I’m finished with boxing,’ I said. ‘I don’t go and I don’t watch it on TV.’
‘Why not?’ Jack Spargo drew a stick figure in the dust on my office window. He gave the figure boxing gloves.
‘I read about a British medical report on the brain damage boxers suffer. One fight can do it, an amateur fight even. A bloody spar can kill a few thousand brain cells.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘I had a few amateur fights myself, Jack. D’you realise that I might be suffering brain damage?’ I looked around the office, at the walls that needed painting, the carpet that needed replacing. ‘I could be smarter than this maybe.’
Spargo spun around from the window and laughed. He still moved well although he was pushing sixty. ‘That’s for sure. Well, I’m sorry that you won’t help a mate.’
‘He’s your mate, not mine.’
‘Cliff.’
‘He’s a has-been. A never-was.’
‘He went ten rounds with Foreman.’
‘Foreman’s a preacher of some kind now, isn’t he? He must’ve got religion earlier than we thought to have let Roy Belfast last ten rounds.’
Spargo looked hurt. He opened his Gladstone bag and put a battered clippings book on my desk. I didn’t want to look at it. ‘I’m a private detective, Jack, not a nursemaid. Do you realise how silly it’d look? “Ex-champ hires minder”.’
‘The Yanks’ve done it for years.’
‘They elect senile presidents and cut up all their food like babies before they eat it too. Doesn’t mean we have to do the same.’
Spargo pushed the book towards me. ‘He’s a good bloke.’
I opened the book. Just the way it was put together made me sad. These days, sports stars and actors keep their cuttings in fancy books with plastic envelope leaves; Roy Belfast’s history was in a thick school exercise book-the clippings were pasted in lumpily; some were folded. They were already yellow and dry like fallen leaves. It was a familiar story with a few variations. Roy Belfast was a country boy, big, with a straight eye and a fairly fast left jab. He won the Australian heavyweight championship at nineteen from nobody in particular. There was no one much around for him to fight and he was ready to go stale when he got a chance to meet a Jamaican for the Commonwealth title. Roy was outclassed for five rounds but then he got lucky and cut the Jamaican who had to retire. Then the Jamaican went to jail on a drugs charge and Roy defended the title against a Brit cast in the same mould as ‘Phainting’ Phil Scott.
Give him his due, Spargo handled Belfast well. He avoided the serious Americans and got him a few fights with people he could handle low on the card of big fights. Then the chance to fight Foreman came up. I turned over the pages slowly.
‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ Spargo said.
‘No, probably not.’
Foreman was regrouping after his loss to Ali. It had been a big paynight for Roy, bigger than he had any right to expect. Sheer courage kept him upright for ten rounds; I looked at the post-fight photo-Belfast’s head was swollen to twice its size and his boyish features were obliterated.
‘What happened to all the money?’ I said.
Spargo shrugged. ‘They’d shrunk it down pretty far before it got to us.’
‘And now Belfast wants to make a comeback. What does he want to do? Buy a pub and drink himself to a title?’
Spargo shook his head. ‘Roy don’t drink. Never did. He’s been to business college, Cliff. He’s studied up on things. Wants capital to open a video store specialising in sports films. He reckons he can make it pay and I want to help him.’
‘That’s original at least. But it’s been twelve years. Belfast must be… ‘
‘Eleven years. Roy’s thirty-one. That isn’t old. Look at Jimmy Connors.’
‘Nobody ever beat Jimmy Connors over the head with a tennis racquet. Roy’ll get hurt.’
‘I don’t think so. Three fights and that’s all. He’s very quick. He’ll stay out of trouble.’
‘The crowd’ll love that,’ I said. ‘They really appreciate the finer points since Fenech.’
‘Fenech’s a…‘ Spargo stopped and grinned. Scar tissue puckered around his eyes and he sniffed through his old fighter’s nose. ‘You always like a joke, Cliff. Maybe that’s why Roy wants you around.’
‘I can’t see it.’
‘You know the creeps that come outa the drains in this business. The proposition merchants, the blokes with a girl who’d like to meet the champ, the pushers?’
‘Yeah, I know them.’
‘So you can spot them and run interference. Also you know some press people. That’d be useful. Two weeks. Cliff. That’s all.’
‘Two weeks! That’s not long enough to train. Who’s he fighting-Boy George?’
