He laughed. 'You're surprised.'
'You aren't?'
'I saw a photo of you in a newspaper. I was surprised then all right.'
He insisted on shouting. We took our pints of Guinness into a corner and touched glasses.
'So,' I said, 'second cousins. I didn't know I had any. The Malloys and the Hardys weren't exactly great breeders.'
'Likewise. My mother was an only child and I'm the same.'
I told him I had a sister who had two children I'd scarcely ever seen because they lived in New Zealand.
'A nephew and a niece, eh? I suppose they're some relation to me, but I'm buggered if I know what you'd call it.'
The similarity in our voices and manner seemed to have the same effect on us, making both of us quiet, unsure of what to say. He wore slacks and a blazer with a business shirt and no tie. I was in cords, a football shirt and denim jacket.
'Well, Patrick,' I said, 'there's one difference at least-you dress up a bit.'
He laughed and that broke the ice. We finished the drinks and I got up to get a round. 'I might…'
'Make it just a middy,' he said, patting his stomach. 'Got to watch the flab.'
That was exactly what I was going to propose and for the same reason. I watched while the drinks were being poured. Patrick seemed at ease, very still, perhaps unusually so. The beer loosened us up and we chatted. He told me that his grandfather had been adamant that he came from a line of Travellers, not gypsies, and that recently he'd taken an interest in the subject and had looked it up in books and on the web. Malloy was a Travellers' name, he said, but so were lots of others.
I drank and nodded, mildly interested, but with a question looming larger in my mind. Who is this guy and what is he?
He broke off. 'I'm boring you.'
'Not a bit.' I touched the scar tissue above my eyebrows. 'Weird that we've both got this. You boxed?'
'In the army and very, very briefly as a pro. Saw the error of my ways and quit. You?'
'Amateur only. Before the army and after.'
'Jesus,' he said. 'Talk about parallel lives.'
A few stories had appeared in the papers about me in recent years, all negative and to do with the loss of my PEA licence. I'd withheld evidence, been accused of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, and been given a lifetime ban. So he knew about me. Time to get on a level footing.
'What's your game, Patrick?'
'I've done a few things in my time, Cliff. Did a law degree after the army and worked for a couple of unions. Then I went into buying and renovating old pubs around the place. Here, there and everywhere. Made a good quid at that. Now I've got some investments and a share in a small security firm. That's mostly hands-off but occasionally I have to step in and do a bit. What're you up to these days?'
'Nothing much. I've got enough money to skate along.'
He nodded. 'Tell you what, my firm's handling the security for the Moody/Sullivan fight on Wednesday week. It's sold out, they tell me, but I've got some tickets. How'd you like to come along as my guest? Be ringside.'
The Moody he was talking about was Mick 'Mighty' Moody, the current Australian middleweight champion and the son of Jacko Moody, who'd held the title twenty years before. I'd had some dealings with Jacko and other La Perouse Aborigines back then, and I'd followed Mick's career in the papers. There was talk of a non-title fight with Anthony Mundine but his management was bringing him along cautiously. Time was on his side. Mick was only twenty and these days, with better diet, training and fewer, shorter bouts, boxers can last into their thirties. I was keen to see the fight and said so.
'Great,' Patrick said. 'I'll send a car to pick you up. Parking's a bastard at the pavilion.'
'I can get a cab.'
'You'd be going as my guest. It's my pleasure.'
I thanked him and gave him the address. We shook hands again and went our separate ways. That put my holiday on hold for a while, but I hadn't come up with a workable plan anyway. I spent my time in the ways I'd begun, reluctantly, to get used to-going to the gym in Leichhardt, swimming at Victoria Park, hanging out with Frank Parker and Hilde, dropping in on my daughter and her partner Hank Bachelor. I was reading through a batch of Penguin Hemingway novels I'd picked up second-hand in Gleebooks and playing pool with Daphne Rowley in the Toxteth Hotel. And religiously taking my meds.
I was collected by a guy driving a white Commodore and wearing a uniform with patches that said 'Pavee Security'. The word rang a bell but I couldn't place it. His name tag read Kevin Barclay and I was glad that he didn't say he was there to help. Too many Kevins these days did. He didn't talk much on the drive. The fight was a big event with extensive media interest and Patrick was right-parking was a problem all around the Hordern Pavilion and the driver had to keep his mind on the job to avoid angry motorists and work his way to where only the privileged few could go. He got me close to an entrance and handed me a ticket.
'Enjoy the fight, Mr Hardy.'
'Thanks. Will you be inside, Kev?'
'Some of the time.'
'Expect any trouble?'
'Nah, well, I could let you in on a secret.'
'Yeah?'
'Better not. I'm saying Moody by a knockout in the fifth.'
I puzzled over his remark as I presented the ticket and was escorted down a couple of levels and along an aisle to a seat in the second row with a square-on view of the ring. There's something unique about a boxing program that infects the audience before it starts. You know a fight can be a long, testing affair or over in a matter of seconds. No other sporting contest is like that. The place was packed and noisy and that atmosphere of tense uncertainty drove other thoughts from my mind. The front row is too close. It spoils the perspective, and further back you miss some of the nuances. Row two is perfect.
The preliminaries weren't much. A couple of footballers were making their debuts, one as a heavy and the other as a light-heavy. They won against opponents even less skilled than themselves. Seemed to me they should have stuck to football. The six-rounder before the main event was better. A fast, rangy Lebanese lightweight named Ali Ali boxed the ears off a stocky opponent for four rounds before unwisely deciding he could mix it in the fifth. A solid left rip to his unguarded mid-section put him down and after taking an eight count he walked into a straight right that ended his night.
Patrick arrived just as the referee reached ten and the crowd, as crowds will, roared its approval of the KO.
'Evening, Cliff. How's it going?'
'Pretty good. Ali should've stayed on his bike.'
'You're right.' Patrick, wearing a dark suit over a white T-shirt, looked around. 'Bloody good house. We'll make a quid.'
'You're the promoter?'
'One of them. I've got a piece, as the Yanks say.'
'Expecting any trouble security-wise?'
'Never can tell. Boxing ' n' booze are a potent combination. Fancy a drink?'
The ringside area was catered for by a squad of waiters wearing a smarter version of the Pavee uniform, and the rest of the auditorium was serviced by a bar at the back. I don't like the idea of drinking while men are sweating and hurting each other and I refused. Patrick nodded, ordered mineral water from the waiter, and settled back as Sullivan and his party came down the aisle to the ring.
As always, the half-naked women who hold up boards for the round numbers waited to greet the fighters. It's a fairly recent addition to the circus, geared to television, and the traditionalists don't like it. But if they'd had the idea in the old days and could've got away with it, they'd have done it.
There was nothing flash about Moody. He entered the ring only a few minutes after Sullivan and no martial music played. Sullivan was the number one contender for Moody's title, a crown he'd held himself in the past. He was a veteran with an impressive record but a couple of losses that had stalled his career. He was stocky, pale,
