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.