‘He’s been in training three months. This was set up a good while ago. It’ll look like a quickie but it ain’t.’
‘Who, Jack?’
‘Boss Tikopia.’
It could have been worse. Tikopia was a Maori who’d beaten all the light heavyweights south of the equator which wasn’t saying much. ‘What’s in it for him? Fighting a has-been?’
‘He’s built up, like Spinks. Wants to move up and take on the big boys. He figures he can find out what it’s like with Roy.’
‘What it was like.’
‘Roy’s sharp, Cliff. Weighs 14.1. That’s lighter than he usta be.’
I considered it. I weighed 12.2 which was heavier than I usta be. I could do with a couple of weeks boxing training. It was April and a clear, crisp day outside. ‘Where’s he training?’
‘Pearl Beach. Gym up there, big flat an’ all. You can move in today.’
Pearl Beach sounded good and I had nothing serious on hand. ‘I’ll come up and take a look at him. If he looks as if he can stay on his feet for ten rounds I’m in.’
‘He’s the best heavyweight we’ve had since…’
I held up my hand. ‘Don’t, Jack. Please don’t. Nobody’s the best since anybody. That’s all bullshit.’
Jack said a name but he said it under his breath. He told me the fight was being promoted by Col Marriott who used to be a lot of things and still was a few besides a fight promoter, not all of them virgin white. But he had the Entertainment Centre booked and a TV deal and Jack said Belfast’s expenses were generous so they’d be able to cover my fees. I noticed that there were a few blank pages at the back of the clippings book as I handed it back to Spargo. We shook hands. The next day I packed a bag and drove to Pearl Beach.
I’d seen Belfast fight a few times and knew him slightly. I’d never heard anything against him other than the usual fight talk-pity he wasn’t five centimetres taller, or five kilos heavier, or had a bigger punch. Meeting him again, ten or more years later, I was impressed. He was one of those people who seem to improve with age. He hadn’t filled out around the middle like most retired fighters, perhaps he was a bit heavier in the shoulders. He’d kept his thick brown hair; his good-natured face carried a few more lines but no noticeable boxing scars.
‘Good to see you again, Cliff.’
We shook. ‘Hello, Roy. Nice spot you’ve got here.’
We were standing outside a big house set back a few streets from the beach. Belfast and Spargo had been sitting on deck chairs on the front verandah and had come down the path towards the gate. Spargo looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Yeah, well, we’ve got the back bit.’
Nothing could detract from the good weather and the pleasure of the beach, but Roy Belfast’s training camp didn’t inspire confidence. The ‘gym’ was an old hall temporarily fitted out with boxing equipment that had seen better days. The ‘flat’ was the back half of the big house, a series of lean-tos with small windows and an outside dunny. Against that, morale was high and there were lots of places for Belfast to run and train out of doors.
Roy and Jack Spargo shared a bedroom, I had another room and Rhys Dixon, the sparring partner, slept on a couch in the sitting room. The place was cramped but friendly. We did the usual things-watched TV, played cards and talked boxing. I spent a bit of time on the phone talking to journalists and arranging interviews and photograph sessions. I intercepted some phone calls and pamphlets from an anti-boxing and blood sports group. It wasn’t anything a fifty-kilo eighteen-year-old from the Receptionist Centre couldn’t have done.
Belfast was sharp in training. He was a tiger for roadwork and delighted in making Jack puff as he tried to keep up on his old hub-geared bike. Sometimes Belfast ran ten or twelve kilometres; I’d run the first three and wait for him and run back. Spargo showed a few videos of Tikopia’s fights; if I’d had to fight him I would probably have run the whole twelve kilometres.
Belfast was calm and good-natured most of the time. He put a lot into his sparring sessions with Dixon though, and I thought about that British medical report when I saw Rhys go down after a heavy right, headgear and all. Belfast apologised and helped him up.
‘Sorry, Rhys.’
‘For what? I slipped.’
One of Spargo’s training innovations was beach sparring. He made Belfast wear heavy boots while Rhys jumped around him barefoot. The sand got cut up and Roy had to labour to move his feet and keep his balance. I took a turn at it; Belfast went easy with me but I could sense the strength in his legs and the weight he could have put into his punches with those heavy shoulders. After ten minutes I collapsed, winded.
Belfast grinned. ‘You lose if you go down without being hit, Cliff.’
‘I’m buggered.’
‘Too much wine and sitting about.’
