pay nights, first against Wally Carter for the national title. The fight was a draw so Fabrizio didn’t win the title but next he went in against a Spaniard who held the European title and took him all the way to a points decision. The two fights earned Fabrizio enough to buy the Sorrento Bar in Leichhardt, where he prospered.
But equally important was the fact that the title gave him an edge over his brother, Mario. The two had never got on. Mario fought as a light-heavy and never won a title. Light-heavy has never been a crowd-pleasing division, and ham and eggs fighters like Mario were either outpaced and outclassed by middleweights, or had to slog it out with heavyweights. Mario ended his career with two knockout losses, a battered face and a resentful attitude. He went to work for the Leichhardt Council as a gardener.
I hung around the Sorrento Bar a bit, got to know Fabrizio and talked boxing with him. Prize-fighting had been outlawed by the NSW government after the last election and the debate about the effects of the ban were still being discussed. Fabrizio was in favour of the ban. He introduced me to Mario who had come into the place on some family errand. After that I used to say hello to Mario when I saw him around, mostly in the municipal parks. I like parks; I sit in them and think and wish I had a dog. But a private detective has no business with a dog, a child or a wife and I had none of the above.
One night Fabrizio came over to where I was sitting in the cafe and plonked down another long black. ‘On the house, Cliff.’
‘Grazie.’
He shuddered. ‘Don’t even try. Your accent’s terrible. I’ve got a problem. I want to hire you.’
I sipped the coffee. Working for friends is dangerous. You can easily end up unpaid and losing a friend. But turning down friends is hard too, so I grunted.
‘You know my boy, Roberto?’
I did. Roberto Panella was eighteen, a star soccer player and in his first year at university. His father was very proud of him.
‘He’s fighting,’ Fabrizio said.
‘Soccer players fight. It’s the hot Latin blood.’
‘No, I mean he’s boxing. In the ring.’
Fabrizio was very anti the noble and manly art. He suffered from slightly blurred vision in one eye as a result of boxing. It was nothing much and only really affected him when he was tired, but he took it as a symbol of what time in the ring could do. He. considered himself lucky not to have been badly hurt and he didn’t want his boy to take the risks he had taken. He had refused to let him box in the Police Boys’ Club as a kid and had made sure there was no boxing in the training at the soccer club.
I drank some coffee and waited out the diatribe against boxing. It ended with, ‘Look at Mario-a face like a pizza.’
‘What makes you think Roberto’s boxing?’
‘I can tell. Bruises, cuts. And when he doesn’t know I’m looking he makes the moves, you know.’
I’d boxed as an amateur for several years, reaching the lower levels of the state welterweight finals. You duck and weave and it’s considered good practice to bounce around doing it as you go about your daily business. If sufficient brain damage occurs, the ducking and weaving can become like an involuntary tic. I could see why Fabrizio would worry if he saw Roberto ducking left leads when he got up from the table, weaving away from right hooks when he got a book from a shelf.
‘What does the boy say?’
‘He says no. He says he’s not fighting. He’s lying to me.’
‘You have to be registered to fight as an amateur in this state,’ I said. ‘Just ring up the boxing federation and…’
‘You think I’m a fool? I’ve done that. He’s not registered. Cliff, he’s got more money than he should have. He’s fighting for money.’ He took a small cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it. Fabrizio only smoked when he was very relaxed or very stressed. ‘He’s fighting in those fucking bloodbaths.’
Fabrizio rarely swore and when he did it meant there was something worth swearing about. Officially, boxing was outlawed but, as foreseen by opponents of the ban, and I numbered myself among them, in closed- down factories and defunct garages fights were held which paid scant attention to the Marquis of Queensberry rules. They were called ‘smokos’.
Out of curiosity I’d been to one of these fights at Penrith. There were four contests on the bill including a fifteen-rounder, a strictly illegal length in the legitimate game. The preliminary fights were a farce and in the main event a fat, tattooed biker and an Aboriginal teenager had spilt a lot of blood and displayed no skill. The biker collapsed from exhaustion after absorbing a lot of crudely delivered punishment. All they did was give the crowd something to bet on. The audience surprised me- mostly yobbos but there were many well-heeled types too and a lot of money changed hands. A couple of hard characters controlled the betting, took their cut and presumably paid the fighters’. The equipment-ropes, canvas, gloves-was worn out and defective. There was no medical supervision and all the referee seemed to do was separate the contestants at the bell and prevent them from biting each other. If Roberto Panella had fallen into this dark, dirty world he was in serious trouble.
Fabrizio puffed on his cigar and signalled for a coffee. He looked inquiringly at me. I shook my head. Two of the Sorrento’s espressos I can handle, but a third would have me up watching the late, late movie.
‘Where does Roberto live?’
‘He shares a house in Annandale with some friends-two boys and girl.’ Fabrizio looked dubious about the arrangement, but he was struggling to be a modern parent. ‘It’s a nice house, in Johnson Street.’
‘You’re sure he hasn’t got a decently paid part-time job? They do exist. And maybe he’s just watched Raging Bull too much.’
The coffee came and Fabrizio took a sip and a puff. He frowned and sighed and it wasn’t because the coffee was bad. He was a very worried man. ‘He’s got the same job he always had. Mario got it for him-three nights a week at the council maintenance depot. He checks the mileage on the vehicles, washes them down, stuff like that. He works hard but the pay isn’t much. Lately, Cliff, he wears beautiful clothes.’
‘Okay, what d’you want me to do?’
Fabrizio looked at me directly and I could feel him weighing our relationship in the balance. We’d shared experiences, stories, bottles of wine, but I was still an Anglo, and childless. ‘He goes to expensive restaurants.’
That said a lot. He was already getting intelligence reports on his son. He would feel demeaned by this and not exactly uplifted by hiring a private detective.
‘I’ll help any way I can,’ I said. ‘Let’s leave it like that. I’ll ask around and… ‘
‘No!’ He brought his big boxer’s fist with the spread, flattened knuckles down on the table. The coffee cups jumped. ‘I will pay you what you usually charge. I want you to find out who got my Roberto into this shit! Then I will deal with him.’
I hadn’t seen Roberto Panella for over a year and when I saw him coming out of the big Annandale house I was shocked at the change in him. He’d grown a couple of inches, not surprising between sixteen and eighteen, but he’d also bulked up in the shoulders and chest in a way that suggested weights or the heavy bag or both. What really rocked me was the black eye he was sporting. I’d caused and suffered a few of them in my time. It’s not a one-punch thing, contrary to popular opinion. The flesh around the eye is mashed between the glove and the bone by a series of blows and is deeply bruised. Those shiners can last more than a week and if you get too many of them the skin can be permanently darkened and coarsened.
Otherwise, Roberto was in great shape, jumping out of his skin. He unlocked a battered white Corolla hatchback, tossed in a gym bag and a backpack and skipped around to the driver’s door. He pulled smoothly away from the kerb, drove to the Booth Street lights, turned right and threaded through to Arundel Street in Glebe opposite the university, where he got one of the last all-day parking spots. He took out the backpack, locked the car and jogged towards the bridge over Parramatta Road. He was wearing jeans, a football shirt and sneakers and he moved as only an eighteen-year-old athlete can move.
A going-on-fifty-year-old ex-athlete has learned a trick or two in his time, like people forget things and come back to their cars, or change their mind about what they’re doing. I waited in my illegal parking place until I was sure Roberto had gone for good before selecting a key on a ring that holds more keys than any ring should and
