‘So what?’
‘I could spin Tiny a story about him giving evidence to one of the Commissioners. That could be you, in the car.’
‘Why’m I in the car?’
‘I’m sorry, Frank. But you look like a cop and you move like a cop.’
‘No, I mean why am I in the car if I’m a Boxing Commissioner?’
‘Cause he’s got a criminal record.’
‘Can’t they talk to crims?’
‘I don’t know. Tiny wouldn’t know. It might work. If we can just get him out, we’re in business.’
‘I don’t…’
I handed him my gun and tucked my shirt in. ‘Let’s give it a try. If I get in trouble I’ll yell, and you can come and be a cop. You’ll have two guns, you can be as angry as you like.’
He didn’t care for it but he agreed. I watched him walk back to the car and climb in. He settled himself in the passenger seat and gave me the nod. In his clean shirt and light jacket and with his severe profile he looked the part. The Falcon wasn’t too impressive, but it was parked in the shadows and if Tiny was hooked a detail like that wouldn’t unhook him.
I went into the bar pulling out my money as I entered. It was small and hot on the mild night although it looked like the sort of place that would be an ice box in winter. Now the smoke was thick and the beer fumes drifted with the draughts from the open windows and doors. There were about a dozen men sitting around the three-sided bar; the Crimea didn’t offer anything like pool, tables and chairs or barmaids. It was a man-to-man. middy-to-middy bloodhouse.
Tiny Spotswood was part of a group sitting along one of the short sides of the bar. He had a wall behind him to lean his bulk against. He’d expanded since I’d last seen him, and all around the equator. He must have weighed eighteen stone and the schooner he was working on now would be one in a very long chain. A good length of zipper showed at the top of his pants where they failed to accommodate his belly. The Hawaiian print shirt he was wearing showed sunsets and palm trees for a holiday resort.
Spotswood and the two nearest him were talking about racehorses, not boxing. It would have been too much to ask to walk into the middle of a bet on whether Dave Sands was ever stopped. I ordered a beer and positioned myself as close to the punting discussion as I could. I was a stranger and therefore intrusive, but they were a tolerant mob, especially as I didn’t have my Italian shoes on.
The man closest to Tiny up-ended his schooner and pulled out of the school.
‘Gotta get home’, he said.
‘Under the thumb, Bert?’ Spotswood jeered. His fleshy face under the thin, gingery hair was loose and uncoordinated, glistening with sweat. He was very drunk. The retirer shook his head.
‘Haven’t got your liver, Tiny.’
Spotswood stuck a cigarette in his face and laughed around it, just managing to keep the cigarette in place. ‘Haven’t got a fuckin’ liver’, he roared. ‘Haven’t had one for fuckin’ years.’
That got him a laugh. There was a space to move into now and there was no point in being shy. I got out a card that said: ‘Michael Simmonds- Consultant’ and flashed it in front of Tiny’s bleary eyes.
‘Excuse me, Mr Spotswood. I’m Mike Simmonds-from the Department of Sport and Recreation.’
‘What’s that, mate?’
‘The New South Wales Government-Department of Sport and Recreation. Can I buy you a drink?’
‘Why not?’ He waved to the barman. ‘Cec, the Government’s buying me a bloody schooner.’
The other drinker from the group edged away. ‘Don’t go away, mate’, I said. ‘You might be able to help, too.’
‘Help, how?’ Spotswood looked at me with a mixture of drunken scorn and caution. His schooner came and he took a big pull on it. I drank some of my middy and the other man looked at us with sceptical curiosity. The rest of the bar went about its business.
‘I’m told you’re an expert on boxing’, I said.
‘Boxing. Yeah, I know a bit.’
‘You know there’s an enquiry going on at the moment?’
‘Fuckin’ wowsers and poofters!’ Spotswood’s face flushed; the heightened colour gave him an over-ripe, ready-to-burst look. ‘Boxing’s a good sport, right, Phil?’
Phil nodded and sipped his schooner. ‘Usta be.’
‘Could be again, if they’d leave it alone and give it a bit ‘a publicity. Fuckin’ good fights in the clubs but do you ever see a fuckin’ word about ‘em in the bloody papers?’
‘You never do, no’, Phil said.
‘There’s still public interest?’ I asked.
‘Man’s bloody game. They should ban the bloody women like they did in the old days. Then there’d be some fuckin’ goes.’
I leaned closer to him. ‘That’s a very interesting point of view. That’s original. Would you be willing to give evidence to the Commission. I must say all the evidence so far is going the other way
…’
‘They gonna bloody ban it?’ Spotswood took a belligerent swig.
‘They could, unless there’s something said on the other side. The doctors are opposed, the churches…’
‘What would they fuckin’ know? Need to talk to a man ‘been in it!’ He pushed his face close to mine and I waited for my eyes to water from the beer fumes. ‘I had thirty-three fuckin’ fights!’
‘How many’d you win, Tiny?’ asked Phil who was just possibly a wag.
‘Never mind. More’n I lost, ‘s not winnin’, ‘s bein’ in there! Know all about it. What’s a man gotta do? Go ‘n talk to some cunt in Parliament?’
‘No, no’, I said quickly. ‘Matter of fact, one of the Commissioner’s in my car outside. Mr Groves. He’s anxious to talk to you.’
He thumped his meaty fist on the bar. ‘Bring ‘im in! Buy ‘im a drink!’
‘No, he can’t approach you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t be offended, Mr Spotswood, but it’s a matter of your criminal record. But Mr Groves himself isn’t prejudiced; he wants to get the truth about boxing from all angles. Between you and me, I think he’s the only Commissioner with an open mind. I’m aware, and I’m sure you’re aware, that there are interested parties who’d be grateful to you if you could put the sort of case you’ve been making here to one of the Commissioners. It wouldn’t have to be in public hearings. The word would get around if you know what I mean. Would you come and have a word with Mr Groves? I promise you you won’t be sorry.’
‘Awright.’ He heaved his swollen body off the stool and stood swaying for a moment, getting his balance. ‘Back in a minute, Phil.’
Phil nodded and Spotswood lumbered towards the door; I walked behind him wishing we’d dug a bear trap by the car, and had a block and tackle to lift him out and a King Kong cage to keep him in.
‘Where is he?’ He stood on the footpath hitching at his sagging waistband. I hoped he wouldn’t try to lean against one of the slender posts.
‘Over there.’ I pointed to the car; Parker appeared to be making entries in a notebook. He wasn’t looking our way but I had the feeling he knew just what was going on. Spotswood walked slowly towards the car and I kept right behind him, chattering.
‘You know, Mr Spotswood, I heard some blokes having an interesting bet about Dave Sands.’
‘Bloody gentleman’, Spotswood rumbled.
‘Yes, now the question was whether he was ever knocked out or not.’
We reached the car.
‘Dave was never stopped’, he said; he leaned on the car for support.
‘Mr Groves, this is Mr Spotswood.’ Parker used his note-hook like a conjurer’s handkerchief; he dropped it and as Spotswood’s eyes followed it he passed my gun to me through the open window and brought his own up to within a few inches of the big man’s nose. ‘Hello, Tiny’, he said.
I rammed my. 38 into Tiny’s back, through the flab into the place where what was left of his kidneys would