‘Wait till you’re forty plus, sport.’
‘When I’m forty I’ll have a string of video shops and be sitting pretty.’
‘I hope so, Roy,’ I said.
Spargo and Dixon were walking back along the beach towards the car. Belfast pulled off his T-shirt and boots. ‘Come for a swim,’ he said. ‘Give me a chance to have a word with you without Jack around.’
We hit the water together and swam out a hundred metres. Belfast had a hard, chopping stroke, not stylish, but effective. We floated in calm water out beyond the gentle breakers.
‘Reckon you’re earning your money, Cliff?’
‘No.’
‘You will.’
‘How’s that, Roy?’
‘Some Enzedders’ll be showing up soon. They’ve got some funny ideas.’ He turned his head, took a mouthful of water and expelled it upwards like a whale, except that his body wasn’t rounded; it showed flat and hard on the top of the water. I didn’t say anything.
‘They’re coming to check on their investment. When they see the training I’m doing they might want to make certain points.’
‘Come on, Roy. I know you’ve been to college but this is too subtle to make sense.’
He turned over and trod water. He paddled close to me and put his head a few centimetres from mine. ‘That’s all I want to say. You’re working for me and your money comes out of my purse. Right?’
I nodded, as well as you can nod when treading water.
‘Everything’ll be okay if you just do as I say. When I give the word certain people will be unwelcome. Clear?’
‘We’ll see,’ I said. Belfast swam off, caught a wave and rode it in. It took me three tries to get one-thinking and surfing don’t go well together. I wasn’t surprised that there was some funny business about the fight. Fights are like horse races — some of them are honest and the trick is to know which ones. But I was still finding Roy Belfast impressive and there was one big point in his favour: no one who intended to throw a fight would train the way he was.
The visitors came the next day, one week before the fight. One was a small, nuggetty guy about jockey-sized, the other was tall, pale and lantern-jawed. Roy and Rhys were working out on the heavy bag when they walked into the gym. Spargo was forcing the stuffing back into a battered medicine ball; I was riding an exercise bike set on EASY. I got off the bike and moved across to block their path towards Spargo.
‘Morning, gents.’
‘Morning,’ the small one said. ‘I’m Tim Johnson, here to see Mr Spargo.’ He pronounced his name Tuhm’-his NZ accent was as thick as pea soup.
‘It’s all right, Cliff, it’s in the contract,’ Spargo said. ‘Both camps can send a representative to a training session.’
‘Right,’ Johnson said.
‘I’m Cliff Hardy. Would have been polite to phone,’ I grumbled.
Johnson ignored that. ‘This is Lofty Sargent.’ He nodded at his big mate. Lofty nodded too which brought his chin down about level with my head. ‘Well, how’s the boy?’ Johnson glanced across at Roy and Rhys. “Cept he’s no boy, is he? Thirty-three?’
‘Thirty-one,’ Spargo said, ‘younger’n Ali when he beat Foreman. He’s in top shape. See for y’self.’
Johnson lit a cigarette and sauntered across towards the heavy bag. He watched Roy throw a few punches and puffed on his smoke. Belfast put a short right into the bag, spun on his heel and plucked the cigarette from Johnson’s mouth.
‘Not here, mate, if you don’t mind.’ He stepped on the butt and threw another punch. Johnson didn’t like it but he didn’t say anything. He and Lofty watched Roy and Rhys spar for three rounds; his hands moved towards his cigarettes a few times but he checked the movement. Roy gave it everything he had and Rhys just managed to stay on his feet. Spargo was surprised; I was surprised and Rhys was surprised, but that was nothing to Johnson’s reaction. He winced as Roy’s punches landed and muttered under his breath. I worked the corner and after the second round Roy spoke around his mouth-guard as I sponged him off. ‘Johnson’ll want to talk to you. All you have to do is act dumb.’
‘I feel dumb,’ I said. ‘What is this? You practically put Rhys through the ropes.’
Spargo was in Rhys’ corner. ‘How’re the hands, Roy?’ he barked.
Belfast’s voice was louder than it needed to be. ‘Like rocks.’ He boxed his way ‘Gentleman Jim’ style through the third and went off to shower.
Spargo winked at Johnson. ‘I’ll be over to see your bloke tomorrow.’
