned around and almost had to grab the lever again for support. Tickener was walking towards me and beside him was the six foot redhead I’d seen at the newspaper building. They came up and I summoned the strength to move away from the machine. The reporter’s face wore a half-moon grin; I could have sworn he’d grown an inch or two. That still left him a few inches short of the redhead.

“Cliff, this is Toni Blake. Toni, Cliff Hardy.”

I admired her. She was wearing black harem trousers with gold high-heeled shoes and some sort of beaded, lacy top; the slim arms, completely bare, were creamy, not one of your freckled redheads. I tried to keep my eyes off the cropped hair and treat her like a normal human being.

“Hello,” I said. It sounded weak so I said it again. Then it sounded stupid so I gave up.

“Going to be a good crowd Cliff,” Tickener said heartily. He was enjoying my reaction, as he had every right to. I’d taken the mickey out of him more times than was fair. The girl took hold of Tickener’s arm enthusiastically, the way you handle a good bottle of Scotch.

“Let’s go in and get a drink,” she said thrillingly, “the auditorium’s this way.”

Harry kept up manfully and I tagged along, trying to get my mind off her swaying, queenly gait. I failed. Harry flashed the tickets and we went into a room a couple of hundred feet square with bars along three walls. It was filled with rows of metal chairs and the boxing ring was set up on a three-foot-high stage in the middle of the floor. The place would have held about 3000 people which, even with tickets at five to ten bucks each, doesn’t amount to much of a gate. There were television rights though; the crew had set their gear up around the ring and heavy cables snaked across the auditorium floor. A couple of hundred people were already there, some sitting down but mostly crowded around the bars. I saw big Ted Williams over in a corner with Rupert Sharkey. They both held schooners of beer and looked depressed. I nodded at them and they returned the nod guardedly. I wanted to go over and talk to them, tell them what I’d arranged for Coluzzi, but I didn’t. It wouldn’t have helped. There were a fair number of Aborigines in the crowd, maybe a quarter of the people were dark, and this proportion held as the room filled up.

People parted in front of Toni and we walked down what was virtually an aisle to the bar.

“My shout,” I said. “Toni, what will you have?”

“Triple Scotch,” she said. “I’ll have just the one drink all night.”

“Harry?”

“Beer,” Tickener said. “Middy.”

“You’ll have to give that up if you’re going to hang around with me,” the girl said. “It makes you fat and gassy in bed.”

“Scotch,” said Tickener.

“Three triple Scotches.”

We took the drinks over to our seats which were in the ten-dollar section with a clear view and just far enough back to keep your neck comfortable. Tickener asked me about Ailsa.

“Wouldn’t come,” I said. “She doesn’t like the fights.”

“I love them,” Toni said.

“Why?”

“They’re exciting, primitive.”

“What about the blood?”

“I don’t mind that.”

Oh Harry, I thought, you’ve got your work cut out here.

“What do you report on?” I asked her.

“Politics mostly.”

That figured.

The lights went down and an announcer as wide as he was tall pulled over a boom mike and started his spiel. I glanced across. Tickener and Toni were holding hands. There was a rush through the doors and a lot of foot noise as people took their seats. The announcer heaved himself out of the ring and the first of the two preliminary bouts started. The four-rounder was between a pale, crop-headed boy with heavy shoulders and a thin Aborigine whose arms seemed to hang to his knees. Their styles were completely different and didn’t mix. The crew-cut was a rusher and flailer and the dark boy was a fancy stepper with a neat straight left. They did no damage to each other and the fight was a draw. Two white men came up for the six-rounder, a heavily tattooed six-footer and a chunky guy who assumed a crouch while the referee was giving his instructions. This fight was over in five seconds; the tattooed man tried a left lead and the croucher came up under it and clouted him with a right he’d brought up off the floor with him. The tattooed man folded like a butterfly’s wings and the big body sank gently to the floor. The referee raised the arm that had done the damage without bothering to count over the fallen one.

That brought Rosso and Moody out early. I realised that I’d nearly finished my drink. Tickener and Toni were whispering and had barely touched theirs. The seat beside me stayed empty until the announcement of the main event began, then I was aware of a huge bulk beside me and a cracked, hissing voice.

“Gidday Hardy, can I use this? Can’t see a fuckin’ thing from back there.”

“Hello Jerome. Sure, it’s vacant. My woman wouldn’t come.” I don’t know why I said that but Jerome laughed.

“Mine neither. Reckons she seen enough fights when I was at it. Cunt of a game.”

Toni caught the word and glanced across sharply. I made muted introductions and a wave of beer breath swept across us as Jerome responded. He had a glass in his fist and raised it as an ex-welterweight champion took his bow.

“Woulda killed him,” he said.

Under the savage glare of the TV lights Rosso looked ugly, dank hair fuzzed on his arms and shoulders like fur on an animal and his skin was mottled. He wasn’t tall, about five nine, a real natural middleweight with terrific strength in his arms and thighs. He looked as if he could go all night. Moody looked better. His skin was glossy under the lights and he was better proportioned with the meat and muscle better distributed. If I’d been his manager I’d have been a bit concerned about him. He looked as if he might grow into a light-heavyweight, the disaster division where there’s no money to be made unless you’re wasting to get in against middleweights or giving away pounds to heavies. But he looked good tonight.

The announcer didn’t hold the action up too long. He tried a joke in Italian which got booed by a section of the crowd and then he gave it up and waddled away. The referee was Tony Bourke, a better than useful lightweight in his day. Trueman crouched in Moody’s corner, whispering in the fighter’s ear. He mimed a low punch and combination and the young Aborigine nodded. He clamped his teeth around the mouthguard and jumped up off his stool. I heard a sharp intake of breath from Toni as Moody skipped across the ring. But the Italian started the business by rushing Moody into the ropes and trying a clubbing left which Moody took on the glove.