been better at everything than his brother, at school, at boxing, at business, and to top it all he had a son. Mario had four daughters.
‘But I didn’t think he hated me,’ Fabrizio said. ‘He knows how I feel about boxing. This is the worst thing he could do to Josie and me.’
That was another thing; Fabrizio had married an English girl named Josephine. It was a registry office job and neither Fabrizio nor Josie nor Roberto went to church. Their daughter Sara went occasionally. Mario was a staunch Catholic.
‘You’ll have to talk to Mario,’ I said. ‘Tell him to back off.’
‘You can’t tell Mario anything,’ Fabrizio said. ‘You have to show him.’
I never found out how he arranged it, but two nights later, close to midnight, I was back in Trueman’s gym along with Fabrizio, Freddy, Roberto and Mario. Roberto’s black eye was like a ragged stain on his pale, handsome face; Freddy was nervous, Fabrizio was calm; Mario was angry.
‘Don’t do it, Dad,’ Roberto said. ‘I don’t want to see it.’
‘I should have done it a long time ago,’ Fabrizio said.
The brothers had stripped to their singlets; they took off their shoes and socks and laced on boxing gloves.
‘This is silly,’ I said.
‘Cliff, you are referee,’ Fabrizio said. ‘Freddy, you’re the timekeeper.’
Mario said something in rapid-fire Italian. I looked at Roberto. ‘He says Dad always had it easy and me the same. He says he was just trying to toughen me up.’
‘What d’you think?’
Roberto shrugged. ‘I like fighting.’
The three of us got into the ring. Freddy tapped the bell and I beckoned the brothers forward. I took a short lead-and-leather blackjack from my hip pocket and flopped it in their faces. ‘I’m not going to give you any bullshit about wanting a fair fight,’ I said. ‘The first dirty trick I see and whoever did it’s on the fucking floor.’
‘Si,’ Fabrizio said and they backed off without touching gloves.
Roberto quit protesting and took up a position by the ring apron near his father’s corner. Despite himself, he was excited. He’d probably been aware of the antagonism between his father and uncle for most of his life and he couldn’t help but be interested to see it played out physically. But it was more than that. Boxing-no matter how much you are against it intellectually you can’t deny the drama.
Freddy hit the bell and they went at it. Mario was taller and heavier and the outdoor work had kept his weight down and his strength up. Fabrizio had spent more time sitting down than standing or moving and he liked his focaccia and grappa. He was soft in the middle and his reflexes were way off in the first exchanges. Still, he could protect his head and duck and sway away from trouble, as in the old days. But Mario was landing solidly to the body and coming forward confidently. Fabrizio got in a few jabs towards the end of the round and seemed to be finding the range and timing, but I knew that a couple of the body shots had hurt him and his breath was short when he went back to squat on his stool. No fouls or threats of them and I put the blackjack away. Roberto moved towards his father, caught his glance and shaken head and stayed where he was. Fabrizio’s singlet was sodden and Mario’s nose was leaking blood. Honours about even.
The minute between rounds seems like a long time when you’re not fighting and like an instant when you are. I leaned back against the ropes, looked around the silent room and wondered what the two wives and five daughters would think. It was a totally masculine occasion, a sweat and blood affair, and intelligence had nothing much to do with it. I was worried for both men and about the effect the fight could have on Roberto. Only Freddy Trueman was genuinely enjoying himself. He hit the bell with enthusiasm.
Fabrizio was still sucking in air and the blood was still running from Mario’s nose when they got to centre ring. I stepped between them. ‘This only goes three rounds,’ I said.
Fabrizio nodded. ‘Basta,’ he said.
Nothing much happened in the first minute of the second round. Then Fabrizio appeared to slip on a sweaty spot on the canvas; Mario landed a clumsy right that knocked Fabrizio off balance. Roberto shouted something and Mario waded in, swinging. Suddenly, Fabrizio wasn’t off balance at all-he nailed Mario with a perfect straight left, right cross combination. Mario sagged and a savage uppercut straightened him up so that his feet seemed to leave the floor. He fell back against the ropes and his legs had no prop in them. Fabrizio claimed him and held him as if he was going to rough him up in close.
‘No!’ Roberto yelled. He jumped onto the apron.
Fabrizio eased his brother to the canvas.
‘Mario always got excited when he thought he had his man hurt,’ Freddy Trueman said. ‘And the silly bugger was usually wrong.’
I don’t know what Fabrizio had in mind when he set up the fight, but he couldn’t have anticipated the result. He paid me for a day’s work and the next time I saw him he avoided all mention of Roberto, Mario and boxing. I considered that I had a professional right to more information and I got it from Freddy Trueman. The brothers had become closer than ever before after the fight; they’d both tried to persuade Roberto to stop fighting with no success. Roberto, Freddy told me, had turned pro and gone to Melbourne where boxing was still legal He’d found himself a Maltese manager. Bobby Pain was due to fight a six-rounder at the Footscray Town Hall in a fortnight and Freddy offered to get me tickets.
‘You’re managing him?’
Freddy grinned. ‘I’ve got an interest.’
Nothing ever really changes in the boxing game.
Lucky Jim
‘He’s a diabetic, Mr Hardy. And he’s only just turned sixteen. Oh God, I don’t think I can bear to talk about it.’
I had my pen and notebook out, but what I really needed was some blotting paper, and my office supplies don’t run to it. Mrs Truscott’s tears were trickling down her face and soaking into the lace collar of her dress: she was a stylish-looking woman in her middle forties. Well-heeled, to judge by the clothes and accessories. Her son, James, aka Jamie, had been missing for two days and Mrs Truscott had come to me rather than the police for a not uncommon reason. At her divorce, she informed me, she had won custody, but her husband was rich, well connected, and poised to use any excuse to challenge the custody order. A police missing person’s bulletin would provide a perfect excuse.
‘My ex-husband is a very vindictive man. He’d stop at nothing to get Jamie back. And the thought of him living with Roger and that slut of his… ‘ She wasn’t dumb; she realised how it sounded and she pulled out of the spin. ‘They couldn’t possibly look after him properly.’
I took notes and asked questions and told her I’d give the case twenty-four hours, after which she would have to go to the cops. It was a reasonable position to take-the police don’t get too excited before seventy-two hours have elapsed. I looked at the photograph she handed me. James Truscott was a tall, thin lad with a long, intelligent face. Brains looked to be his long suit rather than muscle, but there was something athletic about the way he held himself.
‘He takes insulin?’
She sniffed and wiped away tears with a pink, scented tissue. ‘Three times a day, before each meal.’
‘What else does he have to do about the diabetes?’
‘Diet, of course, and exercise. And test his blood sugar at least once a day.’
I remembered my diabetic mother eye-droppering urine into a test tube and dropping in a tablet and cursing when the result didn’t suit her. It didn’t sound like much fun for a sixteen-year-old.
‘How does he do that?’
‘With a glucometer. That’s a little machine with a computer that reads the blood on a reagent strip. Jamie’s