Johnson didn’t reply and Lofty maintained his policy of strict silence. They left. Roy fell into an intense talk on tactics with Spargo and Rhys which left me nothing to do but wander out of the hall into the sunshine. I hadn’t gone twenty metres down the quiet street before a car pulled up and Lofty bounded out to stand in front of me. He cast a big shadow. Johnson got out of the car and stood behind me.
‘Why don’t we go for a little ride, Hardy?’ Johnson said. ‘Bit of a talk.’
It wasn’t a time for heroics; I whipped around and jumped at Johnson. I grabbed his arms, spun him clockwise and pushed them up his back towards his thin, wrinkled neck. He resisted and he was strong for a small man, but I had the weight and the leverage on him. I pressed him back against the car, hard. ‘Back off, Lofty,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll break his arms.’ I rammed the right arm a few centimetres higher. ‘ I noticed you were a southpaw, Timmo, so I’ll bust this one first, Okay?’
‘Easy, Lofty,’ Johnson said. ‘No need for this, Hardy.’
‘Tell Lofty to go for a drive then. He can drive, can’t he?’
‘It’s one of the things he does good. Another one’d be to push your bloody face in.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ I said. ‘Send him for cigarettes and we’ll talk.’
Johnson jerked his head at Lofty. The giant had been edging closer and I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d decided that Johnson’s arms didn’t matter. He opened the car door; I pulled Johnson away. Lofty’s face was expressionless.
‘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.
Rhys Dixon had some acting talent, like a lot of Welshmen, and he could play Tikopia’s part in the ring well enough. Spargo worked out a manoeuvre whereby Roy, as soon as he felt the ropes at his back, side-stepped fast away from a left rip, claimed and threw a jolting left into Rhys’ unprotected ribs. After a few sessions Dixon’s side was sore and bruised. He wore the bruise like a medal. ‘That’s a sweet move,’ he said.
A few reporters showed up, more than I expected. It was a dull time in the sports calendar so interest in the fight was unnaturally high. Roy picked up a few bucks doing a photo ad for a light beer. Spargo fretted at the amount of time he had to spend standing still but Belfast took it with good humour. I intercepted a phone call from Johnson.
‘He’s in the middle of a couple of hundred pushups,’ I said. ‘It’s not convenient’
‘You’re a smart-arse,’ Johnson said. ‘I hope he isn’t.’
I was being well paid to get a suntan, lose weight, put a double nelson on a jockey and be a smart arse.
Belfast was booked into a motel near Hyde Park. On the drive down I asked him if there was anything special he wanted me to do. He glanced at Spargo who was asleep in the back seat; Roy had slept like a child the night before, Spargo hardly at all.
‘You’ll be in the corner. Just do everything Jack says then and stick close to me after the finish.’ He blinked a few times and rubbed his hand over his gingery three-day growth. ‘You talk to Tikopia at all?’
‘No. Got a good look at him though.’
‘What sort of a bloke is he, d’you reckon?’
I remembered the broad, brown face topped by crinkling hair and the good-natured way he held his opponent’s head after he’d pulled the punch that could have torn it off.
‘Looked to have a sense of humour.’
Roy smiled and relaxed. ‘Good,’ he said.
I walked down towards the ring behind Roy Belfast and Jack Spargo. I was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, sneakers. I carried a towel. Jack carried a bucket in which he had a bottle of distilled water, some condiment for cut eyes, petroleum jelly, a sponge, tape and other tools of the trade. I had my gun under the towel. Roy did some of the obligatory weaving and shadow boxing down the aisle; his back looked huge in the dressing gown; the towel draped around his neck made it look as if a massive head sat directly on massive shoulders.
The house was full and noisily enthusiastic after a better than usual preliminary card. People reached out to shake Roy’s hand and shout encouragement. Five metres behind me I could hear the same people saying the same things to Tikopia. A big difference in the atmosphere from the old-time fight nights struck me immediately-no smoke. Smoke used to hang around the ring like a grey mist. All the old-time boxers were involuntary smokers, but when they fought fifteen and twenty rounds with light gloves and no eight count that was the least of their worries. Now we had two doctors in attendance and you couldn’t be saved by the bell, but their brain sacks were going to bounce off the walls of their skulls just the same.
Jack got into the ring with Roy after laying out his equipment. All he wanted me to do was hand him things and not knock over the water bottle. Roy and Tikopia bounced and pounded the air, shrugging their shoulders and loosening their necks. The announcer put a little Chicago into his voice as he proclaimed Tikopia ‘the champeen of the South Pacific Commonwealth’ which was scrambling it a bit. The crowd as a whole cheered loudest for Roy but. some Maoris grouped together in a couple of rows at ringside helped to even things up. A two-metre blonde in spike heels and a flesh-coloured body stocking walked around the ring holding up a board with ‘1’ printed on it. I helped her out through the ropes and she kissed me. Roy and Tikopia touched gloves and then Roy hit the spread brown nose with a sharp left and the cheers for sex turned into cheers for blood.
They felt each other out in the early rounds but, like old pros, they managed to put a good bit of work into it-jabs from Roy, rushes from Tikopia and ducking and weaving from both. In the corner Spargo kept up a constant stream of advice: Don’t drop your right, you’re dropping your right. Watch his head in close, he’s looking to butt you. Keep outa his corner; try ‘im downstairs…
The crowd was happy with what it was getting; yells went up when Roy took a hard punch on his gloves or when the referee bullocked the fighters apart and when the blonde walked around in her body stocking. I located Lofty at ringside, behind Tikopia’s corner and a few rows back. Johnson sat immediately behind the corner and leaned forward occasionally to talk to one of the Maori’s handlers. Warner was like Spargo-transported to that place where only wounds and water and towels and the pummelling of muscles mattered.
By the middle of the fight the pattern was clear; Tikopia was the organiser. He dictated the pace and movement around the ring. To the uninitiated he would have looked a winner, but Roy took many of his punches on his arms and gloves and his counter-punching was effective. He scored cleanly several times and I had it all even going after the seventh which was a good round for Roy.
Johnson was looking worried. He turned around to speak to Lofty and he continued his conversations with the cornerman. The betting fluctuated around me and I had to assume it did the same around Johnson.
In the eighth Belfast took a hard right to the head and sagged. He covered up but he was negative and it was Tikopia’s round. In the ninth Tikopia tried a rush, bullocking Roy across to the ropes. As soon as he hit them Roy performed the manoeuvre he’d worked on with Dixon. He performed it perfectly from instinct and with impeccable timing. He sidestepped away from the rip and put all his weight into the punch he landed under Tikopia’s armpit. I thought I heard the ribs crack. Roy hit him there again and followed with a straight right that caused Tikopia to drop his hands. The crowd saw the opening and screamed. Roy scored with some classic punches before Tikopia retreated, covering up. He was tough and weathered the round but it was clearly Roy’s stanza.
I forgot about the brain sacks and the threatened retinas and roared encouragement to Roy. The blonde was wide-eyed and screaming. She waved her clenched fists and looked as if she wanted to mix it with them in the ring instead of strutting around with her number ‘10’ board.
Most of the crowd watched the last round standing on its feet. Tikopia rushed and swung; Roy back-pedalled and picked him off with jabs. Then Roy stood his ground and slugged. Tikopia landed some good punches in close and Roy retreated. In the last thirty seconds he rallied, moved the Maori around the ring and had him covering up in his, Roy’s, corner which always makes a good impression, when the bell sounded.
The ring filled with people; the TV commentator waved his mike and tried to break through the wall of bodies to the fighters. I was hoarse with yelling. I couldn’t get into the ring but I worked my way around and was close to Roy’s back, with the gun under my towel. I kept my eye on Johnson who stood with Lofty staring up into the crowded ring and rolling an unlit cigarette around in his mouth.
The first judge gave it to Tikopia by two points, the second to Roy by the same margin. The third judge called it a draw and that’s what it was. The fighters embraced and the referee held up both right arms. The blonde kissed them both and Spargo and Warner shook hands. Tikopia’s wide face was swollen and Roy’s upper body was covered with angry red blotches. All bets were off of course and money changed hands only to move back to where it had come from.
Eventually the hugging stopped and the loud buzz of animated conversation died down. Roy left the ring and I stuck close to him and Spargo all the way through the back-slappers and ‘champ-sayers’ to the dressing room. Spargo chattered excitedly. I lost sight of Johnson and Lofty. Belfast was nervous in the dressing room; he snapped at Spargo as Jack unbandaged his hands and he wouldn’t go into the shower.
‘Take a look outside, Cliff,’ he said. ‘See what’s happening.’
Before I could move, Marriott breezed in with congratulations and talk of a re-match. Belfast barely spoke to him. When he left I looked out into the corridor. ‘Nothing. Getting quieter.’
‘Go and get Tikopia. Invite him to a party or somethin’.’
‘What is this?’ Spargo said.
I went around the slight bend in the passage and knocked at Tikopia’s door. Warner stuck his head out.
‘Yeah?’
‘Roy wants to see your boy.’
I heard the Maori say, ‘Tell him I’m comin’,’ over Warner’s protest.
I went back to Roy’s room and found Johnson and Lofty there. Johnson’s wizened monkey face was screwed up in anger; Lofty was impassive but a look of pleased anticipation showed when he saw me. I thought he was going to crack his knuckles but he didn’t. I wasn’t too worried, I had the. 38 in my back pocket. Then I saw that Johnson was holding a small bottle in his hands. Roy Belfast’s eyes were fixed on the bottle.
‘You didn’t come through,’ Johnson said.
‘It was a draw,’ Belfast said quickly. ‘All bets’re off. Your people didn’t lose anything.’
‘Roy?’ Spargo’s tone was incredulous.
‘You don’t think a bloody has-been like him could’ve got this match without arrangements, do you?’ Johnson said. ‘He was supposed to fold in the seventh. That was a good round for you, the seventh.’
Spargo looked at Roy. ‘You did a deal?’
Roy nodded.
Johnson moved closer to him and raised the bottle. Roy was braced, ready to move either way.
‘Put it down, Johnson!’ I had the gun out and levelled. Johnson’s arm tensed and he gave me no choice. I shot him in the right leg. He yelled and the bottle dropped. Belfast dodged. The bottle hit the wall, shattered and sprayed steaming liquid. Spargo yelled as some of it touched his arm. Belfast rushed towards him as he groaned and swore. Lofty growled and came at me with his big arms swinging.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Johnson reach into his pocket and pull out another bottle. He was lying on the floor only a metre from Roy and Spargo. Lofty lashed at me, caught my shoulder and I dropped the gun. I ducked under the next swing and tried to kick his knee out. I connected with his shin which only slowed him down a fraction. He bullocked me towards the wall and got set to spread me across it when Tikopia appeared in the room. He hammered Lofty in the kidneys. Lofty turned and Tikopia dropped him with a left hook.
Tikopia kept moving; he stepped past Lofty and gripped Johnson’s wrist. The bottle fell from his grasp and Tikopia caught it. Marriott poked his head through the door. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Bad publicity,’ Belfast said. ‘Keep everyone away.’
The promoter gaped at the two men on the floor and the third, Spargo, nursing his arm and swearing. ‘Sounded like a shot.’
‘Maori war dance,’ I said. ‘Plus champagne corks. Go and get a doctor who can keep his mouth shut.’
The door closed. Johnson dragged himself to the wall and whimpered; there was a lot of blood on his leg but it wasn’t spraying.
‘Shut up!’ Tikopia said. He looked down at the unconscious Lofty and nodded approvingly. Spargo pulled himself away from Belfast who was applying a wet towel to his arm. ‘Get off,’ he said. ‘It’s all right, burnt meself worse on the stove. What the hell’s going on here?’
Tikopia and Belfast looked at each other. The Maori nodded. ‘Tikopia’s been hooked up with some bad people,’ Roy said. ‘He wanted to get clear of them. I got the fight by agreeing to throw it but him and me did our own deal.’
Tikopia nodded. He picked up my gun from the floor and handed it to me. ‘We thought they’d pull something like this after the fight. Now we’ve got some evidence and witnesses.’
Tikopia held up the bottle of acid. ‘Bad news this,’ he said.
‘What about the fight?’ Spargo said.
Roy dabbed with the wet towel. ‘We agreed to a straight fight. If he absolutely had to, Tikopia was going to pay off any losing bets out of his end if I won.’
The Maori grinned. ‘Don’ have to now.’
‘Why?’ Spargo said.
‘Don’t you see it, Jack?’ I looked at the fighters-Tikopia’s right eye was almost closed but he was grinning, showing big white teeth. Belfast’s jaw was swollen from the right he’d copped in the eighth. ‘They both wanted to see if they were any good. Tikopia needed to know if he could take a heavyweight’s punch and Roy needed to know if he could still do it at all. This game’s full of bullshit. They could only trust each other.’
The boxers nodded and touched hands the way they do at the start and end of a fight. ‘That’s right,’ they said.